Walter Williams - Conventions of War

“Not very slick, is it?” Sidney said. “It won’t match police or Fleet weapons in a stand-up fight. But in a surprise attack or an assassination, it should do the job.”

Sula removed the magazine and looked at the weapon. “Show me how to break it down.”

“Certainly. And while I do that, tell me how many other people are in this insurrection of yours.”

She looked at him. “Sorry. Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you.”

His look was somber. “You can’t have very many. Otherwise you wouldn’t need me to design your weapons for you.” He smiled. “And youreally wouldn’t need PJ Ngeni.”

Sula suppressed a burst of laughter. “Well,” she said, “let’s just say that the Naxids cut down our numbers after the Axtattle ambush.”

Sidney’s eyes were intent. “Yes. So there’s really no secret government to report to, is there?”

Sula hesitated, then said, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone that. PJ in particular.”

He flashed another smile. “Hedoes enjoy being a secret agent, doesn’t he?”

Sula felt a warning tingle run up her spine. “How much does he enjoy it, exactly?”

Sidney caught her meaning at once. “I don’t think he’s being indiscreet,” he said. “But he comes over here and babbles. I think he’s very happy that he finally has someone to talk to about all this.” He shook his head. “And the girl threw him over too, didn’t she?”

“Yes. She did.”

He looked down at the floor. “The things people do for love.”

She frowned at him. “Why areyou doing this?”

He glanced up, and there was a flash of teeth beneath the curling mustachios, a kind of snarl. “Because I hate the bastards, that’s why.”

Love and hate, Sula thought. That kept things basic.

She had wondered why she herself was in this fight. The secret government was gone, and Lady Sula was officially dead: she could sit in some quiet part of town, sell chocolate and tobacco, and wait in comfort for the war to end.

And so she could, if it weren’t for love and hate. She hated the Naxids, and she loved Martinez and hated him. She hated the whole shambling, sick edifice that was the empire, and a part of her would rejoice in its ruin. She loved the part of a leader, the exhilaration of action, the sweetness of savagery and the satisfaction of a plan wellforged and well-executed. She hated herself but loved the parts she played, the masks she donned, one convincing falsehood after another. She loved the game of it, the way it could take the form of one of her mathematical puzzles, a complex equation with one variable after another, Casimir and the Records Office, deliveries and assassinations,Resistance and PJ and the Sidney Mark One rifle…

Sidney had the gun apart, and he was looking at her with frank interest. Sula collected herself, reassembled the rifle, then took it apart again.

He began to clean the weapon. “Can you take it home with you?” he asked.

She looked up at him. “I don’t need it-my group’s pretty well armed.”

“Yes, but I’ve got the whole design ready to download, and once you put the data inResistance, I imagine my place will be searched, along with that of anyone who designs guns for a living. I don’t want any part of it here.”

“I suppose.”

“You can take it disassembled into the Lower Town easily enough,” Sidney added. “I’ve noticed they don’t search peopleleaving the High City.”

“And they don’t search us going up much either,” Sula said. “The guards have got to recognize our truck, and they know we’re just delivering food and such.”

“That’ll change when rationing starts.”

Oh.She hadn’t considered that.

She would have to get herself the proper vouchers when she went through the checkpoints. Another job for Casimir, damn it.

Sidney packed the rifle in a case, then took Sula to his workroom again to give her all the remaining ammunition and several spare laser diodes. “Perhaps you’d better leave by the back way,” he suggested. “Any Naxids might be interested in a Terran leaving a gun shop with a case.”

“I’ll do that.”

Sidney pulled up the schematics of the rifle on his computer, then beamed them to Sula’s arm display. “I’ve included a design for a sound suppressor,” he said. “You screw it onto the barrel, and it should be good for the first dozen shots or so before things get noisy again. I didn’t have time to actually build it.” He opened a drawer, pulled out a pipe, and loaded it with a large chunk of hashish from a green leather box.

Sula looked down at two photo cubes attached to the wall above Sidney’s desk. They showed a young man and young woman in the uniform of the Fleet.

“Your children?” he asked.

Sidney reached for his lighter. His tones were unnaturally even, as if he was suppressing every possible emotion. “Sonia died retaking theDestiny, on Zanshaa’s ring the first day of the mutiny. Johannes was killed at Magaria onThe Glory of the Praxis.”

“I’m sorry,” Sula said. “And your wife?”

He took a deep breath of smoke before he answered. “She left me years ago, before I had my accident and had to leave the Fleet. I was just getting to know the children again before-” He waved his pipe. “Before all this started.”

Love and hate.He had given all his guns away to her group, not caring if they could be traced to him. Now she knew why.

Sula hoped she could give him a new job that he could love, something that would keep him alive and useful. All she had to do was promise to fulfill his hatred.

“Mr. Sidney,” she said, “shall we go to PJ’s and cadge a lunch?”

He exhaled a deep blue cloud of smoke and nodded.

“Why not?” he said. “The caterers will be out of work when the rationing comes. We may as well let PJ give them some money.”

Ashimmering layer of afternoon heat stretched across the pavement like a layer of molasses, thick enough to distort the colorful canopies and displays of the Textile Market that set up in Sula’s street every five days. Early in the morning vendors motored up with their trailers or their three-wheelers with the sheds built onto the back, and at dawn the sheds opened, canopies went up, and the merchandise went on sale. After sunset, as the heat began to dissipate and the purple shadows crept between the stalls, the vendors would break down their displays and motor away, to set up the next day in another part of the city.

As Sula walked past on her way to her apartment, the rifle in its case under one arm, vendors called her attention to cheap women’s clothing, baby clothes, shoes, stockings, scarves, rubbery Bogo toys, inexpensive dolls, cheap puzzles and games. There were bolts of fabric, foils of music and entertainment, sun lotion and sun hats, and knit items-unseasonable in the heat-alleged to be made from the fleece of Yormak cattle, and sold at a surprisingly low price.

Despite the heat, the market was thronged. Tired and hot, Sula elbowed her way impatiently through the crowd to her doorstep. A glance to one side showed that One-Step wasn’t in his accustomed place. She entered the building, then heard the chime of a hand comm through her apartment door and made haste to enter. She put the rifle case down, snatched up the comm from the table and answered, panting.

Casimir surveyed her from the display. She could watch his eyes travel insolently over her image as far as the frame would permit.

“Too bad,” he said. “I was hoping to catch you in the bath again.”

“Better luck next time.” Sula switched on the room coolers, and somewhere in the building a tired compressor began to wheeze and faint currents of air to stir. She dropped into a chair near theju yao pot, and holding the comm in one hand, began to loosen her boots with the other.