The news reports announced that certain well-established Naxid clans, out of pure civic spirit, had agreed to spare the government any expense, and would instead use their own means to manage the planet’s food supplies. The Jagirin clan, whose head had been temporary interior minister during the changeover from the old government to the new, the Ummir clan, whose head happened to be the Minister of Police, the Ushgays, the Kulukrafs…people who, even if some of them hadn’t been with the rebellion from the beginning, clearly found it in their interest to support it now.
Sula reworked her Resistance essay to include a list of the cooperating clans, along with a suggestion that anyone working for the ration authority was a legitimate target of war.
The Naxids, she thought, had just created a whole new class of target.
Naxids were placed in every police station to monitor the process of acquiring ration cards, and the Naxids wore the black uniform of the Legion of Diligence, the organization that investigated crimes against the Praxis. All members of the Legion had been evacuated from Zanshaa before the arrival of the Naxid fleet, so apparently the new government had reformed the Legion, probably with personnel from the Naxid police.
Another class of target, Sula thought.
She then sent out the usual fifty thousand copies through the Records Office broadcast node. The next few days were spent making deliveries, arguing with restaurant and club managers about her increased prices, and watching resentment build among the city’s population. Fury against the Naxids was now quite open, and even solid, prosperous citizens felt free to vent their rage publicly.
She wondered how people like One-Step would fare at acquiring their ration card. What, for instance, would One-Step claim as an occupation?
Sula kept a watch on the death certificates filed in the Records Office and discovered that a minor member of the Ushgay clan had died in a bomb explosion, and a Naxid police officer had been run over by his own car. The death certificate gave no indication how the officer had managed this, but she decided that the next number of Resistance would claim the incident as an action of the Lord Richard Li wing of the secret army.
Sula bypassed the local police and the Legion of Diligence and acquired her team’s ration cards directly from the Records Office, splicing into the record the signatures and testaments of perfectly legitimate police officers and members of the Legion. She acquired a card for each of the team’s many backup identities and had each mailed to the communal Riverside apartment. She later changed the address in the records so it wouldn’t seem odd that so many people were sharing the same address.
She also acquired a card in the name of Michael Saltillo, the identity she’d established for Casimir. It might come in handy at some point.
Three days after the announcement about rationing, Sula was making deliveries in the High City, and called Sidney. He said that progress had been made and invited her to visit the shop.
Because she didn’t know Sidney well enough to assess whether it was safe, she left Spence and Macnamara in the truck, parked inconspicuously down the street. “If I’m ambushed,” she said, “try to pull me out. But if you can’t, make sure one of your bullets finishes me.”
Spence looked as if she weren’t listening. In Macnamara she saw horror, then acceptance. He nodded and said nothing.
This time she was able to go in the front door. The shop had been reopened, and the display cases and racks showed only weapons suitable to Naxid anatomy.
Sidney waited behind a tall ceramic desk, his mustachios newly waxed and elaborately curled. “That was fast,” he said in his ruined voice.
“Efficiency is my motto.”
From his desk, Sidney locked the front door and reprogrammed the sign out front to announce that the shop would reopen in an hour. “Come along,” he said, and took her to the back room.
The room was the same model of neatness and regularity it had been a few days earlier, though the smell of hashish was more subdued than on Sula’s first visit. On the immaculate surface of a workbench she saw a short rifle. Sidney turned on a lamp, picked it up and held it to the light.
“The Sidney Mark One, if you like,” he said. “I went for a simple firearm—nothing requiring a heavy battery pack or elaborate technology.”
Light gleamed on the rifle’s matte-black surfaces. It was obviously crude, with a stock made of pieces of carbon-fiber rod, a barrel that might have originally been a resinous pipe fitting, a receiver of metal, and iron sights.
“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 that here?”
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 you really 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. “He does 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 are you 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 in Resistance, 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 people leaving 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 the Destiny, on Zanshaa’s ring the first day of the mutiny. Johannes was killed at Magaria on The 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
A shimmering 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 the ju 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 of Resistance, 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.
Conventions of War Page 23
