Relic Tech (Crax War Chronicles) (13 page)

“Sure, but I haven’t been issued a sidearm.”

“We’ll see what we can do.” A brisk pace brought us through the crowds toward storage. “Besides, you can help me carry some things back to my room.”

I returned with my cart. “Which way?”

“You trust me to find it?” asked O’Vorley.

“I’m guessing that you took the time to at least figure out a route from the bay cafeteria to my room.” His nod and grin told me I was correct. “But the question is, once we find our way to the range, will you remember the way back?”

“I hope so,” he replied as we made our way.

“You’ll have incentive,” I said. “You’ll be lugging the heavy stuff.”

O’Vorley looked and stopped. “What did you buy?”

I urged him on. “You’ll see. Come on, mule.”

“What?”

“Come on, organic dolly-bot,” I corrected.

We found my room with little trouble. I unpacked some equipment before taking out my pump-action shotgun and my old-style double-barrel shotgun. O’Vorley looked at them resting against the narrow fold-down bed.

“I have a special slot in my cart for them,” I explained. “Had one more made should I ever need it. Right now it’s filled with water bottles.” I dug around to the bottom and pulled out an old replica Dragoon and opened its plastic case.

O’Vorley was amazed. “Kra, is this stuff ever old. Can I hold it?” he asked, pointing at the Dragoon.

“Sure, but it’s heavy,” I warned. “Want to try it out?”

He picked it up. “That’d be great. What’s it shoot?” He tried holding it steady with one arm extended.

“Lead balls.” I tossed him a small box. “It isn’t an original. If it were, it’d have been sold to a museum long ago. But it’s old enough, a replica made in 1992.”

“It’s still well over a hundred years old.”

“Correct. It’s valuable, and functioning. So’s this,” I said, drawing my old single-action duty revolver. “This one’s less complicated to load and fire.” I opened the loading gate and ejected the cartridges. “Much more modern—in comparison. Here, let me show you a little about this before we get down to the range. You said you had some basic training in firearms?” I asked before handing him the empty firearm.

“Yes.” He took the revolver. “I viewed some holo-casts, mainly on safety.” He looked it over.

“Get a feel for it,” I said, moving back a step while he held it in several standard firing positions. “It’s a .357 magnum, stainless steel single-action revolver,” I explained. “That means that you must thumb back the hammer before it’ll fire. Just pulling the trigger won’t work.”

“Is this a gun of the old American West? I saw them on old flat screen-casts.”

I shook my head. “No, this is a more modern version, if you want to call a 140-or-so-year-old gun modern. It’s a few years newer than the Dragoon and about twenty years older than the double-barrel.”

He seemed comfortable enough handling a gun. “It has a transfer bar.” I took it back, cocked the hammer and showed him. “Safer. You can load all six chambers without worrying about shooting your foot off when it’s holstered.” I handed it back. “Here, try to get a feel for it. Dry fire a few times.”

O’Vorley awkwardly pulled back the hammer with his thumb and depressed the trigger.
Click
. He flinched a little and blushed. Then he stiffened. “Is this what you used to kill the offender?”

“Yes, it is,” I said. “
Struck him twice.”

Breaking
the awkward silence, I lifted the revolver from his hand. “Let me show you how to load and unload it.” I watched to see if he followed each step. “Got it so far?”

“I even got the clockwise part,” he smiled. “Will it rotate counterclockwise?”

“Studied history I see. Do you know where those terms come from?” His blank expression told me he missed that part. “Later with that.”

“Looks pretty awkward and slow,” O’Vorley said. “Couldn’t that be dangerous?”

“Well, you’re right. But remember I’m R-Tech. Now watch.” I picked up the pace and loaded the remaining chambers and snapped shut the loading gate. “All ready.” I cocked back the hammer. “Pull the trigger to shoot. If you don’t want to shoot, hold the hammer with your thumb and depress the trigger. Slowly lower the hammer.”

“I should probably try that unloaded?”

“Correct, unless you want to ventilate a wall.” I reopened the gate and reviewed how to unload unspent and spent cartridges. “You practice a time or two.”

O’Vorley was cautious, but a quick learner. After he’d done it several times, I showed him my watch. “You know that the old-style guns are loud, especially in an enclosed area
?”

“I’ve heard...well, not exactly.” He forced an uneasy laugh.

“I have a sound dampener on my watch band. It’s keyed for old-style firearms.” I pointed to it. “Without this your ears would be ringing after a round or two. Although sometimes there are advantages to firing without one.”

“How loud without your dampener?” he asked, carefully returning the revolver.

“Like I said, it’ll leave your ears ringing.” I checked the gun and holstered it. “May cause some ear damage. Should draw attention—near and far.”

“Now I remember!” he said, looking at my watch. “Those old-style watches had three hands and they all went around positive degrees.”

“Clockwise,” I winked. “And they still make them, if you know where to special order.”

He examined my watch. “And those are Roman Numerals.”

“Can you read them?”

“No,” he admitted. “Never needed to. Why do you have that type anyway? Doesn’t look like it’ll tie into a ship’s chronometer.” He picked up my double-barrel shotgun. “I’ve seen other R-Techs who wear advanced digital.”

“It keeps accurate time. Even in space.” I picked up my duty shotgun. “And as you might have guessed, I kind of like old things. Old ways.” I pumped it.
Ca-chunk.
“Recognize that sound?”

O’Vorley nodded. He set the double-barrel down.

“Everyone does,” I said, handing over. “It’s a little slow, but effective. Variety of rounds available. Don’t have to worry much about punching through vital equipment in a warehouse or onboard a ship. Titanium, light. Still not modern, but you asked about danger. I count on this when I expect trouble.”

“They still use them on penal colonies, I think.”

“Correct. This is one of their standard riot control models, modified.”

“What’s this?” he asked pointing near the end of the muzzle. “A modification?”

“That’s where I mount my bayonet,” I said with a wink. It’s not often people ask me about my equipment. “I also added a perforated titanium alloy jacket over the barrel. In essence, a ventilated hand-guard.”

He handed the shotgun back. “I know you want me to ask, so tell me why?”

“I know you want to know, so I will.” I set it down and began to rummage through my cart for target ammunition. “The bayonet is for intimidation, and an additional line of self-defense. The jacket is for when the barrel heats up after firing a number of rounds. Too hot to properly handle in hand-to-hand. And in some atmospheres heat is even less likely to dissipate.”

“How likely are you to be in a long firefight or in one of those atmospheres?”

“Do I detect skepticism?” I asked with a playfully raised eyebrow. “Truthfully, I don’t expect to. And the titanium alloy jacket includes some Phib components. Expensive, but nothing’s going to damage that barrel.”

O’Vorley nodded as I continued. “Actually, I did some research on trench warfare during World War I. Believe it or not, some soldiers thought the trench shotgun should be banned.” I laughed. “All the while they were using chemical weapons on each other. That got my interest.”

O’Vorley scrutinized the weapon up and down. “That’s why you picked and modified that shotgun?”

“I figured riots resembled some of the old-style warfare, even trench warfare. Back then they fought and learned tough lessons. Similar models were used in subsequent wars, decades later. Gave me a few ideas about effective uses of a shotgun.” I stacked several boxes of .357 and 12-gauge shells on the bed. “I was right.”

“What do you mean? You helped put down a prison riot?”

Angry with myself for getting carried away, I answered his question. “Wasn’t a prison riot, and surviving it wasn’t a cheerful experience.” Before he asked more, I finished, “It’s not something I care to talk about.” Or could talk about, I thought to myself.

I threw the shells into a sack and then slipped the pump shotgun back into the cart. “Watch,” I said, picking up the double-barrel and showing him how to load and fire it safely. He watched intently.

I handed him the shotgun and picked up the shells. “It’s a replica of a Coach Gun,” I said. “Of the Old American West around the late 1800’s. Not a hundred percent authentic but close. I had a relative way back—great great grandfather, who was into Old West Reenactment.” I paused while O’Vorley went through the loading and unloading procedure.

“Its barrels are a lot shorter than your pump shotgun’s,” he said.

“Correct, and it’ll have a lot of kick.” I tapped my shoulder. “That’s why I won’t be shooting it, even if my off shoulder is the hurt one.”

I held open a cloth carrying case and he slid the old-style side-by-side into it. “You carry this double-barrel. I’ll get the rest of the shells and the materials to load the Dragoon.” I didn’t want to take the time to explain, so I picked up about my deceased relations. “I had another relative, my great great uncle, who did American Civil War Reenactments. Must have been popular in the late 1900s.” I shook my head. “But it kind of makes sense.”

“That’s where you got the Dragoon,” O’Vorley said. A confused expression emerged. “I’ve never heard of anyone wanting to reenact the Silicate War, Kra. Have you?”

“No. But I think what they were trying to do was to relive the history. Understand the past. I don’t think we do that enough.”

“You seem pretty intelligent,” O’Vorley said cautiously. “So, is your view on reliving, or holding onto the past why you’re an R-Tech?”

I looked at O’Vorley and decided to skip the lecture about the fact that retardation isn’t a prerequisite for relic tech status. “No.” Then I thought a bit. “Well, maybe a little. Maybe I have a little too much of my relatives in me.”

Knowing he was on thin ice with his last statement, Kent seemed a bit relieved when I didn’t take him to task. “Maybe we can discuss my philosophy some other time,” I suggested, knowing I’d probably leave before we got the chance.

I finished packing the grease, powder, and lead balls and other shells into another sack before putting it into a satchel. I slid my brass powder measure and some percussion caps into my pocket.

O’Vorley looked at my cart. “You keep a lot in there.”

“Efficient packing, and a lot of stuffing,” I assured him. “I think we have everything. Cart’s locked. You know the way?”

“I’m fairly sure of that,” he said, grinning and heading for the door.

“We’ll see.”

Even though O’Vorley knew the way, I paid close attention, occasionally looking stiffly over my shoulder. Most ships, bases and docks are set up with right angle turns and a logical pattern.

The halls were moderately busy, initially with visitor traffic and later with station personnel. During a lull waiting for an elevator I interrupted our silence. “Kent, you wouldn’t mind taking on a little extra clerical work, would you?”

“No. Why, you need some done?”

“No. But I was thinking we might run into some marines stationed here who would.”

“What for?”

The elevator opened. Three marines occupied it. “I’ll explain later, but if I don’t have time, just follow my lead.” I stood next to the burly marines. “Deck twelve.”

O’Vorley appeared perplexed as the elevator descended. He’d lost some of his spunk and newfound confidence. I leaned over toward him. “Training, bartering, remember?”

He smiled, looking a little relieved as the doors opened. We followed the marines to the practice range.

The Corporate House consists of 500 seats, each having a ten standard-year term of office. Silent bidding for half of the Corporate House seats occurs every five years. The risks are great concerning potential benefits vital to a corporation’s long-term growth and stability. In addition to jostling for power and influence, the bidding results also provide the government revenue to fund communications, intragalactic diplomacy, judicial oversight, and the defense of humanity as it expands into the Orion Arm of the Milky Way.

“Not quite what you expected?” asked Kent.

“You’re on the mark there. In the war this was a major staging area.” We stood in the observation area above the main range, and to the right of the secondary one. “There must have been five times the facilities.”

“That is correct, Specialist,” agreed a coarse, throaty voice.

I turned to see a marine looking over my head into the range area. I tried to disguise my surprise. “Looks slow tonight.”

“Usually is,” said the marine, “with too many security types about these days.” He stepped between O’Vorley and me. “No need for the advanced targeting routines or extensive combat maneuver facilities.” He glanced down at the quiet scene. “Hmmmph.”

The marine’s name patch was parallel to my line of sight. His obvious intimidation effort wasn’t going to succeed if I could help it. “Are you looking for anyone in particular, Private Ringsar?”

“Real company,” he said, intentionally bumping into me on his way out. “Not a Class 4 Security, R-Tech.”

O’Vorley looked anxious until the marine exited. “Don’t worry, O’Vorley,” I said, “I’ve already been unlucky once this week.”

“Good thing. I don’t want to end up looking like you.”

“Yeah. But he would’ve ended up in the infirmary, too.”

“You really think we could take him? He’s big as us both.”

“No,” I said, “but surely he would’ve needed some bandages...for his severely bruised knuckles.” I grabbed O’Vorley by the arm and angled him toward the Ordinance and Equipment Station one level below. “You already know my head’s hard.”

“So I’ve heard,” he said, looking to see if the hulking marine had really left.

“Maybe you could lead me to the O&E station.” I gestured and gave him a curt bow. “Oh, experienced and wise.”

“At least I know how to avoid a stern bruising. Calling an S2 a chip is anything but wise,” O’Vorley said, slowing the pace. “Especially Supervisor Gaverall. He’s anything but neurologically impaired.”

“Where’d you hear about that?”

“From Dribbs,” O’Vorley said. “He was there. He wouldn’t lie about that—especially if he thought it might get back to Gaverall.”

“Dribbs. Wasn’t he that older guy teamed with you?”

“Yeah. And another thing he said was—”

I cut O’Vorley off. “I know what happened, and can guess what he said.” I hadn’t reflected much upon the event. “What do they say about Supervisor
Gaverall?”

“Well,” O’Vorley began as we entered the local elevator to the O&E station below, “I guess he used to work for Quinn, but your sponsor acquired his contract when they bought the rights to Mavinrom 1.” The door closed. “Down to O and E’s level,” he commanded the lift before continuing. “Part of the deal for the colony. From what I’ve heard, most of the security down there was scheduled to transfer up here, but CGIG came in and offered substantial incentives. So they left.”

“And you were transferred here. That explains a lot.”

“Explains what?”

I picked my words carefully. “I noticed lax security down on Mavinrom. Maybe the best were offered contracts, leaving a shorthanded, weak team. I’d never thought about Gaverall being dealt a bad crew.”

Then it occurred to me. Maybe Capital Galactic had something to do with the attempted hit. I couldn’t mention my thoughts to O’Vorley.

Bidding for the Corporate House was a year away. Vorishnov might have been here to bolster Negral Corp somehow. But, if CGIG could cause instability, weaken investor confidence in Quinn or Negral, it could affect stock value and future profit margins. They’d have less available to invest in the process. It didn’t all quite seem to fit. Simms probably knew all of this, and more. Maybe Gaverall knew something of it. I pondered the connection between Simms and Gaverall. Now, at least the security supervisor’s hostile attitude in the bay made sense. Gaverall provoked me so that he could shut me up. He didn’t want me to reveal an attempted hit had just occurred.

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.