The 97th Step

by Steve Perry

  Ferret stared at him. "How'd you know that? I never said."

  "I might have accidentally viewed your old ID or something. You know, while you were asleep."

  "You turd." It was said without heat, and as much a part of their normal conversation as insulting each other's penis size and sexual abilities.

  "Hey, don't spaz up, pal. I… got something for you."

  Ferret was curious. "Yeah?"

  "Yeah. A present."

  They sat in the small cube they'd rented at the port. It was bigger than a sleep stall, but not much. Both of them sat on the bed, and Gworn tendered a heavy cloth bag. "Here."

  Ferret took the bag, then glanced at Gworn's face. The white teeth shone against the dark skin, the smile full of anticipation. "We got to get to the liner," Ferret said.

  "We'll make it. Look at what I got you."

  Ferret opened the bag. Inside was a small plastic box, heavy, and it rattled when he shook it. Next to it was what looked like a natural fabric skinshirt, soaked with some kind of aromatic lube oil. Whatever was inside the oily cloth was real heavy. He unwrapped it.

  The room's light gleamed from a polished metal surface. Ferret felt his breath catch.

  "It's a gun," Gworn said.

  Ferret looked up from the handgun at his friend. "I know that. Think I'm stupid?"

  "Yeah, I truly do. They could write tapes about it, Ferret. Volumes and volumes—How Stupid Ferret Is, In Fifty-one Languages. It'd be like a never-ending story, they could keep adding to it for years."

  "Where'd you get this?"

  "Where you think I been all week? There's a collector in the Outbrush, he's got a whole room full of these. Not like this, but different kinds. Going back seven or eight hundred years, some of them."

  Ferret lifted the weapon. It was bigger than the cheap hand wands he'd carried and never even fired in practice. The handle was of some close-grained dark wood, and the weapon was plated in some shiny metal, nickel or stainfree, he figured. There was a trigger, surrounded by a small loop of metal, a fluted cylinder set in a frame, and an external cocking mechanism. The barrel was about twelve or thirteen centimeters long, with a rounded delta-shaped ridge on the top end. As he moved the weapon around, to look at the other side, Ferret felt a sense of power and of rightness about its being in his hand. It was as if it belonged there, somehow. He had never felt such a sensation of fitness about any object before. How odd.

  There was writing engraved along the length of the barrel: on the top, it said: COLT'S PT. F.A. MFG. CO. HARTFORD CT. U.S.A. Along the side, in smaller characters, it said: COLT SINGLE ACTION FRONTIER SCOUT .22 CAL. This last, .22, was repeated on the cylinder, next to the symbols L.R.; underneath the loop surrounding the trigger were some numbers; there was a tiny picture of some four-footed animal standing on its hind legs, holding something in its teeth, on the left side of the frame.

  Ferret was flushed with excitement when he turned to grin at Gworn. It had to be worth a fortune. "What do the words mean? I recognize some of the symbols, but I don't know the language."

  "Old style Terran," Gworn said. "I couldn't find the instruction manual for this model, but I did find a data ball on how to fire one similar."

  Ferret waved the gun around, getting used to the feel of it. "Is it charged?" He pointed the gun at the wall.

  "No. You have to use these." Gworn opened the box and removed some tiny cylinders. They were shiny metal or hard plastic, flat on one end and cone-shaped on the other.

  Ferret glanced at the small bits of metal. Almost unconsciously, he thumbed back the protruding mechanism on the rear of the gun. It clicked several times before it caught and locked into place. He pointed the gun at the end of the bed and squeezed the trigger. The vaguely hammer-shaped cocking lever snapped down with a sharp click, and a fine spray of lube showered from the impact point.

  Ferret looked back at Gworn, and grinned widely. He reached out to hug the other young man. "Jesu, Benny, it's—it's, I, Jesu-!"

  "Hey, don't get maud on me, shitbrain." But he didn't move away from Ferret's embrace. He put his hand on Ferret's shoulder and rubbed gently at the muscle.

  "Nobody ever gave me anything this valuable before."

  "It's okay, pal. Really."

  "Where is that data ball? I want to see how to operate it."

  "We'll miss the outbound. Can't do that, can we?"

  "Fuck the outbound!"

  "Right! The lanes are always open."

  Ferret looked at his friend, his face serious. This was important, the effort that went into it. Nobody had ever cared enough to do something like this before, not even his mother. When he spoke, his voice trembled, almost as if he might cry. Not that he would cry, of course, it just sounded like that. "Thanks, Benny. Thanks a lot."

  Gworn looked uncomfortable, as if embarrassed by Ferret's gratitude, and for a moment, Ferret was pretty sure he saw Benny's eyes begin to tear, before the dark youth blinked and turned to glance at the door, like maybe he heard somebody there. "Yeah, well, I wanted you to have something special, you know? Something from me."

  Gworn turned back toward Ferret and they both smiled at each other. Ferret said softly, "Yeah, just wait until your birthday, asslick."

  "You don't even know when that is, micro-cock."

  "Hell I don't. You sleep too, pal."

  Both of them laughed, and life felt really good to Ferret. As good as it had ever gotten.

  The data ball was of some help. The loading of the chambers was somewhat different, being from the right side of the weapon, called a "revolver," instead of the left, as in the demo. The small cartridges consisted of a metal shell, filled with explosive, and a lead pellet or "bullet," also rigged to explode when it connected with its target. The revolver held six of these cartridges when fully charged, although the data ball warned that leaving an empty chamber under the hammer was a wise precaution, in case the weapon was jolted or even dropped, to prevent accidental discharge.

  Ferret couldn't wait to try it. He and Gworn stole a flitter and took a ride into the forest that came nearly to the edge of the port. Greaves was a frontier planet, and wood was thick all over the place. The two drove thirty or forty klicks away from the port town into a desolate area, and hid the flitter out of sight from the road. From the data ball, it was apparent that the revolver would make some noise when discharged, and they didn't want to be noticed.

  They set up a dozen plastic food containers taken from a restaurant, ranging in size from a drink can to ten liters. Ferret loaded five of the cartridges into the revolver, being careful to omit the one under the hammer. As the weapon was cocked, the cylinder revolved, placing a loaded chamber under the firing pin.

  "Well, go ahead," Gworn said.

  "No. You go first."

  "Hey, it's your gun. I gave it to you."

  "You nearly got nailed taking it. You should do it first."

  Gworn nodded. "Okay."

  He took the weapon.

  "You're supposed to line up the front ramp with the notch in the rear," Ferret said. "And align that on the target."

  "Hey, I saw the fucking data ball, jerk-oh. I know what to do."

  He extended the weapon to arm's length and pointed it vaguely in the direction of the lined-up containers, which were about six or seven meters away.

  "Okay, here goes—"

  A bomb went off.

  Ferret dropped into a crouch, looking for the trouble, as the gun fell from Gworn's surprised fingers and thumped onto the thick humus.

  Ferret straightened as he realized the source of the explosion. The gun.

  Gworn stared at the fallen weapon. "Did it explode?"

  Ferret lifted the gun and dusted the bits of moss and leaf from it. There was no sign of damage. "I think that's the sound it always makes."

  "You're damping my drive! Hell, you set that thing off in civilization and every cool for five klicks would come running."

  "Right about that. What were you firing at?"
/>   "The biggest juice can."

  Ferret walked to the row of containers. "No marks on it. I guess you missed."

  "Anybody would. All that noise. And it jumped in my hand, too."

  "Want to try it again?"

  Gworn took a breath and let it out. "Sure."

  He managed to shoot four more of the live rounds, flinching against the sound and recoil. None of the containers, however, had been in any danger. They were unmarked. There was a crater on the ground about five meters behind the targets, though, where one of the explosive slugs had impacted.

  "It isn't very accurate," Gworn said. "I can do a lot better with a hand wand or a spring gun. And without all that ear-fucking racket."

  His own ears ringing, Ferret said, "Let me try it." He removed the empty shells from the revolver, using a spring-loaded rod built in for that purpose, then recharged the weapon. He faced the row of targets, the gun held loosely, barrel pointing at the ground next to his leg. Then in a motion that seemed as natural as breathing, he whipped the gun up and started firing it—

  Once, when he was about twelve, his mother had taken him to a prayer meeting in Toilet Town. His father disapproved of the traveling Reverend who took his tent from village to village, and his mother had done it without telling her husband. The sermon had been somewhat more lively than at the local church, but seemed to deviate little from standard doctrine. But afterward, there were the five collection baskets, and the Man Who Threw Money.

  Out and out entertaining was not allowed in church, even one that was no more than a synlin tent, but the Reverend had included some things intended to pull in the crowd. Mwili didn't remember the Reverend's name, nor that of the Man Who Threw Money, but he always remembered that part of the service.

  Five people with collection baskets stood in a row near the front of the tent, while the Reverend exhorted the congregation to dig deep and help keep the Lord's Work going. Mwili sometimes wondered what the Lord did with all that money—wasn't God supposed to be able to make anything? Why didn't he just mint his own stads?

  In the back of the tent, a good twenty meters from the basket holders, a man stood up. He was ordinary looking, dressed in slightly better than average fashion, but he hardly had the look of a rich man. He yelled, "I got twenty-five standards for the Lord, Reverend!" He held up five five-stad coins. They glittered in the hard glare of the tent's lighting rig.

  That brought a gasp from the crowd. Twenty-five stads was nothing to spit at. That was a lot of money to be throwing around. As they were about to find out.

  "I'll send a basket, brother!" the Reverend said.

  "No need, Reverend! The Lord can collect his own money! He knows what's His!" And with that, the man started flinging the coins. He sailed them backhand, like Mwili had once seen a friend sail playing cards. Twenty meters if it was a centimeter, and the baskets no bigger than a loaf of bread each. Five throws, so fast Mwili couldn't follow all the coins, and five coins each plunked into a different basket, as if they'd been pulled there by invisible strings.

  Oh, man!

  Now, Mwili, like a lot of children his age, was a fair rock thrower. There wasn't a lot to do and there were a lot of rocks on Cibule. At twenty meters, he might hit a target the size of those baskets one out of five. Two, were he particularly lucky.

  But five for five? And backhand? No way! It was more than just impressive. At that moment, Mwili was certain there must be a God and that He had his gaze fastened to this particular congregation. How else could those coins hit those baskets unless God Himself called them in? Nobody was that good, not without some kind of magical aid.

  The effect on the gathering started the baskets moving and money flowing. Mwili was sure that for as long as he lived, he would remember the Man Who Threw Money as his first experience that miracles were possible. Years later, when he was older, he realized that it was more skill than magic, that the man was demonstrating a trick at which he was adept, probably through much practice, or at the very least, through some fluke of natural talent.

  It had been more than seven years, and he hadn't thought about it in a long time, but he thought about it now. For as Ferret fired the antique sidearm, the Colt .22 Frontier Scout Revolver, it was as if he were watching and not doing it.

  Five times he fired, as fast as he could cock and squeeze, the gun held low, just past his hip. He did not aim, as the data ball instructed. He just watched the targets and shot, pointing as a man would point a finger.

  Five times he fired, and five containers exploded into plastic sleet, showering the woods with shards and the remains of juice or food. Two of the containers were the larger ones, but three of them were the smallest. And with that sense of knowledge that sometimes came to him like it was inborn, Ferret knew he could have hit five targets half the size of the smallest drink can; more, he could have done it all day long without missing. No doubt in his mind.

  With the sound of the reports echoing in his ears, Ferret realized he was standing totally relaxed, the gun once again pointing to the ground by his right leg.

  Like the Man Who Threw Money, Ferret had found his trick.

  Gworn moved closer to Ferret, staring at his friend. "Mother Hairy Asshole, Ferret! How did you do that?"

  Ferret shook his head. "I don't know. It's like it was no big deal."

  "Yeah, well, don't let me make you mad, you got that thing around."

  Ferret looked at the gun. It felt as natural as his fingers. It felt so right.

  "You want to try it again, Benny?"

  "No way, flo'man. It's yours. It likes you."

  Ferret raised the gun and looked at it. "Yeah. I guess it does." He grinned, remembering the Man Who Threw Money. Well, well. Maybe God had come up with two miracles. Not bad for less than twenty years.

  Eleven

  "WHAT'S THE MATTER, Ferret? Am I boring you to sleep?"

  Ferret blinked at Stoll. "What? Oh, sorry. I was just remembering something. Real old input."

  "How nice for you. Do you suppose we might land your memory ship and put its wings on this caper and get it into the air?"

  "Sure. I'm ready."

  "I'm so glad. Let's try and stay awake, shall we?"

  For the first three rooms, it moved as slick as a lubed finger across polished denscris. Winkler's rascalling of the room's security comps was perfect; the admit override code opened the hotel locks without a hitch; the can opener and suppressor built and supplied by Jersey Reason, the best machineman in the biz, popped the personal locks and squashed the electronic squeals and screamers as easy as thumbing a control. So far, they had collected about a kilo and a half of jewelry, not to mention maybe a hundred thousand stads in loose hard curry. They did like feelie money on these frontier worlds.

  There were three rooms left, the target bracelet being in the fourth and next one, and then they were rich and gone. This would be the last caper, and it was going down like fine wine.

  At the door to the target room, Ferret got a cold rush.

  It was as hard a chill as if someone had opened a door to a freezer next to him. He stopped. The hall was empty, there was no alarm from the watchers keeping tabs on security, and absolutely no reason to worry. But the hairs on his neck were stirring and Ferret felt his belly clutch as it did in free fall.

  Wrongness.

  "What?" Stoll said. He was already extending a hand to punch in the override code.

  "Something's wrong."

  "What?"

  "I don't know. Bad vibes."

  Stoll nodded. "Okay. We go in high and low, you take the right, I'll take the left."

  "Shanti, we’ve got maybe a million each, why don't we just—"

  "This is the target, Ferret. This is why we're here."

  Ferret knew. On one level, the money was the thing; on another level, the contract was more important.

  Even if they never ran another caper, there was their reputation. They had to deliver, if at all possible.

  "Okay. I'm high and r
ight."

  Stoll pulled his hand wand. Reluctantly, Ferret withdrew his own weapon from his pocket and gently touched the firing stud. It wasn't a killing weapon, he told himself. The chill grew harder; his skin felt itchy and crawly.

  Stoll tapped the first key on the override code. "On three." He started punching the numbers in. "One.

  Two—" He hit the last number and the door clicked and slid open. "Three—!"

  Ferret jumped into the room in a high stance and spun slightly to cover the right side of the suite. Stoll was a heartbeat behind him, crouched low, his arm extended, wand moving back and forth in a short arc, covering the left.

  Nobody home.

  The door slid shut behind them. Stoll raised slightly from his low stance, and nodded toward the bedroom.

  The two men did a fast search. The closets were empty, the fresher vacant, nobody hiding under the form chairs or beds. They were alone.

  Stoll put his hand wand away. "False signal," he said.

  Ferret sighed, pocketing his own weapon. "Looks like." But the feeling persisted. There was some kind of atavistic rumble going on he couldn't placate with reason. Look, no one is here, he told himself. See?

  We checked everywhere. Nothing to worry about.

  The beast in him continued to growl. Run, it said. Danger is here. Death. Run.

  They found the small lock box and powered it open. Inside was a cache of rings, pins and bracelets, including the one they'd been sent to steal. It had an interesting look to it, and Ferret impulsively slipped it over his wrist and under his jacket sleeve.

  "Four down, three to go," Stoll said, grinning.

  "Look, Shanti, let's barrel."

  "That feeling still there?"

  "Yeah."

  Stoll looked around, then nodded. "I hear you. I'm getting something like that, too. We've got enough.

  No point in being greedy. We're covered with four rooms. Come on."

  Stoll touched his throat mike. "We still clean?"

  "Like a surgery," Ferret heard the voice of the watcher say over his earpiece. Halfway home.

  Stoll reached the door first, and the door slid wide. Ferret was behind him. It saved his life.