Chapter 4
Carmine, the thief, is a mischievous opportunist unlike any other. This is because Carmine has implants like those royal guards, various politicians, certain traders, and the occasional legion of soldiers would naturally have. A thief with implants is hard to imagine for a multiplicity of reasons. Most of which are half mumblings of those that just never considered it was possible, but would accept the fact if they discovered it. Others range from logistics, expenses, personal reasons, and reasons related to biological ramifications. Professional dogma, friendly and less than friendly reminders in thieving circles about the real purpose of implants. Only steal, never use.
A biological reason might be a species with a lack of insides. Tending to not live very long when grafts and other things bloat them like food choking the air from a throat. Plenty more because the confusion it causes their body spins them into a sort of tightness that eventually kills them. Choking doesn’t even come into play. No one knows why, they just accepted the fact after a particularly empty individual wanted to get an implant to improve their lack of skills in coitus. However, species with a whole load of insides tend to fair quite well when another thing goes inside, most consider it’s because when everything works just fine, adding another thing on top won’t do much to upset the balance. Specific species such as Humans have no problems at all with implants inside or out. Others, like many of the members of royal families and their guards also have no trouble with implants as the use of them far outweighs any negative feedback they might experience. No account of a royal family member or royal guard has ever occurred where an implant caused unnecessary ends through the long truth.
Only whispers old in archival format tend to point anciently to a race of potential royalty that born themselves filled with guts of all useful sorts incapable of handling the adding of stuffs.
But regardless of biology, a species’ profession often implied whether implants were useful. Thieves never get implants because they’re either, honestly, too stupid, or they believe if they can’t get the job done on their own, having a fancy toy won’t get them much farther. Carmine, would consider both those reasons to be redundant. Would ignore the other inane justifications for not going along with the process, and carry through with grafting exceptionally expensive technology into his biology.
No, thieves believed in a code of honesty that contradicted the use of special tools such as implants, or anything owned if it wasn’t a weapon, a Glint account, and the clothes over their body. In Carmine’s case, all of that was nonsense, and he enjoyed owning many things that weren’t only weapons, or clothes, or large Glint accounts. He owned many ships, he owned expensive housing on half the most expensive planets clustered near the center of the galactic hub of powerful systems Not officially, but they remained unused pretending to others that people bustled within. In another time, he might go within the White Sphere’s grand influence to spend Glint on the lit walkways of immense outdoor markets. Skirting merchants of mercurial intents and merchandise beneath those flashing floors might see more of his Glint than those properly warranted and licensed. Though disagreeable, implants helped him become the most capable, most skillful thief in the galaxy. No one, superior species or otherwise could match Carmine’s skill with a rifle, a lock, or a rotting situation. Luck in all other things remained entirely uncompetitive. For as long as thieves have thieved with luck in their breath it’s Carmine’s luck that outlasts any other. Seems like answers more than luck, to questions before they’ve piqued one’s brain.
This was a rotting situation, he can smell the air – even if the air on R43 twirled rot like retching bile – and began to whistle. It helps him think. And ignore the thick sense of dust flensed death.
As Logan and Carmine entered the main building with high bronze foundations rising up like gum around coiling, winding claw like teeth, armed guards marching into view from three or four archways lean one after another against second floor gallery railings, shifting loudly with weapons pointing, boots pounding, and eyes glaring. Their fully covered selves of light browns and dull greys make them like a dust storm. The royal house member of R43, a Rekkel, chortled a fit. She lifted a golden hand, pointing at the silver, ornate box sitting in Logan’s hand, till a guard at their rear sweeps in to ferry it in brown gloves to hers.
“I meant what I said, Logan Steel, your luck really is rotten. Unfortunately for you and your friend thief, you won’t be heading back to Huvar. That flatulent of a planet can melt away in the dust of an impact for all I care. Yes, all I required was this box, and I requested specifically that an important guard, like yourself but not certainly you, be on their way with this in tow as soon as possible. Rotten luck.” As her half effort pointing to retrieve the palm sized crate moved the guards like toys on strings, her second bored wave and slow blinking brown eyes moving to each tightly wound Rekkel incites them to restrain the two.
Guards take out magnetic braces, locking the arms and ankles of Logan and Carmine to each other, before shuffling them out from the foyer into a second hallway. An exquisitely carved granite doorway into a hall from the front door lobby echoes steps beneath lofty ceilings upon which a painting of the star system of R43 blends back against the far wall behind them where guards maintained upper floor walkways. Balconies where a dozen guards stand at ease with rifles, wrist blasters, and pistols stretch like a noose around and through walls and up floors. Even though surely Carmine could escape with little injury, and the talents of Logan were not dismissible, acting now before a tilted hand gave away an actionable hint could lead them both to the long truth before the front door closed with a deafened thud and click. Trained half-conscious reflex would see to failing their shifting plans of escape.
“I don’t understand, what’s going on, Raforthe?” Demanded Logan, in as much authority he could muster. A guard shoves his back in retort. Carmine continues his short whistle. Only stopping occasionally to see the bored looks and annoyed glares from loosely armoured Rekkel around him.
“Logan, dear, it’s precious you never payed attention to the politics of royalty, I always did tell you it might lead to the long truth, one day. Even if you are immortal.”
“This is a mistake, Raforthe, this thief is not party to me, I’m carrying out a royal duty, I’m due back on Huvar by next galactic quarter.”
“Yes, thirty rotational standards, I know. This is a grand plan, you see. We know you’re not with the great Carmine of Themalclys, and if I could take it back, I would request anyone but you, but we can’t take it back now, so you’re stuck as much as we are. But look at it this way, the long truth protects you from, well, the truth.”
Carmine fidgets as Logan speaks.
“This is against the treaty, this is an act of war. Why would you want a war with the other families? There hasn’t been one in nearly eight centuries.” Logan hears Raforthe say the lapsed centuries along with him. She chortles and sighs before responding.
“Logan, the depths of politics bleeds back further than even your long lie. The matter has settled, you were to bring the silver box, which would attract the attention of the thief, who has been coaxed for the last century to arrive here through variously planted marks big enough for an appetite as large as Carmine’s. It’s just rotten luck that you had to ferry this useless box.
“You see, Logan, dear, during the last war, Huvar’s elite guards sent half of ours to the long truth, that’s a lot of immortal, loyal, capable workers to lose. However, there is a function of the treaty birthed from that war that allows recompense when the royal family in question deems it acceptable to withdraw. We heard Carmine would be in the sector about a hundred fifty years ago, so a plan materialized to collect both our payment owed, and Carmine’s wonderfully immeasurable bounty.”
Disagreeing reports and military journals make unclear statements about Rekkel royalty of R43’s entwined history against the Huvar royal house during the Royal War through an unfortunate trade deal, or some other political cause. Most families joined in for the opportunity to expand their coffers of Glint. Others due to infractions of their perceived concept of honour, or respect, and the rest did it because everyone else seemed to pick up a hobby of killing each other, and figured why not?
The events, marked in records though Reok Forx has written much of the history in his eternal tenure at the University, occurred rapidly within a month or so, such a fleeting moment in time determined the fates of millions upon millions of lives. It was a shattering confusion due to the quick succession of political friction and small skirmishes.
Treaties and mandates and the like propelled into the Hub during a sudden moment of quiet in the chaos of conflict. Logan’s referenced treaty is one that appeared under the tutelage of a few families.
If agreements like those never occurred, or a moment to breathe never happened, then the war’s evolving strategies would have cracked nearly all the royal houses asunder. There would effectively be no more royalty in the Hub, or around it. Therefore, it’s an insult to rub against the laws and treaties that protected the remaining lives of the dwindling families.
Which Logan now understands himself to be payment, and to go against that would be to invite another war. Not the other way around.
Logan squeezes his eyes, curses his luck against the names of Lords of happenstance and nature, and exhales. While Carmine, deft and skilled, lifts off into the air with the agility of a Azzelian forest lynx to knock the consciousness from the three guards trailing. Swiftly after he presses a button on his ear that releases a series of holographic visors to cover his face. This tells him pressure points, analyzes balance weaknesses, and tells him all sorts of strategies he can carry out. He ignores most of them, unless it tells him their face is fragile, or their rear. Seconds later, Carmine and Logan stand amidst a debris of sleeping guards, and one member of R43’s royal family, Raforthe. Restrained with magnetic locks, Logan only looks at Carmine with half apology, half annoyance, before his suit frees him effortlessly.
“It took me the breadth of your boring conversation with that ugly thing to unlock the restraints, and yet your suit comes with a free key? Can I have one?”
“We should leave, they’ll come with reinforcements, and now that you’ve made this worse, the long truth isn’t the only thing we can look forward to.”
“Why are you blaming me!” Carmine shouts after Logan, who is already jetting off to a set of high windows above a wall mounted staircase to a path connecting other intricate doorways and throughways to the front door. His shoulder mounted lasers sizzle brilliant heat and force to cut through the impact shielded glass. Though it will take time, he wastes none in hovering in the air across the way from a doorway where beneath it lies another doorway. Inside those rooms stirs guards who for the most part consider things to be going quite well.
“Anyone ever tell you a child carries more sense? If you hadn’t done what you did, again, we may not be in the middle of the start to another Royal War. If we’re lucky, that won’t happen.” Eagerly, like as he might have been a child on his first heist, Carmine covers the exit by standing against the door frame they passed through as secured prisoners. Setting loose two pebble sized recon drones up above him to settle on the walls and ceilings around the circling levels of the spiraling tooth-like house. In the foyer where they entered, stairs on either side lead up and through carved doorways to balconies and granite floors of hallways that wrap around each other, leading back altogether to the front door lobby. Meters from Carmine’s position at the doorway lies a double door beneath the balcony hall above, across from Logan. Logan’s patience with the silver and red tinted window earn him no seconds of quiet, as Carmine waves frantically at him, shouting in more of a scratchy whisper that guards have tumbled down both stairways in the lobby and are coming quickly at them. Pleasantly considering the bad luck that guards across from them remained completely ignorant. Which also means the guards on route must be connected directly to Raforthe, and therefore hold more status and skill than their colleagues.
“Not that it’s any of your business but I wasn’t completely falling for the old silver-box-trap-trick.”
Sensors on Carmine’s arm blink in blue, one set, and then another as the drones signal their report. Surrounded, and panicking, Carmine slams a palm to his chest, turning the material of his coats, shirts, pants, boots and other assets into a photon reflective patchwork. Appearing invisible while still and held breath, he remains quiet as wrist blasters, pistols, and rifles enter the room attached to furious guards. Barrels, whining energies, and thick projectile weapons center on Logan. Impacts crash against the collapsing engines on his back. Eyesight bleeds to black against hardened glass before falling to the hard floor that leaves him heaped in a pile of himself.
Less than a minute and the guards clear the hall but for Carmine’s tense, barely visible form.