by Mark Wandrey
She eyed him, her brows knitted. He knew she wasn’t buying the story. He didn’t care. “That friend in the business department let me get a glimpse at the details,” she explained. “BBW Outfitters, Unlimited, received a business license thirty days ago. It’s import/export/domestic, and included a merc trade endorsement, something required by Atlantis law if they’re going to sell merc-level weaponry.”
“Any names associated with the license?” Murdock asked.
“Only corporation,” she said, looking down at something. “Bob Burton, Inc., registered out of Karma.”
“Never heard of it,” Murdock said. Half a century of working as a merc gave him a vast knowledge base of both other mercs as well as those companies that supplied them. Small-time operations came and went on a daily basis, though not ones with the resources to set up an import/export operation in a far-flung location like Valais. “Have they been recording commerce?”
“Local sales only,” she said. “Two shipments have arrived, only just landed. No shipments out.”
“Lots of local sales?”
“Not so much,” she said, and looked at something again. “The prices were pretty high compared to the other gun sellers in Atlantis.”
Murdock grunted. That made sense, considering Dod had bought a GP-90 from them. The Ctech piece was high quality, probably three times as expensive as most of the crap for sale in Atlantis. Only mercs could tell the difference, though.
“Employees?” he asked.
“None registered, but that’s not a requirement.”
“Okay, thanks, Tess,” he said, “I owe you one.”
“Anytime, Murdock.”
He nodded and closed the connection. After thinking for a minute, he went back to work on his project.
The next morning he took the skiff into Atlantis with Vince. He told the kid it was because they were low on beer, which wasn’t really true. Once he’d tied up the skiff, he gave the kid a couple credits to spend on treats and headed toward the starport.
BBW Outfitters, Unlimited, was right where he’d found it the last time he was there. It looked no different, except the door was open. Bingo, he thought, and went it. What he found was not at all what he’d expected.
The interior was a showroom, around fifty feet wide and twenty feet deep. A counter near the rear along the long length of the room, with Tri-V displays every few feet, appeared to be made entirely out of glass and filled with all manner of guns.
“Well,” he said in amazement, “this looks like fun.”
“Good afternoon!” a pleasant female voice replied. A Tri-V of a woman’s upper torso was floating in front of him. To put it simply, she was knockout gorgeous. The hard, sharp facial features, a mouth and eyes made for smiling, and hair so red it was copper in color. “Welcome to BBW Outfitters, Unlimited. How can we be of service?”
“I’d prefer to talk to you in person,” he said, “can you come out?”
“I’m sorry, I’m not programmed to respond in that manner.”
“Holy shit,” he said, “an AI?”
“Negative,” the Tri-V said. “AI are illegal by Galactic Union law; I am an automated customer service program, or ACSP. I have limited responses to your inquiry and can contact support for more detailed answers.”
“What if I want to haggle?” he asked.
“I am programmed with discretion in making deals, within reason,” the ACSP said, and winked at him. “You can call me Red.”
Wow, he thought, hot program. “Mind if I look around?”
“Of course not,” the program responded and made a sweeping gesture at the counters, “you’ll find we have a wide variety of products to suit your needs.”
As he walked to the counter, the Tri-V projection fell in line to his side and just behind him. It was like being followed by a ghost. Murdock found the cases were arrayed in order of type. The far left was handheld small arms, the middle heavier machine guns and sniper or hunting rifles, and the left was energy weapons. There were inexpensive hand lasers all the way to tripod-mounted crew-served lasers that would require a fuckton of external power to operate.
“No heavy weapons?” he asked.
“What exactly are you interested in?”
“Rocket launchers?” The center part of the glass case swirled and changed to rocket launchers. It wasn’t a case holding examples after all, just more Tri-Vs. How much had this setup cost? “Drones?” Another case changed. “How about mines?” Another change. Fuck me.
Murdock walked along the cases, examining the weapons. It was a veritable smorgasbord of glorious mayhem. Elegant choices, all intended for human hands, he noted.
“I assume you have ammunition for all of these?”
“For the ballistic weapons and chemical lasers, certainly,” the program said. “For crew-served weapons, I’m afraid we only have hybrid hydrogen fuel cell genpacks. BBW does not stock portable fusion generators at this time.”
Murdock pointed to a shoulder-fired anti-aircraft missile launcher of a design he’d seen coming into production just before he’d joined Cartwright’s Cavaliers. “That model?”
“Yes, a good choice,” the program said. A door opened behind the counter and a robotic armature moved out holding a brand-new example. It carefully handed it to Murdock, who took it and expertly examined the weapon. It was brand new, still having the manufacturer’s lockout tag over the loading port. He pushed the power stud, and the heads-up Tri-V came alive in the shielded targeting box. It was a sizeable improvement over the older scoped models. He held the launcher out, and the armature took it from him as smoothly as a human would have. Wow.
“How much?”
“BBW is proud to offer the LR-19a for the low, low price of 1,950 GCU. This includes the hard case, two battery packs, and four missile magazines, simple wire guided, of course. Smart programmable or heat seeker are available for a slight upcharge.”
“How about armor?” Murdock asked. The center section started showing a wide variety of combat armor, from regular ballistic protection you’d wear under a business suit, to medium combat armor a trooper would wear against a laser-armed foe. “And what about CASPers?” he asked. The program was silent for a long moment. “You there, Red?” The program’s face was frozen in a look of detached interest for at least five seconds before responding.
“I’m sorry for the delay,” the program finally said, “at this point in time, BBW does not yet have distribution rights with Binnig Industries for their fine products.”
“You don’t have any used ones?”
“BBW only deals in new weapons and armor.”
“What does BBW stand for?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, I’m not programmed to respond in that manner.”
Murdock wasn’t completely convinced the thing was a machine. “You’re one hot bot,” he said.
“I’m sorry, I’m not programmed to respond in that manner.”
Well, if it was a person, she was probably used to lines like his.
“Let me see handgun accessories,” he said.
“Ballistic or energy?”
“I’m a boom-boom kinda guy.” One of the cases changed to display handgun modifications, parts, etc. “Ctech,” he specified, and again it obliged. “Ergonomic grip upgrades for the HP-4.”
“I will need to scan your hands,” the program said. Murdock held out both hands, and a wide-spread laser swept over both hands, top and bottom. “You have a malformation of your right hand,” it said.
“You noticed?”
“A custom grip can be designed to improve dominant hand use, with only a slight adjustment required to use in the other.”
“Yeah? How much?”
“Production would cost fifty GCU.”
“And a couple months to get it from the factory,” he grumbled.
“Negative. With our manufactory, it can be printed on site in less than twenty minutes.”
“No shit?”
“I’m sorry, please
rephrase the question?”
“Yes, I’ll take it,” he said.
“Do you have the weapon?” Murdock unholstered the weapon, cleared the chamber, and held it out. The same robotic system came alive and took the weapon. “Would you care to examine any other products while you wait?”
Twenty minutes later his gun came out, as promised. Only he didn’t think it was his gun.
“Hey, this looks different,” he said as the arm handed his weapon out.
“Of course, the new grip has been installed.”
“No, I mean the scuffs on the barrel, and there was a nick just by the trigger guard.”
“We repaired those cosmetic issues. There was also a small crack in the striker sear pin, so we replaced it for you. Is the grip to your liking?”
Murdock tried the feel. It fit perfectly now in his right hand; the grip shape had been altered to allow for the missing finger. When he switched it to the left hand, he whistled in appreciation. He hadn’t been sure if he would be able to use the big high-power one handed while minus a finger. Now, he thought he could.
“Would you like to try it?”
“Sure,” he said. Another panel opened in the back wall to reveal a short range. A Tri-V silhouette target was already displayed. The robot arm handed him a magazine.
“The ammunition is for target use only, and is non-lethal.”
He grunted and took the mag, inserted it, and worked the slide to charge the chamber. The display read six rounds, and was lit yellow to indicate a non-standard load. He fired it offhand first. The recoil was the same as a regular bullet, and he was amazed at how well he could shoot it. Two center mass, right where he’d wanted them.
After two shots, he safed and switched to right-handed. Unsafing the weapon, he fired and barely scratched the outside of the target. He adjusted his grip and fired again. By the time the magazine was empty, he was nailing it. As the machine said, a minor adjustment.
He removed the test mag, which the robot arm took from him, and checked to be sure the chamber was empty. “Excellent,” he said, “how much?”
“Fifty credits, as agreed.”
“Even with the repair?”
“We perform such services free for customers in the hopes they’ll come back for more,” the Tri-V said with a smile and a nod. Murdock nodded and held out his Yack. The robot arm took it, and returned it a moment later, along with his original grip. “Thank you for your patronage. Will there be anything else today?”
“Yeah, can I see a GP-90 with some smaller grip mods?”
A few minutes later he’d finished everything he wanted to do and paid up.
“Thank you for your patronage. Will there be anything else today?” The machine used the same line, delivered in an identical fashion, further reinforcing it was a computer.
“No, thank you.”
“You are welcome, please consider BBW Outfitters, Unlimited, for all your future combat-arms needs.”
Murdock walked out of the place with severely mixed feelings. The service made him feel like he was back in Karma, except better. He could have gotten a new grip there, but half the merchants would have tried to give him a fake gun or swap out a broken one instead of fixing his. Finding a cracked striker was impressive. He hadn’t known it was cracked himself.
On the other hand, a place like BBW simply should not exist on Valais. Period. There weren’t a dozen places outside of Earth where such a place would exist. He’d heard about plenty of them on alien worlds, all catering to alien mercs. Humans weren’t in the mass market, at least not yet. A few alien firms catered to them, but they were mostly for vehicles. Ironically, it was easier to customize a spaceship for human use than a handgun. Hominid-style hands weren’t overly strange in the galaxy. Add in Human stature, ergonomics, etc.? Bizarre.
Murdock went into the tiny starport warehouse and started poking around. On most planets it would be all but impossible. There would be all kinds of armed guards and such. Valais just had security cameras and a bored guy at the front desk. The man had seen him before, as Murdock had stuff stored there, so he just waved at the old merc as he walked by.
Set up in a series of long bays with lockers on the end for long-term storage, goods would be unloaded off starships and stored in numbered locations until their disposition was settled. Pallets and containers would have a red tag affixed to their document packet as an identifier for shipments that had yet to clear customs. Any items smaller than a pallet or a container were stored in a caged area—the only place with actual security on it—which Murdock found amusing. As if they were more worried about a small package than a big one.
He stopped at his locker and looked over his stuff. Murdock figured there were some cameras hidden here and there. He’d never bothered scoping them out. After he relocked the door on his storage locker, he wandered slowly back. As he went by the rows of pallets waiting customs clearance, he scanned their visible labels. Near the end, he found what he was looking for. There were two shipping containers stacked one on top of the other, both marked “BBW.”
“Bingo,” he whispered, and walked over to them. None of the cameras he knew about were nearby, so he decided fortune favored the bold and took the shipping label off and read it.
“BBW—Valais” was the destination. “Transshipped—Earth/Karma” was noted for its routing. “Arms” was the contents. No additional details were listed. He stood back and looked at the containers. Both were standard ten by five by five aluminum containers, common for Earth origin cargo. Except who would ship two container loads of merc-quality hardware to Valais?
“Someone who was thinking about using the planet as a base,” Murdock said aloud, “and figured to make a buck at the same time?” He wondered if this was linked to all the shit going on with the Four Horsemen. Like the Horsemen plot, someone sure had a lot of money to spend on this setup, not to mention stocking it. They could run the storefront operation for a century and never recoup the cost.
He carefully reattached the shipping paperwork and turned around to find a man standing only a few feet away. His hand slid toward his holstered HP-4 as the man spoke.
“You’ve taken quite an interest in my enterprise, friend.” The man was average build, maybe a little taller than some. He had brown hair and blue eyes, with a rather square face. American, by the sound of his voice, possibly a Kansas accent.
“Call it a general curiosity,” Murdock said.
“There’s curiosity, and there’s being a nosy jerk.”
Murdock snorted and grinned. He didn’t move his hand from where it rested casually on his belt, only a few centimeters from the holstered firearm. “Well, I’ll be off then.”
“That would be a good idea,” the man said.
Murdock moved slowly toward the door, then turned back. “I don’t think I got your name?”
“Wil Canaday,” the man said. “And you?”
“Murdock.” Canaday narrowed his eyes and looked him over again. “Be seeing you around,” Murdock added and made his exit.
“Count on it,” Canaday replied.
* * * * *
Chapter Eight
While he ate lunch with the kid, Murdock couldn’t shake the thought that he knew Canaday from somewhere. The man didn’t have the look of a merc, and he wasn’t sure why not. Some things didn’t add up. He wasn’t powerfully built, being more wiry or lanky in build. Probably six feet tall and no more than 180 lbs., with sandy brown hair and sharp, perceptive eyes. He’d carried a concealed handgun, and carried it like a pro. Murdock was also sure it was the same man he’d made tailing him during a previous trip into Atlantis. No doubt about it.
Vince watched him as they ate, again recognizing the look of a man deep in thought. As Murdock was enjoying a cup of tea after the meal, the kid finally spoke up.
“When are you going to tell me why we keep coming into town?”
“Huh?”
“You hate towns,” Vince said, “I used to have to beg you to come i
n once a week. Now we’ve been in three times in less than a week. What’s going on?”
Perceptive kid, Murdock thought. “Something funny is going on.”
“Funny like a video?”
Murdock shook his head. “No, funny like doesn’t make sense.”
“So tell me about it.”
Murdock was about to shrug off the suggestion, then thought better of it. The kid had proven several times he was wise beyond his meager years; maybe he’d see something Murdock had missed. He explained what had happened.
“There’s a bunch of gun stores in town,” Vince said.
“Right, but none of them are tailor-made for merc business. I guarantee nobody on Valais is interested in a LR-19a hand-held anti-aircraft rocket launcher.”
“Okay, makes sense,” the kid said. “So why would they open that kind of place?”
“That’s what I don’t get,” Murdock said. “Makes zero sense out here in the ass end of the galaxy.”
“Someone thought it made sense,” he replied.
Yeah, Canaday, Murdock thought. Where the fuck have I heard that name, anyway?
* * *
Back on Tahiti, Murdock completed his project and finished the afternoon fishing off the pier with the kid. They caught a good-sized grouper, which went into the bucket for dinner, and a little flounder. The latter was thrown back. Sharp said they were still struggling to acclimate, so he’d give it a chance to keep up the good work.
The grouper wasn’t exactly a filet kind of dinner, so he made a huge pot of stew with some carrots and potatoes he’d brought back from Atlantis and invited a bunch of the boys over. After they’d stuffed themselves with his stew and a good amount of the homemade sourdough bread Leif Dolan made, he told them about his trip into town.
“That there’s the place I got this,” Dod said and showed off the GP-90. “Robots and shit, just like you said.”
“Sounds strange, alright,” Doug agreed.
“What the fuck is an outfit like that doing here?” Ripper asked. He’d left his mobility scooter outside and was on Murdock’s couch. He was the youngest of the group, except for Vince, of course.