Relic Tech (Crax War Chronicles)

by Ervin II, Terry W.

  O’Vorley tapped me on the shoulder before stepping out of the elevator. “Hey, did you hear anything I just said?”

  I’d only half heard how Gaverall was pulling double duty with the space dock and the colony and would have things running smoothly down there in a few months. “Sorry, just a few random thoughts I had to sort out.” I scratched my head. “Extended warehouse duty can dull one’s conversational ability. Hope you never experience it.”

  “I can tell you about Gaverall some other time. Rest assured, he shows no signs of suffering from Post Implant Neural Atrophy. I’m surprised he didn’t let Dribbs do permanent damage.”

  “Well, nobody likes to get roughed up without reason. My adrenaline was running pretty high, and Gaverall laid into me first. Bet Dribbs forgot that part.” I placed an index finger on my split lip and grinned. “In retrospect, accusing this particular supervisor of being a chip was a mistake.”

  “We’re almost there,” he said, nodding in agreement. “What was it you were going to pick up?”

  The area looked militaristic with no attempt to disguise support beams and conduits. “You’ll see in a second,” I said, stepping up to the counter and presenting my left thumb. “I have some equipment to examine and pick up. Also, I’d like to know what ammunition inventory you have for old-style firearms. Shotguns and revolvers.”

  The attendant responded and the countertop lit up. Inventory records showed three cases of 12-gauge shells, 00 buckshot. Nothing for my duty revolver. Maybe Simms was in error. I tapped through a few more screens. The assistant, lending a hand in my search, turned up several boxes of regular lead target .38 specials.

  I had no room in my cart for a case of shotgun shells. But they were pretty inexpensive. So were the 38’s. “How long have the .38 specials been in stock?”

  Almost instantly the attendant responded. “Fourteen years. They were ordered and never retrieved.”

  “Two good reasons for their bargain basement cost.”

  “If you mean to say their low credit cost, yes.”

  The attendant seemed polite enough. “That’s what I meant. Same with the shotgun shells?”

  He was ready with a reply. “No, we go through six or seven cases a year. Occasionally penal colony personnel pass through and visit the range.”

  I thought a moment. “Can you have a case of the shotgun shells transferred over to the transport Kalavar when she docks?”

  After a moment delay. “That would not be a problem. Two percent fee.”

  “Would that be before or after the three percent markup for the blood work?” Again, I presented my thumb.

  “If you mean a blood DNA check for access to your account, it would be before. The markup is strictly for the difficulty in verifying the correct account for the transaction.”

  “You mean inconvenience in verifying the account.” I smiled. “You know it also verifies through my unique thumb print.” I placed my thumb and felt the prick.

  “Aren’t we all unique, Security Specialist 4th Class Krakista Keesay?” He hesitated a moment. “It seems you are quite special...at least today. There is a package waiting for you.”

  “Really?” It was the one I learned about at the quartermaster’s. I was betting it was from Simms. “Who is it from?”

  “Records indicate it is from a chief gunner aboard the,” he sounded it out, “Peripatetic Boxcar?”

  “That would be my cousin, Oliver. Interesting ship name, eh?” Both O’Vorley and the attendant nodded. “The entrepreneur who commissioned his ship’s construction was a bit eccentric. Or so I’ve heard.”

  “The name confirms it,” agreed the attendant. “Must be a philosopher.” He continued checking his files.

  I watched the counter while several screens flicked by. “Maybe, but I’d take it more to mean a wandering freighter. She travels the outer colonies. Maybe further.”

  I gave up trying to follow screens when the attendant stopped. “You had an additional order?” he asked.

  “Correct.” I looked at O’Vorley who was taking this all in. “Some might accuse me of being a packrat, but who knows when I’ll have access to equipment again?”

  “If by packrat you mean—” O’Vorley began.

  I elbowed him in the ribs and said to the attendant. “Three cases of old-style grenades.”

  “Please confirm, Specialist Keesay. Three cases of grenades. One case of fragmentation, one case of flash-stun, and one case of concussion. All old-style, each case holding nine?”

  “That is correct.”

  “What are you going to do with those?” asked O’Vorley.

  “Like any packrat, store them away for future need.” I considered commenting on using them on those with signs of Neural Atrophy, but with the present company and the marines nearby, thought better of it. “You never know.”

  “Specialist Keesay, you are rated to dispose of them if necessary?” questioned the attendant. “They are beyond expiration due to lack of inspection and maintenance.”

  “Yes, I am. You can check.”

  “I already did. I simply needed verbal confirmation. I need to remind you that they all need to be properly inspected before use or proper disposal.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  He continued, “You have already picked up one medium-duty, retractable, extended charge, stun baton and,” he paused, “a replacement duty uniform. Correct, Specialist Keesay?”

  “That is correct.”

  The attendant nodded. “Would you like the remaining items all transferred to the civil transport Kalavar? Again there is a minimal storage fee for the package from, the Boxcar.” He smirked.

  I was eager to see what my cousin had sent but really didn’t have room to cart it and the grenades about. Besides, there could be less hassle boarding without them. The fewer questions about my possessions the better. “Just send it all over when the Kalavar arrives. Except for the .38 shells. We’ll use them here.”

  He tapped a few screen commands. The invoice appeared on the counter screen. “Please place your thumb there to acknowledge.”

  I reviewed the acquisition and transfer information before completing the transaction. “We’ll be over at the range. How long will it take for your robot to retrieve the shells?”

  “Less than four minutes.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be back to pick them up. Or possibly Specialist O’Vorley here. Will that be okay?”

  “I’ll be on duty for another six hours. They’ve been here for fourteen years. Shouldn’t be any difficulty with those arrangements.”

  I gave him a thumbs up, left-handed, of course. I liked his deadpan sense of humor. We headed back toward the preparation area and the range master. “They certainly have unusual duty hours here.”

  “The dock captain apparently agrees with the company,” said O’Vorley. “They stagger all duties so that there’s a constant flow of activity. Never a rush.”

  We approached the range master’s station. Instead of unfinished metallic and cream-colored conduit, shades of green and brown dominated. A marine lieutenant stood up. “Specialists.”

  “Lieutenant,” I said, “we would like to schedule some range time.”

  “Purpose?”

  “Firearms training.”

  He looked at me, then at my rating and my company logo. Then he eyed O’Vorley. “Who is to perform the instruction?”

  “I am, Lieutenant, sir.” I knew Negral Corp had an agreement with Quinn Mining, as there were no facilities on the colony below. “I would like to request an hour on range two. Beginner and intermediate target programming.”

  He began tapping away. “Type of firearms?”

  “Old-style revolvers and shotgun.”

  He looked over O’Vorley. “Specialist, will you require loan of a firearm?”

  Taking my lead, O’Vorley spoke with measured authority. “Thank you, not today, Lieutenant, sir.”

  Before the lieutenant made final arrangements, I asked, “Could we have
fifteen minutes before our range time commences?”

  He tapped a few strokes. “Not a problem, Specialist. You are authorized for 14:30 Earth standard.”

  I looked at my watch just as O’Vorley checked the station chronometer over the lieutenant’s shoulder. Only 2:15 pm, I thought. What a long day. I knew I’d sleep well tonight. Still, it beat the long hours on duty in a cavernous warehouse.

  “Let’s go,” I said. “Remember about following my lead, bartering.” I led O’Vorley to a bench and table in the prep area. Private Ringsar stood among one of several groups of marines. His great size set him apart even among his peers. No one appeared to notice us, which was fine for now.

  As I unpacked the loading supplies, I took note of several security cameras. “Don’t try to hide them in here,” I said, looking up. O’Vorley nodded in agreement while I listened in on some of the local conversation. The most prevalent were stories about training, combat, and women, focusing on expertise and subsequent exploits. I didn’t see any female marines. Standard routine, as the military generally kept male and female units segregated.

  I didn’t have a stand for loading the Dragoon, so I signaled to O’Vorley and we pulled the bench out and straddled it. “Quick lesson, O’Vorley. How to prepare and load one of these old, old-style revolvers. Always check to make sure it’s clean and clear.” O’Vorley was attentive, so I continued my instruction.

  Half way through we’d attracted some attention, so I spoke a little louder. “See how I’ve set it on half-cock so that I can rotate the cylinder?” I then adjusted my wrist dampener to absorb most of the sound before firing off all six caps in rapid succession. “Even with just caps, make sure it is pointed away from anyone or anything you care about.”

  A couple of marines led by the guard outside the storage bays moved our way. I continued with my explanation after removing the spent caps. “Next, you add the powder. For this percussion revolver?” I looked up at O’Vorley.

  “Fifty grains,” he said without hesitation.

  O’Vorley absorbed information. I stood up and removed the powder measure from my pocket, and attached it to the small powder flask. “Preset to fifty grains.”

  “Security Specialist Keesay, right?” interrupted one of the marines.

  I recognized the voice as that of the marine guard in Green Sector. “Correct, that’s me,” I said, looking at his patch, “Private Yizardo.”

  “What kind of archaic piece are you fooling with there?”

  “It’s a century-old replica of a Colt Dragoon. A percussion revolver.”

  “Black powder?” asked Yizardo.

  I nodded. “I was just instructing Specialist O’Vorley here in its loading before we try some target practice.”

  “What’s it fire?” asked another marine. He was on the thin side with dark hair and blue eyes.

  I reached over and tossed him a lead ball. “A .45 caliber round.”

  “Is that old thing safe to fire?” asked Yizardo.

  “He’s R-Tech. I’m sure he knows his stuff,” said the marine with the lead ball. “If it’s unsafe, it’ll be his friend, O’Vorley, who shoots it first.”

  “You’re right there, Corporal Smith,” said Yizardo to his fellow marine. “We might just hang around to see who fires first.”

  I smiled, sat at the bench with the Dragoon, and began pouring powder into one of its chambers. “Probably not another one of these within fifteen light years.”

  “Probably true,” Smith agreed. “You’ll need to seat this next.” He tossed me the ball.

  “You ever fired one of these?”

  “Nothing exactly that old.” He laughed. “Took an ancient weaponry course. We learned about medieval crossbows, flintlocks and muzzle loading rifles.” He pointed. “Same principle as your revolver.”

  “Correct,” I said, beginning to seat the balls. I looked back at O’Vorley. “You place one of these over each chamber. Rotate it under the loading plunger here. Pull this lever here from under the barrel and seat the ball. They’re a little oversized, so some shavings may peel off. See?”

  I handed the Dragoon to O’Vorley and set five other balls on the table next to him. “You try it.” He was nervous but eager and went right at it. As he worked I got out a tub of grease. “Smith, you know what this is for?”

  “To lubricate the bore and chamber and to keep the powder fouling soft.”

  He knew his stuff. “And,” I said, “since this isn’t a perfect procedure, to avoid chain firing.”

  Yizardo and a very young marine standing to his left, Private DeLark, looked puzzled until Smith clarified it for them. “See, if you shoot and a spark catches some stray powder in one or more of the other loaded chambers, it could cause them to fire.”

  “Correct,” I agreed. “Doesn’t matter how old the gun is, you won’t like the results.”

  DeLark, looking at his right hand, said, “Cut down on pleasurable activities other than combat.” His voice was higher pitched than I expected from his muscular frame.

  “You could get a cybernetic replacement,” Smith said.

  “I wouldn’t want that! What good is that—and what woman would want an artificial hand caressing her?”

  “Good point,” said Yizardo, “or before long all men would have at least one appendage replaced with an artificial one, if women had their way.”

  A good round of chuckling ensued while O’Vorley finished. Then, using a pocketknife I showed him how to seal the chambers with grease. Setting the tub down and pocketing my knife, I added, “And it’s edible in a pinch. Barely, except for you tough guys. Of course, it may have other potential uses,” I added, winking to Private DeLark.

  Yizardo laughed, then asked, “Isn’t all that stuff expensive?”

  “Lead isn’t. Out here the powder and caps are unheard of. The grease can be too, depending. It all could be fabricated, but...” I checked my watch and looked around. Ringsar and his three pals were still busy near range one. “But if you know where to shop it isn’t too bad. Still, on my compensation I don’t bring it out too often.”

  I started gathering my equipment. “O’Vorley, can you get the shotgun? You gentlemen are welcome to share the range with us. Smith seems to be knowledgeable enough, so after we’ve fired off this set, you’re welcome to give it a try.”

  O’Vorley looked a little disappointed, but said nothing as I continued. “You might want to check with the range master to see if he has a sound dampener and some eye protection.”

  “Thanks,” said Yizardo, “I wouldn’t mind giving it a try.”

  “I’ve got thirty-six caps and balls. I’ll probably be busy, so let Smith inspect before reloading. I didn’t bring everything down to clean it, but you should be able to fire thirty-six rounds before powder fouling gets too bad.”

  “DeLark,” said Smith, “go check on the dampener and eye gear.”

  “That relic firearm may be interesting but not much use out here in space,” Yizardo said. “Thirty-six rounds before cleaning wouldn’t last long in a firefight.”

  “It was state of the art two-hundred and fifty years ago and wasn’t built with a four-hundred pound charging Crax in mind. Your MP pistol will be equally obsolete soon enough,” I said. “And although not recommended, just like your pistol, this baby could fire in space. The powder and caps contain oxygen enough for the chemical reaction. The cold and the recoil could be a problem.”

  “Never thought of that,” said Smith. “But you’re probably right. I don’t think the metal would hold up.”

  We headed for the range. O’Vorley asked, “Don’t we need to put on the percussion caps?”

  “I figured it’d be better to do that just before firing. Standard safety,” I assured him.

  The area lit up as we entered. It was small, but had room for four people on the line. The range extended for only forty or so yards, but the computer generated holographic targets simulated greater distance.

  O’Vorley sat at the computer c
onsole. “What would you like me to program, Kra?”

  “Standard round target, non-moving, fifteen yards, O’Vorley.” I hoped he caught onto the appropriate use of last names in present company.”

  “Is that all?”

  I held up the Dragoon. “This isn’t a precision instrument. Iron sites. No scopes, lasers or passive targeting assistance.”

  “Good point, Keesay,” said O’Vorley.

  Smith asked me, “How well can you shoot?”

  “Well enough. I’m accurate, but not fast.”

  Yizardo whispered something into Smith’s ear, which evoked a snicker.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  “Yizardo here says that you’re better at pounding targets with your gun than shooting them with it.”

  “Very funny. I’m sure you could’ve done better, but I haven’t had the privilege of Colonial Marine training. And since you weren’t there, I had to manage despite the handicap.”

  My tone must have signaled to Smith that he’d struck a chord. “You got the job done,” he said. “Something we’re all expected to do.” He looked over his shoulder, through the transparent wall. “Here comes DeLark.” The door slid open. “Did you get the gear?”

  “Yes, I did, Corporal.” He handed each marine a dampener chip and miniature power source. He brought one over to O’Vorley. “Just stick it on your sleeve. Adjust it by tapping here.” Then he looked at me. “Figured you had one.” He looked around tossed a set of eye visors to everyone except me, seeing I had my own.

  I handed O’Vorley the Dragoon and the tin. “Half cock and place the caps.”

  O’Vorley’s nimble fingered worked fast. After we advanced to the line, I drew and held my duty revolver in a two handed stance. “Thumb the hammer back and hold it out like this.” He did. “Next, line up your target. The V notch on the hammer should be lined up with the sight blade at the end of the barrel. Align them so that the point of aim is just above. Exhale and slowly depress the trigger. There’ll be recoil, but the gun’s heavy and will absorb most of it.”