Justice Knight Martin hated Brahmin.
He would be happy if he never saw a Brahmin again as long as he lived. He had raised Brahmin, he had driven Brahmin, he had unveiled statues of Brahmin, he had gone through countless towns singing and lauding how the Brahmin farmers have kept Londinium alive. Fat Brahmin, breeder Brahmin, milking Brahmin, dying Brahmin young Brahmin old Brahmin, the greatest Brahmin in the world!
He endured the Great Wars, the revolutions, the Reformation of the Road. He endured the Battle for The Outer Cresent, the terrible war for the Thames, even the great siege of Sedova Tower, where, in the frozen, impoverished ruins, he was reduced to eating anything he could – weeds, grass, leather shoes, even rats. He had names for all those rats with their cosmopolitan sympathies, but they are all forgotten now.
He survived assassination attempts, survived close quarter combat, survived sniper duals and barely scraped his way across a collapsing building. And he'd gladly relive all of those moments, all of that danger, all of that risk, for being able to not have to face the Council.
Yet here he was: Justin Martin, travelling up the steps to the grandest building of all. Still weathered of course after the last couple hundred years, but Parliament stands.
Compared to the crowds of jorunalists and TV cameras that used to reside outside the building, the atmosphere was mellow. After the frenzy for the green metal flask and then the long journey home, the arrival of the Justice Knight seemed undramatic. The man simply was grimacing after his long walk, through the sewers, over the roads, through the checkpoints and into the inner Taurus.
Justice Knight Martin's attempt at calmness fooled no one. Even the guards sent to stand on guard around Parliament, pretending a proud stand and holding their laser rifles high, knew that this wasn't a place to be around too long. Even standing outside gave him the chills. Yet still he walked slowly forward and towards the monolith building that was blotting out the sun.
"We think prices will rise", said al-Naimi. Al-Naimi hoped that over the next few weeks, he'll be able to dominate the marketplace in the trade of stimpacks. Of course, his control over this industry is trivial when he already is the major producer of weaponry, armour, and traditional medicine like steroids and antibiotics, but he has heard the properties of stimpacks were the unique item he needed in order to gain the edge in pushing back the creatures threatening the borders between the inner ring and the Taurus. He kept speculating the market. That was his skill, after all, taught generation to generation. Originally, stimpacks cost only…what? Eight crowns? Now his speculation has brought the price up to fifty seven. Soon, the market will crash, and he'll be able to buy them all in a fell swoop. But al-Naimi planned to raise the price by another twenty crowns; the more truculent suppliers would try to crash the market before then, of course, but he only needed a quick word to keep them in line.
People always questioned al-Naimi. Said his control over the market cannot be done. In previous years, again and again has his economic role been challenged, but al-Naimi has always been determined to defy economic law, and no-one questions his iron grip of finance. Production of plasma rifles has gone up and down through his delicate control, bringing up and down the price in the market of these goods whenever the Justice Knights needed them.
This has brought no end of anger from the common people, the rabble. Yes, the demand for combat gear has fell since the peace between two city-states in the inner crescent last year and the area has plunged into recession from the high price of food. Yet he was talking up prices still to keep them in line. Of course he understood that the excessive price will continue to endanger the lives of the people in the area and annoy the crescent to no end, but a limited increase would benefit his interests – would benefit their interests, even if they did not know them.
Nevertheless, despite all his setbacks, his industry, the industry of power, remained the world's biggest business – London's biggest business, at any rate. Ever aspect of mankind's lives depended on power – not government power, of course, but power from the men of the likes of him. Government simply got in the way. For the last century, the commodity has been on a rollercoaster, with the previous shareholders swinging from surplus to shortage and, after the failure of the great war, complete collapse of the economy. Finding the balance has always been difficult: enough power to keep order, little enough power to keep the masses content. Always a target of mistrust, but now he's found that magical sweet spot to keep the Taurus in fighting shape. He's worked out ho—
"Sir?"
"Justice Knight Martin. I have been expecting you. Sit. Take a seat."
Justice Knight Martin anxiously pulled out an old wooden chair and sat on it, leaning forward, still tense. Al-Naimi turned from his desk in his red velour chair.
"I'll take that vial now."