Rogue-ARC (28 page)

At an outfitters, I looked at a “sporting shotgun.” I’m not sure why it’s more “sporting” to shoot at targets or game with a 500-year old design rather than a new one, but I don’t make the stupid laws. Again, due to a quaint local custom against anything effective, it had a two-round magazine. The barrel was seventy-centimeters, which was fine for hunting, but far too long for combat work. While asking about it, I found out that there’s a law against camouflage clothing. Apparently, if terrorists and rebels can’t buy camouflage, they grow despondent and won’t fight. At least I assume that was the logic. These fools held to the insane theory that inanimate objects create disorder and chaos. I nodded politely about how pretty it was. It actually was a very nice gun, just useless to my needs. It also had ID plates embedded in every component. I thanked them and left.

But I had done the basic improv weapons course, and I did have machinist experience, a Special Projects instructor, and a shop full of basic tools. We’d grabbed a pocket coordinate machine with lathe head at a farm supply store.

Steel or ceramic of a grade to make weapon barrels or liners was available in town, but I wanted to be discreet, so we settled for a shaft from a vehicle transmission from a cannibalizer. I straight-bored it and turned it on the lathe, not worrying about a forcing cone, rifling or choke, as this was a close-range combat weapon. A few strokes with the mill and a welded ring made it fit the receiver, then a pass through a fire while wrapped airtight in foil, and I had a forty-centimeter shotgun without filing paperwork with the government. It was not the lightest, strongest, most accurate barrel I’ve fired, but it would work, and safely.

For the receiver we chose plain steel. It wouldn’t be as durable as a professional product, but I didn’t expect to need more than a few shots before I abandoned it.

In the 1920s C.E. by Earth reckoning, Hiram Maxim created the first “silencers,” correctly called suppressors. His goal wasn’t to overthrow a government or enable assassination. Instead, he wanted to quiet a shotgun so he could hunt ducks without the flock scattering at the first blast. Also, no effective hearing protection existed back then. Suppressors are a very practical device and used on most projectile weapons today . . . except civilian weapons in nations where people are paranoid about such things.

All I did was drill a series of slightly rearward facing holes around the barrel and back ten-centimeters from the muzzle. I added several narrow, helical slots in among the pattern. We built a can with inner baffles and vent holes, stuffed it full of wire wool and slid it over the holes in the barrel, tacking it in place with a fusion welder. It protruded another ten-centimeters. Not elegant, not efficient, not low-profile, but it would quiet a kaboom down to a loud thump.

The receiver was a problem. It took several passes, and I finally stepped aside and let Silver do it, swallowing my pride. I’d never been formally trained, but relied on my wits, and I’d never been trained to build guns. I did, however, mill the internals. Then I cut a small bag and wired it with hooks. No need to leave shells around that could be traced to this weapon. All of this took about a local hour, plus time waiting for the heat-treat. While that happened, I folded two new sheet-steel magazines with bent wire for magazine springs. They loaded and cycled flawlessly no matter how ugly they looked, but we’d have to see how they handled combat. The originals held two shells, as I’ve said. Mine held five.

As soon as any decent product comes out, someone will make a knockoff. Thus it was with the crap at the store. This stuff was certainly fourth rate. I had a “field knife,” so-called because “combat knives” are illegal in NovRos. Twenty centimeters of steel is twenty centimeters of steel, as far as I’m concerned, but the people who obsess over such things will accept one and not the other. It looked a lot like the standard issue military knife, but that’s where the resemblance ended. This thing was decently constructed at least, but of third rate materials. The hilt was nylon and glass instead of boron fiber, the blade was a cheap utility steel instead of a good tool or cutlery steel. The sheath was neither a decent plastic nor fiber nor leather, but was flimsy vinyl. On a scale of one to ten, this rated perhaps a three.

The knife simply needed a molded thermoplastic sheath with a fabric liner to quiet it. That took a few segs. Sharpening it barely longer. It was ugly, but workable. For camo, I got some old work clothes, dyed them with carbon dust and grease, then washed them with strong soap and a little bleach. They came out a mottled gray-black. Perfect.

I was ready to go hunting, or to fight back against any intrusion. This was getting closer to my preferred environment.

Silver had a place to lay out tools and upgrade the vehicle, stitch armor if we needed it. She had encrypted channels to a remote booster, which I snuck up the side of a warehouse two hundred meters away, along with a spherical eye to watch for detection.

The one really tiresome aspect of this job is always having a bail-out bag and three escape routes ready. Every time one enters a building, one has to look for ways out, and assess everyone else. If you’re not paranoid when recruited, you are within a year. I remember one time six of us went out for lunch, and had to wait for a corner booth because no one was going to sit with their back to the door. Accordingly, our seats, desk and bed all faced out.

This also meant a lot more time working, but Silver and I could rest right on the spot, and generally in shifts. There was little overlap. I found it much easier to sleep, and I don’t think it was just the distraction of Silver’s body. I’d never had a regular sleep partner, and part of it seemed to be security tension; my hindbrain never believed I was safe with someone that close. Add in the sexual tension and it had been awful. I was much, much more relaxed and rested. It’s amazing how hard some things are to notice. Maybe it’s just me.

I did make a point of going out every morning with a stack of boxes to mail. It looked like we ran some home business or other.

This probably sounds like a major tasking, but we had most of it done in a local week—seven days, not ten.

The cargo hatch of the car was something we wanted to keep hidden. We lined it with some tools and scrap to make it look like a working car, to hide the guns, knives, spare clothes both camo and suit, node scrambling and spoofing gear, and other mayhem the police wouldn’t like if they found a reason to scan us. All we needed now was a lead on Randall.

***

The next day we made a patrol around the town, seeking signals, DNA traces, listening to news and getting familiar with the area. I felt good generally, but antsy.

Silver asked, “How long do you think he’ll be here?”

“Another couple of weeks. He seems to be on a cycle of about an Earth month, thirty days.”

“When does he run out of planets?”

“Yeah, there is that. He hasn’t gone too far afield yet, and Mtali seems to be an aberration. Everywhere else he’s been were wealthy systems. Eager to get home?”

“Eager to be done,” she said, and stretched. I stared at the road. “Home would be nice. This accidental tourism isn’t fun.”

“No, it’s not. I just realized I’ve never asked. Do you have family or relationship back home?”

“Nothing long term. Couple of guys in the unit I go out with. They won’t say anything.”

“Good,” I replied, though that wasn’t what I’d been asking about. It said a lot about me. She assumed I wanted a tactical brief. I was trying to take an interest in my subordinate’s social wellbeing.

She continued, “My parents and sister know I disappear for long periods on duty. I’d like to ping them via repeater, but I’m sticking to the letter of the reg. This guy is not someone to mess with.”

“Good. I’ll get you home as fast as possible. I wish I’d asked sooner.”

“Yes, you focus on yourself a lot,” she said. “Given your history, it’s probably a healthy and necessary adaptation.”

“I hope so,” I said. Except I’d been the same way before all the crap on Earth. It was just the nature of me. It’s not that I’m not interested and compassionate, but I really don’t notice other people except as resources. I do care when they get hurt, but it’s a responsive act, not a natural interest. I don’t even know if that’s environmental behavior or instinctive.

Just then she said, “We’ve got one!” and brought audio up for me.

“—collapsed dead over dinner, apparently from a neural toxin. We will bring you other details as they become available.”

“Where?” I asked.

She popped up a map, I said, “Directions,” she keyed it and off we went. I exceeded traffic laws slightly, but generally complied, twitching in frustration as we went. If we could get there fast we could try for an intercept.

The place was cordoned, barricaded, had remotes up to first inform and then intercept vehicles, and a quickly building ring of press. Without a word, Silver handed me a press badge and grabbed two headband cameras from her ready bag.

I parked, we hopped out, and no one should question us rushing over. I looked for any kind of entrance, but there were too many cops and I didn’t want to be noticed. He was likely in the area, and might even have had a boobytrap waiting for me.

I walked around the whole building quickly and kept alert for him. Unlikely, but it could happen that I’d just run into him. The place was a restaurant and garden with wall at one end of a block of upscale shops and eateries. It had ironwork and nice bricks.

Silver took my cue and scanned around. She was looking for facial features, transmissions, signs of similar recon gear—that last had to be hard. I expected several of the news crews to be placed there, and that would complicate the search.

I didn’t see him, and Silver reported nothing at her end.

That done, I sought a gaggle of press on a grassy island overlooking the entrance and oozed in. There were ongoing mutters but I wanted something solid.

A videographer from XKC nodded as I wandered closer. He glanced at my badge and deduced I was private. I nodded back and walked through obstacles of feet and bags, professionally not stepping on anything.

“What did you hear?” I asked.

“Binary poison,” he said. “They say the wine and his food were contaminated. Someone had it in for him.”

“Apparently. Who?”

“Alec Lenz.”

I was supposed to recognize the name and said, “Damn.” I found out later he was an investigative reporter. That could be useful.

Binary poison. That was interesting. Not as flashy, but I was sure it was him. Doctoring the wine would give him a thrill, and tweaking the right glass or plate another. It was very tricky.

I didn’t want to stick around too long, so I nodded and we headed back to the car.

I drove. As I pulled into traffic I said, “I’m going to orbit out by streets. We might see something.”

“Understood,” she said. “What do you make of him? Settling down here?”

“Hired here,” I said. “The mob is using him. Either he got a long-term contract to eliminate their problems, or the previous ones were tests, though I expect pay was involved. You don’t hire someone to knock off major players in your back yard without bona fides.”

“Reasonable,” she said. “We can try again to trace the money.”

“Yeah. I don’t see anything so far, but I do see a Gem sedan that’s been behind us for two turns. Watch it for me.”

“Got it,” she said, and looked into the mirrors and screens.

I made another turn, and she said, “We’re definitely being followed.”

“That’s interesting. They are definitely not him.”

“Hirelings.”

I grinned. “That’s eating into his capital. Good.”

“Yes, well they’re gaining fast.”

“Let’s take the upcoming right toward the mountains. I want a quiet area. We’ll try for a collar.”

“There’s a park about five kilometers out,” she said.

“Good. Can you distract them?” I asked, revving the turbine while feeling and hearing the tires shiver on the edge of traction. I powered out of the bend, and counted four cars all matching speed.

“I can do more than that in moment,” she agreed. “Do we have another curve?”

“Just ahead.”

“Tell me when you start in.”

“Now,” I said.

“Distracting,” she said.

A glance at the screen showed a pall of greasy smoke behind us. She’d rigged an oil injector on the exhaust. Standard, and effective. There’s not much you can do against it.

“That slowed them,” she said. “Want more?”

“Yes.”

She said, “Caltrops and oil. I cut some large size ones while you were working on the barrel.” She fumbled and shifted.

“Excellent.” I assumed they had typical reinforced tires, but what she had would tangle in the undercarriage, and from a look at the screens, was. The first car careened, skidded, spun and crashed off the side into the growth.

“He must have paid them a lot,” I said.

“Good. Logistical win? We eat away at his funds?”

“That won’t stop him, but might make him more desperate.”

The second car swerved around the first, accelerated and came for us. They were still smart enough not to bother trying to shoot from moving platform to moving target, though I wondered about a directional EMP or some such. Hell, I wondered about missiles. If I could rig a launcher in a car, so could someone else.

Local laws might have hindered them. He likely called them on short notice, after determining we’d arrived. These were pros, but probably didn’t keep missiles around on the off chance some desperate military types hired them. Still, they had four vehicles to my one and several people to our two. Amateurs can be even worse because they’re clumsy and crude.

They still hadn’t shot at us, either. I figured it would be a good idea for me to start those hostilities. They wouldn’t want attention any more than I did, and I’d be better at evading.

“That park you mentioned,” I said.

“Fifteen hundred meters on the right,” she said.

“Noted. Can you climb into the back and get the gun?”

“I can,” she agreed. She sounded a little unsure, but didn’t object.