Chapter 104: New Identity — Black Market Dealer
Technological monopoly was, without question, one of the most reliable wealth-generation mechanisms in any world Marcus had visited.
He thought about Alicia's cost-price offer for another moment, then nodded. "Agreed. But I'm covering the full R&D costs upfront."
Alicia gestured toward the cubic meter of gold sitting on the lab floor. "That more than covers it, Mr. Foster."
Marcus made a mental note to swing back through the Main God Space when the opportunity presented itself. Precious metals that were essentially worthless as currency in the Main God's exchange ecosystem were extraordinarily useful everywhere else. The arbitrage window on that alone was worth revisiting.
"Red Queen — total current inventory of the Kaiju Blood Enhancement Serum?"
"Eight vials produced to date. Raw material supply has been the limiting factor."
"I'll take all eight. I'm deploying them in the Pacific Rim world."
Alicia nodded to the room's Terminator units. One of them stepped forward carrying a compact brushed-steel incubator case — the kind of purpose-built containment unit that looked like it had been engineered to survive anything short of a direct artillery strike.
"Mr. Foster," Red Queen said, "storage requirements for the enhancement serum are critical. Effective temperature range is negative twenty to positive twenty degrees Celsius. Once removed from the incubator, the compound must be administered within ten minutes — beyond that threshold, the active proteins begin to degrade and efficacy drops progressively to zero."
"The incubator units are self-powered with high-capacity battery backup. Cooling function is maintained for a minimum of one hundred days without external power. Impact and damage resistance is rated to survive being run over by a light armored vehicle without compromising the internal environment."
"Good," Marcus said, taking the case. He examined it briefly — solid, well-built, clearly not an off-the-shelf product. "What's the unit cost on these?"
Alicia raised an eyebrow with mild amusement. "Does Mr. Foster intend to invoice the incubator separately?"
She wasn't wrong to find it slightly funny. Marcus had just negotiated a commercial arrangement involving a product that retailed at one million dollars per dose, and here he was asking about the transport case.
"Thirty thousand dollars per unit," Red Queen supplied. "The materials and engineering required for the impact resistance rating and the integrated cooling system account for most of the cost."
Marcus looked at the thirty-thousand-dollar case protecting three-dollar product.
The math was not lost on him. He stored the incubator in his dimensional space without further comment.
Kodiak Island — Kaiju Black Market District, Pacific Rim WorldJune 1st, 2016 — Approximately 1:00 PM
The black market that had grown up around Kaiju biological material on Kodiak Island occupied roughly half a city block in a converted light industrial district near the waterfront — the kind of area that had been quietly repurposed during the war years when everyone's attention was focused on the horizon and administrative oversight had developed convenient blind spots.
About twenty establishments operated out of the district, most of them running a legitimate front alongside whatever was actually generating revenue. The whole ecosystem existed in an uneasy tolerance — the PPDC needed certain kinds of information and material that didn't flow through official channels, and the people running the black market understood that their continued operation depended on being useful to the right people.
The dominant figure in the Kodiak Island black market was a man named Victor Strand — mid-fifties, powerfully built running slightly to fat, and sporting a set of gold dental work that announced his philosophy about visible wealth before he'd said a word. Strand had built his operation over three years by being the first person to recognize that a dead Kaiju was a resource, not just a hazard, and by establishing the relationships with PPDC's logistics chain that gave him access to material before anyone else could move on it. He ran approximately fifteen of the district's twenty operations either directly or through intermediaries, and he had the standing arrangement with PPDC's procurement office that made him effectively untouchable.
He was standing on the second-floor balcony of his primary building when he noticed the new arrival.
"Who's that?" he asked his operations manager, a compact, efficient man named Torres.
Torres looked down at the figure setting up in the open space below. "Don't know. I'll find out."
Marcus had the T-1000 unit surface-layered over his appearance shift into something appropriate for the environment — white dress shirt, collar open, no tie, dark casual trousers, clean shoes. The kind of outfit that said I have money and I don't need to prove it with a suit. Sunglasses completed it.
Behind him, arranged in a loose protective perimeter, twenty Terminator T-800 units stood in identical black suits with identical black sunglasses, completely motionless, facing outward with the patient menace of something that had been built for a specific purpose and was currently waiting to fulfill it.
The T-800s were all configured to the same physical template. Twenty identical figures in identical suits. The effect was not subtle.
Marcus settled into the chair that the T-1000 had helpfully reconfigured itself into — a comfortable, high-backed seat that adjusted slightly as he leaned back — and gave the two T-800s flanking the setup their instruction. They unrolled a banner between two portable poles.
The banner read, in clean professional lettering:
KAIJU-DERIVED GENETIC ENHANCEMENT SERUM — REAL MONSTER STRENGTH. LIMITED AVAILABILITY.
Marcus picked up the megaphone, let the background noise of the market district settle for a moment, and clicked it on.
"Eight doses. That's all there is."
"Genetic enhancement serum derived from Kaiju biological material."
"First administration: fifty percent improvement in physical performance across all metrics. Documented. Verified."
"Ranger Academy entrance assessment coming up? Want to be the candidate who stands out?"
"Want to know what it feels like to pilot a two-thousand-ton Jaeger and mean it?"
"Eight doses. First come, first qualified. This offer doesn't repeat."
The megaphone's projection carried well across the district. The reaction was the standard split between the genuinely curious, the skeptical, and the people who had been in markets long enough to recognize a momentum play when they heard one — and who moved toward it anyway on the theory that momentum plays sometimes turned out to be real.
Several people started moving toward the open space. The T-800 perimeter held them at a respectful distance. People looked at the twenty identical figures in identical suits and made the immediate practical decision not to push.
Torres had filmed the whole thing on his phone from thirty meters away and sent the footage back to Strand with a question mark.
Strand watched it on his phone, ran his tongue over his gold teeth once, tapped his foot twice in the particular rhythm he had when something had caught his genuine interest, and stood up from his balcony chair.
"Let's go meet him," he said.
Three minutes later, Victor Strand walked into Marcus's setup with eight men arranged behind him in the practiced formation of people who had learned that walking in formation made conversations go more smoothly.
Strand looked at the twenty T-800 units. His expression didn't change — but his pace adjusted slightly, the unconscious recalibration of a man who was good at reading rooms and had just read this one.
"New face," Strand said, stopping in front of Marcus's chair. "You know whose district this is?"
Marcus was fully reclined, the T-1000 chair having adjusted to the optimal angle. He didn't sit up. "Kodiak Island. PPDC jurisdiction."
Strand's smile tightened slightly. The gold teeth caught the afternoon light. "You here to make trouble?"
"You're Victor Strand," Marcus said, without particular emphasis. "I know your operation, I know your arrangement with PPDC procurement, and I have zero interest in competing with you. I'm here to sell eight items to eight buyers. After that, I'm gone."
Strand studied him for a moment. "That serum is real?"
"Try it and find out."
Strand's eyes moved to the T-800 line, then back. "Price?"
"One million dollars per dose," Marcus said. He let that land, then added with the casual delivery of someone making an observation rather than a sales pitch, "I'd give you a first-customer discount, but honestly — given your dental work — you can clearly afford it. So the price is one point two million."
The market noise continued around them. Strand stared.
"You raised the price," he said.
"I did," Marcus agreed.
"While insulting me."
"I mentioned your teeth. I think that's more of an observation than an insult." Marcus tilted his head slightly. "Are you buying?"
Strand worked his jaw once. The gold teeth caught the light again. Several of his men had developed the particular stillness of people waiting to take a cue from their employer and not receiving one.
Whether Strand bought today or not wasn't actually the point.
Marcus was building something — establishing presence, creating a reputation, generating the kind of market buzz that traveled through a community by word of mouth faster than any advertisement. The eight doses were bait. The T-800 perimeter was set design. The price increase in front of Kodiak Island's most powerful black market operator was a deliberate provocation designed to make this moment memorable.
By tomorrow morning, everyone in the Kaiju black market district would know that someone new had shown up with something unprecedented, had charged Victor Strand extra for the privilege of being offered it first, and had done all of this while sitting in a chair surrounded by twenty identical men in suits.
That was worth considerably more than one dose at one million dollars.
Marcus waited, perfectly comfortable, for Strand to make his decision.
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