by David Ryker
Ward thought back to the port, the time between the shots. Maybe a little less than ten seconds, but the guy was definitely in a hurry.
“That’s a lot of pressure to put on one shooter from two thousand meters,” Arza said.
“Not if there’s three of them firing in unison,” Ward added. “You saw that map — there were vantage points marked out all over. They were probably all going to fire at once. It’d take four or five seconds for the sound to reach — plenty of time to make the three shots before anyone knew what we going on. First anyone would have known about it would be Chang’s guts all over the street.”
Klaymo nodded as if confirming Ward’s hypothesis. “I’d say not many people in the Axis could make this sort of hardware. And pro smiths — the real masters, ones with the skills to produce something like this by hand — can’t be more than half a dozen in the entire Axis. But I don’t think this was handmade.”
“Why not?”
“Doesn’t feel like a piece of art.”
“Excuse me?”
“Look, son, I’ve been working with firearms my whole life. I’ve seen more custom rifles than you’ve taken shits.”
Ward had to smirk at the old man’s stones. He could lean over and sock him in the mouth before he could even get a guard up. Ward wondered how he’d take a punch. It kept the smirk on his mouth.
“And every single smith worth his salt,” Klaymo went on, “when he’s making a commissioned piece, doesn’t want to make something so damn ugly. I mean look at this thing.” The body was bulbous and square, the scope overly large, the barrel unremarkable and smooth. It did look like a piece of shit, but they all knew it wasn’t.
Klaymo kept talking. “If they’re making something for someone — for hunting, or as a gift, or just because — they make it look good. They make it feel good in the hands. They make it an amalgam— you know the word amalgam?” he asked Ward derisively.
“Yeah, I do.” If anything, Klaymo was more of a condescending prick when he was sober than he was drunk. Ward contemplated punching him again. But considering he was trying to secure Arza’s loyalty, socking her Uncle Klaymo didn’t seem like a smart move.
“It’s an amalgam of things. No one wants to pay good money for something that looks like… this. And plus, smiths are an honorable bunch. Doubt you’d find a good one who’d make something like this for the simple fact that this rifle is made to kill. It’s made to have maximum impact — allows for a larger margin of error than a traditional firearm. Made to make the kill as easy as possible.” He scoffed. “No, smiths want to make guns that shoot true. But shooting shouldn’t be easy, not in their minds. A kill should be earned. Plus, making something like this? You’re going to kill someone you shouldn’t. Why the hell would you need to be two clicks away otherwise?” Klaymo laughed. “No, this isn’t a private commission.”
“Then what are you saying?” Ward asked. “Where would you look if it was you?”
“Private military contractors. Defense companies. Places with the industrial capabilities to manufacture weapons like this.” He rubbed his hands on his thighs to get the sweat off. Ward watched him do it, remembering how his father used to do the same. The first itch of the day. The first pang of thirst. It came with a cold sheen of sweat and dry mouth. As if on cue, Klaymo started champing like a horse on a bit. “They’d make something this God-awful — something made to kill. People with no soul, no appreciation of the artistry. That’s where I’d start looking.”
Ward nodded, rolling it over in his head. Just then, his communicator started buzzing. He got up and pulled it out of his pocket, heading for the door. “Cootes.”
“Miller,” Cootes replied. “You’re a son of a bitch, you know that?”
“You’ve met my mother, then.”
“Edelweiss Orbital — three weeks ago, one of their geo-synch satellites, about a hundred clicks south of the city, had a twitch — let me see here — I pulled their error logs, as well as the contractor’s notes.” He cleared his throat and started to read. “At approximately two-forty-three a.m., Eudaimonia Standard Time, a small system error due to varying package signatures supplied from an older software iteration caused a halt in continuous data transmission, tripping the automated lockdown protocols in place to prevent tampering and hacking. A momentary drop in communication was recorded due to the lapse in time between the primary systems being locked and scanned for breaches and the secondary, encrypted backup system being activated. All systems have now been updated and secured and all tests reveal that satellite C45 dash 7B is fully operational. Error codes have been cleared and satellite is once again working at full capacity.”
“Well, doesn’t that just sound like a big pile of horse shit. How long was the drop?”
“About seventeen seconds.”
“Enough time for a bean to come in.”
“Going at about twenty thousand clicks an hour, sure.”
“Send me the coordinates of the satellite. You said it was geo-synch, right?”
“Right. It’s way out in the plains, though.”
“Then we’d better get moving.”
Cootes was silent for a second. “You really think you’re going to find anything out there?”
“Only one way to find out.” He took a breath, cogs turning. “One other thing. Can you check if Edelweiss is a subsidiary?”
“Of who?”
“Don’t know. Private military or defense contractor. Someone who makes weapons, or at least has the capabilities to.”
“I’ll look into it and get back to you.”
“Thanks.” Ward hung up and headed back inside. He stopped just beyond the threshold.
Arza looked up and Ward jerked his head backward. She nodded and reached for her communicator, picking it up off the table. “Thanks, Klaymo,” she said, standing up. “You’ve been a huge help.”
He was on his feet as well, moving forward. “Hey, hey — you want to stick around? I can take another look at—”
Ward interjected. “No, you’ve been fine. Thanks.”
“What if—”
“Really, we need to go,” Ward said, forcing a quick smile and beckoning Arza past him through the door. He was trying to brush Klaymo off. He knew the sort of behavior. He’d seen it too much. This was the don’t leave me or I’ll have a drink plea. He wanted to kick it — or at least knew that it wasn’t good for him. It was barely ten in the morning and he was already feeling the unscratchable itch. Arza didn’t see it, and Ward wasn’t about to tell her. They didn’t have time to deal with this right now. Once everything was said and done, he’d make a call — get Klaymo seen to, or at least loop Arza in on it. He needed her focused on this right now and she was blinkered when it came to Klaymo. In her eyes, he was still her dad’s perfect buddy. Unimpeachable Uncle Klaymo.
Arza moved past him and he turned to go after her, getting only a step through the door before Klaymo’s knobbled hand closed around his elbow like a crab’s claw. Ward set his jaw, ready to give the old man a telling off — that they needed to chase down a lead and babysitting him so he wouldn’t start slugging whiskey at ten in the morning wasn’t on their agenda.
But that wasn’t it. Klaymo’s eyes were hard and sober, his lips quivering with bubbling rage, not with self-loathing. “A word,” he said, his voice like gravel.
“Listen—”
“No, you listen.”
Ward stayed quiet, appraising the old man for a sense of what was coming next.
“I know you.”
“Take your hand off me, old man.”
“I know your sort—”
“I’m not AIA,” Ward said coldly. “I told you—”
“No, I couldn’t give two shits where your allegiances lie. What I care about is Erica.”
“Arza?” Ward was a little surprised.
“Erica.” Klaymo couldn’t quite muster the venom he had in his other words to say her name. “Arza was her father. My friend. My closest friend.” He was shaking. �
�We promised each other — that if anything happened to either of us, we’d look out for the other’s family.”
“Get to the point,” Ward growled.
“Except I didn’t have a family. But that doesn’t change the promise.”
“Arza’s father isn’t dead.”
“But he’s off-planet. And has been for a while. So that leaves me.”
“Don’t kid yourself. You’re out here drinking yourself into a stupor every day. You’re not doing anyone any favors but yourself,” Ward said cruelly.
“Watch your mouth.”
“Take your hand off me.”
Klaymo loosened his grip enough for Ward to take his arm back.
“You’re going to get her killed,” Klaymo said, barely above a whisper.
“Arza’s fine.”
“You don’t care about her. She’s just a shield for you — someone to take a bullet, to draw fire, to give you a clear shot. I can see it in you.”
Ward held on to a straight face as best he could, trying not to let on that that was exactly what he’d done at the port. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Leave her out of this. She’s out of her depth here, and you know it. Every second you keep her with you, it’s another second closer to her death. You’re seasoned — you know what you’re doing. You know how to slither out of the way of a bullet. But she doesn’t, and you’re going to put her in a position where she’s going to catch one and you’re not.” Klaymo softened, crumbling almost. “I don’t want to see her hurt — not on your account.”
“I don’t either.” Ward wasn’t lying, and he knew Klaymo was right. The shooter was a cornered dog, and his master had reach. Neither were going to be easy to tangle with, and by now Ward and Arza would be at the top of their hit list. He’d done nothing but think how green she was since the moment they’d met.
“You’ve got her wrapped around your little finger,” Klaymo muttered scornfully. “She doesn’t know any different. Doesn’t know what a good man is. She’s been blinded, and she’s not going to gain perspective unless you give it to her.”
“So tell her.”
“She won’t listen to me. You know that. If you care about her at all, even just a little, somewhere down there, deep in that cold pit where your heart’s supposed to be… You’ll do the right thing. Cut her loose, before it’s too late.” He was almost pleading now.
Ward looked down and drew breath, letting it out slowly. “Have a drink, Klaymo — you look like you need one.”
The door closed behind him, his communicator buzzing in his pocket. Cootes with the location.
Arza was leaning against his bike. “Everything all right? What’s wrong?” she asked, seeing the look on his face.
He swung his leg over the saddle, stewing on Klaymo’s words. “Nothing. Now come on. We’ve got a long ride ahead of us.”
Arza opened her mouth to say something, but no sound came out. After a second she closed it and nodded, getting on behind him.
He felt her hands close around his waist and then turned on the ignition, pinning the throttle and snaking out of the courtyard in a cloud of dust, unable to be away from there soon enough.
17
The city stayed on their right-hand side and faded into the distance.
Cootes had given Ward the coordinates for the dropped satellite, and he’d set his heading, barreling out into the plains with everything the bike had, unable to outrun Klaymo’s words.
Arza clapped Ward on the shoulder after nearly an hour of hammering along dirt roads, and he let go of the throttle.
The bike slowed, sinking into the dry dirt, and came to a halt.
“You good?” Ward asked as she climbed off, stepping into the thigh-high grass and staring off into the distance, the yellowed sky featureless and long across the flat horizon.
She kept her back to him, just looking out.
“Everything all right?” he asked, coming up beside her.
She nodded. “Yeah, just numb is all — not exactly the most comfortable ride.” Her voice seemed hoarse. Maybe just dry from the dust, maybe something else. “You ever consider getting a car?”
“No.”
She laughed. “Figures.” The grass brushed against their legs and tiny birds fluttered and chirped around them, leaping out and diving back under the waving green sea. “Ward?” she said.
“Yeah?”
“Why do they call you that? Ward?” She seemed almost wistful.
“It’s my name.”
“Your middle name.”
He shrugged. “Still my name.”
“Michael Ward Miller. Michael Miller.” She leaned down and pulled a thick blade of Martian plains grass out, stripping it into fine strands, letting them fly away on the gentle breeze.
He sank his teeth into his tongue. He never liked this conversation when it came up. “What’s your point?”
“Don’t you like your name? Michael?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “Just don’t.”
“Michael’s a nice enough name.”
“For some people.”
“Not for you?”
He knew there was no getting away from it, and her butt wasn’t numb. She’d wanted a break — too long alone in silence. She’d been thinking about this.
“No,” he sighed. “Not for me.”
“Why did your parents choose Michael?”
“After Saint Michael.”
“Saint Michael?”
“Some humans believe in these things called saints—”
“Canonization. I’m aware of how Catholicism works — even if it doesn’t make any sense to me.” She shrugged now, picking up on his way. He watched her do it, Klaymo’s words ringing in his head. He was rubbing off on her.
“Saint Michael was one of the big ones. Patron saint of mariners, police officers, soldiers… Lots of them wear him on a pendant, around their neck,” he said, gesturing to his collar. “Supposed to watch over them, or something. I never bought into it.”
“You don’t like the religious aspect?”
Ward grumbled to himself. “No, it’s not that. My parents chose it — or, my dad did is probably more accurate… We’re a military family. My dad. My dad’s dad. My mom’s dad. Hell, even my mom was an army surgeon.”
“And they thought you’d follow the family tradition.”
“Well, I did.”
She nodded slowly. “Saint Michael — humph.”
“Guess they thought it’d help me be safe if I did decide to follow their lead.”
“Has it?”
“I’m not dead yet.”
She laughed strangely. “But you don’t go by it? Because of your dad? Because he chose it?”
She was prying now — drilling for oil she knew was there.
“Yup,” Ward said plainly.
“And why not go by Miller?”
“He was always Sergeant Miller.” Ward ripped out some grass himself, tearing chunks off and throwing them on the ground. “Miller. Miller. Miller. All I heard growing up. Even my mom called him Miller. Miller. Miller.” He spat the words. “I can’t hear it not being yelled in her voice.”
“Yelled?”
“There a point to all this?” Ward said coldly.
“Just want to know who I’m working with. Seems like you know a lot about me, and I don’t know anything about you.”
“You read my file.”
“And it seems like there was a lot left out of it.”
“Mm.”
“Your parents. Still alive?”
“Probably.”
“You don’t know?”
“Mom is,” he said, relenting. She wasn’t going to drop it. “I haven’t seen her since I started for the SB — not allowed off-world, strictly speaking. Fears of conspiracy with the AIA.”
She laughed loudly this time. He noted she’d given three different renditions of her laugh in the last few minut
es. Fake. Abject. Incredulous. “That figures. Your dad?”
Ward shrugged. “Don’t know. Don’t care. Mom kicked him out, and that was it. I came home, and he was gone.”
“And you never bothered to find him?”
“Why would I?”
“That’s fair. So, what about Ward?”
“What about it? We should go.”
“I’m not ready yet.”
Ward growled and sighed loudly. “Ward was my Mom’s father, okay?”
“Was he a good man, Ward?”
He locked his jaw. “Yeah, he was. Always did right by our family, did his best to make sure the peace was kept. Until he couldn’t.”
“Killed in action?” she asked flatly.
“No… He just got old, started missing things. Stopped being there so much. Stopped seeing what was going on.” Ward stared at the birds. “I don’t blame him. It wasn’t his fault. There was nothing he could have done. Nothing I could have done, either. I moved out — enlisted the second I could. Mom… Guess it took a few years for her to work up the courage to tell him.” Ward felt the words in his throat like razors, a cold hand running down his spine, the coppery taste of guilt on his tongue.
Arza said nothing for a long time and then she turned to Ward and smiled. An explosion of warmth spread through his guts. “Thank you, Ward,” she said quietly before she walked back to the bike. “You coming?”
Wards fists closed around the blade of grass and he tore it in two, turning and tossing it over his shoulder. “Yeah, I’m coming.”
It was nearly midday by the time they came up on the coordinates that Cootes had sent him.
Except there was nothing there. Nothing but the gently rolling plains — a rise on their left, and a flat spot on their right giving way to a shallow stream that picked its way through the grass. Some Martian bison had come to drink, their tall, jagged backs rising, the thick shaggy hides and exposed spinal horns stark against the pale yellow canvas of sky.
“Shit,” Ward said, looking around, and then straight up.
“This the place?”
“Supposedly.”
“I don’t see anything.”
He sighed and got off the bike, wading forward through the grass. The sun was high now and there was no respite from it. Though it was smaller than it was on Earth, the air was thick and heavy with carbon, trapping the heat in a humid layer.
