Today’s story comes to us from Martin Lochman of Malta.

Martin’s story was previously [Mistakenly] rejected by 5 venues: Interzone, Not One of Us, Clarkesworld, Cryptic Frog Quarterly, and Pulp Asylum.

Bio: I am an emerging Czech science fiction author, currently living and working as a University librarian in Malta. My flash fiction and short stories appeared (or are forthcoming) in a variety of venues, including New Myths, Kzine, Theme of Absence, XB-1 (Czech SFFH magazine), and others. My debut space opera “All Quiet in the Milky Way: Ray M. Holler’s Adventures vol. 1” was published in 2023. You can find me at: https://martinlochmanauthor.wordpress.com/, Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/people/Martin-Lochman-SF-Author/61552596028127/, or Twitter: @MartinLochman.

When I asked Martin what he loves about this story, this was his response:

First and foremost, this is one of those stories that I improvised from the beginning to the end (unlike most of my work, which is usually meticulously outlined and planned out before I even write the first word). What actually inspired me to write it was a dream I had one night – my memories of it were (naturally) quite fuzzy the next morning, but I distinctly remembered stands, vendors, and a pond with a giant crocodile in it. My overactive imagination filled in the rest and The Market was born. Another thing I love about the story is the fact that, despite being self-contained, it provides only a quick peek into the world within – which means I can explore it in subsequent writings.

The Market, by Martin Lochman

The sun had barely peeked out from behind the horizon, but the market was already filled with people. Locals and tourists alike moved from vendor to vendor, examining merchandise, negotiating prices, or committing to a purchase, all the while doing their best to stay out of each other’s way. 

David stood at the edge of a stall on the outskirts of the market, frowning at a crate writhing with pitch-black insects the likes of which he had never seen. Every so often, their numerous limbs or antennae poked at the one-way force field at the top of the container, producing a semi-transparent, yellowish ripple.

They were about fifteen centimeters long and best resembled an oversized flying ant. The problem was that they possessed five pairs of legs, a twin elongated stinger, and what could be best described as half-formed claws on the upper thorax, just below the head. In a nutshell, they looked like something straight out of a B-horror movie concept art.

“Titanomyrma gigantea,” the vendor answered from behind a small counter before David could ask, enunciating slowly as if talking to a child. He was a thin, lanky man with a thick mustache and almost unnaturally blue eyes.

“They are the largest species of ants to have ever existed on Earth. If you’re interested, they are ten credits a piece, but I’ll give you a ten percent discount if you buy ten or more.”

“No, they are not.”

The vendor narrowed his eyes.

“Pardon me?”

Someone bumped into David from behind, causing him to lose his balance. Instinctively, he stretched his arms out in front of him… and nearly ended up burying them in the pool of the mysterious insects. Fortunately, he managed to land his hands on the opposite edges of the crate at the last possible moment.

Presumably, the same someone mumbled a half-hearted “Sorry!”, but by the time David steadied himself, they had already disappeared in the crowd. 

Relief turned to irritation as he looked back at the vendor and saw the corners of his mouth curved up in amusement. 

“What I mean is that these are not Titanomyrma gigantea,” David said coldly.

The man’s gaze hardened.

“I think I would know what I am selling. I collected them myself.”

David folded his arms across his chest.

“The real Titanomyrma was at best half the size. Didn’t have that many legs or a dual stinger. And don’t even get me started on whatever it is growing right under their heads.”

A hint of alarm flashed in the corners of the vendor’s eyes, but his face remained thoroughly impassive. 

“You some kind of paleontologist?” he hissed, then, not waiting for David’s reaction, added, “Look, it’s not like we have discovered every single animal or plant in history. Even if we can literally visit it. Not my fault you don’t recognize this one.”

David shook his head.

“If you don’t like what you see, you can just move on. Plenty of other stands on the market,” the vendor insisted. A vein appeared in the middle of his forehead, indicating that his patience was wearing thin.

His irate demeanor didn’t escape the attention of several visitors who stopped to lurk behind David. 

“I think you mean a paleo-entomologist, but no, you’re not that lucky,” David said, staring the vendor down.

“Lucky? Who the hell do you—” the man stopped abruptly, realization overtaking his features. “Oh no. No? No!”

“Yes,” David smiled, savoring the swift change in his counterpart’s attitude. 

“This is not what it looks like,” the vendor offered weakly, raising his hands, palms toward David. 

“It’s not?”

Putting on an exaggerated expression of surprise, David gestured toward the crate: “You mean these are not some genetically engineered abominations you are selling as genuine prehistoric specimens, breaking six different federal laws in the process? Is that what you are telling me?”

There was a gasp, an expletive muttered under the breath, a triumphant aha!—but these were just the reactions from the slowly growing gathering of lurkers around the stand. The vendor himself stayed silent, steadily turning pale. 

“Keeping quiet won’t do you any good now,” David pressed on, a subtle warning underscoring his words.

For a long moment, the vendor just glared at him, evidently considering his options or questioning his life choices. Or both. 

“Okay,” he said finally, looking away. “You are right. These are not the Titanomyrma. But I swear to God I didn’t make them. And—” he beckoned David closer. 

David reluctantly leaned forward, careful to stay well clear of the crate.

“—they are not the only fakes here,” the vendor finished in a low voice. 

David frowned. The guy was obviously grasping at straws, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was lying. And if he weren’t, then, well, David might end up spending more time at the market than he had originally planned.

He took a deep breath and straightened. Turning around, he addressed the onlookers: “Move along, people. Nothing to see here.” 

The less curious dispersed almost immediately; the rest needed an additional encouragement. Begrudgingly, David withdrew the badge from his pocket and waved it around, causing two or three people — who looked so similar to one another they had to be related — to openly express their displeasure with authorities. In the end, however, it worked, and the unwanted audience dispersed.

As soon as the flow of the river of bodies past the stand resumed, David walked around it and joined the vendor in the back. 

“Well, I am all ears.”

“Na-ah,” the man said and pressed his lips together. “I want to make a deal.”

“A deal?” David repeated, incredulous.

“Yeah. I give you the supplier and point you in the direction of their clients, and, in exchange, you let me off with a warning.”

The vendor jutted his chin out in defiance, though his eyes betrayed uncertainty.

“Do you really think you are in a position to make demands?” David said sharply. “I can just go and find the fakes myself, just like I found yours.”

“You can. And I am sure you’ll have no problems spotting the easy ones. But—” the vendor smirked. “—you should know that the merchandise I got is—how do I put this—on the lower end of the price range. The high-end stuff? You won’t be able to tell the critter isn’t real unless you run a full damn DNA analysis.”

He paused, shrugging. The gesture almost looked nonchalant.

“Besides, you won’t know who’s manufacturing them in the first place.”

David gritted his teeth.

“Tell you what,” the vendor continued, capitalizing on David’s hesitation. “I’ll give you the first one for free. See that Airstream over there?” 

He waved his arm in the direction of a bullet-shaped trailer parked about fifty meters away. A long table was set up in front of the vehicle’s open door, and on it, opaque cubical containers about the size of shoe boxes were stacked one next to each other. A large, bearded man stood behind the table, gesticulating frantically at a group of bystanders.

“The guy will tell you he’s selling Deinosuchus eggs, but in reality, he just modified a common alligator to grow three times its normal size and sprinkled in some minor cosmetic details to make it look distinctly different.”

David closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. He exhaled slowly through his nose and reopened his eyes to the vendor’s hopeful face. 

“How much did you make on these?” David asked slowly. “In total?”

“About four hundred credits,” the man replied, hesitantly. 

Raising an eyebrow, David tilted his head to the side.

“Maybe five?” the vendor offered, before sighing. “Fine, it’s seven-fifty. Not a fraction over seven-sixty, I promise.”

“And you haven’t downloaded any to your personal account?” 

David indicated the terminal, which was secured to the counter with a smart lock to prevent theft. 

“No, sir. It’s all there.”

David nodded, taking another deep breath.

“Okay, I’m keeping the credits you made on these, of course. And you need to give me the names of everyone you know who is selling the fake crap, plus the manufacturer, then I’ll forget you were ever here. ” 

Relief swept across the man’s face.

“But if I ever see you at one of these, I’ll remember really quickly who you are and exactly how much your illicit sales garnered.”

The vendor’s eyes flicked to the terminal. For a moment, it looked like there was a question at the tip of his tongue, but ultimately, he likely thought better of voicing it. 

“Right. Got it.”

Less than ten minutes later, the stand stood empty. David had made the vendor take his abominable merchandise with him and safely dispose of it. Even with the crate’s force field, it’d be irresponsible to leave them. The the man hadn’t been very happy about it, but ultimately had no other choice but to accede to. David watched him drag the trolley with the crates stacked on it in the direction of the nearest teletransport station, and once his tall frame disappeared from view, he leaned against the counter, letting out a small laugh. 

Seven hundred and fifty credits for what had it been — ten, fifteen minutes of work? And they said his doctorate in paleontology was as good as one in gender studies in the era of time zoos, prehistoric safaris, and public markets where you could literally buy yourself a pet trilobite. 

David patted his jacket pocket, feeling the hard contours of the appropriated terminal inside, then considered the file on his wrist computer, hastily put together and transferred by the vendor. David was sure the incriminating information on it would be of great interest to the real inspectors, so the right thing to do was to make sure they received it. He could slip them an anonymous message, nudge them in the right direction… of whoever it was who was manufacturing the fakes. 

Their clients, though? 

Those were fair game.