The last song of the ancestors

On the outskirts of the Burned Circuit Complex, a military convoy was parked. Half a dozen trucks in camouflage paint, full of weapons to be unloaded. The buyer was a member of the Cupola, the head of the Arms Trafficking Division, the ex-military Ata. He was the mediator of these purchases.

The corrupt lower ranks of the military saw a good chance to make money. They sold weapons to enemies of the state. But it was all theater, and the corrupted, like their corruptors, were just a cog in the larger scheme of things. The fact that they were being manipulated did not exonerate them from guilt.

Among the arms dealers were several soldiers from the Ilu Nla Intelligence Service in disguise. The agency was headed by one of the Phalanx members. Arms trafficking was a state policy. Urban violence kept people in their places. The factions attacked each other, weakening each other in the process.

Those who weren't killed in the conflicts were imprisoned in mass. That's what prisons were for. The retention of individuals involved in crime had a single objective: to slow down the pace of urban violence. These forces had to be prevented from turning against the state.

Ata saw himself as having a greater role in all of this. He was suspended over the dialectics of civilization. It was a skewed panopticon view. He thought he knew everything, but he didn't know much. He hadn't removed the beam from his eye. He never would.

The militiaman and the lieutenant at the head of the negotiation stood facing each other. Cynically, the man saluted Ata.

"It's very good to do business with the Fourth Estate, Mr. Ata."

The military man held out his gloved hand to the militiaman. The criminal responded complacently to the handshake.

"The Fourth Estate thanks you for your good service, Lieutenant."

"Even on the other side of the wall, you're still an example to us, Mr. Ata."

The lieutenant, a member of the Intelligence Service, knew that the best way to corrupt someone was to massage their ego. Not in a blatant or exaggerated way, but in a subtle way, without listing a list of virtues. This was the way to get an excellent ally against the common enemy.

It was an infallible tactic for uniting opposites. Forged out of fear, prejudice and loathing, militiamen and soldiers joined hands to fight the Central Command. The drug dealers of Chrome Hill embodied the seven sins and would burn at the stake of the social inquisition.

Those who carried out and watched the execution would leave with a feeling of purgation. They would be purified again, evil had been vanquished by the fire of justice. It is in the smoke of the pyrotechnics of justice that crimes forgotten by history are hidden.

The military and militiamen said goodbye. The wallets of some are filled with cryptocurrencies, while the hearts of others are filled with vanity. Ata's pride is notorious. His black eyes sparkle with every Fourth Estate truck filled with steel cases stuffed with weapons. He wished his younger brother was there.

Lovelie, who was watching everything, decided to get out of the jeep and get dirty with the dust of the arid land. She walked up to her lover and put her hand on his shoulder. The man turned around. Even though everyone knew that the two had sex every night, Ata kept a low profile in the public eye. It was the remnant of his military etiquette.

"You look like a child who's been given a new toy, Ata."

"Not one, several state-of-the-art toys. If Chekandino saw that, he'd go crazy. He's crazy about these things!"

The woman grimaced. She crossed her arms in self-defense. She hated hearing that name, and with such devotion, coming from the mouth of her beloved. Sometimes she wished that Chekandino would die so that she wouldn't have to compete for her lover's attention with his twin brother. She understood how important family was to him, but she didn't want it to be more important than her.

"If he were here, he'd make a mess. He'd open one of those containers and a bipedal tank would come in and shoot himself in the foot."

"The way you put it, my brother's a complete asshole. He's just… impulsive. He's not the monster people make him out to be."

No, he's worse. He's a sociopathic butcher, addicted to drugs and sex. He's only alive because he uses his shadow to hide, you asshole. Juta was right, we should have taken action against Chekandino. If he died, I'd have him all to myself, Ata.

"Come on, Lovelie. I want to raid Chrome Hill in two days."

"That'll be a week earlier. The men need to do a sweep to remove electronic bugs, test the machines and arm everything. They also need to get to grips with the new systems…"

"All right, Lovelie. You always convince me. Five days, I won't tolerate more than that."

"I'd prefer a week, but five is enough. The attack will happen a week earlier than planned. A gun is for shooting, my dear. If you keep it on the shelf, it will rust. I hate seeing guns as decorative pieces. Come on, Lovelie, don't insist!"

The pair headed for the jeep. Ata took the wheel and the treasurer of the Fourth Estate sat in the back seat. They drove the convoy to the Burned Circuit Complex. They drove up the hill, turning left to where the Fourth Estate's warehouse was. The extensive warehouse where the faction kept its weapons and ammunition was opened.

Inside, the vehicles parked. One by one, the steel containers and boxes were unloaded. Militiamen with x-ray scanners and frequency pickups analyzed the group's acquisitions. None of the weapons were bugged or detonated. Everything was clean for the dirty war.

Terminals were connected to the bipedal tanks, tactical combat armor, and the jetpacks' asymmetric magnetic propulsion cells were installed. Ata climbed the stairs of the shed and went to the top floor. From there, he saw his private army working like ants. He felt like a king. He raised his arms and congratulated himself.