ONE
Arthos, the Infinite City
Terran Year 2106
Drakkal wasn’t sure how,but he’d get back at Arcanthus for sending him on this delivery.
He’d arrived at the client’s manor—one of the largest residences in the Gilded Sector—ten minutes before the appointed meeting time, eager to conclude this business and be on his way. Per the instructions he’d been provided, he’d used the tunnels below street level to access a hidden entrance, where he’d endured suspicious glares and firm questions from the security guards. They’d finally allowed him inside, and he’d had the privilege of weathering a forty-minute wait in the kitchen as over a dozen servants prepared an immense meal.
Even after the volturian guard who’d stared at Drakkal with cold, blue eyes during his entire stay in the kitchen had finally led him to the client’s study, Murgen Foltham—the immenselywealthy durgan businessman Drakkal had come to see—still hadn’t shown his face.
Drakkal folded his arms across his chest. His tail flicked restlessly, and his ears drew back.
And here I’d thought Arcanthus was a pain in my ass…
Releasing a heavy breath that ended in a low growl, Drakkal scanned the room. Everything here was ornate nearly to the point of sacrificing functionality, right down to the oversized desk and the chairs positioned around it.
Like most other manors in this part of the city, this place was more a status symbol than a home. It was an elaborate, excessive, unnecessary display of wealth, and just being inside it irritated Drakkal. Such residences presented an illusion of freedom and beauty at odds with the subterranean, gritty nature of the Undercity. It was all fake, it all stank, and the expensive, exotic scents these people used to cover the stench only made it worse.
Drakkal strode forward and sat in one of the chairs in front of the desk, resting his tail on the cushion between his thigh and the armrest. Just as he’d guessed it would, the chair forced him into a rigid posture that provided no comfort.
The volturian guard stepped closer. “I didn’t say you could sit.”
Drakkal glanced back at the scowling volturian. The discomfort caused by the chair seemed a fair price for the guard’s perturbation. “And I didn’t ask. Where’s Foltham?”
“Master Foltham will be here when he’s available. He doesn’t plan his schedule around the likes of you.”
Lifting his cybernetic left arm, Drakkal activated the holocom built into its wrist. His wait was approaching the fifty-minute mark.
Drakkal settled his hands on the armrests and pushed himself to his feet. “Tell your boss that he can contact us whenhe’s serious about concluding our business. Any future meeting will be conducted at a neutral location at a time of our choosing.”
He walked toward the door. The volturian stepped into Drakkal’s path, tilting his head back to meet Drakkal’s gaze.
“You don’t belong here, you overgrown sewer skrudge,” the volturian spat, “but Master Foltham has chosen to do business with you. So you’ll stay here and wait like a good little animal until whenever he declares the transaction completed to his satisfaction.”
“I don’t care who he is,” Drakkal growled, baring his fangs. “I’m not going to have more of my time wasted. Stand aside or draw your blaster to save me the dishonor of an unfair fight.”
“You skeks-sucking?—”
The door to the study swung open, and the volturian snapped his mouth shut, keeping his intense glare fixed on Drakkal.
A large alien walked through the open door—Murgen Foltham. He was perhaps two or three centimeters taller than Drakkal, but his body was huge, with thick, trunk like limbs and a round belly that dominated his overall shape. He had no neck to speak of, and his fleshy jowls hung low enough to rest upon his chest. The most solid part of Murgen Foltham seemed to be the pair of four-centimeter-long tusks jutting up from his lower jaw. He wore a loose black tunic with silver trim that was secured around his waist by a wide, violet sash from which dangled countless gold and platinum trinkets, many of which were embedded with gems and crystals.
“Ah! You’re finally here,” Murgen said in a rumbling bass voice. “Our appointment was forty minutes ago. I was beginning to wonder if?—”
“I’ve been here for nearly an hour,” Drakkal said, gaze locked with the volturian’s, “and I’m on my way out now.”
Murgen made a sound that was half-grunt, half-groan, and shuffled closer. The metal adornments on his sash clinked together as he moved. “Come now, I’ve set aside time from my day for this meeting, and I’m quite busy. Money doesn’t earn itself—at least not quickly enough for my liking.”
Gritting his teeth, Drakkal suppressed the growl threatening to rise from his chest
Doesn’t matter if I’d like nothing more than to gut these pompousgresh navari. This is just business. Besides, don’t want to give Arcanthus any ammunition to use against me by botching a simple deal.
Drakkal doubted that any of the Infinite City’s billions of residents could manage to say the wordsI told you sowith as much smugness as Arcanthus could.
The volturian stepped aside as Murgen neared.
“Come, then,” Murgen said, settling a hand with three short, thick fingers on Drakkal’s shoulder. “All’s forgiven. No one’s perfect, after all, and it’s unfair of me to expect too much of folk from lesser social strata.”