by Max Barry

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Region: Azure Watester Federation

N 24o58’32 E 009o29’12.02
Southern Sahara

The high whistle of the gale-like winds brought hot sand streaking across the open air as far as the eye could see. It stopped for nothing as it continued on its course southwest, indiscriminately obscuring the evening sun just as it covers the tracks of a rugged vehicle against the desert sands.

The car was a clunker-- in between the panels of mismatched paint around the engine compartment the work of a welder could be seen, no doubt to keep sand out of the working of the engine. However, the throaty rumble of the diesel engine indicated that it needed no protection against the elements. The four-wheel vehicle had an open passenger space, exposing its three occupants to the sand.

“How much longer is it?” Shouted a man in the backseat. They had on fresh cotton dungarees that were soiled by the dirt with a silver-rimmed circular sunglasses too small for their face-- as well as a cloth bandana that wrapped around their nose and mouth with a hastily lashed knot behind their unusual ears.

The driver and passenger in the front did not appear to hear him; in contrast to the one in the backseat, they had on uniforms well-worn by the wind and sun, but still distantly recognizable as Almadarian Army and Civil Defense issue; the difference between the two being that the front passenger had some awards adorning his uniform’s breast.

The rear passenger, impatient, sat forward and thwapped the shoulder of the front passenger and repeated himself over the howl of the wind.

“How much longer, Cavillo?”

A goggle-bearing and sun-baked face turned to face the passenger.

“First of all, you aren’t in Macotera anymore. You refer to me as either jefe or Mayor. We are not friends, you are now working for us. Now, do you understand?”

The passenger, taken aback, seemingly swallowed and nodded. “Sí, jefe.”

Bueno. Now, Señor Gonzalo Villarrubia, we’ve been driving for a while now, so we can’t be very far.” Cavillo said, tapping the driver’s shoulder playfully.

Villarrubia sat back as the vehicle came across another bump. He was hardly expecting to be taken so far away from the moist air of Almadaria when he took on this job-- with his line of work in counterfeiting and identity fraud, he hardly had to leave his neighborhood save for buying bulk shipments of rice for his home. But here he was, getting cold feet in the middle of a desert after accepting an apparently high-paying steady job with some political action group named the Valverdian Popular Front.

Through the soil-colored slurry that made it seem like they were on Mars, the vehicle finally reached something in the seeming nothingness of the sandstorm. A bright point of light-- no, a flashlight-- being held by an armed sentry, by the looks of it from thirty meters away. They were about to walk up and investigate the vehicle but Cavillo removed his bandana, revealing a black mane of hair around his upper lip and jaw, waved the sentry, and the sentry stepped aside and pointed them along. Before long, they had arrived at a small network of tents, mobile homes, and improvised structures of scrap metal and slate surrounded by a wall of soil-filled gabions. It was an eerie thing-- as he walked through the camp, Villarrubia could see not a soul after the sentry through the onslaught of particles, but from the tents and structures could hear obnoxious music from his homeland play.

Finally, after ducking under a sheet of corrugated aluminum that acted as the door to one of the larger structures, Cavillo and Villarrubia removed their bandanas and breathed in the dry, but empty air of the building. It was a long and cramped, poorly-lit room that had tarps peppered with sand under their feet that passed for proper flooring; tables ran down the middle of the room on which several radios streamed an endless, conflicting garble of Spanish words of various political news stations.

Ven aqui.” Cavillo said, leading Villarrubia through the room until he reached an especially creased section of the tarp; he kicked aside the tarp and revealed a dusty trapdoor, which he stomped on twice. Meanwhile, he gestured at two nearby gunmen and said, “Salvo. Bustos. With me.”

The trapdoor opened and the dirt-crusted face of an old man popped out, perching himself on a steep wooden staircase. He scurried out of the way as the group descended the steps.

Some several feet underground, sustained by steel load-bearing pillars and concrete ceilings and floors, was an impressive substructure filled with workbenches, fluorescent lamps, and bustling workers.

“For now, here is where you’ll be working,” Cavillo said, walking alongside the edge of the space and looking at the work being done. “Here, and in many locations across the desert like this, we make bombs, assemble weapons, encode messages-- You’ll be forging IDs for our financial operations in more civilized areas, as well as getting us in there.”

“Did you say bombs?” Villarrubia said in alarm, awkwardly stepping behind Cavillo.

“Oh, we don’t sell those yet. Those are special deliveries back to Almadaria.” Cavillo said. They arrived at a workbench situated in the back of the bunker that had a precision knife, printer, and satellite laptop. “This’ll be where you’ll be working. We need to first have some valid Almadarian passports for some of our men-- Ernesto will fill you in on the details. He’ll also show you to your board and lodging in the wonderful spring weather we have here in the Sahara.”

Cavillo turned around to leave, leaving Villarrubia behind. “Er-- Mayor Cavillo--” He started, but was too late. Cavillo had made it up the steps and closed the trapdoor behind him, while the gunmen he beckoned stood by Villarrubia’s workstation, waiting for him either to start working or make a run for it.

What did I get myself into? Villarrubia thought.

===========================================================================================================================

Gregorio Llanos stood confused with his wide arms resting on his forward belt loops, looking about the mess before him as if he could catch the groove they were traveling on by standing still and observing; he was unsuccessful. He stood at the entrance of the VPF encampment, seven gunmen by his side. It was now morning, with cool (and rapidly heating) air; the sandstorm had since passed-- it made it easy to see some armed inhabitants of the camp surveilling the newcomers at a distance.

Emerging from one of the tents, Major Basilio Cavillo put on a smile and outstretched his arms in greeting.

“Llanos! You came!”

“You promised me guns, Cavillo. Why did you have to bring me all the way out here for that?”

“Well, Llanos, to be honest, I wanted to speak about more than guns.”

“Still, why did I have to come to the goddamn Saharan Desert? You’re wasting my time.” Llano said, crossing his arms.

“I wanted to offer an additional business proposition-- one I think you’ll be interested in,” Cavillo said, noting Llano’s impatience.

Bueno. Dime.” Llanos said brusquely.

Cavillo took a breath, meandering slightly away from Llanos before starting, “As I understand it, it’s harder to do your job back in Almadaria, no? Government sticking their nose in everything?”

Llanos resisted rolling his eyes. Cavillo had a flair for the dramatic, it appeared. “Sticking their nose in everything gracias a ti, señor.

“I did what I had to do; no choice and no going back now, Señor Lllanos. However, I present to you a place free from that: the East!” Cavillo flung his hand outward, to the stretch of dunes north. “I can assure you, I can make your interactions here, across the pond, quite profitable. As well as that, you’ll get your weapons, as promised. Rifles, bombs, and if you work with me, far more.”

While Cavillo spoke, Llanos withdrew a cigarette from his coat and lit it, taking a puff before he responded unconvinced. “Lovely theatrics, Mayor, but this is a business deal, not an auditorium full of second-graders-- you’ll have to do more than perform a few magic tricks to convince me to recycle. How could you make a venture in this dunghole profitable?”

“Look around you-- you are in the middle of the country of Sahara. Its people are uneducated, poor, and have probably never seen a government official in their life. They’re prime targets for protection rackets. Once we get a good system here, we start recruiting. Expand. Start protection rackets here, counterfeit rings there, smuggle this and launder that. Out here there’s very little to stop us-- and that’s when we really get moving. We’ll need your expertise in expanding our operations into the more civilized Mediterranean. Soon, we may even have an ally up north; the Austrian Liberation Front. Their cooperation could also help your business-- and I say business tentatively.”

“Roll in money for the both of us; we get guns, you get recruits-- mutually beneficial, ¿?” Llanos said, examining the smoldering end of his cigarette.

Ojála, señor Llanos.”

Llanos flicked the tobacco away where it plunged into the grainy sand. “If you want my business, I want a 70-30 split and direct control on the racketeering. You want me to operate up north, in civilized country-- that’s muy peligroso, Señor Cavillo. I think I ought to have more of the share of the profit while you insurgent-folk can subsist on some of the more...” Llanos placed the last words with a smile, “--political gains.”

Cavillo, though perfectly solemn while his counterpart’s demands were listed, let out a singular laugh. “80-20? You’re crazy. I’m the brains of this operation-- you aren’t getting any more than 50.”

“An equal partnership?” Llanos cocked his eyebrow. “That sounds awfully like the original deal, and terribly like the opposite of what I proposed.”

“Well, political dissidents cannot live on bread alone. We also are assembling your weapons, and have the proper location for all this. You’d take a bit of a loss trying to set up your own, wouldn’t you?”

“Why would I bother with this porquería? In fact, why should I even bother talking to you? I can take all the business you’ve described without you.”

“Perhaps, but you’d come to blows with us; and there’s a difference between our positions-- out here, we’re difficult to strike and easy to defend; back on the island, you have an address that could be mistaken for the federales at any day.” The threat sat on the dry air for a moment. Seeing Llanos bow his head, calculating, Cavillo went on. “But it need not come to that, amigo. Let’s be civilized-- I’ll sweeten the pot por un cincuenta-a-cincuenta split. I can give you a lucrative opportunity: the daughter of el Presidente at your mercy.”

“You’ve got her?”
“No, not yet. But we know where she is, and she’s in the neighborhood. Think of the prices the jefe will be willing to pay to save the security of the state. And his daughter.”

“How do you know this?”

“We have our sources, señor Llanos.

“50-50? You’re an ugly man who runs an ugly bargain, but I accept. Equal partnership.”

“Equal partnership, señor.”
===========================================================================================================================
N 43o.44’651, W 3.85’469
Santander, España

The city was far better than the outpost in the Sahara. The gentle hum of the city and all its educated, well-groomed, and bustling citizens outweighed the isolated howls of wind and burly men. The cool air from the breeze brought across the Bay of Biscay was sweet to the sand-clogged, sun-baked pores of Roldán Fontanez. There was plenty of water and food curated by people who cared for their work, and if the coastal breeze was not enough one could find an umbrella-equipped table or roof to hide their head under from the sun. The buildings in this country, Spain, were not terribly elaborate-- nor were they plain. They were comfortable; not spartan enough to be seen as brutal and disconnected, but intricate enough to appeal to most without adding a sheet of bright paint to conceal its otherwise ugliness like on Martí Boulevard. This humble elegance, as well as the affluence of general civilization, appealed to Fontanez. Spain was a comfortable place.

The gazpacho sat before Roldán, its red surface speckled with garlic and cucumber and disturbed by silverware.

¡Mesero!” Fontanez cried, outstretching his hand to a nearby waiter. “My soup is cold.” He was seated on a plaza spotted with steel mesh seats and tables beside a formal restaurant; the seating area was fenced in with a polite grate barrier and the top was covered with a web of wires bearing antiquated lightbulb as fruits. Fontanez’s partner, Jaime Zambrano, looked over.

Idiota. Roldán, it’s supposed to be cold.”

¿Qué? What the carajo do you mean? What kind of soup is cold? Hey-- ¡mesero-- ven aquí!”

Dressed in a formal white dress shirt surrounded by a black apron and dress pants, the mesero teetered over to where the two sat, writing pad and pen in hand. “Señores, ¿en qué puedo ayudarlos?

“Soup’s cold.” Roldán said, crossing his arms before looking at Jaime.

Maldito idiota.” Zambrano muttered.

A flicker of annoyance, or insult, came across the waiter’s face before being replaced with practiced patience. “Señor, that is gazpacho. It is supposed to be cold.”

Zambrano flung up his hands and cocked his head as he proved his cultural knowledge over his companion.

The scrawny waiter almost seemed to smile with Zambrano, but it was only a flicker before returning once again to patience. “However, señor, we have a selection of hot soups for your appetizer, if you’re curious about them.”

Scowling, Fontanez waved the waiter off. “No, gracias, no. Send in the cuenta, por favor.”

As soon as the waiter was gone and he was sure no other diners were within earshot to make out anything, Fontanez leaned over the table and began whispering to his compatriot in a low voice.

“What do we have on her?”

“Avalos was able to follow her and su novio to an apartment, Urbanización la Roca or whereabouts. Don’t think they know yet.”

“Imagine that. Daughter of the most powerful man in Almadaría, living in a studio apartment an ocean away.”

“I guess that’s the punishment for marrying someone the jefe doesn’t like,” Zambrano said.

“What’s our situation con la policía?”

“Police are sleepy here. Patrols mostly in the shopping districts, with maybe a few speed traps on the outskirts of the city. Saw an arrest earlier-- not quick to pull guns. Fairly diplomatic.”

“Good. Don’t want a weapons-and-tactics squad bearing down on us the minute I step on the grass.”

“There’s also a decent amount of surveillance; security cameras and whatnot are on the exterior of the apartment, but probably just to ward off vandals. I saw a few blind spots we could slip through-- it’s only a matter of knowing where to go once we’re out with la mujercita.”

“I’ve figured that out. We load up the van, send her the long way around to the shipping district-- from there, load her up on a container and once she’s on the Marti we’re home free and can wait out the heat.”

“Great. Now where’s esos austriacos we were supposed to meet?”

“In time. Mediodia, on the south side of Santander, some cottage I rented out. It’s rural, so not exactly meeting them in broad daylight, per se.”

“How do we know we can trust them?”

“We don’t-- but Cavillo does, or is rather trusting ourselves not to get killed. Apparently, these guys are hardcore-- responsible for the nukes in Rubis.”

Cristo. We sure they won’t just shoot us on the spot?”

“No. What you need to look out for is insulting Austria-- because they love Austria, and hate Italians. If you do, cover it up with hate of those bastardos de pasta.”

Salcanceacy, Rusliv, The waffle empire, and The Castelian Federation

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