Hrukupz cackles as the vendors each come back with their share for driving up the auction prices. Well, he kind of cackles — his form or at least avatars’ form bursts out in a myriad of vibrating and shifting colors. He has an humanoid format, though I’d imagine him more like of a squid for some reason. The name maybe? Each species has its own sort of guesswork - and everyone thinks that the others’ are bizarre.

By his side floats in a bubble of mystery liquid what I can only describe as a sort of a shrimp with tentacles coming out of its back — Nzeng. Floating people often are from aquatic worlds or gas giants, but the latter are incredibly rare. So, a water-bound species is not a bad guess — there must be only a few million of those around. Alien or not, I can feel the douchebagness of these two only by looking at it; who knew that knowing how to identify a prick is an universal ability.

They probably don’t know what the fuck a black bear is either — my avatar. If I hear one more joke about Teddy Bears, I’ll reach out through your book-reader and punch you. It’s all because of a hazing tradition — at the last time possible, just before we’re about to enter the Market for the first time, they warn us we’ll have to pick up something and not to pick our true form. I didn’t get the time to choose, so a bear was all that came to mind when time timer to choose was running down. Hilarious, right?

I can’t hear the two, their mouth-like appendages emitting no sound as they have a private chat. The good part is that they’re too focused to notice me casually standing by the wall, keeping tabs on them out of the corner of my eyes. I keep in touch with all my partners in this long con by virtue of my internal computer and Reader’s prodigious ability to fold the Market’s system to his will. I chuckle when I think that I’m playing the spy role while Santos is playing a quartermaster.

I guess that I should finally explain to you one of the simple points that my convoluted plan hinges on. Long before there was an auction — so very long before humanity split from our primate lineage, there was a precursor organization to the Cartel. They were the first to try to tamper down the constant wars between belligerent corporations that ravaged systems — war, after all, is bad for business (well, most of them at least). It was far from an easy task getting all the fighting corps to agree on something, but eventually they agreed. And for all they all they are lawless, cutthroat pieces of shit, they do hold their traditions dear. And that extends to the Market.

For the more valuable auctions, you can’t place your bids by the system. You have to *physically*, well, virtually, head to the auctioneer’s block and place your bids while facing your rivals. As soon as they notice that Santos has joined one of the bigger auctions, they hurry towards the center of the room to reach it before my companions. With a slight grin, I follow them unhurriedly. I’m right on the money — the two ne'er-do-wells beat Santos and Reader to the auction block and hushedly argue with the good’s seller. I take a look at what this will be about.

Minor Listening Scroll

Learn to cast said spell.

Hear into physical or magical conversations.

Small chances of ignoring minor wards and amulets.

Oh, this is not a bad one at all.

I watch as all the players of this drama come together, reflecting on the chances of it turning bad. I’m admittedly not a man of action, but this gets my blood pumping.

The slime-looking auctioneers starts on the rules and conditions, informing all interested parties. The initial asking price? 25k credits. If this bidding follows the pattern, Santos will run out of money here. And it’s a no-turn back modality - people are committed after casting a bid, they can’t go back on it without forfeiting their credits. Harsh. In most auctions, there’s often a possibility of giving up and paying a penalty. But at least there’s a secret maximum price on this modality.

“Good luck to all gentlebeings and honored sentients. We begin in 3, 2—”

“I bid 25k!” Keeping to her character, Santos starts it.

“27,5k,” another participant adds before the auctioneer can hedge a word in.

“Very well—”

“My bid is 30k,” Nzeng adds, oozing satisfaction.

His fellow, Hrukupz ups it to 32,5k.

The interloper bids 35k.

“Give up, fools,” Santos sneers at the group “37,5k.”

Her bid and attitude make the other participant give up, and then there are only Santos and the two sharks.

“52,5k!” shouts Nzeng, in glee at the rising numbers and Santos’ determined expression.

“And I—”

“55k!” bellows Santos desperately, nearly overshadowed by her competitor. She had only 51.8k credits, but I’ve given her the 3.2k creds to reach that mark.

“Thank—” begins the auctioneer, punching the bell very, very fast but with subtlety. I hold my breath in suspense as the auctioneer begins his spel, but…

“57,5k!” shouts triumpanthly Hrrukupz, unheeding of the low chime. I finally start breathing again.

“I bid 60 thousand credits!” adds Nzeng with a shit-eating grin.

“Hold! Hold gentlebeings. As I was trying to say, the maximum price has been reached! it was gentlebeing’s Santos bid of 55k!” the auctioneers bellows, punching the bell repeatedly — and loudly this time.

“Do these fools think they can challenge me,” she asks disdainfully, watching the duo up and down and discarding them by turning her eyes away from the sorry sight.

“Arrogant fool! We do!” bellows Hrrukupz!, caught up in the moment.

“Yes!” agrees Nzeng smugly. But then he realizes something is wrong. “Wait—”

“There’s no taking back bets on this auction!” warns the auctioneer. “And besides, there’s the matter of the challenge, you all must know the rules—”

“Yeah, no need to repeat them, auctioneer! Give us a minute,” says Nzeng, quickly cutting off the slime-like auctioneer before he can divulge something the rookie opposing them doesn’t know. He turns to his partner in crime and starts a private chat.

“That’s highly unusual—” begins the auctioneer, frowning at the scene, but it seems his fate this period is to be constantly interrupted.

“Don’t bother, auctioneer. Let the fools plan all they want.”

Santos is turning out to be a lot better actor than I’d been expecting after learning of her blunders. The dismissive tone translates even across different cultures, and it incenses the duo before her. They talk between themselves without making any sound we can hear for some minutes, sizing up Santos and arguing, but then they are back. And full of confidence and swagger.

“Well, seeing as she accepted our challenge, auctioneer, we want the following rules: winner of the auction takes everything off the hands of the losing part, best out of three, timed free questions about the Cartel or its factions. What do you say about it, gentlebeing?!” they goad her, sure of their victory. The auctioneer is bound to listen to the answer before making a pronouncement, so he nods to Santos, also expecting an answer.

“I agree—” she says and their smiles widen (or their alien equivalents) , “with the first two conditions. But not with your characterization of the challenge or the third condition. You were the ones to challenge me, and so, in accordance with Cartel tradition, you’d get to dictate at least one of the conditions first, and I had the prerogative to accept additional ones and dictate the remainder.”

“Wait—”

“That’s correct, gentlebeing Santos,” says the auctioneer, ignoring the pulsating purple color coming out of Hrukupz and the frantic moving of tentacles of Nzeng. A bit smug for cutting people off for once in this auction perhaps? Eh, can’t say I judge him.

“As you’ve graciously dictated your condition of winner takes all, and I’ve just agreed with your second condition… Now I’ll dictate mine: the questions will be about Brazilian Samba Music. All information easily accessible on our open, free local internet in accordance to rules.”

It’s a damn shame we haven’t connected it to the galactic net yet, isn’t it? Very, very hard to reach.

“The conditions are agreed on, then,” rules the auctioneer. I cheer. Reader and Santos cheer. The vendor cheers. The beaten participant cheers. Shit, I think the auctioneer cheered a bit too.

The silver shape of Santos’ avatar walks with a predatory grin to the pair who thought to stalk her like prey, bleeding her all the time. Whistling cheerfully, I nod to the vendor, who by a complete coincidence — I’d swear under it an oath, really — happens to be High Glider, who is happily talking with the participant who dropped in the middle of the bid — hey, isn’t that Gambles Mightily? Damn, coincidences just keep piling on. They nod back at me and turn to gaze at the auctioneer, the ruler of the challenge by default.

“I’m… afraid I don’t know about this “Samba” you speak of to make questions,” confesses the auctioneer, somehow mangling the pronunciation even with the potent translator freely offered by the Market. “And the speed to access that information…” Yeah, it’s worse than a fucking dial-up internet — the Cartel provides it, but sloooowly.

“Ah, I’m happy to be of help,” I interject, walking over as Hrukupz and Nzeng’s eyes are still glassed over from shock at their huge, costly mistake. “Here, auctioneer, you are free to access this information.”

“Oh, let me just verify this information,” the slime holds out an appendage as he sends the data to his AI assistant.

Victory should be swift and majestic, but I’m afraid it takes them twenty minutes to be satisfied with the data. Enough time has passed that we head the chime of the Switch, announcing that the countdown of 12 minutes for the transition to a new time — it will be an Eureka period. Nice, it is the best time to buy fabrication rights and I’m betting we’ll have the creds for it.

I think that Nzeng must have tried to download the information now, because he faints, his body slowly descending to the bottom of his liquid bubble.

“Auctioneer, I motion on behalf of my human that the challenger Nzeng be disqualified for falling unconsciously during the challenge, deliberately or negligently breaking its rules,” Reader says, standing behind Santos.

“You can’t—”

“The Motion is allowed. Challenger Nzeng is disqualified,” grants the auctioneer, uncaring about the frantic Hrukupz waving his tentacles about.

“By all means, let’s continue,” says Santos, eyes bright and daring focusing on her last remaining nemesis.

“Please, don’t—” Hrukupz is so disoriented that he keeps flashing random colors, with no rhyme or reason.

“I will begin with a simple question. What is the name of the samba singer famous for the vindictive song ‘Vou Festejar’ — “I’ll Celebrate” — widely chanted on football matches?”

“That would be Beth Carvalho,” answers Santos, unhurried. It’s great that one can’t interact violently on the Market, because I’m sure that Hrukupz would rip her head off if he could, walking nervously from one side to other in helpless panic, randomly jumping about.

“The first round goes to the challenged party, Gentlebeing Santos.

“Second question: What happens to a sleeping shrimp— is that it?”

The question bugs out Hrukupz, and I nod and laugh loudly as he stops and stares at Santos.

“The wave takes it, auctioneer. Today is the prey’s day, and I daresay that tomorrow will be too.”

“The second round also goes to Gentebleing Santos, and she’s the winner. Please pay your bid to Gentlebeing High Glider to confirm the victory—” Reader promptly transmits the 55k to our partner-in-crime. “Perfect. You have lost your challenge, Gentlebeing Hrukupz. You and Gentlebeing Nzeng can pay what you owe right now, plead for a deal or be punished by the Market. That ends my duties here. Good luck, it’s been a pleasure.” The auctioneers drops from his block and goes to talk with High Glider and Gambler.

“I’ll want everything you have. Right now,” says Santos, oozing confidence.