The Black Market

The mood of the unit was anticipatory, hyper-focused, and fiercely triumphant. Sentinel Lieutenant Walter Otarion smirked beneath his helmet. They had them. The poachers were as good as theirs.

The Black Market was an insufferable stain within the Triumvirate Factions. It held more power than any Sentinel would ever admit. The radio newscasters and official reports underplayed the power and influence of the markets, they had ever since the Order’s civil war, but the Sentinel Corps knew better. It wasn’t just a black market; it was structured, well organized, protected by wealth and power within and without their borders, and for the last sixty years had been consolidated into an autocratic entity ruled by the iron will of the Auctioneer.

The question of who the Auctioneer has plagued the Sentinels for decades. Only a few things were known for certain. The title was hereditary, and the current Auctioneer was the third to hold it. His wife, who seldom appeared but was no less vital to the Black Market, was known as the Countess. The Auctioneer’s successor was dubbed the Protégé. Even less was known about him, but no one had any doubts he was quietly learning the ropes in the Auctioneer’s shadow. Beneath this mighty trio were the lieutenants, ruthless men and women responsible for the smooth operation of the markets.

Access to this inner circle meant access to the Auctioneer. Ron Santos was confirmed to have direct communication with one of these lieutenants, and he would be on the other end of an interrogation table by the end of the night. The Sentinels would make sure of it. Otarion checked his watch in the twilight. It was three in the morning, and this was the darkest it would get before the sun reappeared.

“Ready?” he whispered.

Sergeant Ironsi signaled they were prepared. Otarion drew his saber and moved in. They were like ghosts along the rocky coast. The sound of the surf muffled any noise made and that was minimal. Sheltered within the tiny cove were a dock and large hunter’s lodge. It was quiet but for the guard keeping watch. He glanced to his left as one of their marksmen nocked an arrow to her bow and took aim. The shot was clean and silent.

The lodge was old, and almost entirely made of wood but for the slick metal roof. Otarion reached the front door and moved aside to allow for the battering ram. He checked his watch and held up a hand for them to wait. They were fifteen seconds early. Major Regis and the rest of the unit would still be getting into position at the back door.

The second hand reached the top of the hour. Otarion nodded. The Sentinels slammed the battering ram against the lock. It broke on the first strike, and they stormed into the room. The large living room was empty. Sentinels split off down hallways and up the stairs to the second floor. Otarion threw open the door to the basement and descended the stairs.

It smelled atrocious, like manure and death, but there were no animals. The walls were bare. Only a handful of bear traps were left forgotten in the corner. Otarion’s sense of triumph shattered. He and two other Sentinels made a sweep of the room to ensure it really was empty, then returned to the first floor. Sentinels moved urgently in their desperation to find the perpetrators and the evidence that had been there not twelve hours before. Major Regis stood in the center of the chaos watching as Senior Scout Velds shuffled through the ashes of the fireplace.

Otarion joined the major. “There was nothing in the basement, sir. Just old traps.”

The major offered only a curt nod in acknowledgment. Sergeant Ironsi appeared at the top of the stairs leading three handcuffed poachers still dressed in nightclothes down the steps. They were young, barely into adulthood, chalk-white and wide-eyed with terror. Otarion mentally swore. Ron Santos was gone. Major Regis crossed his arms as they were brought before him.

“There was no one else, sir,” Sergeant Ironsi said.

“Evidence?”

“They were each in possession of illegal tranquilizers.”

Regis turned his attention to the three young poachers. “What are your names?” he asked in an accented Runic. None of them answered. Otarion scowled and opened his mouth to scold them, but Regis continued. “We know Ron Santos was here, and it’s clear he knew of our presence and fled. You were left behind to act as a decoy, whether you realized it or not. You are far too young to have been deeply involved in the poaching scheme here. If you tell me what you know, your sentences will be light. Let’s start with names. I am Sentinel Major Joshua Regis.”

They kept their eyes downcast and shuffled their feet.

Regis regarded them another moment. “Very well, then. We will speak again later.” He turned to Otarion and switched back to their own language. “See to it they are transferred aboard ship. Don’t be overly harsh to them and don’t leave them alone. I want someone in earshot of their conversations at all times. I will interrogate them when I get back.”

“Yes, sir.”

Otarion took a few Sentinels, and they escorted their pitiful catch back toward the beach. A half-mile down the shore was the TNS Epaphras. The destroyer was a sleek vessel with her hull painted the same grayish blue as the ocean. She was fast, deadly, and crewed by Sentinel mariners armed to the teeth. It was the kind of ship that made pirates and smugglers rethink sailing these waters. Ever.

The motorized landing craft that brought them ashore were still there. The sailors crewing them exchanged disgruntled looks at the sight of the three young poachers. The brig was prepped for twelve notorious criminals. This outcome was underwhelming, to say the least. Otarion gestured the criminals aboard and said in Runic, “If you try to jump overboard and we have to go in after you, it will be put down as an escape attempt and you will be flogged.”

They didn’t try it.

Otarion took his place at the bow and faced the prisoners with his saber resting across his lap. The young poachers kept their eyes on the water, or the sky, or the deck of the boat, anywhere but the Sentinels' black, faceless helmets. The sailors and guards spoke softly amongst themselves. That only lent more weight to the awkward silence of the prisoners. The language of the Sentinel Corps was that of their Azerie commanders—Eldrinian. Very, very few could speak it outside of the corps. Runic was the dominant language of the Triumvirate Factions, and though every Sentinel was comfortably bilingual, they preferred Eldrinian.

For this very reason, Otarion thought. Sentinels didn’t like others overhearing their conversations, even if it was about benign subjects. Only this time, it wasn’t benign. Otarion glared beneath his helmet at the two guards and sailor talking by the motor.

“Nothing. It was empty.”

“One dead for nothing? Do you think they’ll nail the major or the captain for it?”

“The major was in charge of the operations. Probably him.”

“That’s enough,” Otarion warned.

They quieted, but it didn’t help his own anxiety. They were right. After two months of patrolling the archipelago for Santos, all they had to show for their effort were three boys, one dead, and little evidence. Major Regis was already in trouble with the high command. A failure like this might break the camel’s back.

Velds ceased her background probing of their new CO at Otarion’s request. Yet so many questions still remained. Why was the high command so angry with him? If he were Special Forces, why no indication on his uniform? Better yet why was their unit the one to be singled out to punish Major Regis? He was a good officer to serve under, but it still rankled Otarion he’d effectively been demoted from command to officer’s aide.

Maybe they’ll dismiss him for this, Otarion thought. It was an unsettling thought. On the one hand, he would get his unit back. On the other, Major Regis was one of the best Sentinels he’d ever met. Effective, intelligent, patient with his subordinates, and a natural leader. He’d dismantled a terrorist cell within a month and single-handedly foiled two skilled assassins with ease. He didn’t want to see him shamed and dismissed.

When they reached the ship, the prisoners were escorted to the brig. Otarion went with them and wasn’t satisfied until they were safely behind the steel bars. Sentinel Captain Tyrone Yule appeared at his side. The captain was middle age with eyes as steel gray as the ship’s walls.

“What happened out there, lieutenant?”

“Santos wasn’t there, and the lodge was stripped clean of evidence. They knew we were coming.”

The captain scowled at the young poachers. “The Auctioneer has been more careful since the Salikoth Raid. He’s chosen his court well. They’re not as careless as before.”

Otarion gritted his teeth and would’ve spit had he not been wearing his helmet. Three years ago, the Salikoth Raid should’ve been the end of the markets altogether. They had the Auctioneer and the entire upper echelons of the Black Market caught within the Order’s net. But the age-old phrase was all too true; no plan survives contact with the enemy. Two Azerie were killed on top of thirty-six Sentinel casualties. They raked in most of the Auctioneer’s lieutenants and their subordinates, but the Black Market’s lord and master escaped and rebuilt his court with ruthless efficiency.

Captain Yule clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Otarion. We’ll crush the Black Market, and soon.”

In the end, Santos left behind no clues to where he’d gone. The young poachers were still guilty. Senior Scout Velds and her Sentinels witnessed them with Santos as they butchered their catches yesterday. That, and they were in possession of illegal arms. They would not get off lightly. Major Regis’ game of prisoner’s dilemma resulted in every bit of information the young poachers had to give, which wasn’t much.

Otarion sat at the desk in the room he shared with the major. Technically, he should’ve bunked with the other junior officers of the ship, but the major insisted. There were few enough beds as it was with an extra thirty-one Sentinels attached to the destroyer’s full compliment. Two officers were displaced to give Regis the proper sized room befitting his rank, and he flat out refused to allow the extra bunk to go unused.

Otarion wrote out the mission report. It was the most lackluster report he’d ever written. The operation had been a waste of time, manpower, and resources, and that was not something easily glossed over. The wastebasket already held the torn-up remains of his first two attempts.

The door opened and Major Regis entered. Otarion nodded in greeting. “Sir.”

“I’m surprised you’re still awake.” He removed his helmet and slipped out of the uniform coat. “How is the report coming?”

“It’s… well….”

Regis chuckled. “Don’t stress over it. Just write what happened in honest detail.”

“But Santos escaped. The high command won’t forgive that. You said it yourself he was our first real link to the Auctioneer’s inner circle.”

“And that is my concern. The mission was mine, and I was overly cautious. My hesitation gave Santos time to escape. You and the rest of the unit did your jobs and did them well. That’s all you have to worry about.”

Otarion shook his head. The end result was no better than the other attempts. The next morning, he reported to the bridge and presented Captain Yule with the document. Major Regis was at the navigation desk with two other officers pouring over charts and maps. Otarion watched him with a growing sense of dread.

“I see the major crossed out your politic language,” Captain Yule said.

Otarion nodded. “Sir, do you think they’ll dismiss him?”

“From my experience, it’s not worth guessing what the high command will do. Sticking a major with a patrol unit is not the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. They might ask him to retire, or they might do nothing. It’s just not worth speculating on.” The captain passed the report to the communications officer. “Who knows, they might appreciate the honesty. Not enough officers take credit for their mistakes.”

It was late afternoon when they sailed into Abbott’s Landing. A pod of orcas followed them into harbor and Otarion marveled at the creatures with the rest of his unit. In his time with the coastal patrol guard, he’d seen plenty of dolphins and whales, but not ones like this.

The three prisoners were brought up from the brig by Sergeant Ironsi. Otarion stood on the pier and watched the felons closely as they disembarked. Major Regis spoke with the prison keepers and handed one the sealed report for the justice.

The sergeant lined the poachers up along the pier and exchanged a salute with his officers. Regis regarded the poachers from behind his helmet and said in Runic, “These Sentinels will escort you to the courthouse where a date and time will be established for your hearing. Once the bail is satisfied, you are free to return to your families. However, if you fail to appear before court on your assigned days, then you will be tracked down and taken before the justice in chains.” His tone grew cold. “It will not bode well for your ruling. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” they said, and Otarion thought he heard a note of awe in their tones. He almost convinced himself he imagined it when two of the poachers offered respectful nods to the major as they were led away.

“Sir,” Otarion said, “They knowingly collaborated with Ron Santos and were found in possession of illegal arms. How can we trust anyone from the Black Market with bail? They’ll go to ground. We’ll never find them.”

“Not these young men,” he said confidently. “Has there been any word from high command?”

“No, sir.”

“Keep an eye out for a message. I suspect we will be redeployed soon.”

Otarion did a double take. “Again?”

“Again.” Major Regis climbed back up the gangplank.

No word came from the high command that evening.

Otarion lounged on the couch in the officer’s recreation room finishing the last few touches to his most recent sketch. The island where the poachers’ compound was hidden inspired a new, perhaps overly dramatic, seascape. The card game across the room erupted into disappointed protests, and Otarion reached behind him to turn up the radio’s music.

The ship’s second officer entered the room, took one look at the game, then pulled a book from the back shelf and sat across from Otarion in an armchair. “I hear you guys are headed out soon. Any idea where you’ll go when the major gets dismissed?”

Otarion didn’t look up from his drawing. “Probably back to Anaconda, or they might just ship us home to the Dark Harbor. We’ll have been on patrol for two full years come the end of August.”

“Probably the Dark Harbor,” he agreed. “What’s with this whole situation anyway? I’ve never heard of a major being attached to a patrol unit.”

Otarion shrugged and added a few orca dorsal fins to his drawing. “No idea. The high command never explained, and the major never said anything.”

“Come on,” he chided. “You didn’t look into his records?”

“Of course we did, we tried anyway, but they’re locked up tight by Colonel Stackhouse. Trust me, it’s not worth the headache or potential career damage to dig them up.”

The second officer sat up in surprise. “He was Special Forces?”

“He’s never said it outright, but he was under Colonel Stackhouse’s command before joining our unit.”

That earned him a whistle from the sailors at the card game. At the colonel’s name, the pretenses dropped, and they shifted their chairs to listen to him in earnest. Otarion didn’t blame them for their eavesdropping. He would’ve done the same.

Just then, Regis stepped into the lounge. Every officer straightened, by instinct more than protocol. “Come with me, Otarion. There is something I want to show you.”

Otarion set aside his drawing. He followed the major up top where Regis paused at the gangplank to tell the chief petty officer they would be back in a couple of hours. It wasn’t until they were off the ship and headed toward the city that Otarion jogged to Regis’ side. “Um, sir, where are we going?”

“You wanted to know why I gave those young men bail. I’m going to show you.”

The city of Abbott’s Landing was less city and more small town. There were no skyscrapers or steel structures, everything was of the old brick-and-mortar style. It was charming and quaint and reminiscent of his hometown, but it paled in comparison to the great cities of the Triumvirate Factions' capital worlds. Cars were also absent. Horses were the mode of transportation here as in most worlds. The reason was simple; unless the people here could build the cars themselves, getting motorized vehicles from one world to another was just too expensive for the common man.

As they passed through downtown’s main square, Otarion’s eye caught on the platform. It was covered by a domed roof supported by slender pillars. In the center was a narrow pedestal with a large glass ball. It glowed a soft blue-green, the same color as the portals it opened. Several Archmages dressed in white and indigo uniforms were busy stamping travelers' documents and checking luggage for contraband. Set aside from the operation was a booth with a schedule board and ticket counter. A flagpole stood next to it flying the Aeronis flag.

“I meant to tell you, but I’m working with the colonel to get an Archmage attached to our unit,” Regis said.

Otarion’s eyes widened. “Seriously?”

“If our project is going to run us around the worlds, we might as well have an Archmage on hand to make travel quicker. The colonel agrees with me.”

“I thought the colonel didn’t like you.”

Regis shot him a curious look. “What gave you that impression?”

“Well, he’s part of the reason you’re here, isn’t he?”

“Why, Otarion,” he laughed, “you make it sound like a bad thing.”

Otarion rolled his eyes, something he would only ever do behind the safety of his helmet. “Sir, you don’t have to be patronizing about it.”

“The colonel and I don’t agree on a lot of things, but he is not the reason I’m here. Actually, he was vehemently against assigning me this unit.”

“And what caused all that?”

Regis dropped the discussion.

They turned down a quieter street and the busy traffic from downtown lessened. The major scanned the buildings and trees as though searching for something. Otarion looked as well but saw nothing other than the tall pines and uniformly boring apartment buildings. Without warning, Regis veered into an alley. Otarion scrambled to follow.

“Sir, what are you looking for?”

“This.” He pointed into a tall spruce tree.

Otarion looked. Near the top was a narrow wood plank drilled into a thick tree limp that provided access to the roof. “How did you know this was here?”

“This mark,” he pointed to a small V and cross-hatch carved into the bark. “It’s a symbol used by thieves to mark roof access. Come.”

Regis leaped for the nearest branch and deftly made his way up the tree. Otarion glanced around to be sure no one was watching, then followed. The major paused at the foot of the plank and removed his helmet and uniform coat. From the small pouch on his belt, he took a yellow gemstone no bigger than his pinky nail. Otarion whistled. Logically, he knew the major must’ve carried a storage gem. Many senior officers had at least one, but it was such a rare sight he couldn’t help but look on with interest.

“Have you ever used one before?” Regis asked.

“No, sir.”

“I’ll teach you sometime soon. Take off your helmet and coat. We won’t go in uniform any further.”

Otarion removed them both. It left him in the black trousers and black woolen undershirt, and he felt distinctly like a robber preparing for a break-in. Regis set their coats and helmets on the branch and waved his hand over the citrine. Yellow smoke oozed from it like a genie from a lamp. The gear disappeared in smoke and was sucked back into the gem. Regis pocketed the stone and proceeded across the plank.

Otarion very carefully followed and jumped onto the roof. The view was eye-opening and not in a good way. A mere block away from them and the neighborhood took a turn for the worse. They were headed toward the slums. Regis followed a hidden path over the gables of the slums. More gangplanks and trees connected the rooftops, though the farther they went, the more precarious the path became. Twice Otarion slipped on loose slats. Half an hour into their trek and Regis paused on the roof of a dilapidated apartment. They crouched in the shadow of a brick chimney. The major pointed to the rows of tiny townhouses below them.

“Second one from the end.”

Otarion looked. Two young children were playing marbles in the dirt while their mother watched from the porch shelling peas. Seated beside her was one of the poachers. Regis withdrew his storage gem and took a narrow-barreled dart pistol from the yellow smoke. From the cartridge holder, he removed a tiny dart and loaded it into the barrel.

“What is that?” Otarion asked.

“A listening device,” he said, and he attached a compressed air canister to the barrel. Taking aim, he fired at the doorframe. The tiny dart hit home, and the mother scolded her children for their errant marbles. Regis pulled out his communicator and adjusted it to the dart’s frequency.

“You’re going back to the market tomorrow to find another job,” the woman said. “Santos didn’t work out, and you’re damn lucky the Sentinels didn’t kill you too. Join a smuggling crew. It’s safer.”

“Ma, the smugglers are just as bad, and the Sentinels were just doing their job. They could’ve killed us all, but they didn’t, and the officer didn’t hurt us or mistreat us none. We got off light because they knews we weren’t really Santos’ gang.”

“Yeah? Just wait till the justice gets ahold of you.”

“That’s just it, Ma, the officer said we would be fine if we did what we were supposed to, community service for a year and two years of employment verifications, but nothin’ worse.”

She scoffed. “Employment verification. No, I can’t have you behind bars. I can’t afford this place by myself. You’ll come with me to the bar tomorrow and we’ll get you settled.”

“I can find work myself.”

“Work that pays.”

“I will, and I’m going back to the courthouse. Maybe if they sees I got an honest job and that I keep my word, they really will be light.”

The woman slapped the young poacher hard across the face. Otarion winced, and the two children playing marbles looked up. She took her bucket of shelled peas and disappeared back into the house; the door slamming shut behind her. The poacher snapped at the two young ones to mind their own business and stormed off down the street.

Regis heaved a sigh and pocketed his communicator. “I didn’t realize his situation was this desperate.”

“Sir, is there really no honest work?”

“Unemployment is particularly high here in Drakestone. What feels like a minor recession to many of our other worlds, the ones overly reliant on industry and trade have suffered the most. For these people, the Black Market is their only other alternative if no honest work can be found.” He shook his head in frustration and unscrewed the used air canister. “It makes dismantling the Black Market that much harder. It’s never without able and desperate bodies.”

Otarion pursed his lips. It would make things difficult, but not impossible. The sooner they knocked out the key players, the sooner this house of cards would come crashing down. “What can we do? How do we deprive them of their foot soldiers?”

“An excellent question. We provide honest jobs and make participating in the Black Market not worth the potential cost.”

“But what can we do as Sentinels? We can’t provide jobs.”

He returned the pistol to the storage gem. “Another good question. We return the breadwinners and encourage them as best we can. The court justice will let each young man off with six months of community service if they return to court with news of honest employment. One year of community service if they’re still looking.”

“That’s not fixing the problem.”

“No, but the economy is in the hands of market forces, and poverty relief in the hands of the Directors’ Assembly. Our job is to keep the peace and act with wisdom and tact. Pull back the curtain and you’ll find few criminals are shamelessly cruel and vicious.”

Otarion frowned at the derelict townhouse and the youngsters playing with their marbles. What Regis said made sense, but his actions did not. Otarion wasn’t given opportunity to voice his objections. The major led him back over the rooftops and it took every bit of concentration not to fall. It wasn’t until they were back on the ground at the base of the spruce tree that Otarion offered his counterargument.

“Sir, you said we have to make participating in the Black Market not worth the potential cost. Six months of community service is not a heavy enough sentence.”

Regis raised an eyebrow. “You think so?”

“And I know what poverty is like. I grew up picking coffee beans and there were times we didn’t always have three square meals a day, but my parents never resulted to Black Market dealings. They could have, I could have, but we didn’t.”

Regis was silent as they merged back with downtown traffic. “I forgot you came from Oras, but all the more reason to show a little grace to those less fortunate than you.”

Otarion shook his head. “You want me to feel sorry for that family back there, and I do, but that doesn’t excuse their choices. If we really want to deprive the Black Market of foot soldiers, then we need to be tougher on crime. They should get prison time.”

“And if that prison time meant the family would lose their home and the young ones go without food?”

“And if their punishment warned off other young men from making the same mistakes, thus depriving Santos of Black-Market fodder?”

Regis offered a grim smile. “Quite the catch-22. Justice is not so easily administered, especially when you consider that on some level all men deserve punishment, and all men deserve justice.”

Otarion privately disagreed. He knew which option he would pick. “If we only focused on each individual case, then we’ll lose the long game, which in this case is dismantling the Auctioneer’s Black Market.”

“Right again. In this case, I’ve decided to let the fodder go and focus our efforts on pursuing Santos. Colonel Stackhouse has his best agents tracking the poacher down as we speak. We’ll have him again before long. It’s just a matter of time.”

Word from the high command arrived the following morning. The TNS Epaphras would return to its usual ocean patrol. Major Regis’ unit was stripped from the crew complement and stationed on base until further notice. There was no mention of the failure to capture Santos or the major’s dismissal. Otarion was less surprised than the Epaphras’ officers. They were floored.

With his gear packed, Otarion slung his bag of personal belongings over his shoulder and joined his Sentinels on the pier. Captain Yule was waiting at the bottom of the gangplank. Otarion saluted in farewell, and the captain mirrored the gesture.

“It was a pleasure working with you, Lieutenant Otarion. Major Regis is lucky to have such a fine unit.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He was about to move on when the captain took him by the shoulder. “A word in private?” Not waiting for an answer, he corralled Otarion down the pier away from the earshot of others. Even safe from eavesdropping, the captain lowered his voice. “Otarion, I want you to do me a favor. Major Regis has a very difficult and dangerous task ahead of him in securing access to the Auctioneer’s inner circle. He needs the full support of this unit.”

“He has it, sir.”

“I mean the full support, as in you protect him with your life.”

Otarion frowned and removed his helmet. The captain leveled him with a fierce look, and he thought he caught a hint of worry behind the captain’s expression. “Sir, do you know why he’s attached to our unit?”

“Nothing concrete, but you have an impressive unit full of high performers. That might just be reason enough.”

The captain glanced down the pier, and Otarion caught Major Regis watching them. He heaved a sigh. The major might be a barbed thorn to his career, but the captain was right. Regis needed the full support of the unit if they were going to destroy the Black Market’s house of cards because, at the end of the day, the Auctioneer and his lieutenants would do everything in their power to see them fail.

“He’s our commanding officer, captain. We’ll protect him every step of the way.”