Vrijpoort
Establishing Nation
City of Tjamuaha, Dune Sea
The dusty city was nothing pretty to look at. There were few paved roads. Electrical polls and their wires weaved through the buildings and alleyways. The occasional car had a difficult time navigating through the rivers of people, bikes and motorbikes on the streets. Street vendors hawked goods and quick, cheap meals and snacks. The sun was hot and people took refuge in open-air cafeterias that had dozens of stalls serving different fare and drinks. At this time of day, mid afternoon, many people took a break from work to sip a milkie, a cool milk and coffee-based drink. You took a couple of ice cubes, a spoonful of NedFoods condensed milk, a spoonful of Nedspresso instant coffee, poured cold water over it and used a frothing device for a few seconds. Voilá, bliss in a cup, as the locals called it.
Bobby Zandman, 32 and of slim build, was sitting on one of the plastic stools lined up at the cheap plywood tables sipping his milkie and checked his watch every two minutes or so. A dark-skinned Nedernesian of Nethian descent, Bobby had been deliberately chosen for this job because he fit in and knew one of the local languages. Basic Nedernesian was spoken by most people in the cities down here, but if you wanted to do real business you needed to speak the local tongues.
He checked his watch again and swore under his breath in Nedernesian 'ongeloofelijke klootzak!'. Just then his phone pinged. It was a WatMan? message, the popular Nedernesian messaging app that had also, like nearly every other Nedernesian brand and product, become wildly successful in the Dune Sea. Businessmen also liked it because of its supposed encryption. Bobby knew that was a good joke back at NSD (Nedernesian Signals Directorate) head office in Vrijpoort.
Bobby downed the rest of his drink. His glass was dripping in condensation. It felt good to stand up and let the fan blow air on his sweating back. His billowing short-sleeved button-down shirt and loose-fitting pants typical for the region didn't seem to help him cope much with the weather. At least it wasn't hot AND humid. Then he'd have had to ask for danger pay.
None of the locals paid Bobby any mind as he left the cafeteria and stepped back onto the street. A motorbike gave two short beeps before whizzing past. An old lady tried to get his attention and sell him some strange root. A young man displayed a case of cheap phones from Pohjanmaa and Touzen. Bobby ignored the cacophony as best he could and crossed the street. The Palace Hotel wasn't far.
He decided to take a shortcut through a back alleyway parallel to the main road. This is where the shops had their back entrances. Where goods were delivered and deals were made. It was narrower but less crowded than the road. Canvas and cloth awnings blocked out most of the sun. It was at least 7 degrees cooler back here. Bobby drew in a deep breath and headed up the alleyway. An old woman with missing front teeth and grey hair stood partially in his way and grabbed the fringe of his shirt while smiling. She spoke to him in thickly accented Nedernesian and gestured to a pretty girl, probably 15 years old.
Bobby frowned and whisked her hand away from his shirt, but she was persistent and pointed to a teen boy sitting next to the girl.
Bobby didn't stop walking but caught the eye of the boy and for the briefest of moments allowed his mind to wander. He stopped himself - not enough time and he's too young anyway. Bobby preferred the brothels in Vrijpoort. Aside from being far cleaner he didn't have to patronise them with a dirty conscious. Strict regulations helped ensure the sex workers were there by choice, safe, healthy and had full social protections. Unlike the poor teen girl and boy in this alleyway who had most definitely been trafficked from a poor village.
Finally he caught sight of the back entrance to the Palace. He handed a kitchen worker a cigarette, which always worked as a cheap bribe to get through most doors in this land. He quickly went through the dish cleaning area and into a corridor. Bobby knew the Palace too well. Most of his assets preferred meeting here. They claimed it was the central location, but Bobby knew it was because he always picked up their tab after they left the bar - fucking freeloaders.
The bar was ornate, almost comically so. Red velvet sofas and deep seats had gold leafed wooden arms and legs. Dark brown polished woods tables had ornate silver coffee and tea sets. Three-storey sandwich towers were adorned with local and Northern delicacies. Fans slowly circulated the warm air. Servers dressed in formal livery took the orders and settled the bills of the local elite. Tjamuaha's business and political elite came here to socialise and do business. For Bobby this kind of place was an informational gold mine. The exact opposite of the street-side cafeteria.
Bobby saw his asset sitting at the bar nursing a Tom Collins. 'Good to see you again, Ace' Bobby addressed him by his codename and lightly slapped the young man's shoulder. Ace gave a little smile and signalled to the barman for another Tom Collins - may as well get another freebie in. Bobby tried not to role his eyes.
'All right, get to it, Ace. I've got things to do, other people to see.'
Ace took out his beat up smartphone and opened up the maps application. He positioned it in a remote area in the west about 200km from the border with Nobatia. Slap bang in the desert, but north of the dune area that gave the country its name. Dry, rocky, just some bush scrub around. Small villages here survived off of nomadic herding for the most part.
Bobby took a closer look at the map and made a mental note of the nearest town's name and the GPS coordinates.
'You're sure it's here?'
Ace nodded and sipped his iced drink.
'But where the hell do they store the stuff? It's barely a village, let alone a town.'
Ace shrugged and continued enjoying his beverage that would normally cost him an hour's wage at the shop he worked at.
Bobby sighed and lent his back against the bar while he looked out at the crowd and the street beyond. He heard the braying of a camel and, sure enough, a camel merchant was leading a small flock down the main road with the help of a boy. This fucking city...
But Bobby didn't have time to think about the intricacies of the Tjamuaha economy. He drew in a deep breath before turning quickly around. With his left hand he grabbed Ace's balls and gave a tight squeeze while with his right hand he pulled the informant's left ear close to his face and hissed:
'I don't have time to fuck around, bru. Tell me where they're stashing it or the gravy train ends here right now, snap je? (get it?'
Ace choked on his drink but didn't let out a scream. He wasn't in much of a bargaining position so gave the man the answer.
'It'll be that grouping of shacks near the trade hall. Yes, those there!'
'Are you sure, Ace?'
'Ja, zeker (sure) bru. 100 per cent!'
Bobby let go of Ace's crotch and gave the back of his head a patronising pat.
'See, that wasn't so hard now, was it? Go fuck off now.' Bobby slid a wad of Nedernesian guilders across the bar to Ace. 'I'll message you when I need more.'
With Ace gone, Bobby ordered a Himyari style coffee, the kind that have thick mud at the bottom and are poured from intricate pots. He put in one sugar cube and sipped the brew before taking out his phone. He opened up an app that appeared to be a gambling game. He put in his pin, fingerprint and then a second pin before he could access the messaging feature.
Bobby sent the message and closed the app. He finished his coffee, settled the bill with his government-issued credit card (thank God the Nedernesians introduced modern banking to this hell-hole) and ventured back out onto the street. It was time to go to Sand Springs.
The dusty city was nothing pretty to look at. There were few paved roads. Electrical polls and their wires weaved through the buildings and alleyways. The occasional car had a difficult time navigating through the rivers of people, bikes and motorbikes on the streets. Street vendors hawked goods and quick, cheap meals and snacks. The sun was hot and people took refuge in open-air cafeterias that had dozens of stalls serving different fare and drinks. At this time of day, mid afternoon, many people took a break from work to sip a milkie, a cool milk and coffee-based drink. You took a couple of ice cubes, a spoonful of NedFoods condensed milk, a spoonful of Nedspresso instant coffee, poured cold water over it and used a frothing device for a few seconds. Voilá, bliss in a cup, as the locals called it.
Bobby Zandman, 32 and of slim build, was sitting on one of the plastic stools lined up at the cheap plywood tables sipping his milkie and checked his watch every two minutes or so. A dark-skinned Nedernesian of Nethian descent, Bobby had been deliberately chosen for this job because he fit in and knew one of the local languages. Basic Nedernesian was spoken by most people in the cities down here, but if you wanted to do real business you needed to speak the local tongues.
He checked his watch again and swore under his breath in Nedernesian 'ongeloofelijke klootzak!'. Just then his phone pinged. It was a WatMan? message, the popular Nedernesian messaging app that had also, like nearly every other Nedernesian brand and product, become wildly successful in the Dune Sea. Businessmen also liked it because of its supposed encryption. Bobby knew that was a good joke back at NSD (Nedernesian Signals Directorate) head office in Vrijpoort.
Palace Hotel. 5 minuutjes op de bar. Je komt alleen.
(Palace Hotel. 5 minutes at the bar. You come alone)
(Palace Hotel. 5 minutes at the bar. You come alone)
None of the locals paid Bobby any mind as he left the cafeteria and stepped back onto the street. A motorbike gave two short beeps before whizzing past. An old lady tried to get his attention and sell him some strange root. A young man displayed a case of cheap phones from Pohjanmaa and Touzen. Bobby ignored the cacophony as best he could and crossed the street. The Palace Hotel wasn't far.
He decided to take a shortcut through a back alleyway parallel to the main road. This is where the shops had their back entrances. Where goods were delivered and deals were made. It was narrower but less crowded than the road. Canvas and cloth awnings blocked out most of the sun. It was at least 7 degrees cooler back here. Bobby drew in a deep breath and headed up the alleyway. An old woman with missing front teeth and grey hair stood partially in his way and grabbed the fringe of his shirt while smiling. She spoke to him in thickly accented Nedernesian and gestured to a pretty girl, probably 15 years old.
'Dag mooie man! Heb je 'n beetje tijd? Hoe zou een paar minuutjes met deze fijne meisje?'
(Hello handsome man. Do you have a little time? How about a few minutes with this lovely girl?)
(Hello handsome man. Do you have a little time? How about a few minutes with this lovely girl?)
'Ik geef je een lekkere prijs. Echt goedkoop!'
(I'll give you a good (slang: delicious) price. Really cheap!)
(I'll give you a good (slang: delicious) price. Really cheap!)
Finally he caught sight of the back entrance to the Palace. He handed a kitchen worker a cigarette, which always worked as a cheap bribe to get through most doors in this land. He quickly went through the dish cleaning area and into a corridor. Bobby knew the Palace too well. Most of his assets preferred meeting here. They claimed it was the central location, but Bobby knew it was because he always picked up their tab after they left the bar - fucking freeloaders.
The bar was ornate, almost comically so. Red velvet sofas and deep seats had gold leafed wooden arms and legs. Dark brown polished woods tables had ornate silver coffee and tea sets. Three-storey sandwich towers were adorned with local and Northern delicacies. Fans slowly circulated the warm air. Servers dressed in formal livery took the orders and settled the bills of the local elite. Tjamuaha's business and political elite came here to socialise and do business. For Bobby this kind of place was an informational gold mine. The exact opposite of the street-side cafeteria.
Bobby saw his asset sitting at the bar nursing a Tom Collins. 'Good to see you again, Ace' Bobby addressed him by his codename and lightly slapped the young man's shoulder. Ace gave a little smile and signalled to the barman for another Tom Collins - may as well get another freebie in. Bobby tried not to role his eyes.
'All right, get to it, Ace. I've got things to do, other people to see.'
Ace took out his beat up smartphone and opened up the maps application. He positioned it in a remote area in the west about 200km from the border with Nobatia. Slap bang in the desert, but north of the dune area that gave the country its name. Dry, rocky, just some bush scrub around. Small villages here survived off of nomadic herding for the most part.
Bobby took a closer look at the map and made a mental note of the nearest town's name and the GPS coordinates.
'You're sure it's here?'
Ace nodded and sipped his iced drink.
'But where the hell do they store the stuff? It's barely a village, let alone a town.'
Ace shrugged and continued enjoying his beverage that would normally cost him an hour's wage at the shop he worked at.
Bobby sighed and lent his back against the bar while he looked out at the crowd and the street beyond. He heard the braying of a camel and, sure enough, a camel merchant was leading a small flock down the main road with the help of a boy. This fucking city...
But Bobby didn't have time to think about the intricacies of the Tjamuaha economy. He drew in a deep breath before turning quickly around. With his left hand he grabbed Ace's balls and gave a tight squeeze while with his right hand he pulled the informant's left ear close to his face and hissed:
'I don't have time to fuck around, bru. Tell me where they're stashing it or the gravy train ends here right now, snap je? (get it?'
Ace choked on his drink but didn't let out a scream. He wasn't in much of a bargaining position so gave the man the answer.
'It'll be that grouping of shacks near the trade hall. Yes, those there!'
'Are you sure, Ace?'
'Ja, zeker (sure) bru. 100 per cent!'
Bobby let go of Ace's crotch and gave the back of his head a patronising pat.
'See, that wasn't so hard now, was it? Go fuck off now.' Bobby slid a wad of Nedernesian guilders across the bar to Ace. 'I'll message you when I need more.'
With Ace gone, Bobby ordered a Himyari style coffee, the kind that have thick mud at the bottom and are poured from intricate pots. He put in one sugar cube and sipped the brew before taking out his phone. He opened up an app that appeared to be a gambling game. He put in his pin, fingerprint and then a second pin before he could access the messaging feature.
Mission critical. New intel received on birthday cake bakery. Cannot transmit. I'm coming for a visit. Put on the kettle.
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