Chapter 10
The soldiers make a science of intimidation.
First, a percussive slap of boots on hardpack.
Then the visual: six in total, but all arranged to widen the impression, to sweep the market in a single coordinated sweep.
The uniforms aren’t standard issue—each is patched, tailored, or augmented for function, but the insignia at the collar is identical: a black triangle with a blue-lit nucleus at the center.
Every holster is snapped shut, every helmet’s visor mirrored to block out the face.
Their rifles aren’t slung low but carried upright, barrels pointed skyward in a gesture that’s equal parts parade and implied execution.
At their front stands a man—probably the captain.
Even in the half-morning glare, he registers as the axis around which the world spins.
The sleeves of his uniform are rolled to the elbow, exposing forearms corded with muscle, the skin inked with overlapping geometry that looks less like art and more like circuitry burned into flesh.
Above the tattoos, veins coil under the surface, mapping the terrain from wrist to shoulder.
His hair is cropped short—regulation, but starting to rebel at the temples—and at the throat, a dark tangle of tattoo sneaks up from beneath the collar, just visible whenever he turns his head.
It’s the face that’s the real mindfuck. Cheekbones that could slice you open, a jaw with enough tension to warp steel, and eyes that sit somewhere between ‘calculating’ and ‘dead’—the kind that make your skin forget how to breathe.
East Asian, but the accent in his gaze is pure American: a take-no-shit, take-no-prisoners kind of scrutiny.
The eyes move over the market with deliberate slowness, as if cataloging every soul for later retrieval.
I shrink back into the lee of Maven’s grain sacks, but I can’t not look.
The pendant at my collar throbs against my skin, picking up the background hum of the Echo Spheres as the soldiers close in.
Maven tenses, their hand drifting under the counter to whatever weapon or bribe they keep for moments like this.
The captain stops dead center in the plaza.
“Secure the area,” he says, voice pitched low but amplified by absolute authority.
It’s not a bark, not even a shout—it’s a declaration, and the air obeys.
The five soldiers fan out, forming a web that cages the entire market.
Two move straight for the vendor tables, eyes sweeping for contraband.
The rest circulate, pausing at intervals to check the faces and wrists of every bystander.
It’s overkill, but not wasted. Within thirty seconds, the entire bazaar is silent, every trade stalled, every argument stowed for later.
A soldier with a scar running diagonal across the cheek—the kind that says “close call, never again”—approaches Maven’s stall.
His visor flashes as he points to the grain sacks.
“Inspection,” he says, monotone. Maven nods, stepping aside.
The soldier roots through the top layer, then plunges a hand deep, feeling for hidden tech.
I see Maven’s jaw clench, but they don’t protest.
Scar moves on, but the second soldier, shorter and more methodical, stops at the table. She picks up a jar, unscrews the lid, and sniffs the contents. Then she sets the jar back with a care that borders on sarcasm, flicks her gaze at me, then at Maven, and walks off.
Across the plaza, two soldiers converge on the Echo Sphere vendor.
The vendor tries to smile, but his hands betray him, fingers trembling on the counter as he presents the spheres for inspection.
The lead soldier produces a wand—some kind of tuned receiver, shaped like a tuning fork—and passes it over the table.
When the fork passes a sphere, the pendant at my collar shivers, the blue pulse quickening.
The soldier nods, then plucks three of the orbs off the table and deposits them into a padded satchel. The vendor protests, voice breaking, “That’s all my stock for the quarter—without them I can’t—”
“Contraband,” the soldier says, dead. “Confiscated per SMA protocol. You are not being fined at this time.” The vendor sags, shoulders caving. One of the soldiers slips a receipt, real paper, onto the table, then moves on.
In the center of the plaza, the captain turns in a slow, methodical arc.
He doesn’t speak again, just watches as his team works.
Every muscle in his body is wired tight, but his stance is loose—relaxed in the way only a predator can be.
He’s not worried about attack, or even resistance.
This is a man who’s never lost a fight that mattered.
I leaned closer to Maven, my voice barely audible and asked, “Who is he?” Maven replied bitterly, “Captain Lance Kang.”
A disturbance at the far end—a soldier hauls an old man, no teeth, by the back of the shirt, dragging him toward the center.
The man is shouting, “Not mine! I swear on my children!” but the soldier pays no attention, just delivers the body like a sack of onions.
The old man crumples at kang’s feet, groveling, “They planted it, I’ve never even seen a Sphere, please—”
Kang doesn’t blink. He crouches, puts a hand on the man’s shoulder—firm, but not cruel. “You will remain here until we’re done,” he says, voice so deep it’s almost a vibration. “Then you will leave the market. Permanently.”
The old man nods, tears wetting the dust at his cheeks. Lance stands, signals the soldier to let go, and the man collapses, sobbing.
For a second, Captain Kang looks straight at me. I feel the appraisal—an atom-level scan, starting at the pendant and ending somewhere behind my eyes. His own eyes go wider, just a hair, then he looks away.
The sweep continues. Soldiers move from stall to stall, rifling through every box, every sack, every pocket big enough to hold a Sphere.
Most vendors have nothing, but when they do, the orbs disappear into Authority bags without preamble.
A child at a food stall cries when her sphere is taken, and for a moment, the entire market seems to hold its breath.
Kang looks at the child, then at the soldier, and his jaw ticks—once, twice.
The soldier hesitates, but the order stands.
Maven leans toward me, voice a whisper through ground glass. “This is new. They never used to care about the Spheres. Not until Petrov started running the region. Now they sweep every week, sometimes twice.”
I keep my eyes on Kang. “What’s their game?”
Maven shrugs. “Control, mostly. The Spheres run comms, navigation, sometimes even black-market filtration. If you kill the tech, you kill the people’s will to travel.”
The old man stumbles to his feet, wanders off toward the exit. Two soldiers follow, making sure he doesn’t double back. The market is quieter now, the vendors subdued, the energy muted. The sweep is over in less than fifteen minutes.
Kang lingers in the plaza, eyes scanning for loose ends.
His head pivots, just slightly, in my direction.
I don’t know if he recognizes me, or just the signature of the pendant, but he makes no move to approach.
Instead, he signals the team, then starts toward the west gate at a steady, unhurried pace.
I watch him go. Even retreating, he radiates control. The tattoos, the stance, the absolute certainty in each step—he’s both icon and enigma, and the rest of the world just orbits.
When the soldiers are gone, the market exhales. Maven shakes out their hands, then fishes a flask from under the counter and takes a long, slow pull.
“Drink?” they offer.
I nod, and Maven passes the flask. The liquid burns—a fusion of ethanol and some plant extract I can’t place.
“What did you make of the Captain?” Maven asks.
I wipe my lips and pass back the flask. “He doesn’t enjoy this.” At least I dont think he does.
“Bullshit,” Maven says, but there’s less heat in the words than before.
I shrug. “Maybe not enjoy, but there’s nothing personal about it. He’s just a mechanism.”
Maven studies me for a moment, then nods, as if conceding a point in a debate that’s been running for years.
“He’s new,” they say. “Wasn’t here six months ago. Now, they say he runs half the grid. Never makes mistakes, never breaks the rules. Most Authority brass just want to survive until their next posting. But Kang—he believes in order. That makes him dangerous.”
I remember the flash of his eyes, the way he scanned me and then dismissed it. “He’ll come back,” I say.
Maven grins. “They always do.”
A child’s wail rises in the distance, then subsides. The market resumes, slower, but not broken. I sit at Maven’s table, mind spinning simulations, wondering how much time is left before the Authority decides that science, too, is a threat worth eradicating.
It takes less than an hour for the market to return to its normal, cutthroat rhythm.
The void left by the confiscated Spheres is filled with rumor: the soldiers are tracking someone; the Captain is targeting black-market tech; the next sweep will burn the settlement to its foundations.
Maven pours another shot of the harsh stuff into my cup and lets me marinate in the new pecking order.
I watch the child whose sphere was taken.
She sits cross-legged at the edge of the basin, thumb hooked into the empty loop where the orb used to hang.
She’s not crying now—just tracing figure eights in the dust, staring through the water at the boots of the passing traders.
The market has already written her off, assigned her to the ranks of the disposable.
I can’t watch that. I rise from Maven’s table, shoulders squared, and drift toward the girl. I kneel, keeping my hands visible. The RadShield at my neck is cool again, a small comfort.
“You lost something important,” I say, voice pitched soft.