After having - just barely - survived my little expedition into the Forbidden Zone, I headed back to one of my hideouts. I needed to rest and recover. I'd sustained no serious injuries, but I was cold, exhausted, and generally beat up. I also needed to get out of the stupid hospital clothes, and into something warmer and more appropriate.
It was in the middle of the night before I was able to finally wring out of my hospital uniform - now completely soaked and caked with dirt - and get into my sleeping bag. I made no attempt to get a fire going. You had to be very careful to avoid observation. But I did heat some water on the portastove to make myself a hot drink. I also had some more biscuits and half a tin of too sweet, canned fruit.
As I sat there in the dark, I pondered my bad fortune. I had felt so fortunate, so exhilarated during my sojourn. The excitement of near death experiences, of adrenaline highs, of exploring the forbidden, of subconsciously toying with the powers of my mind, of riches waiting to be plundered.
I had been lucky to get out alive of course. Lucky to have gotten inside in the first place. Lucky the servo-skull hadn't killed me. Lucky, lucky, lucky. But the overall feeling was still one of disappointment. I had been high as a kite, but bad fortune had made me crash and burn. I was bruised and battered, cold and worn out. All that trouble - and so little to show for it. I had held great riches in my hands, but failed to bring them with me in my haste to get away. I thought of the grenade I had expended to get in. I wished I had thrown it at the patrol instead. It would also have been a waste, but it would have felt better than this.
I sat there for a while, hating the world like I hadn't hated it for quite a while. I hadn't really felt anything of late. It felt good, hating something again. I decided to do it more often.
Then I came to think of the boy. The one who had painted the slogans at the base of the statue of the God-Emperor. The one the Vaxanites had dealt with. His fortune was even worse than mine. He too had gone ahead and done something rash, like I had with the facility. He had died. I had lived.
Nothing like good old hate - and the misfortune of others - to cheer up a fellow who is down on his luck. I fell asleep with a smile on my lips
By the time I woke up it was well past noon. The weather had improved considerably. The day was grey and cloudy, but there was little wind and no precipitation. I was stiff and sore after sleeping on the cold, hard floor of my hideout. I stretched a little, took a good piss, had a couple of sip of water from my hip-slung IG-issue canteen, and took stock of what was left to me.
I still had the lasgun; I had carried it slung across my back when the servo-skull ambushed me, and hadn't had the clarity of mind to dump it. A quick system check showed that the gun itself was fully operational. Only twelve rounds left in the charge pack. Immaterial. The pack could be recharged - or replaced. The sight, however, was ruined. I had managed to land on top of it - a very painful bruise on my back testified to the fact - and something had broken inside. It didn't look broken, but when I peered through the ocular piece there was something wrong with how it magnified and marked the target point. Damn. I should have done what Jons had shown me; kept the gun sight safe in a padded pouch.
I whispered a few soothing words to the sight's machine spirit, before testing it anew. No improvement. A tech-priest might be able to fix it, but not me. I detached the sight from the lasgun - the gun wouldn't be as accurate, but I could still fire the weapon just fine with iron sights alone. I regarded the broken sight for a moment. I was reluctant to throw something away that might retain some value to the right buyer, so I ended up setting it aside.
The big box of ration packs was gone, dropped during my backwards tumble in the stairwell and forgotten in my haste to get away. Apart from the lasgun that left only my satchel. I emptied it on the ground.
I tallied four ration packs. The box of rations I had found had been overflowing, so I had removed four units to enable me to shut the lid. I had stripped the contents of the rations out of the waxed cellulose boxes to save space, and stuck them inside my satchel. My mood lifted a fraction; four packs, easily twelve days of sustenance.
I had managed to get hold of eleven whole vials from a broken medicine cabinet. Three of them I knew what were; they had the green cap of some form of stimulant. The other eight vials had complicated names printed on their labels. I had no idea what they were. But Himilco, the Cold Market's self-styled apothecary, would know.
There were some other odds and ends in there as well; including a rather nice pair of surgical scissors I imagined would fetch a good price, a fistful of sterile bandages, a data-slate of Protasian manufacture that was either broken or just out of power, and a couple of other things not worth mentioning.
I stopped tallying. It wasn't that bad a haul. If I didn't think about what I hadn't been able to bring, I could be content. I stuffed everything back into my satchel and got up. I'd swing by a couple of my stash places, drop off most of the loot, and then head for the market. Carrying too much stuff to market was a sure way of getting ripped off - or killed. Getting murdered over a few ration packs really would make this a crappy day.
The Cold Market - our name for the most important black market in Thira - was located off the old Esplanade. It was less than two klicks from the building we had so valiantly defended against the Kiones insurgents three years prior. There hadn't been any reconstruction in this sector yet, but it was still located inside the perimeter of the settlement zone, which made it an ideal place for people to meet and exchange goods and services.
Our Vaxanite masters supported the existence of the market. They were none too particular about who they traded with or with what. Freemen - ranging from loners like me, to representatives of survivalist groups - could come here to trade without fear of molestation. As long as we brought something of value to the market's masters, we were welcome. We rubbed shoulders with a variety of types. Protasian slaves, come on their owners' behalf to buy, sell, or spy. Merchants from other regions, such as there were, hawking their wares. Reclamators offered up the bits and pieces they had dug out of the ruins of Thira. There were even some off-worlders come to profit from the plight of Protasia; ranging from Chartist Captains engaged in a little smuggling, via Kasballica-sponsored opportunist, to bona fide Rogue Traders.
I really, really didn't like the place. Generally speaking there were far too many people around, none of them with good intentions, and far too few places to hide. More specifically I had my share of personal bad experience with the place. When I was about ten, I had been attacked by a mob of older boys, beaten and robbed of everything, my clothes included.
I guess I should have been grateful they didn't kill me or rape my scrawny ass, but at the time I hadn't felt particularly lucky. It had been in the middle of a cold spell and I had been naked, starved, and injured. I had come down with a terrible cold that had left me more dead than alive. Somehow I had pulled through and regained my strength. It was also the last time I was seriously ill, so maybe the experience hardened my immune system in some way.
I was more careful after that, but I was still just one, scrawny boy. I was shaken down a couple of times more, but since I never went to market carrying much, I avoided losing my entire fortune again. Once it became know that I didn't carry my fortune with me, I was allowed to pass after paying a token 'market toll'.
Eventually I became a familiar face and built myself a network of connections. I was the silent boy that always seemed to find some of the good stuff. Not a whole lot of it, but enough to keep me an interesting man to do business with. That made me much less of a target, but going to market was never entirely safe.
But regardless of my misgivings on my part I was forced to come here from time to time, to exchange what I had scavenged or stolen, for stuff I actually needed. Medicines, nutrient supplements, purification tablets, fuel pellets, assorted odds and ends I couldn't find or steal.
"This Cold Market," you ask, "does it have any connection to the Cold Trade?" thinking of the network of smugglers and scoundrels that engage in trade with forbidden merchandise, some of it of xenos manufacture.
Haxtes nods. "Aye, it did at that. But only in a very general sense. You could, if you had the means, purchase just about anything in the Cold Market. Expensive things from off-world even. Black market weapons. Exotic drugs. Trained harem slaves - of both genders. You named your vice and flashed the Gelt, and the Market provided."
"I thought as much," you say. "The Cold Trade likes to set roots when markets are young. It's easier to maintain a foothold if you're there from the beginning."
"Much like heresy," Haxtes says grimly.
"And where did you come across these vials, young Master?" Himilco asked me.
"I found them in an abandoned hospital," I replied honestly. "They had fallen out of a cabinet and rolled under some furnishing."
Himilco sorted out three of the vials. "These there are useless then. They must be kept refrigerated or the medicine loses potency rather quickly."
I nodded solemnly. I had thought that might be the case. Better than expected, though. I had feared at least half the vials would be useless.
"The stimms I can pay you for in gelt; there is always a hard demand for those."
I could also have use for them myself, I thought, but said nothing. I knew from experience Himilco would offer more than I could reasonably turn down. I'd kept one for myself. It would have to suffice.
"The rest are harder to resell. My master would be displeased with me is I tie up too much of his money in my medicine cabinet. I can either offer you a trade in goods or part of the profit when - or if - I'm able to sell them on."
"Half and half," I replied. "Give me half the combined value in the blue weed and the other half you can pay me as you sell it."
Himilco chuckled, "You drive a hard bargain Master Haxtes...but since you always bring me good items and act civilized I shall say yes. Against my better judgement I hasten to add."
We shook hands to seal the deal.
He counted out three Thrones for each stimm and handed me a small opaque bag of the blue weed.
"If you must inhale this poison I'm glad you keep to the blue," the old apothecary said, voice filled with disdain.
I returned him one of my false smiles. "I don't hate my life nearly enough to try anything stronger."
"That's what you're saying now. What happens next year, or the years after?" He shook his head. "Too well do I know where that path leads; at first it is only the blue lho weed, but sooner or later you sit there with the obscura pipe clutched between twisted fingers."
I didn't want to argue with the old slave. Instead I began deftly rolling myself a lho stick from the fragrant blue. "You mind?" I asked out of feigned politeness.
Himilco threw up his hands. "Feel free. It's your life. End it however you want."
After that we didn't argue anymore. He continued with his work, I just stuck around doing nothing. He'd gossip from time to time, I would say nothing. Such was our relationship, the old slave apothecary and the young freeman. Familiar enough to feel safe, distant enough not to be threatening.
