White Chief (2)
Beasts, huh.
I leaned back slightly, showing my distaste.
"You want me to kill people? Several of them at that? If it's tangled up with politics, I'll pass."
It depended on who the targets were exactly, but I had to play it cautious first. Even for the same pay, acting like it was tough made the price go up.
The Chief denied it.
"Nothing like that. You must have misunderstood because of that mining talk earlier."
"It's not just the mine. You've still got the issue with your tribe's sacred site, right? If memory serves, it was the summit of Baboquvari Peak?"
"......It's not Baboquvari, it's Waukulik. The center of the world. It might not matter to outsiders, but at least in front of us, don't call it by the name the invaders gave it."
"No offense intended. I just didn't recall it off the top of my head."
"Understood."
The Chief's wrinkles deepened further. Truth be told, claiming I didn't remember was a lie—and I'd brought it up on purpose.
As if I'd forget the psychological weak spot of my main trading partner.
Someone with a deep wound was easy to shake, provided you showed you understood it.
Waukulik was the tribe's spiritual mountain, rising not far from here. The Desert People believed their creator god Iitoi—also known as 'the man in the maze'—resided on its northern peak, guiding humans and the world into harmony.
But the mountain was theirs only in name. In reality, the U.S. government had leased it in perpetuity. And right before that sacred summit, on the flat expanse the tribe called 'god's garden,' sat a massive astronomical observatory, including the world's largest solar telescope.
"Since it came up, may I ask if there's been any improvement on that front?"
My question inflamed the Chief.
"Don't get me started. They've even dug up the sacred peak now!"
"I see."
"It was the tribe's elders who were naive and foolish. They signed the contract without spotting the fine print. They really thought it meant they'd get it back someday......"
Did they, really?
I figured the Desert People had their own I Wan-yong and Yi Sao-i equivalents. Sure, it was called a 'lease,' but it had been designed from the start to be irrevocable. What difference was there between an irrevocable lease and outright ownership?
Over sixty years later, the tribe still hadn't gotten their land back. The initial payment from the U.S. came out to about $500,000 in today's dollars—six hundred million won. And the annual rent? Twenty-five cents per acre, around three hundred won.
The old Chief clenched his fist under the table. His granddaughter Mashath laid her hand over the trembling knuckles. She pretended nonchalance, her gaze tilted away, but my eyes weren't fooled.
I brought up the past.
"Chief, it reminds me of when you first proposed a deal to me. Back when your tribe had just one casino."
They had four now. Back then, the Chief had been an amateur just starting out. Plenty of age, but no business savvy, and his backing was far weaker than today. Maybe that's why—when I didn't bite easily and tested him, the weary, desperate Chief laid bare his resources, his tribe's plight, begging for sympathy.
My understanding of the Desert People—and the Chief himself—stemmed from those stories.
This old man got lucky.
I wasn't righteous, but I despised imperialism. His struggle had earned a sliver of my pity. Our first deal had gone through with about ten percent personal favor on my end. The contract had been fair, and I subtly reminded him of that.
"Even with your business on track, the tribe's situation hasn't improved. As a friend, I regret that, Chief."
"A friend?"
"Aren't we?"
"......We'll see. I'm still grateful for the favor you showed back then. You had something different from the others. That's why I treat you apart from other clients. This conversation, too......"
Here, the Chief shifted tone.
"But I didn't know we were true friends. Real friends help in tough times without conditions, don't they?"
"Where I'm from, they say even friends don't cosign loans. Doesn't that make bonds last longer?"
"Hah."
He gave a wry smile at my calm reply. I'd chosen the loan example because the Chief's early business had relied on unlimited mutual guarantees between tribes. An account guaranteed at one tribe's casino was good at another's. But it ended badly. What started with eleven tribes now limped on with just five—and even those with scaled-back limits.
If this old man hadn't held his own, even that 'shrunken friendship' among five would be gone.
The Chief dropped his smile and continued.
"Fulfill this request, and I'll consider you a friend. I'll take your commissions as a friend's favor."
"Meaning?"
"Not just a couple introductions and done—I'll help wholeheartedly until you achieve your goal. And afterward, more perks as friends."
It grated that he'd ruled out negotiation from the start, but the terms weren't bad.
Then, suddenly, the power cut out. Lights died, air conditioner and fridge hummed to silence. My crew snapped to alert, tension spiking—until I scanned the room and raised a hand to calm them.
No signs of attack outside.
Sand-mixed wind whispered in the quiet; the two cops who'd volunteered escort idled bored in their patrol car.
The Chief, hiding embarrassment, spoke up.
"Don't panic. Probably those damn ant bastards again."
"Ants? What do you mean?"
"The Raspberry Mad Ants. They crawl into breaker boxes and short everything out whenever they feel like it. Insane breeding and adaptation rates—north America's south is in chaos over them lately."
"Hm......"
I'd heard about feral hogs and invasive kudzu plaguing the U.S., but ants were new. Wide land meant big problems, especially for natives off the grid. They had to solve it themselves.
I steered back.
"First, tell me about the prey."
The Chief nodded.
"The targets are a group called the White Guard."
"Name's pretty blatant. Neo-Nazis?"
"Right. Splintered off recently from the American Front, claiming to inherit the old Silent Brotherhood. Heard of American Front?"
"Yeah, I know those guys."
Skinhead neo-Nazis I'd heard of somewhere. Not much as criminals, but harmful to minorities. Their vulgar white supremacy never faded.
The Chief went on.
"Those scum are systematically destroying the homesteads our tribe's young people are building outside the reservation. Thirty-one businesses hit, nine dead, six missing."
"And the cops do nothing?"
"Hmph. Incidents scattered by time and place, different jurisdictions—each one looks minor to them. Plus, someone's applying pressure. Probably a White Guard exec, supporter, or patron."
Even their existence unconfirmed. For a Chief with some rep in this world, not knowing meant he was all-in on the mine—money or manpower.
Made sense. Copper mining rights were big stakes; one could change the tribe's future.
"What about the press?"
"Reporters care about black discrimination, not ours, Chairman. To those self-righteous pricks, we're just casino trash."
Truth was, casinos weren't the goal—they were the only option. The gaming rights—begrudgingly granted after lawsuits, dressed up as charity—were the tribes' lifeline and image-killer. That rock-bottom perception fueled cuts to native benefits.
Classic stigmatization.
Money fixed it, but as he said, bigger fires now.
"So, exterminate the White Guard as best I can?"
The Chief affirmed grimly.
"Exactly—'as best you can.'"
"No warnings?"
"I'd love to, but can't risk the business. Or the mining lawsuits. We can't afford even minor charges now."
"Got it."
His judgment was still sharp. No need for dumb questions like why not handle it themselves. Busy with courts and lobbying, little experience raiding off-res, and no appetite for adding organized crime to their shitty image.
I tapped the table habitually, buying time until impatience showed—then accepted.
"Understood."
"You're taking it?"
"Yes. Best outcome? The group gets a warning—and vanishes."
"......!"
Fierce beasts sometimes kill hunters. And I had no specifics on the prey yet.
The Chief double-checked cautiously.
"Not my place, but you're not taking it too lightly?"
"That how it looks?"
"......Dunno. I don't know all your capabilities."
Capabilities. What face would this old man make knowing my true ones?
Deal done—best? No, but better than bust.
I straightened my clothes and stood.
"Seems we've agreed. You said you're busy, so unless there's more......"
"Wait, just like that?"
"Yes. To handle your request ASAP."
"......"
"Something else?"
Flustered, he found no words. I bid farewell.
"You'll learn a bit more of my abilities soon. Prepare that promised friendship by our next meeting, friend."
No need for extra info. I'd confirmed their intel was weak. Ways to get it abounded—victims or prey.
Time to show some skill.
Seeing me off at the door, Chief and granddaughter watched my car leave side by side.
In the moving car, Kyung-tae spoke.
"First time I've heard you call someone a friend, even politely."
I turned; he added,
"Dictionary definition, I mean."
True enough. Casually, maybe—but always calculated.
I gazed out the window.
"Felt different this time."
"How so?"
"Might recruit here if it goes well."
"For England?"
"Yeah. Also to show the casino heiress what sets me apart."
"Aha."
The village blurring past resembled ruins. Rare people were just part of it—no life. Their faces lacked spark, eyes lazy with bottom-rung inertia.
"Kyung-tae."
"Yes."
"If these natives got power, how do you think their relation to America changes?"
"Uh......"
Power meaning primitive magic or superabilities, obviously.
He scratched his head.
"One or the other: Americans treat 'em more humanely, or see 'em as threats and crush harder."
"Which more likely?"
"The latter."
"Why?"
"Humane treatment costs money."
Kyung-tae to a T. I agreed. Even the sacred site: returning it meant sunk costs on funds and facilities. Would America?
It threatened U.S. clout in international astronomy. Either way, they'd face their ignored original sin.
Not just America.
Awakening was probabilistic, equal across classes. Balance tipped to numbers. The voiceless would rise worldwide, claiming shares—with starved rage, thirst, greed.
The weak were aggrieved, not good. Inequality's price on an unequal world.
Kyung-tae's cicada metaphor revived. Savory the more I chewed.
"The cicadas will sing."
He reacted to my murmur.
"Pardon?"
"Never mind. Talking to myself."
"Yessir......"
He tilted his head, faced front. I leaned back, cheering inwardly.
Sing your throats raw, cicadas. That noise will drown my footsteps as I approach the Round Table mages.