The Vindication of Marcus Narvaez

[jammi]

"Enter". He pulled the door open a fragment and slipped inside - the room was dark, and heavy with the scent of laced tobacco. Marcus was no stranger to the stuff, having taken up the habit young. A foreigner would have been entering a dream-coma at that point, preparing to visit alien worlds and see sights of unparalleled wonder. For a child of Malta, such a dose was par the norm - the hint of the shadow of a buzz, rapidly absorbed by acclimatisation and biological tolerance. He made a mental note to buy a satchel of the stuff when he departed. He'd run out during his time in Liberty, which had ground on his nerves. Moving to his father's seat, he bent down on one knee and kissed the outstretched Narvaez signet ring.

"Il signore benedica voi e la vostra famiglia." Tradition fulfilled, he stood, and seated himself on an audience chair to the left.

Ernest stubbed out his cigar and leaned forward. "It is good to see you again, my figlio. How have you been keeping? What news do you bring of Liberty?"

Marcus gave a derisive snort. "I was fine. The Rogue that tried to sell me Cardamine cut with pad-gasses was not. They'll be picking pieces of him out of the deck plating for weeks." Ernest laughed - he'd had similar experiences in his younger days. A Rogue in a bar on Beaumont, was it?

"It is understandable that they dilute our gift - but to attempt to sell impure product to the Maltese themselves... That is suicide. You must show them that, si? The lesser races need to know their place. You've done a good thing, Marcus. What of your attachment to the 75th?"

He shrugged in a so-so manner. "I lost the hit of the century. I probably could have won Don David over with that one alone if it'd worked." His father gave a terse nod as a command to continue. Marcus sighed. "There was an arms dealer in New York, touting some new prototype guns. The very expensive ones, you know? I managed to lure the idiota out into the Badlands. He brought escorts, but they couldn't stop the sting of the Scimitar. Myself, Commandante Claes and signora Petrucci launched the ambush and managed to destroy it mere meters from its safe harbour at West Point. Only the escorts got to the cargo before we could. We all got out in one piece."

Ernest sucked in a breath through gritted teeth. "What was the value of the cache?"

Marcus shoot his head. "I don't know, a lot. Probably somewhere between 500 million to a billion credits. We were going to sell the spoils to an IND agent that had been attempting to undercut the sciocco."

"The Don does not appreciate failure. You know this?" Ernest kneaded his forehead for a moment before continuing. "While you showed initiative and skill in successfully laying such a trap, any merit was obliterated by your incompetence in its conclusion. I will not mention it to my brother. Neither will you." Marcus glowered darkly for a moment, before composing himself and leaning back in his chair.

"Si signore. I bow to you... wisdom." There was a distinct tone of insubordination.

There was a click and a spark, followed by a flame as the end of a cigar took. A moment followed while the end flared, then a lazy stream of smoke drifted for the ceiling. "You will watch your tongue, or you may live to miss it. Capisce?" Marcus rose to his feet.

"Are we done?"

His father lounged back in his throne and watched him languidly. "Si. Be gone."

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