twice that many badly injured. He was quite sure that most of the casualties had had no connection to the Ballroom, but some of them would have. The point being that he didn’t think there were really that many terrorists still at large, and they’d be deep in hiding and . . .
Casualties. Fatalities. Desperate need for money . . .
Body parts and tissues. That was the market he’d aim for. There was a small trade in such goods in seccy areas. More modern medical methods were available and not even that expensive, but there were always some people who wanted to stay off the official grid for one reason or another. For such people, going to an established hospital for regeneration treatments posed too much of a risk, even compared to the risks of undergoing primitive organ-replacement surgery in unlicensed clinics.
The market was too erratic and marginal to have a well-established network of fences in place. There’d be some, sure, but they’d be freelancers. What the underworld called gypsies. Savage, often, but they’d be individuals or very small groups, not large gangs. The goons Vickers had promised to provide Lajos should be able to handle any problems of that nature that came up.
And he’d certainly not have any problem coming up with a supply of goods to sell. Not with the resources of the entire Mesan penal system at his disposal. Mesan authorities had no hesitation when it came to using the death penalty as a means of disciplining the population. Lajos wasn’t sure of the exact number, but there’d be at least half a dozen people being executed every month. Their bodies were normally cremated, since the body parts and tissues market was too small to be of interest to the giant corporations that dominated the planet—and the wealthy individuals who ran those corporations had other and better means to provide for their medical needs.
Just a little change in methods, for a while. Cut up the executed corpses to provide Lajos with the supplies he needed, cremate what was left and hand those remains over to the grieving relatives when there were any. Would anyone bother to weigh the ashes and try to calculate if everything was accounted for? Not likely. Not that class of people. And if they did, so what? Nobody cared what they thought anyway.
His spirits were picking up now. This . . .
Was still a stupid idea. But at least it’d be workable, wouldn’t pose too many risks—and, who could say? Maybe he’d even turn up something.
Hearing a slight noise behind him, he turned in his seat and saw that two men had just entered the mess hall and were headed his way.
Large men. The muscle, obviously.
When they reached the table, one of them said: “Vickers sent us.”
“We’re supposed to give you whatever help you need,” said the other. “I’m Borisav Stanković,” he said. “Call me Bora.” He pointed a thumb at his partner. “This is Freddie Martinez.”
Martinez nodded.
Lajos rose from the table he’d been sitting at and stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“What’s the job?” asked Stanković, once the handshakes were done.
“Sit down and I’ll explain it to you.”
* * *
After he finished, Stanković and Martinez looked at each other.
“Piece of cake,” said Stanković. Martinez nodded.
A promising start, Lajos decided.
Chapter 9
“So I finally get to meet you, Special Officer Cachat. You made yourself impossible to find when I visited Torch for Berry’s coronation.” Despite the reproving words, Cathy Montaigne’s tone was friendly and she was smiling. She strode forward and extended her hand.
Victor shook her hand and then executed a flourishing bow; the sort of gesture that had once been part of Haven’s social protocol during the Legislaturalist era and was still part of Manticoran protocol—although you rarely saw it done outside of some formal royal occasions. And then it was done only by some members of the aristocracy and usually done badly.
Casualties. Fatalities. Desperate need for money . . .
Body parts and tissues. That was the market he’d aim for. There was a small trade in such goods in seccy areas. More modern medical methods were available and not even that expensive, but there were always some people who wanted to stay off the official grid for one reason or another. For such people, going to an established hospital for regeneration treatments posed too much of a risk, even compared to the risks of undergoing primitive organ-replacement surgery in unlicensed clinics.
The market was too erratic and marginal to have a well-established network of fences in place. There’d be some, sure, but they’d be freelancers. What the underworld called gypsies. Savage, often, but they’d be individuals or very small groups, not large gangs. The goons Vickers had promised to provide Lajos should be able to handle any problems of that nature that came up.
And he’d certainly not have any problem coming up with a supply of goods to sell. Not with the resources of the entire Mesan penal system at his disposal. Mesan authorities had no hesitation when it came to using the death penalty as a means of disciplining the population. Lajos wasn’t sure of the exact number, but there’d be at least half a dozen people being executed every month. Their bodies were normally cremated, since the body parts and tissues market was too small to be of interest to the giant corporations that dominated the planet—and the wealthy individuals who ran those corporations had other and better means to provide for their medical needs.
Just a little change in methods, for a while. Cut up the executed corpses to provide Lajos with the supplies he needed, cremate what was left and hand those remains over to the grieving relatives when there were any. Would anyone bother to weigh the ashes and try to calculate if everything was accounted for? Not likely. Not that class of people. And if they did, so what? Nobody cared what they thought anyway.
His spirits were picking up now. This . . .
Was still a stupid idea. But at least it’d be workable, wouldn’t pose too many risks—and, who could say? Maybe he’d even turn up something.
Hearing a slight noise behind him, he turned in his seat and saw that two men had just entered the mess hall and were headed his way.
Large men. The muscle, obviously.
When they reached the table, one of them said: “Vickers sent us.”
“We’re supposed to give you whatever help you need,” said the other. “I’m Borisav Stanković,” he said. “Call me Bora.” He pointed a thumb at his partner. “This is Freddie Martinez.”
Martinez nodded.
Lajos rose from the table he’d been sitting at and stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“What’s the job?” asked Stanković, once the handshakes were done.
“Sit down and I’ll explain it to you.”
* * *
After he finished, Stanković and Martinez looked at each other.
“Piece of cake,” said Stanković. Martinez nodded.
A promising start, Lajos decided.
Chapter 9
“So I finally get to meet you, Special Officer Cachat. You made yourself impossible to find when I visited Torch for Berry’s coronation.” Despite the reproving words, Cathy Montaigne’s tone was friendly and she was smiling. She strode forward and extended her hand.
Victor shook her hand and then executed a flourishing bow; the sort of gesture that had once been part of Haven’s social protocol during the Legislaturalist era and was still part of Manticoran protocol—although you rarely saw it done outside of some formal royal occasions. And then it was done only by some members of the aristocracy and usually done badly.
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