Yojin Suru
Qidan of Gagarin let his eyes fall away from the panel in his holoscreen where Lincoln Gerovitch
Prokopowicz glowered. The hairy chief of anshin from Nikolayev had just completed a list of events
that had transpired recently in Ganj Dareh, Popovich. Qidan knew what was coming next.
"You've got to take action," demanded Prokopowicz.
"I can only react to a request from the local chief of anshin," Qidan explained without looking
up.
"I know that, Qidan." Umbrage tweaked his cold anger. "I also know that your contract gives you
wide latitude in interpretation of situations. Surely you could exercise such latitude here."
"Then you are familiar with the words 'when the circumstances warrant.'" Qidan met the other's gaze
through their virtual connection. "I don't think they do yet. As we both know, my contract is
very explicit about unnecessary expenditures both from a cost and a preparedness viewpoint. If I
commit to Ganj Dareh, I am not ready for other emergencies."
"What emergencies?"
"They are called 'emergencies' precisely because they are unexpected, Prokopowicz." Qidan thought
he had kept his voice neutral. He didn't have much use for some anshin chiefs, especially those
who hired themselves out as consultants.
"I will inform my client that Yojin Suru is an option."
Qidan's anger, though unspoken, must have shown, for Prokopowicz went on to say, "I will tell him
to encourage Chief Heejanus to request your support."
Qidan shrugged.
"End meeting," Prokopowicz declared gruffly and vanished.
With an eyebrow lift of suffering, Qidan poked impatiently at his now largely empty holoscreen. He
speared a mute, but ominously flame-red queue that had been growing on the edge of his everyday
work since late yesterday. He checked the message count: it had grown again. He flicked a finger
at a nearby glyph, invoking a large map of Popovich. He dragged the latest message onto the map.
The coordinates it carried generated a bonfire glyph where another cache of illegal weapons had
been opened.
Qidan panned his gaze over the map, to confirm his memories of the unfolding scenario. Sixteen
such caches were now flagged as having been emptied in the last 18 kilo-seconds. Five more circles
in central Popovich stood untouched. Not every one on the planet, but a significant portion.
Apparently, all these caches had been set up by the same criminal organization.
The same organization that disguised itself as an athletic league, playing something called
"tlaxtli." The same organization that had been operated by a couple of low-lifes named Ges Lugar
Sailie and Sous Thy Pouthisat — until yesterday; they were both now apparently dead somehow. The
same organization that, more interestingly, was funded secretly (but not secretly enough) by Jik
Dain Bedlip, a Partner in the powerful, but short-sighted — hadn't paid his premiums in years —
Byukan-Hamil Consortium. The same organization that owned the aircraft visiting and emptying these
caches.
Qidan wanted to see just how many caches these tlaxtli players would clean out, whether all the
smuggled firearms on the continent could be ascribed to this one group. If so, he could free up
surveillance resources and close a nice set of open cases he was continually having to acknowledge
at status reviews. Qidan liked that prospect: he liked a tidy planet.
Then there was Ganj Dareh. Three spheres formed in his mind's eye, each burnished and representing
a crisp criterion for action:
* one for evidence that these tlaxtli players were done collecting weapons and were getting ready
to use them
* one for knowing exactly where their targets were in and around Ganj Dareh
* and one when the anshin chief asked for help
Then circumstances would warrant action.
