I open my eyes to find myself in an unfortunately familiar place: the Market’s lobby. The first thing I do is check local time, it’s the beginning of the Witching Hour, a time where magic bids are charged a smaller fee by the Cartel. But I have no way of knowing what the previous period of time was, they change randomly and you have to take great care not to be caught flatfooted when the Switch happens. Each period of the Market lasts 2 hours, 7 minutes and 53 seconds (please don’t ask me why) and the Switch may take from 14 minutes to 44 seconds. It’s worth to note that our time here is compressed, and the number of periods we can stay here depend on a series of factors, but most importantly the level of development on the Cartel’s Outpost you’re plugged into — I can spend 3 periods over here, but my associates have already wasted one of their stipend. Here I can see projections of other people, but not interact with them though some people do try to cheat it. On the long haul it’s just stupid to antagonize the Syndicate, the board of top Cartel leaders who rule the Market, so I ignore them and move to the Shifting Board. It’s on the antiquated like big, fuchsia-board that room information appears and vanishes in widely different speeds. Some you can only reach with an AI — most people bring or hire one to aid them. I think I can made an educated guess which rooms Reader would point out for Lieutenant Santos, so I won’t hire an unaffiliated, mercenary AI unless I fail. I try to kind of expand my focus and get a feel for the rooms open today. The Cartel’s many companies compete amongst themselves and are always trying to outdo each other with new rooms and new rules. But I ignore the newer ones, Reader is too cautious to go to one of these, they are the most unpredictable. My whole guesstimating is made on the basis that Santos isn’t a complete moron and will listen to what the AI has to say. It’s really stupid to ignore an AI’s opinion — they aren’t our overlords on account of their luck and good looks. Even if intuition often escapes the younger ones like Reader, they are still a lot smarter than us. I should mention that there a lot of rooms I never want to visit; many that I’m actually ordered never to set my foot in. It was yesterday historically speaking that my ancestors were being disembarked on the Valongo Wharf after an unimaginable cruel transatlantic voyage to be sold like cattle to rich white men. They tried to bury their shame in the middle of the damn city, but the Wharf was recently rediscovered. The motherfuckers around here though, they make the Portuguese look like small-time bastards. They capture and sell people throughout the galaxy, and theirs are some of the rooms I abhor. Of course there others, even worse… But let’s not get into that topic, I don’t want to know if I can puke virtually or not. “Metacorp IV… or Iklele’s Bargain Hunt V,” I decide, taking into account that Santos is full of credits and that Reader will look for familiarity - we often frequent these corps’ lower rooms. Maybe I could narrow it down if I knew what she’s looking for — but when do they ever tell the poor quartermasters anything? The spooks are the worse. If both are a bust, I’ll have to cough up for a hired AI, but I have trust issues. I never give out free information on the Market if I can avoid it, but there are no confidentiality clauses I can afford, I’m sure. I want to hurry to avoid potential disasters, but I must list my products and multiply my credits if I hope to have credits to save the fool from herself. There are a series of translucent pillars - like auto-help kiosks - that allows us to list and de-list items, and it is their way that I’m headed. I reach out to two auctioneers I know well for my mundane gear — but the Barkers’ will demand a more expensive one if I want to get it to the right circles. I’ve heard before of Deities and he’s the man for the job. But he changes his name often, using the names of many different deities he’s collected throughout the years. Information is a key to success on many places, but the Market especially. I try to get information before I have the need of it, and I’m glad to say I’m somewhat successful at the endeavor. I’ve recorded many of the names on my internal computer, and I have to investigate the Shifting Board until I luckily find him. His absurd fee of 300 credits makes me grimace — I could buy tons of foods for that price, but I hope he comes through. I’ve only heard good things about the mysterious alien plant-mythic. Deities it is. With 7000 creds left, I decide to go first to Metacorp 4 on a whim — I’ve heard the rumors that the spooks are fascinated and worried with magic, and so that’s the one I hope they have chosen. The wands, wards and spells there aren’t the cheapest — but they are reliable, which is very important to an army full of novice magic-wielders. The recruits from our surviving magic lines mostly joined elite units and were sent to other armies, so their gear is not my problem. Which is good, because I wouldn’t know where to begin. On the cyperspace I just have to will it, and I’m transported to the mentioned room, another 300 hundred credits poorer for it. The change is so fast and sudden that I always have to close my eyes for a while, fighting the vertigo. The Market was not created with human frailty and sensibilities in mind. Many other races are know to complain as well, but the Cartel only changes something when there’s real money to be made. The size of the chamber is colossal and it looks like something straight out of a Star Wars movie — fitting if you ask me. It has the format of an amphitheater and there are well visible auctioneer’s blocks on its center, with many of their auction chants intermixed — I mute them all for now. There’s no sky, only the brightness of the interlacing data and spell dome that stands protectively over the virtual chamber, shielding it from constant incursion attempts. It looks like a ceiling of thundering clouds, pseudo-lightning darting outward to repel attacks. As I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the task, I’m approached by two peculiar figures. “Oh, Black Bear, back again so soon?” one of them greets me, jolly. High Glider is his name - well, as much as Black Bear is mine. I’ve meet him every time I have come here. I’m not sure what he is, though his avatar looks like an insectile sugar-glider. From what I could gather, he’s always on the Market. I would wager he’s a Market junkie, but I don’t recall ever seeing him bid for an item. Maybe a Metacorp’s disguised enforcer, but the only time I saw the room breached he ran just like the rest of us. He’s a mystery, but I’d tentatively call him an ally. Not that you can really trust anyone around here. “Let’s make another bet, I’ll win for sure this time!” says the other, called Gambles Mightily. This one, using the avatar of a googly-eyed hurricane, I’m far more skittish about. My read is that he’s a young Unity AI either undercover or he’s familiarizing himself with the Market — and passing any valuable information he can get to earn respect or creds. Young AIs are sent all over to gain experience and hopefully return to higher-ranking posts throughout the Unity’s worlds. I’m not very pleased about him, but Digger often makes bad wagers so I tolerate him. “Hello, friends. Afraid I’m on the clock this time. Any of you seen Reader about? Really need to meet him.” I say, already beginning to scan the room. People here have defined forms instead of the ghostly figures on the Lobby and here the Syndicate doesn’t care if you talk to others and negotiate directly — they do charge higher fees for the transactions though. I don’t know what avatar Lieutenant Santos opted for, but I’ll be able to recognize her because we’re logged on the same V-Chamber. I know that Reader takes various classic car’s inspired appearances - I wish he’d do it for his physical body as well. But there hundreds of people in each sector, making my life harder. “Oh, he’s not with you! You had a falling our or something?” replies Gambler while High Glider looks to be interacting with his implant. I control the urge to roll my virtual eyes at him. “Yes, I’ve seen them on the north quadrant an hour ago, when it was still the Eleventh Hour,” Glider tells me, a lot more helpful. As usual. The Eleventh Hour is one the most dangerous periods, when the Cartel is free to collect its due credits from anyone, especially those who are in the red and can’t pay it. Good deals can be made as desperate people try for salvation, but it always leaves a bad taste in my mouth to profit from it — even if it was their own incompetence that brought them to that dire situation. I hope never to be put in that situation. “Thanks,” I say as I start moving north busy-like, but the duo doesn’t take the hint (or just doesn’t give a shit) and they follow me. “This is unusual for you, Black Bear. What is happening this time around? Where is your AI?” Gambler presses me. “Just shenanigans I have to rein in. Did they bid on something?” “I don’t believe they did,” Glider replies and Gambler nods in agreement. Due to my spate of bad luck, I’m steeling myself for a long search, but lady fortune smiles on me for once. I see Reader’s avatar — the Wolkswagen Beatle-inspired one and I hurry toward him, dragging my two shadows. My bare-bones overlay - the Cartel’s software heavily limits its power inside the Market - lights up my companion and the person standing besides him. ‘Fuska’ is the AI’s username, and ‘Golem’ must be Lieutenant Santos’. Reads Meticulously catches my determined march towards him and pokes the woman besides him, who turns and glares as I approach, crossing her arms. She’s chosen as her avatar a silver serpent-woman — at least she didn’t pick her actual form; her avatar is ‘Naja’. “Private communication, Beatle,” I order and Reader creates a private chat - everything is data here. I hear just the beginning of Gambler’s complaining before he’s tuned out by Reader’s ability. On private chats we can use our true names without fear. “Good Witching Hour, fancy seeing you folks here. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure…” My tone belies my words as I turn to the chipper. I’m pissed. “Lieutenant Santos. And this is a secret mission, Barro. Please exit the Market immediately,” she responds, her tone terse as she crosses her arms defensively. “I don’t care, Santos. You’re greener than the Amazon forest and you don’t know what you’re doing in here.” “I’m not a fool, that’s why I brought Meti along.” “Not my idea, Lieutenant,” pleads Reader, visibly uncomfortable with the situation. The gall of the woman - stringing him along and then giving my poor fellow a shitty nickname. “And how has that been working out for you?” I reply, noticing the wince she tries to cover up. “It’s a… work in progress.” “Tell me, Reader. And I can’t believe you’ve traded me for the first skirt you saw…” **BZZZT** On which side are you, damn thing? At least the scrambling has less serious effects as the overlay works haltingly over here, closely watched and restricted by the Market’s prodigious system as I've said before. “You know I’m a neuter…” he begins, but huffs in annoyance and doesn’t take the bait. Yeah, it huffs; AIs adopt the same mannerisms as the people they’re living with — not the gender identity in its case, though. It doesn’t matter to me right now, I won’t let Reader slide scot-free for going along without even messaging me. “We’ve bled credits, but we still have 80% of them.” “That’s secret information, Reader! You can’t just spew it like that!” Even if her avatar is a Golem, the Cartel forces it to show expressions, and I’m smiling inside as she gets riled up. “How bad is it?” I ask it, ignoring Santos, which seems to work her up even further. “You should take a look, but I believe we have at least two sharks on us.” “Sharks? What the hell are you talking about, Reader? Why didn’t you mention anything?” “I did. You just didn’t pay attention,” corrects the AI, making Santos grimace. “They are shadowing us, colluding with the vendors we show interest in and placing dummy bids to mark up the prices.” “You’re new, and they feel the blood on the water. You haven’t told me what you two came here for, though.” Reconsidering her actions, the lieutenant answers me: “I don’t know what came over me… Is this conversation really secure?” “As secure as we can make it,” replies Reader, gazing at our two observers out of the communication. I’m scowling at her foolishness. “The Market is not safe. We have warned Command before. It messes subtly with your head and you need experience to recognize and fight it off. You were influenced by the Market’s fever, making you more prone to double down and ignore advice. Think of it as an auction fever on steroids, aided by the Market’s insidious programming,” I explain. It doesn’t help that AIs are not allowed to make deals directly on the Market — they figure that it would be no fun. They’re mostly immune to the auction fever, so the Syndicate only allows them to accompany ordinary and mythic folk to try to stop our screw ups — very often, their attempts are for naught. The Quartermasters have to go to a six months long classroom course to be qualified to enter the Market, and then only as assistants for at least other six months. And only two out of ten people who pass the course eventually get the Army’s authorization to enter the Market without an AI supporter (handler might be more accurate). Even if I have learned to deal with it, I’m seriously considering a biomech implant that can help me dealing with the Market. But the awesome Intelligence spies have got everything all figured out, of course. Dumb, arrogant bastards, I say. “I see… I’ve been ordered to buy all the intelligence and counter-intelligence magical apparatus and knowledge I can.” “Why not ask the Unity for it?” I ask, scratching my head at their roundabout ways. “They don’t want to ‘waste’ it on a minor front and novices. But we’ve been had, Barro, and it will only get worse. How did you think they were ready for our push? We had been lulling them into a sense of security for the whole year. FOB Pantera might have held them off, but others didn’t.” “That doesn’t excuse you for ignoring our expertise, Santos. You could have paid for this blunder with your life, if worse fates weren’t in store for you. Don’t fuck things up so bad again.” Chastised, she nods. “Did you put your items up to auction, Reader?” “No, I convinced her to accept the Market’s offer.” Thank god — and Reader, I guess, that’s a crisis averted. It seems she wasn’t actually risking her life — only our precious, dwindling credits. I thump his metallic shoulder in thanks and he looks disdainfully at my (virtual) physical contact. “Now what?” demands Santos. “Now? Now we make these bastards sorry for targeting you. Don’t lose the Chipper face just yet.” “What?” she asks sulkily, frowning. “Exactly, good job.”