"Mister Diabel, another Thukker here to see you."
"Send him in."
Heavy doors opened on the audience chamber of Dorn en Diabel, undisputed head of the Intaki Syndicate, on the Poitot V-14 station. Enkil Akheteru, Chief of Clan Du'uma Fiisi and Master of the Caravan, entered unarmed and followed by several men and women of various ethnic backgrounds.
"Tsk," Dorn remarked, nose crinkled in distaste at the brazen display of chained slaves in his chambers. "You know that slavery is illegal in Syndicate space, Akheteru."
"Yes," the Thukker said, grinning. "I also know you make regular contact with a certain Malakim on a regular basis."
"That may be, but I'm certainly not going to be buying or selling slaves!"
Enkil waved a dismissive hand. "I'm not here to sell any slaves. These are prisoners, and I offer them to you - what you do with them is your business."
Dorn took a moment to consider this idea, studying the Minmatar as if trying to discern his angle. "What do you want, Akheteru?" he finally asked outright.
"I have reason to believe there is platinum in Poitot. Lots of it. On a particular planet, in a particular place."
"And obviously that platinum would be ours," en Diabel pointed out.
"Obviously," Enkil agreed. "I don't want your platinum. I want exclusive mining rights to said platinum for Clan Du'uma Fiisi, and the residual income that implies. 75,000 ISK, monthly, to be paid on the first day of each month, for the next thirty years."
Dorn looked again at the captives behind the Thukker. "And your slaves?"
"Prisoners," he corrected. "They're a gift. I know the Angels are shrewd businessmen. Sometimes you have to sweeten a pot to get them at your table, eh?"
Clad in leather, the strike team raced through the station on the soft soles of their footpads, blades trailing blood behind them. With the ruthlessness of practiced efficiency, they dispatched every posted sentry, every patrolling guard, in most cases before their victims were ever aware of their presence. Their master had spent months and hundreds of thousands of ISK on gathering intel, so these men and women knew everything - right down to the names and ages of the guards they slew. Walking at a steady clip in their bloody wake, flanked by two large men carrying scrambler rifles, was a grim-faced Enkil Akheteru.
Some months prior to this visit, a small blood raider gang had descended upon his platinum mining operation. Security for the camp was supposed to be provided by the Syndicate. Now, Enkil had lost not only a monthly income of 75,000 ISK (minus expenses) for which he had to do literally nothing, but also dozens of kith and kin.
Four assassins stood silent outside the door of an apartment on the stations upper levels. On these decks, the administrative figures who served to make Dorn en Diabel's reign possible resided. One such administrator, a middle-management figure in The Syndicate's Security division, was somewhere behind this door. The security officer in charge of the planet his mining colony was founded on. The man who, to Enkil's way of thinking, was directly responsible for the death of his son. His first and only child, 34 years old, Enkil had placed the man in charge of the mining operation. Due to injury, it the last child Enkil would ever have. As Enkil and his escort came up to the doorway, his face was grimly set, but calm. This man owed him a life. Tonight, after months of stalling from the Diabel regime, Enkil would have that life and consequences be damned. He nodded to one of the scouts, who pulled out a sophisticated piece of technology and began to scan the door's locking mechanism.
Enkil looked on with blank eyes, his mind clearly somewhere else, until finally the door hissed open. The Caravan Master nodded to his forerunners and then accepted a large caliber pistol from one of his personal escorts before walking into the apartment. Inside it was dark. Quiet. The event that had swept across this deck of the station had not impacted this apartment at all. Faintly, as the door hissed shut behind him, he could hear blaster fire echoing down the corridors, cut through intermittently by the sharp, barking report of projectile weapons. The security team was finally responding, routing units from other decks. That was fine. He didn't need to stay long.
He stood at the foot of the officer's bed, watching the subtle rise and fall of chests beneath the sheets, his yellowish eyes trying to discern in the darkness which was his target and which the wife. He walked around to one side of the bed, levelling his pistol at the head of one of the sleeping figures.
"Wake up, Amiel. AMIEL!"
"Wha-" both figures stirred, Joaquin Amiel reaching to tap the base of his bedside lamp. When he saw the Thukker standing over his wife, pistol in hand, he froze.
"Poitot VII," Enkil said simply, the anger in his eyes holding Amiel rapt.
"I am sorry, Mister Akhe-"
"I. Lost. My. Son." Enkil hissed, voice scarcely above a whisper but seeming to boom in the dimly lit bedchamber. "You. Lost. My. Son."
"Please," Amiel begged, panicked eyes darting back and forth between the Thukker and the wife he was about to lose. "Please, sir. Don't do this."
"You owe me a life," Enkil explained calmly. "Yours." The pistol shifted a couple of inches and Amiel could see light glint off the rifling grooves in the barrel. "Or hers." The pistol shifted back to its original target. Amiel could see light glinting from terrified eyes, now open wide with terror, wife's body trembling but otherwise still.
"Pl-"
"YOU OWE ME A LIFE! CHOOSE!"
Amiel's eyes squeezed shut, his lips murmuring a traditional Intaki prayer. Seconds stretched on for hours. The sound of fighting in the corridors was coming closer and closer. Rescue and salvation, but still so far away. A soft, high-pitched voice sliced through the tension in the room.
"Daddy?"
All three adults' eyes snapped to the bedroom door, to the young girl standing there, doll hanging by the foot from one small hand.
Laughing, Enkil took walked over to the little girl and crouched down, pistol resting atop his knee as he glanced back over his shoulder at two horror-stricken parents. "What is your name, little girl? How old are you?"
The child beamed proudly. "My name is Charlinda!" she said. "I'm seven years and ten months and twenty-three days old. I'll be eight, soon!" she added, beautiful smile catching the light from her father's lamp.
"Mister Akheteru, please, I'll do anything," Amiel pleaded. "Don't hurt my little girl!"
Enkil took the child's free hand in his own and stood up again. Charlinda seemed confused, a worried look on her face as she tried to figure out what Daddy meant.
"I won't hurt her," the Thukker promised. "Not at all. Unless I have to." He looked at the girl, the wheels in his head clearly turning already. "You owe me a life. I will take this one. You will tell your masters. We will re-staff the colony. You will provide better security. Your daughter will not be harmed."
"Oh gods..." Amiel's wife sobbed. Enkil continued:
"You will tell everyone that Clan Du'uma Fiisi showed you mercy and that Enkil Akheteru is a fair trader." Enkil slowly dropped the hammer on his pistol, tucking it into the waistband of his trousers. "Do these things, and your debt is cleared. If you do not do these things I will return with your daughter, and you will choose which life you lose."
Decades passed. Capsule technology was revealed. Enkil Akheteru successfully completed the training and the wealth of Clan Du'uma Fiisi increased dramatically. Enough so that they were able to sponsor several candidates' through the training program. Candidates like Charlinda. Raised among the Du'uma Fiisi clan, Enkil had the adoption paperwork drawn up when she came of age for the Voluval. Today, though Intaki by blood, Charlinda is more Thukker than anything else.
She still keeps in touch with Joaquin and Marie Amiel.
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Topic: [Character] Charlinda Akheteru (Read 859 times)