Beasts of the Tropics (6)
Sultana Chandra Kirana commanded an elite strike force she called the Laskar Punggawa Kesultanan Jambi—the Jambi Sultanate Guard. Shortened to "Laskar" or "LPKJ," this unit stood clearly apart from her other subordinates, who were little more than armed rabble. Not only were they equipped with superior gear, but she'd hired instructors from the Navy Special Forces' "Denzaka" non-commissioned officers and foreign mercenaries who would do anything for the right price, rigorously training them to a high standard.
She'd ordered the Laskar to stand ready for a hunt at any moment, then strolled with me through her business operations as if we were simply taking a walk through her domain. The facilities here formed dispersed clusters around the village, like the roots of a massive tuber plant. Between these mid-sized outposts wound low paths that doubled as drainage ditches, traffic canals, and entry sluices, twisting into a labyrinthine maze. This layout mimicked a fire support base on a grand, sloppy scale—reducing visibility of the operations while boosting defensive strength in a firefight.
Oil palm trees were planted consistently in the gaps between structures. They served as obstacles to lines of fire, but in a pinch, you could just wrap them in fuel and torch the whole blockade line. Protecting the dispersed facilities beyond the village walls from external enemies or wild Awakened beasts were iron stakes driven into the ground everywhere, connected by five-meter-high razor-wire fences draped in thick tangles. In truth, the village walls were little more than decorative reassurance for the residents' peace of mind. They weren't useless, but the steel bramble was far superior in actual defense.
Even a rampaging Awakened elephant couldn't break through barehanded unless it was one of the rare ones with telekinesis. Thrashing around would just shred its body into rags, leaving it to bleed out. And yet, the Sultana sometimes mentioned human casualties.
"A tiger possessed by evil spirits will leap that height with ease. What troubles me most is that they target only the children in their raids. Can you guess why?"
"Because kids are easier prey?"
"No. To a spirit tiger, children and adults are equally easy game. It just senses spiritual energy and avoids Awakened ability users."
I pondered her words for a moment and came up with a better answer.
"Then... because they're lighter prey."
"You truly are perceptive. Look over there."
The Sultana pointed with the hand clutching her habitual pipe. On the iron stakes and razor wire in that direction, dark crimson bloodstains had dried—mostly splattered from above like rain.
"Do you see?"
"Yes."
"Catching prey and eating it are separate matters. Eating takes time. So the tiger must grab its prey and flee before my hunters arrive. That means it prefers children, who are easier to carry in its mouth while leaping high."
"I see."
"The boy taken that way was named Hasan Yuswandari."
"..."
"Hasan's father had crossed to Malaysia for work. Even picking the same oil palms, wages there are three times higher. He sent half of his 800 ringgit monthly earnings—about 200,000 won—to his family."
The Sultana paused briefly before continuing.
"But now a single Awakened worker earns double, replacing five or six normals. Hasan's father lost his job. Even hearing his son was dead, he can't return home. No money for a plane ticket, let alone boat fare. Guess what's surprising?"
"I'm not sure."
"Despite that, Hasan's mother put a 20 million rupiah bounty on the tiger—1.4 million won. Pocket change for us, a fortune for them."
Even recounting such a tale, the Sultana's lips held their usual smile. In this land, where people smiled through talk of dead children or parents after some time passed, it didn't signal psychopathy.
"The couple has few ways to raise that money. Sell the house, liquidate assets, take high-interest loans, or harvest and sell organs. Choices for those with no will to live tomorrow."
"Still not enough to move hunters. Easier to sell the carcass elsewhere for profit."
"Exactly. Thanks to Chinese body-boosting tonics and shamans' demand, Awakened tiger prices have skyrocketed. So the couple publicly waived rights to the body—just asked for a handful of blood and a bone shard to comfort their child's soul. Nice side income for the hunters."
"Fair enough."
"How common will this become?"
A sigh-like puff of smoke drifted from the Sultana's even teeth.
"Before the world went mad, tiger attacks were rare—one or two a month at worst. Trampled by elephants or eaten by crocs was rarer still; those made the papers. But now..."
"..."
"Not anymore. Deaths are dozens of times higher, so even gossip-hungry media skips them. Individual lives reduced to statistics on charts."
"Soon it'll be hundreds, thousands of times more."
As the Sultana glanced my way, I added,
"Chaotic times."
She nodded with an opaque smile.
"Our business prospects shine so brightly; I can't suppress this heartfelt sorrow."
Heartfelt sorrow. Joy as an ambitious schemer, grief as a sovereign? Amusing that the man who'd proposed building an unprecedented smuggling network to sow global chaos now spoke of sorrow here. But reconsidering, pre-modern rulers needed only cherish their own people. If the outside world became a demonic hellscape, as long as their kingdom thrived, the sovereign's duty was fulfilled. Whether her grief was genuine or self-delusion, her rationality made her a solid business partner.
Thud! Nearby, an oil palm fruit crashed down. Each cluster heavier than a shell; a direct hit could kill. Yet workers below lacked even basic safety gear.
To drop the fruits, they first cut surrounding fronds. Laborers used adjustable poles with sickles to slice them off; kids gathered the fallen branches. Palm fronds bristled with stiff, sharp thorns—kids' hands were pierced constantly, as were the adults'. Wounds healed around thorns, causing pain with every move.
In the scorching heat, what tormented adults and children more were the mosquitoes rampant in the rainy season. Especially the Awakened ones with open circuits: superior speed, endurance, evasion; high-frequency wing hums barely audible; faster sucking and digesting. True one-man armies of pests.
The Jakarta Post I'd read called them "3-Milligram Monsters." Seeing them up close, it was a nightmare for normals.
Sizzle—an Awakened mosquito veering toward me fried on mana flame. Using faint telekinesis as a seventh sense, I caught even non-circuit mosquitoes lacking mana fields. To protect me and my people.
'Itch is secondary; malaria would be trouble.'
We'd taken preventives, but equatorial strains had rich genetic diversity—rarely fully blocked. Life Incantation could heal, but I lacked experience with diseases; it'd be fussier than normal wounds. Better to hoe weeds before they sprout. Especially to save time.
A bit farther on, we reached a site dismantling rusty steel piles amid oil palm groves.
Whoosh! Azure flames from a tubular nozzle bored into massive steel. Water electrolyzed into hydrogen-oxygen torches provided ample cutting heat. Nearby, kids with chisels and hammers scraped barnacles off scrap.
All this steel came from the seabed.
"Prices for low-background steel must have risen lately."
Krut botched translating the unfamiliar term, fumbling an Indonesian equivalent before settling on an imperfect one. But it was perfunctory anyway—no communication issues.
The Sultana nodded curtly.
"Indeed. Demand's way up."
"No turf wars?"
"A few clashes, but nothing serious. The strong focus on more lucrative piracy; the weak or timid won't risk their necks."
"Makes sense."
Low-background steel meant minimally exposed to background radiation. Since nukes and reactors, blast furnace output absorbed unavoidable isotopes from supply air. Not harmful to humans, but problematic for precision instruments.
So they dredged pre-nuclear era steel from ocean depths—sunk warships from before the first bomb. Recent demand spiked from scientific studies on magic's nature and Awakened powers. Accurate measurements needed uncontaminated tools, catalysts, gear.
Scrap recovery yielded bonus explosives: tons of propellant from shell magazines, burster charges from massive armor-piercing rounds. Well-dried, highly recyclable. Mysterious new powder stocks.
The Sultana halted at a cleared lot next to the scrap yard.
"This is the land I'm giving you. Like it?"
Already leveled, ample for barracks and facilities. High ground by a waterway minimized flooding; Sultana's operations branched around it like limbs, shielding from outsiders. Not far off, a rusty mid-sized tanker lay beached by the river, casting a lopsided shadow—her fuel storage.
Having surveyed it, I gave a concise verdict.
"It's good. Fine land."
"Excellent. Our tastes align; now to bless this ground."
The Sultana flicked her pipe hand; an attendant signaled a group at the lot's edge.
Leading the summoned crowd were two carrying a massive, fresh pig's head—dripping blood between them.