The bell over the door jingled again less than an hour later, but this sound felt sharper. Accompanied by the thud of heavy metallic boots. An authority figure had entered.
I looked up from the trigger assembly I was polishing.
Two figures stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the harsh daylight.
I didn't need to see their faces. The cut of their grey, high-collared tunics and the caps told me everything.
Wards. Geortarian Civil Compliance Officers.
The one in front was a human, a lean man with sharp jaw and hunter eyes, like a wolf's.
His partner, a coyote Hir-Soger, lingered by the door, eyes scanning my shelves and workbenches.
"Farsi den Ghunnaich Cruthfior," the lead Ward stated.
"Here to serve." I didn't stand. Had it been a higher up, I would've gotten decapitated on the spot. "What can I offer to you? Gun calibration? Ammunition?"
He ignored the comment, pulling a thin, light-emitting slate from his satchel.
"Monthly inspection and Skirlia tax assessment. As a licensed commercial artificer operating within the Undeb Dehulm Protectorate, you are obligated to submit seventy percent of your gross weekly income to the Union's regional development fund."
He tapped the slate. A holographic form, dense with Geortarian script, glowed between us. The script was curly and cluttered, it had been designed centuries ago for the highly educated, but now that reading was a poor man's hobby, it had become the hardest script to learn.
I squinted trying to read it. I could make out a few words from my self-study sessions, but the rest might as well have been nonsense. My Geortza (name of the spoken Geortarian language) was severely limited to oral communication.
"Your declared income from last month showed a discrepancy of fourteen Skirlias against your material acquisitiion logs. Explain."
A knot formed in my gut. The "discrepancy" was the three Skirlias Bendrik had just paid me, which I hadn't logged yet, and the rest I'd made fixing a fisherman's harpoon gun off the books.
Barter was the life of the coast, but to the Wards, it was theft from the Union.
"Must be a logging error on your end," I said, my voice flat. "The slate readers at the ward-gate are often intercepted by radio frequencies, without accounting for system glitches. Moisture gets everywhere."
The Ward's expression didn't change. "The readers are fine. The error is here. You will pay the discrepancy, plus a fifty percent penalty for obfuscation. That is twenty-one Skirlias. Today."
I slowly put down the polishing cloth. "I-I don't have twenty-one Skirlias on hand. I operate on barter. You know this."
"Not of our concern. If you cannot pay, we will confiscate assets of equivalent value." His partner took a step toward my tool wall.
Twenty-one Skirlias is easily two or three of my tools, maybe I could accumulate unnecesary scraps? No, I wouldn't even get to ten Skirlias with all my junk, plus you never know when its useful.
"Wait." The word came out sharp. I took a breath, forcing calm. "Fine. I'll... get the Skirlias. It might take the rest of the day. But while you're here, I need to file a query. My father's medicine rations. Kaelen Cruthfior. The monthly allotment of cardiac stabilizers and metabolic regulators. They haven't come through the gate for this cycle. His prescription was renewed and approved forty-five days ago."
The Ward didn't even look at his slate. "The Medicine Allocation Bureau is experiencing processing delays due to priority rerouting of pharmaceutical supplies to the Yatara forward camps. Non-essential civilian distributions are on a revised, triaged schedule."
The bureaucratic jargon was a well-practiced wall. Non-essential. Triage. My father's heart, that could stop pumping blood at any moment if not taken care of. Was 'non-essential'.
"What's the revised schedule?" I asked, my knuckles white on the edge of the workbench.
"It will be posted at the ward-gate when its finalied. You can check the daily bulletins."
"He needs that medicine," I said, the heat bleeding into my voice despite my best efforts. "Without it, he can barely stand for more than an hour. If he can't work, he'll lose ration credits. It's a slow execution."
The Ward's wolfish eyes finally flickered from the slate to me. Not an ounce of sympathy in them. "Then I suggest you acquire it through private channels. Licensed pharmacies in the central districts accept Skirlias. Now. You still owe us the twenty-one Skirlias, or shall we begin confiscation?"
Without much a show, and before I could think, I had a single card left.
I slid the cuff of my worn work shirt back.
It wasn't large. Just three black lines in the Geortarian script: a short vertical line crossed by two horizontals, one longer than the other. The Mark of the Kurviz Resolve. A veteran's sigil. Not for just any conscript, but for one noted for "exceptional tenacity." They'd inked it on me after the month-long siege of Ram'adsu'. I'd been seventeen, almost eighteen years old. They'd called me a "model asset." My Undebian squadmates, the ones who survived, had never looked me in the eye again.
His coyote partner's eyes snapped to the mark, then to his superior.
The lead Ward's hunter gaze dropped to my wrist. For a long, silent moment, he stared. His mask didn't crack yet, but something behind his eyes did. I was no longer just a Undebian artificer with dodgy logs. I was a piece of their own history.
Before them was one of the reasons Undeb Dehulm was now a Protectorate. A living testament to their victory.
He looked from the mark to my face.
"The... Medicine Allocation Bureau," he said, his voice losing a fraction of its mechanical edge. He cleared his throat. "Processing is complex. However, for a citizen with... documented service contributions to our country's stability, expedited inquiries can sometimes be made."
He didn't touch his slate. He was speaking off-record now.
"I will... note the inquiry," he continued, his eyes holding mine. "Do not expect miracles. Resources are scarce. But your... situation will be considered."
It was just a vague promise that could dissolve into more bureaucracy.
But it was more than he'd given a minute ago.
It was the tattoo's power.
"Thank you," I slowly lowered my hand, letting my cuff fall back into place, hiding the brand of my shame and my only leverage with the Geortarians.
The Ward gave a single nod. He looked at his partner and flicked fingers in a dismissive gesture.
"The Skirlia discrepancy," the lead Ward said, returning to his official tone. "You have until the end of business tomorrow to rectify the log and submit the penalty. Do not be late."
He didn't wait for a response. He turned on his heel, his boots clacking on the stone floor.
The bell jingled. They were gone.
I looked down at my wrist, clenching it, feeling the phantom pull of the tattoo under my skin. That mark had bought my family benefits.
It had just bought a sliver of hope for my father's medicine.
And every time I used it, it felt like I was driving the knife they'd given me a little deeper into the back of my own people.
The only thing standing between my family and the grinding boot of the regime I'd once helped to fasten onto our necks. The mark.
I walked to the rear door, needing fresh air. Outside, the line at the Labor Bureau hadn't moved. A Ward was shouting at an old wolf Hir-Soger whose wrist-crystal had failed to scan.
This sight, it was my fault.
I'd helped them, and not any help. I'd been an outstanding part of the Geortarian military.
The war lasted 3 years, and during those three years I committed acts my memory had long forgotten about, as a method to protect me, from my own past actions.