Some surfaces were glazed, some hardpan, some paved, some cobbled, and some mixed. Others were rutted, dried mud. Many of them were broad, like most colonial roads. Obstacles included running and broken vehicles and stripped hulks, pedestrians, bodies in the roadway that might be dead, drunk, or just fucking stupid, and God help you if you ran over them anyway. There were random cats and dogs, some ungainly ostrich-looking thing, chickens, draft animals—mostly mules—random men, boys, and gangs with guns . . .
"Not like Grainne," he commented, to himself but aloud. "We've got cities, the Hinterlands, the Habitats, and some slums, but I don't see anything here that is above slum, including the palace."
"No, nothing like this in Europe," Elke replied. "The worst areas of Bosnia or France aren't even close. Well, maybe the nastier parts of Paris."
They found the hardware store, or at least what should be the hardware store. The painted sign said so, and there were some tools and supplies stacked outside, but nothing to suggest it was doing real business. No one had money, and there was enough rubble to scavenge for building materials. Tools not already in circulation were likely stolen as opportunities presented. People loitered outside the store, either employees or day hires, to make sure nothing went missing. There was a donkey-drawn cart tied up to a rail.
"Dare we get out?" he asked.
"I think we have to," she sighed. "Park so we can run if we must?"
"Yeah, I'll back in," he said. They were taking delivery, offering good terms, and wanted invisibility. There were alleys on each side of the building, likely for that purpose.
"Arriving to shop," he said into his phone. It cost a lot to keep the circuit open, and he didn't care; it wouldn't be his bill.
"Location noted." Aramis had the duty.
"Roger," he said.
"Look at that place," he said in awe. It looked a lot like an American Old West store, complete to the deck and rail that the cart was hitched to.
"I'll get a snapshot," she said. Her camera was built into her belt pouch, and aimed by "eyeglasses" that offered no correction but acted as polarizing shields and ballistic armor. She'd been in this field a while and that was a ten to twelve thousand UN mark setup. Of the money contractors got paid, quite a bit came out of pocket for extra gear.
She was by far the most mature of the three younger operators. She had a lot of experience, even if she'd only been on contract for six months, with this as her second assignment. Not being military, Ripple Creek had no double standards. Elke wasn't small for a woman, but not imposing either. She was titanium under the slim outside, though. Jason was comfortable with her demeanor. She'd done well coming in, with the borrowed grenade launcher, even though on paper she'd seen little combat.
"Got it," she said. "Shall we go in?"
"Yup. Taking the keys, leaving it unlocked, got the wand if we need it." He'd lock it, remote start it, or trigger tear gas if needed; being a palace vehicle, it had several built-in features not found on standard models. But this looked to be a fairly safe location. Just smugglers and illicit arms dealers. No real threat.
There were four men lolling outside the hardware store. Lolling seemed to be the national position. None of them rose, even though at least two were armed. Were the rifles mere status symbols? Or enough of a threat to dispel plans of attack? The lazy attitude didn't mix well with the concept of ongoing tribal war. Though there were probably multiple nuances to the disputes. All four were skinny and pale, wrinkled and aged. They might have been anywhere north of forty, but were probably in their twenties.
"Good morning," he said. "I'm told Jim can help me shop."
No one moved. They watched him, and didn't appear threatening or threatened, but there was no response.
"I need to buy some stuff," he said. After a moment he fished a silver round out of his pocket and caught sunlight on it.
That caused stirs and eyes to widen. Plastic fiat money didn't shine like that. Two men stood up and went inside. He watched them expectantly, and with some caution. Elke was behind and to the left, and he could feel her facing out for potential threats.
Then one of the two remaining stood, stretched, and said, "I be Jim. Yo." He extended a hand then pulled it back. No actual contact, just a gesture, and likely proof he wasn't holding a weapon. He was tall, skinny, had a dopey look that was obviously an act to Jason's trained eyes, and was wearing a snug T-shirt. No major weapons.
"You be wanting de manly hardweer, yas?"
"Yes. What can you show me?" he asked.
"Depands on wut you show me."
The man was smiling, no threat. Elke was behind and they both had carbines. Jason decided to show him a little. He slid out several silver rounds and a small gold bar. Replacing them, he flashed the edge of a roll from his other pocket.
"Not bad," Jim grinned. "Okay, let's shop. The woman she wi you?"
"Yes. She's with me."
"Come back," Jim said. Jason couldn't tell at first if he meant come back later, or now. But he gestured as he turned and they followed.
They went through the main store, which did indeed have a modest selection of tools and hardware in bins, in a style not seen on Earth in nearly a century. Further back were garden implements, largely untouched. Most people here didn't garden anymore, and those who did either had staff or used home-built implements.
Behind that was lumber and synthetic building supplies, in huge piles inside a fenced yard. Jim's two friends from earlier were here, now armed and standing over a neat pile of four- by eight-centimenter polymer studs stacked on three pallets spread on the dusty ground underneath as dunnage. The yard was compacted earth, not fused.
It wasn't hard to figure out what was next, and no doubt Jim thought himself clever. The top layer came off, and the lower studs were cut to hide a large crate. Inside the crate were samples.
Jim didn't know how to handle weapons, either. He dragged out a nice carbine, didn't check the chamber, and waved it around. Jason politely reached out, accepted it, and inspected it.
Well . . . it was okay. Bore was a bit worn, trigger was a bit loose.
"Okay," he agreed with a nod, to Jim's eager grin. "But I need something stiffer, longer, more powerful." He made an appropriately rude gesture with both hands and the rifle, and Jim giggled.
"I be have it, man," he said with a nod, while licking his lips. "Hold on." He reached in and hauled out . . .
"Oh, yeah, that's it," Jason said. He tried not to grin, but this was more like it—one of H&K's newer box-belt-fed machine guns. This one was crusty and beat up outside, but it didn't take long to determine the inside was clean enough. "What about a test fire?" he asked.
"Sho," Jim agreed, and slapped on a box. He knew how to load and fire well enough. The finer, snobbish points of safety and maintenance he eschewed. He got past loading without killing anyone, pointed out over the fence and pulled the trigger. The H&K responded with a nice, steady roar and a scattering of case bases in a neat pile.
"Good mechanism," Jason agreed. "How much?"
"Two tousan," Jim said, and sounded very sure of that price.
"Fuck me what?" Jason said at once. You haggled by being offended no matter what the opening bid was. Then the amount registered. Holy shit, that was offensive. "Do I look like a masochist you can bend over and fuck?"
The look on Jim's face suggested he just might swing exactly that way. He raised his hands placatingly and said, "Nono! Two tousan list. For you, eightee hunnerd."
"Five hundred. It's stolen, used, and I know you didn't pay that much."
"Fiteen." He looked annoyed at being talked down. Not annoyed enough to suit Jason, though.
"How about I go somewhere I won't be insulted?"
Elke played along brilliantly. She tugged at his sleeve and said, "There was that guy by the port. I'll bet he'd start at a thousand. He had a new one, too. I don't really care if the UN is missing it."
"Twelf."
"Actual list is nine fifty. I'll pay
that. I want three. You'll throw in ammo and tools."
"Hunnerd exta for that," Jim said. Now he looked disgusted.
"Done. I want hand and rifle grenades. I'll pay twenty per grenade. Two hundred for mountable launchers."
"Two fitty," Jim said, squinting.
"How about I leave this shit and go elsewhere?" He made as if to throw the HK.
"Go!" Jim replied with an open hand. "You won' get cheaper."
"Six launchers, fourteen hundred."
Jim nodded. "Okay. Haf ta see if I have six."
Jason had expected as much. Jim was likely used to selling to local gangs, and would take whatever was on hand in trade. A "legitimate" arms smuggler would have set prices at a reasonable markup over list, with discounts in quantity, and parts on hand. Of course, all the "legitimate" ones were traced by somebody who could be made to talk.
"I want four cheapie Bushies, too. Something I can throw away."
"Fiteen hunnerd for fohr."
"Done." That was reasonable. Jim wasn't stupid, just small time and hopeful. Now they could bargain decently. Someone went running off to get the ordered goods.
Nosing over, Jason took a look in the crate. "Shit, what's that?"
"Old," Jim said. "No good."
"Let me see."
"Okay."
He took the weapon handed to him and drooled. It was well over a century old, and worn. It was an original AK-120, vintage twenty-first-century. A museum piece.
And Jason lived in one of the few nations where he could own a weapon. He'd have to find a way to get it home, but . . .
"Holy crap. I'll take it. Three hundred?" he offered.
"Yeah, sho." Jim seemed happy.
"Jim, I misjudged you. You're all right."
"Thanks. We friends?"
"Indeed we are. Where can I call if I want more?"
Jim scrawled on a card, and his writing was passably literate.
"Thanks. We'll wait in our car."
"Gotcha." The slang word was identical, even though so many proper words weren't. Jason smiled.
They walked toward the vehicle, feeling occasional wafts of breeze in the oddly humid air. All this dust and there was no real moisture, just humidity. Sucky climate. Humid one day, dry the next, but little actual rain.
Elke asked, "Are you sure that's safe? What if they decide to take the cash?"
"Small risk," he explained. "This guy makes his egg by selling. If he starts stealing, word will get out not to deal with him. Someone would take a hit. Someone else might see us in this luxury monster and try something. Can't be helped. But Jim we can trust to sell us stolen weapons and bad parts at an unfair price and keep his side of the deal."
"Right. There isn't much arms smuggling in Europe. Mostly explosive, drugs, and banned animal products. It is a more sophisticated, classy crowd." She said it with deadpan delivery. Her accent was a little noticeable, and her phrasing a bit too formal at times, but she knew English well enough to crack jokes.
Shortly, a rattly old truck with no windows drove up. It had once had windows, of silica glass, fragments still clinging on.
"Man. I didn't know you could find things like that anymore. Must have been easier to set up a foundry than a capacitor plant." Jason was impressed rather than amused. A certain amount of smarts was necessary to use low tech.
"Is that the engine I smell? Petrochemicals?" Elke asked.
"Yeah, diesel fuel, I think. I've encountered it . . . here and there." No need to mention that trip. Officially, it hadn't happened.
"Clever, resourceful. Also toxic and inefficient," she said.
Jim's friends unloaded a crate and two canvas bags that contained the weapons. The containers were open, and the friends were armed. Jason looked the packed weapons over and decided they were good. Elke stood back, covering everybody. He figured the hand in her pocket was near explosives of some kind. Jim stood anxiously, but relaxed when Jason smiled and eased out money. Then it was time to haggle over the appropriate amount of local cash, UN marks, and gold. Jim didn't want silver. Silver was of more use industrially than gold, and slightly cheaper, so easier to split. But gold was what Jim wanted, along with UN marks. Local cash didn't interest him. Since the local currency had been remonetized twice, at a hundred and a thousand to one, and was still lousy in exchange, Jason didn't blame him. The prices had been in UN marks and Jason had assumed that.
The deal acceptable to all, the friends heaved the hardware into the back of the Volvo, thoughtfully not scratching the car, though that would have made it blend in better. Then they were in and driving as the locals evaporated, pretending nothing had happened. Dust, trash, and ruined road kicked up under the vehicle and Jason was off.
He clicked his mic and reported to Alex. "Yeah, got some groceries. Not much in the deli, but some basics that are better than packaged."
"Sounds good. Are we cooking out tonight?"
"We can cook out anytime you like."
"Roger. When are you due?"
"Three zero minutes. Tell the gate."
"Understood. Out."
"Out."
Turning, he said to Elke, "So far, so good. You'll need to move to the left in three turns."
"Oh, why?" she asked.
"So you can take a shot at that cocksucker who threw the rock at us, if he shows his head."
She grinned widely. "I like you," she said. "That's very illegal."
"Yup. Going to do it?"
"Of course," she purred as she shifted over into the back and rolled the window down. That was potentially dangerous, and revenge wasn't smart, but the little bastard had pissed Jason off and he wanted some himself. She reached over and snagged her shotgun.
Three minutes later, he said, "Here we go." Nice house. American Old South style. Antewhatever it was called, in poor repair now.
"I see someone," she said. "Stand by . . . bastard, you mine." Her accent came through under stress.
There was the pitch, a high lob, breaking slightly inside, and there was the shot, and the kid spun around on the balcony clutching at himself as he died. The rock missed the truck this time, and Elke was a bloodthirsty bitch, because she switched to shotgun and took out three windows on the house as they barreled by, then climbed back into the passenger seat without a word.
"Dammit, I forgot ammo for the palace guards," he said.
"Didn't you plan to?" she asked.
"Yes, but I have to get them something. Liquor? Shoes?"
"I'll keep an eye out," she offered.
They settled on cheap Scotch and some cigarettes and chocolate. The chocolate was locally produced, and there was no telling how good it was. The smokes were Players from Earth. The liquor was a house brand. Again, the transaction had been UN marks.
"Should tell the boss local currency's effectively worthless," Jason said. "It's going to affect our deals."
"Yes. Want me to help hand over the stuff?" she asked. They were pulling into the palace grounds.
"Sure, after we clear security. Hope the bastards got the word."
"Yes, this could suck."
"Wait. Marines." The uniform resolved as they approached.
Jason slowed when the NCO raised his hand. Five U.S. Marines under UN flag were watching the post, weapons loaded and held ready. The perimeter was built of concrete blocks with cameras and remoted weapons. He had the window down and both IDs out as he stopped. "Vaughn. Sykora. Ripple Creek Security, contracted to Mister Bishwanath's personal guard."
The sergeant in charge nodded as he took the ID. "Your name is on the list. You know your last four backwards?"
Jason gave it a moment's thought and said, "one-eight-seven-one."
"Good. You have the countersigns and duress signs?"
"They haven't told us anything, Sergeant," he said with a head shake. "You can call up and Marlow will vouch for us." He indicated his radio mic.
"I believe you. It's been pretty screwed up so far." The NCO was young, but knew what he was about
. "Countersign is any exchange equaling fifteen today. Plus, minus, multiply. I'd watch the dividing or roots or whatever. You'll confuse some people."
"Like the Army? Sorry, that was mean," he replied. "Fifteen. Got it." And Elke echoed "Fifteen" next to him.
"Yeah, but I wasn't going to say that." The grin vanished and the Marine said, "Duress words are sombrero or flugelhorn. 'Try to work the duress words into a conversation rather than using them without preface, in order to make them sound innocuous. Security personnel will be alert for their use.' " He quoted from some manual with obvious bemusement.
Better to Beg Forgiveness-ARC Page 9