“I don’t care about that emergency—get him back here now!” Vassili snaps. “I’m the Regent, dammit! I come first!”
“Neela’s been at the center since this morning,” says the other guy. “She was at the gym, now she’s with Meghan at the lounge. It’s her rest week.”
“I don’t give a damn! Get her here now! I’m leaking out of every hole!”
“I’ll call her right away!”
He runs off. I retreat to my hideout. Neela’ll take at least half an hour to arrive. That gives me time to keep investigating.
I ask the AI about local resources Bully might want. Mars has no gold, silver, or diamonds. But it’s rich in iron oxide—hence the red soil. Not super valuable.
So what about lifeforms? That’s what ended my partnership with Bully—he wanted to start trafficking animals. As a Sadjim, the idea of cages makes me insane. Why inflict that on other beings?
The AI gives me a list of imported Earth species that adapted to Martian conditions: yaks, Tibetan antelopes, red foxes, beavers, caribou, bighorn sheep, snowy owls... My stomach growls at the thought of lemmings and arctic marmots. Way better than hares and pikas.
I rule out Siberian brown bears—too big and hard to keep in captivity.
But four species could be targets for trafficking: the Canadian lynx (I’ve seen one near the lake), the gray wolf (majestic predator), the snow leopard (rare and elegant—collector bait), and the manul (a fat, fluffy wildcat). No idea why Kiran keeps calling me “kitty”—we look nothing alike.
So yeah, four viable candidates for illegal trade.
Still, why does Bully need Vassili? He doesn’t. He could poach creatures on his own. That part puzzles me.
I save everything into a secure folder that I can access from any individual unit—like Neela’s. I also back up detailed maps of Human zones and their borders.
Time to go find my beautiful brunette.
The stench of the place is overwhelming. The sounds of digestive misery have faded. I move silently, ears perked.
My left ear twitches. It’s Esteban, motioning for me.
“Did you find what you needed?” he whispers.
“Partly. Still some missing pieces. Where’s Neela?”
“Making her rounds. Everyone will remember this crappy day,” he chuckles.
I grin silently—then freeze. A sharp, metallic scent—blood.
“What’s that way?” I ask.
“The kitchens. This is where food’s delivered. There’s an exit outside too.”
“Wait. Show me the kitchens. And tell me exactly where you put the herbs.”
“Why?” he grumbles, but leads me in.
The massive prep table holds a dozen pots. It smells amazing—so much better than the bland stuff Neela usually eats.
My nose hones in on a meaty stew. Jackpot.
“I wouldn’t,” Esteban warns.
“Don’t tell me you poisoned this masterpiece,” I mutter.
“Then I won’t tell you. But I wouldn’t eat it.”
“Damn! Which dish did you spare?”
