savetnik - a kind of advisor
Zmaj Estate, Saturday, October 8, 2208.
Karl Zmaj put out his cigar and threw it off the balcony. His savetnik stood at the edge, keeping quiet as Karl floated in the pool and sifted through the events of the day in his head.
“How much have we lost so far?”
The savetnik remained silent for a moment.
“Today we lost around two hundred thousand thaveds worth of opiates.”
“And since the election?”
“Around one point four million thaveds worth of seized or disrupted product. Sir, we’ve had this happen before and the business has held.”
Karl lay back in the water and considered for a minute.
“A bad year to be sure, but we’ll see it through. That said, they’ll be gunning for leaders soon, and if we aren’t careful they’ll get them. Make sure everyone is keeping their operations buttoned up. No slip-ups.”
He paddled lazily for another minute, as his savetnik stood stiffly. Finally Karl exhaled, hissing softly through his teeth.
“It’s political posturing, that’s all it is. It’ll all be forgotten by next month when Lovric moves on to his next big idea. We can’t keep bleeding like this forever though. You need to make new contacts in customs and law enforcement, and keep a tighter lid on them this time. No more mistakes, understand?”
“I understand, sir.” The savetnik paused. “And thank you.”
Karl didn’t look at him.
“Don’t worry about that, my brother owed you a debt is all. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get on with my day.” He stopped, glancing at his watch. “My wife and daughter get home in a couple hours, and I’d like to be done with work by then.”
“Of course, sir. I’ll be on my way.”
The Marksman shouldered his rifle and slowed his breathing. Peering through the scope from his nest in the treeline, he found his target sitting by the pool. The Marksman thumbed a switch near the trigger, and the targeting system found his distance to target and combined it with the GPS and orientation data from sensors in the stock to provide the Marksman with a solution on his target. He paused his procedural movements to listen to the command on his headset, and responded quietly.
“I read back; confirm solution and drop target, over.”
4 seconds went by.
The Marksman received his confirmation.
“Correct, over.”
“Wilco, over.”
He pulled the trigger.
A single round from the Marksman’s HS-4 rifle whistled through the air. Guided by the inertial data fed by its parent targeting system, the flechette made small adjustments to its path to account for variations in trajectory. Around 6.6 seconds later it switched from inertial to terminal laser guidance provided by the Marksman’s designator. On the deck by the pool, Zmaj lit a last cigar as the wall behind him was splattered red.
