Conventions of War def-3

by Walter Jon Williams

  “That was fast,” Sula said.

  “Simple firearms are easy, if you don’t want elegance,” Sidney said. “It helped that the gun’s completely illegal-I didn’t have to add the unlocking code and thumbprint-recognition pad required by law. Computer-assisted lathes did the work. The hard part was the ammunition.”

  He reached into a drawer, withdrew a tubelike magazine, and snapped it into place. “I wanted a traditional propellant, one that carries its own oxidant. I wanted it caseless so people wouldn’t have to worry about making cartridges.” He rooted around in the drawer and came up with some small yellow cylinders, like cigarette filters. “The propellant wasn’t hard,” he said. “It’s standard Fleet issue DD6 and will fire on a planet’s surface, in the vacuum of space, and underwater. Its ingredients are readily obtainable, and you can mix the stuff on your kitchen table and bake it in an oven.” He handed a few of the cylinders to Sula. They felt dry and grainy. She pictured grandmotherly types turning them out on cookie sheets and smiled.

  “You can cast the bullets out of metal or hard plastic, then stick them to the propellant with epoxide,” Sidney said. “Unfortunately, neither bullet type will penetrate standard police armor, but they’ll be useful against softer targets.”

  Sula examined the propellant cylinders again. “What do you use for a detonator?” she asked.

  Sidney gave a grim smile. “I didn’t want people messing around with mercury fulminate and the like. Blow their own fingers off.”

  “That’s the problem we’ve been having with our bombs.”

  “Maybe I can help you with that. DD6, you see, will ignite at high temperature, so I built a standard laser-emitting diode into the breech.” A few competent movements of his hands broke down the weapon and held the part to the light. “This is the most critical piece of the gun, and it can be scavenged from practically every piece of communications equipment made. Comm units, music and video players…there’s no way the Naxids can prevent people from acquiring as many of these as they like. It will run off a little micro battery you can acquire anywhere. The operator will have to replace the diode every few hundred rounds, but it’s a quick job and you can do it in the field.”

  Sidney reassembled the gun. “Breaks down easily,” he said, “and reassembles without fuss. The parts are machined to a fairly low tolerance, which means there’s a lot of slop in the movement and parts will wear out quickly, but it’ll stand hard handling without jamming. There’s no real safety, but you can lock the bolt back-so. This lever”-Flicking it-“switches from single shot to full automatic.”

  “May I handle it?”

  He smiled. “Of course.”

  The gun was clean and cool in Sula’s hands. She raised it to her shoulder and felt the balance. The tubular butt was padded against recoil with scraps of foam and shiny tape, and it felt like a toy.

  “Want to fire it?” Sidney asked.

  Sula looked at him in surprise. “We can do thathere?”

  In answer, Sidney spoke a few words into the air. There was a hum of machinery, and a slab of the floor lifted on hinges as a small elevator rose.

  “I use it to move some of the heavier merchandise,” he said. He stepped onto the elevator, and Sula lay the rifle carefully against her shoulder and joined him. Sidney spoke another few words and the elevator descended.

  Below the shop there was a darkened room that smelled of must and metal. Sidney turned on lights and Sula saw a storage area-largely empty-and a pair of wide epoxide sewer pipes that ran the length of the shop in the direction of the street, forming a firing range with targets at the far end. Sidney gestured at the far wall, where a target already lay waiting. He reached for a pair of ear protectors from a rack and placed them comfortably on his head. “Be my guest,” he said.

  Sula got ear protection, braced the rifle on her hip and flicked the bolt with her thumb to let it slam forward. She put the rifle against her shoulder, gazed through the simple iron sights, took a calming breath, let it out, and squeezed the trigger. The bang was very loud in the small space, and there was very little recoil, which was normal with caseless ammunition. A hole appeared in the filmy plastic surface of the target, a hand’s breadth off center.

  “Not bad,” Sidney said. “This gun’s strong point isn’t accuracy.”

  Sula fired a few more rounds to get the feel of the weapon, then clicked to full automatic. She half expected the smooth, continuous roar of the weapons she’d trained with, the rifles that could cycle at over a hundred rounds per second, but instead there was a reliable chug-chug-chug action, slow enough so she could keep the weapon on target.

  She fired several bursts, and then the magazine was empty. She lowered the rifle, and Sidney reached over her shoulder to press the keypad that would bring the target swaying on its cable to her. She’d riddled the center section.

  “Not very slick, is it?” Sidney said. “It won’t match police or Fleet weapons in a stand-up fight. But in a surprise attack or an assassination, it should do the job.”

  Sula removed the magazine and looked at the weapon. “Show me how to break it down.”

  “Certainly. And while I do that, tell me how many other people are in this insurrection of yours.”

  She looked at him. “Sorry. Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you.”

  His look was somber. “You can’t have very many. Otherwise you wouldn’t need me to design your weapons for you.” He smiled. “And youreally wouldn’t need PJ Ngeni.”

  Sula suppressed a burst of laughter. “Well,” she said, “let’s just say that the Naxids cut down our numbers after the Axtattle ambush.”

  Sidney’s eyes were intent. “Yes. So there’s really no secret government to report to, is there?”

  Sula hesitated, then said, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone that. PJ in particular.”

  He flashed another smile. “Hedoes enjoy being a secret agent, doesn’t he?”

  Sula felt a warning tingle run up her spine. “How much does he enjoy it, exactly?”

  Sidney caught her meaning at once. “I don’t think he’s being indiscreet,” he said. “But he comes over here and babbles. I think he’s very happy that he finally has someone to talk to about all this.” He shook his head. “And the girl threw him over too, didn’t she?”

  “Yes. She did.”

  He looked down at the floor. “The things people do for love.”

  She frowned at him. “Why areyou doing this?”

  He glanced up, and there was a flash of teeth beneath the curling mustachios, a kind of snarl. “Because I hate the bastards, that’s why.”

  Love and hate, Sula thought. That kept things basic.

  She had wondered why she herself was in this fight. The secret government was gone, and Lady Sula was officially dead: she could sit in some quiet part of town, sell chocolate and tobacco, and wait in comfort for the war to end.

  And so she could, if it weren’t for love and hate. She hated the Naxids, and she loved Martinez and hated him. She hated the whole shambling, sick edifice that was the empire, and a part of her would rejoice in its ruin. She loved the part of a leader, the exhilaration of action, the sweetness of savagery and the satisfaction of a plan wellforged and well-executed. She hated herself but loved the parts she played, the masks she donned, one convincing falsehood after another. She loved the game of it, the way it could take the form of one of her mathematical puzzles, a complex equation with one variable after another, Casimir and the Records Office, deliveries and assassinations,Resistance and PJ and the Sidney Mark One rifle…

  Sidney had the gun apart, and he was looking at her with frank interest. Sula collected herself, reassembled the rifle, then took it apart again.

  He began to clean the weapon. “Can you take it home with you?” he asked.

  She looked up at him. “I don’t need it-my group’s pretty well armed.”

  “Yes, but I’ve got the whole design ready to download, and once you put the data inRes
istance, I imagine my place will be searched, along with that of anyone who designs guns for a living. I don’t want any part of it here.”

  “I suppose.”

  “You can take it disassembled into the Lower Town easily enough,” Sidney added. “I’ve noticed they don’t search peopleleaving the High City.”

  “And they don’t search us going up much either,” Sula said. “The guards have got to recognize our truck, and they know we’re just delivering food and such.”

  “That’ll change when rationing starts.”

  Oh.She hadn’t considered that.

  She would have to get herself the proper vouchers when she went through the checkpoints. Another job for Casimir, damn it.

  Sidney packed the rifle in a case, then took Sula to his workroom again to give her all the remaining ammunition and several spare laser diodes. “Perhaps you’d better leave by the back way,” he suggested. “Any Naxids might be interested in a Terran leaving a gun shop with a case.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Sidney pulled up the schematics of the rifle on his computer, then beamed them to Sula’s arm display. “I’ve included a design for a sound suppressor,” he said. “You screw it onto the barrel, and it should be good for the first dozen shots or so before things get noisy again. I didn’t have time to actually build it.” He opened a drawer, pulled out a pipe, and loaded it with a large chunk of hashish from a green leather box.

  Sula looked down at two photo cubes attached to the wall above Sidney’s desk. They showed a young man and young woman in the uniform of the Fleet.

  “Your children?” he asked.

  Sidney reached for his lighter. His tones were unnaturally even, as if he was suppressing every possible emotion. “Sonia died retaking theDestiny, on Zanshaa’s ring the first day of the mutiny. Johannes was killed at Magaria onThe Glory of the Praxis.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sula said. “And your wife?”

  He took a deep breath of smoke before he answered. “She left me years ago, before I had my accident and had to leave the Fleet. I was just getting to know the children again before-” He waved his pipe. “Before all this started.”

  Love and hate.He had given all his guns away to her group, not caring if they could be traced to him. Now she knew why.

  Sula hoped she could give him a new job that he could love, something that would keep him alive and useful. All she had to do was promise to fulfill his hatred.

  “Mr. Sidney,” she said, “shall we go to PJ’s and cadge a lunch?”

  He exhaled a deep blue cloud of smoke and nodded.

  “Why not?” he said. “The caterers will be out of work when the rationing comes. We may as well let PJ give them some money.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Ashimmering layer of afternoon heat stretched across the pavement like a layer of molasses, thick enough to distort the colorful canopies and displays of the Textile Market that set up in Sula’s street every five days. Early in the morning vendors motored up with their trailers or their three-wheelers with the sheds built onto the back, and at dawn the sheds opened, canopies went up, and the merchandise went on sale. After sunset, as the heat began to dissipate and the purple shadows crept between the stalls, the vendors would break down their displays and motor away, to set up the next day in another part of the city.

  As Sula walked past on her way to her apartment, the rifle in its case under one arm, vendors called her attention to cheap women’s clothing, baby clothes, shoes, stockings, scarves, rubbery Bogo toys, inexpensive dolls, cheap puzzles and games. There were bolts of fabric, foils of music and entertainment, sun lotion and sun hats, and knit items-unseasonable in the heat-alleged to be made from the fleece of Yormak cattle, and sold at a surprisingly low price.

  Despite the heat, the market was thronged. Tired and hot, Sula elbowed her way impatiently through the crowd to her doorstep. A glance to one side showed that One-Step wasn’t in his accustomed place. She entered the building, then heard the chime of a hand comm through her apartment door and made haste to enter. She put the rifle case down, snatched up the comm from the table and answered, panting.

  Casimir surveyed her from the display. She could watch his eyes travel insolently over her image as far as the frame would permit.

  “Too bad,” he said. “I was hoping to catch you in the bath again.”

  “Better luck next time.” Sula switched on the room coolers, and somewhere in the building a tired compressor began to wheeze and faint currents of air to stir. She dropped into a chair near theju yao pot, and holding the comm in one hand, began to loosen her boots with the other.

  “I want to see you tonight,” Casimir said. “I’ll pick you up at 2101, all right?”

  “Why don’t I meet you at the club?”

  “Nothing happens at the club that early.” He frowned. “Don’t you want me to know where you live?”

  “I don’t have a place of my own,” Sula lied cheerfully. “I sort of bounce between friends.”

  “Well.” Grudgingly. “I’ll see you at the club then.”

  She had time to bathe, get a bite to eat, and work for a while on the next issue ofResistance, the one with the schematics for Sidney’s do-it-yourself rifle. Then she dressed, dabbed Sengra on her throat, and trotted out of the apartment, the rifle case still under her arm. The sun was low in the viridian sky and the heat rose in waves, but the Textile Market was still thronged. People felt safe in such numbers, she thought, even though if she were a Naxid looking for hostages, she’d think of a park or an open-air market first thing.

  One-Step stood in his usual place, wearing baggy shorts and a scarred leather vest. “Hey One-Step,” Sula said.

  A brilliant smile blossomed on his face. “Hello, beauteous lady. How are you this lovely evening?”

  He smelled as if he hadn’t bathed for a few long hot summer days, a fact she did her best to ignore. “Do you know a man named Julien? A friend of Casimir’s?”

  The smile vanished at once. “One-Step advises you to stay away from such people, lovely one.”

  “If I’m supposed to stay away from him, you’d better tell me why.”

  One-Step scowled. “Julien’s the son of Sergius Bakshi. And Sergius is the boss of the Riverside Clique. You don’t get any worse than Sergius.”

  Sula nodded, impressed. Sergius was not only a clique leader, he’d cheated the executioner long enough to have a grown son. Few of his kind stayed alive that long.

  “Thanks, One-Step.”

  One-Step looked bleak. “You’re not going to follow One-Step’s advice, are you? You’re going out with Julien tonight.”

  “He’s not the one who asked me out. Good night, One-Step! Thanks!”

  “You’re making a mistake,” One-Step said darkly.

  Sula negotiated the crowds at the Textile Market, then ducked down a sun-blasted side street, trying to keep on the shady side. The heat still took her breath away. She made another turn, then entered the delightfully cool air of a block-shaped storage building built in the shadow of the even larger Riverside Crematorium. She showed her false ID to the Cree at the desk, then took the elevator upstairs and opened one of Team 491’s storage caches. There, she stowed the rifle case alongside the other rifle cases, the cases of ammunition and grenades and explosives and body armor.

  For a moment she hesitated. Then she opened one of the cases, withdrew a small item and pocketed it.

  Casimir waited by his car in front of the Cat Street club with an impatient scowl on his face and his walking stick in his hand. He wore a soft white shirt covered with minutely stitched braid. As she appeared, he stabbed the door button, and the glossy apricot-colored door rolled up into the car roof. “Ihate being kept waiting,” he growled in his deep voice, and took her arm roughly to stuff her into the passenger compartment.

  This too, Sula remembered, was what it was like to be a clique member’s girlfriend.

  Sula settled herself on apricot-colored plush across from Julien and
Veronika, the latter in fluttery garb and a cloud of Sengra. Casimir thudded into the seat next to her and rolled down the door, Sula called up the chronometer on her sleeve display.

  “I’m three minutes early,” she said primly, in what she trusted was a math teacher’s voice. “I’m sorry if I spoiled your evening.”

  Casimir gave an unsociable grunt. Veronika popped her blue eyes wide and said, “The boys are taking us shopping!”

  Sula remembered that too.

  “Where?” she said.

  “It’s a surprise,” Julien said, and slid open the door on the vehicle’s bar. “Anyone want something to drink?”

  The Torminel behind the controls slipped the car smoothly from the curb on its six tires. Sula had a Citrine Fling while the rest drank Kyowan. The vehicle passed through Grandview to the Petty Mount, a district in the shadow of the High City, beneath the Couch of Eternity where the ashes of the Shaa masters waited in their niches for the end of time. The area was lively, filled with boutiques, bars, cafes, and eccentric shops that sold folk crafts or antiques or old jewelry. Sula saw Cree and Lai-own on the streets as well as Terrans.

  The car pulled to a smooth stop before a shop called Raiment by Chesko, and the apricot-colored doors rolled open. They stepped from the vehicle and were greeted at the door by a female Daimong whose gray body was wrapped in a kind of satin sheath that looked strangely attractive on her angular body with its matchstick arms. In a chiming voice she greeted Casimir by name.

  “Gredel, this is Miss Chesko,” Casimir told Sula in a voice that suggested both her importance and his own.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Sula said.

  The shop was a three-level fantasy filled with sumptuous fabrics in brilliant colors, all set against neutral-colored walls of a translucent resinous substance that let in the fading light of the sun. Gossamer Cree music floated tastefully in the air.

  A Daimong who designed clothes for Terrans was something new in Sula’s experience. The shop must have had excellent air circulation, or Chesko wore something that suppressed the odor of her rotting flesh, because Sula didn’t scent her even once.