Doc and Ace prevail upon Ohanzee to strike while the gold is metaphorically hot. While going to a second jeweler is a risk, so is heading out into the big, wide world with limited operating funds. Ohanzee is swayed but agrees with Ace's precautions, even if it might make him nervous that his get-away vehicle won't be idling outside waiting for him.
Ace stares out the window while the van traverses town. He sees plenty of signs that Grand Junction hasn't fully emerged from the devastating recession which pushed the Ute Nation into PCC's hands.
"Cars are old around here," Chino says, looking around him as he pilots the Eurovan. He points a few out. "Land Rover Model 2046, that ain't new. Nissan-Holden Brumley, they stopped making those in 2064. Leyland-Zil Tsarina, they still make that in Russia but they haven't had worldwide distribution in five years."
Ace scans the buildings passing by, looking for potential threats. Paint is old and chipped away, unless it is graffiti in which case the paint is fresh. Many places lack AR displays and those that have them look like they were last updated in 2066.
"What do you think those are?" Chino says, pointing out waist-high terminals that appear to be everywhere. They are on every corner, in front of every store, in every parking lot. They look rusted and obsolete.
"They're not giving off any wireless signals," Doc says. "Let me run a search."
The image search quickly returns a result. "They're voting machines," Doc announces. "The Utes experimented with direct democracy, putting every law and proposition in the nation up for a simple majority vote. Everything from public water ordinances to changes in the legal code were put up to a public vote. People would just slot their credstick and vote on their way in and out of the grocery store, or waiting for a crosswalk, or whatever."
"Lots of tractors and farming equipment," Ace notices.
Doc nods as he continues to scan the Matrix for more details. "Yeah, the Ute economy was basically agrarian with a bit of mining. Almost no tertiary industries, except in small pockets like Salt Lake City and Las Vegas. Due to the Ute's rabid anti-Anglo stance, non-Amerind talent (wisely) refused to work there. Between the inertia of the political system and the lack of intellectual capital from foreigners, the economy went down the drekker. They turned to the PCC for a bailout and voilą."
Ute Gold Exchange is in another crappy strip mall, this one a trio of shops in a parking lot of an Apex (the PCC's Stuffer Shack). The store is squished between a sandwich shop on one side, a hamburger joint on the other, plus a dive-y pizza shop behind it offering large pizzas for „5. Katsina would shudder if she were here, especially with her heightened sense of smell.
"Is this a joke?" Doc asks. "Their host rating is 1, Firewall 4. They're better off running their business on their commlink. Speaking of which..." He checks inside the establishment. "Three PANs. Two Renraku Senseis, one Erika Elite. Some icons for firearms. No drones. Looks like this place does physical security the old-fashioned way."
Chino parks on the opposite side of the Apex so as to not be visible from the gold exchange, but still close enough to come to Ohanzee's aid if he needs it. The smell of cheap grease blows into the van on a cold winter wind as soon as Ohanzee opens the door. The van must be downwind.
The front of the store is armored glass, but at least the lights are on here. Ohanzee steps in and three men behind the counter turn to look at him simultaneously. Ohanzee has the distinct impression that he interrupted a conversation and that they're annoyed by his presence. All three are Amerind: one is an ork, another human, the third a troll. They eye Ohanzee suspiciously.
"Well?" the troll demands gruffly, demonstrating the famous Ute sense of customer service.
"The AR says 'Cash for Gold'," Ohanzee says, somewhat flummoxed. The indifference of the dwarf at the last place was just that: indifference. Here, he's gotten off on the wrong foot somehow.
Ohanzee tries to figure out who is the muscle and who is the proprietor but can't see any obvious clues initially. He flips to astral vision to double-check. The ork and the human are cybered; the troll is Awakened. Flipping back to the mundane world, Ohanzee can now notice some tribal motifs on the troll that suggest he's an urban trickster totem of some sort, perhaps Rat or Raccoon. The human has a cyberarm and cybereyes. The ork has something in his arm - a weapon perhaps - and something affecting his nervous system: probably reaction enhancers of some sort.
Ohanzee can't tell how powerful the shaman is, but he knows that he glows like a flash-bang on the astral due to his power focus and quickened spells. He wonders if that will identify him as a threat or help buy him some respect.
The troll seems resigned that Ohanzee isn't going to show himself out. He sits on a giant stool and motions for Ohanzee to show what he has. Ohanzee produces the remainder of his gold, placing it on the counter. The troll pours it out on the scale and weighs it.
"Fifteen troy ounces," the troll announces.
"Sixteen," Ohanzee corrects him. The muscle bristles at Ohanzee but he stands firm.
"Huh, so it is. These aging eyes of mine." The troll picks up a monocle and examines the gold closely. "Not bad. 22 karat."
"24 karat," Ohanzee corrects once again.
"It's 22 karat if I say it's 22 karat," the troll rumbles, but Ohanzee can tell that he's established himself as a knowledgeable customer and not a rube. "Where are you from?"
"I'm Sioux," Ohanzee offers, hoping it might buy him some non-Pueblo cred.
"Sucks to be Sioux," the troll says under his breath as he continues examining the gold. The ork and the human laugh dumbly.
The troll puts down the monocle and looks at Ohanzee. The troll's eyes go distant for a second and Ohanzee figures he was just assensed. The eyes refocus and stare down at Ohanzee across the counter.
"I'm not going to ask where this came from because this ain't that kind of shop. You probably know that, which is probably why you're here. I'm going to offer you „6,500 for it, and that's a professional courtesy."
Ohanzee runs the numbers. That's 60%. "I can get 80%," he says.
"From who?" the troll laughs. "Baqir, that little stuntie?" Ohanzee tries to shrug off the slur. "He'll sell you out to SecForce if he thinks it will keep them off his case. You know why they call him 'the Castrato'? Because he sings so sweet."
Ohanzee resists the temptation to correct the troll a third time by saying "whom" or "sweetly". Adverbs, he thinks to himself. Not that hard.
"He sold out his own mother!" the troll continues uninterrupted. "Granted, she was a slitch, but still."
"Eighty percent," Ohanzee repeats.
"A stubborn stuntie, who woulda guessed," the troll says, bemused. The ork and the human laugh obsequiously. "Fine, eighty percent, minus ten percent for my services and another ten percent for doing business on our turf. My services are keeping my trap shut and forgetting I ever saw you. So that's „7,800, or when the SecForce boys arrive I'll tell them they're looking for a dwarf with a power focus and a couple quickened spells. That should narrow the list a bit."
Ohanzee glares back. He's in an awkward position, since the gold is on the counter, easily within reach of any of the three men. Whether the deal is optional or not is an open question.
Edit: Corrected typo. Had Chino speak some of information about cars.
