Atk. Butterfly: Rust Bucket

Needless to say, every item, if I had or bought it, would fit inside the shoulder pack. Buying them certainly wouldn’t hurt my credit balance, especially if I purchased them in the exchange. Because the items cost so little, I decided to go ahead and purchase them.

The only items I couldn’t purchase in the exchange were, of course, the projectile weapon, marker, and note pad. It wasn’t because they didn’t carry weapons, but because it was so old-tech as were the other two items. I even decided that I’d get the shoulder pack with the separate holster for a weapon. It would help balance the load once I purchased the weapon. I left the exchange and put the new items, still in their packaging, inside the shoulder pack and adjusted it to fit before slipping it on. Then I made my way to the entrance, though for me it was the exit, of the compound. I left the academy for what I figured was probably the last time unless I had a chance to stop by and visit the Sarge to either thank him or just look him up as a friend.

Outside the entrance, I paused to look at the recommendation for a job along with the name and address. I figured on using that as my starting point. I wandered over to a public terminal and spoke in the information to begin a search of the company and the owner, Penelope Wayte. I was astounded to find out moments later that neither was listed. I’d never heard of a company or person not being listed in the directory. Hell, even the Mafia was listed in the directory, so why shouldn’t a business or person be in it? I tried cross-referencing it by the address that Sarge wrote down and still couldn’t locate it. If I decided to apply, I would have to do so in person. Even that was unusual. I thought that I would be able to apply using the terminal, but not in this case.

At least, it wasn’t far from the Academy. For someone in my shape, it was a short easy walk. There was no need or reason to hire a Yellow. Besides, there would be stores and vendors along the way where I might be able to purchase the last few items remaining on my list. I started walking in the direction of the Pennyweight Shipping Company. My language background wasn’t so bad that I didn’t recognize the obvious play on words with the owner’s name. About two blocks from the academy entrance, I came across one of those ever-present surplus stores and went on inside to browse. They had, believe it or not, a selection of arms second only to a museum.

“What can I do to you, son?” asked the salesman, an old thin man of about sixty or older with thinning hair.

I answered, “I’m looking to purchase a projectile weapon.”

“Don’t get much call for them. What caliber do you want?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. Let me check.” I pulled out my list to see if the caliber was listed.

The salesman’s eyes seemed to know just because of that. “Never mind, son. I know what caliber you want. Thought I’d never see another one of those lists. How is the Sarge these days?” he asked.

“In good health. You know him?” I asked.

“Yes, I do,” he said, pulling a box from under a counter. He looked at the shoulder pack I had, walked over to another aisle, pulled a different shoulder pack off a shelf, and brought it back with him. “You’ll need this size and style to accommodate this weapon. I’ll trade you even for the packs as a favor to the Sarge, not that it’ll ever make us even.”

I sensed then that there was a story behind that man’s reverence for the Sarge. However, I decided it wasn’t my business to pry into the man’s personal affairs.

“Nope! There ain’t no way I can ever repay the Sarge for saving my son’s life. You’ll get the gun at wholesale price, too. Go ahead and take your gear out of that pack. Put it in this one. Did you get everything on the list?” he asked.

I replied, “Not quite. I couldn’t find the…”

He said, “Marker and note pad. I don’t think hardly anyone else besides us still carries those. They’ll be wholesale, too. Now I’ll show you how to use this antique. It packs a wallop for such an old weapon, but someday you’ll be thanking Sarge for recommending you buy it.”

We went into a back room where the old man showed me how to use the weapon and then to take it apart, clean, and reassemble it. He wouldn’t let me pay or leave with it until I showed him I could do as he had. Then he went about making sure I had everything stored away inside the pack, putting the pistol in its holster that was concealed by the pack unlike the other pack where it was visible.

“Yep,” he said as he rang up the purchases and finished with everything including my permit for a concealed weapon, “that kind of pack is the kind that will do you a lot of good. Don’t ever forget to keep it in good condition. I was on an expedition once. We used those to float a wounded man across a river. Always keep your canteen in the front half. That way you can use the straw to drink while you’re walking and keep your hands free.”

Before I left the store, he had exchanged three more items for what I bought with different models which he thought to be superior. Even though one item was used, he looked and sounded so sincere that I let him do it without argument. I guess it was also because one of the items he exchanged equally was a better item than I purchased. He wasn’t trying to cheat me, I could clearly tell. As I left, he wished me good luck.

I spent more time inside the store than I planned on, but it was still before supper. I saw no reason not to go on ahead down to the Pennyweight Shipping Company to see what they were like. I only got about two more blocks when I entered into an area that had been off-limits while I was a cadet. Now I was free to enter. At my own risk, of course. I didn’t feel like walking around the area that was poorly policed and where almost anything was legal or likely to happen. I wasn’t thinking about my haircut marking me as a cadet. On the other hand, I hadn’t received my cadet ring yet. It would be forwarded to me, so I guess I looked more like a first-year washout than anything else. However, none of those things occurred to me as I entered the area.

I barely went a block when I found myself being faced by two tough-looking thugs. They seemed determined to shake me down and force me to transfer credits, not to mention stealing whatever I carried of value. I guess it would have been different had I been a washout as they thought, but I wasn’t. I was a third-year cadet. That meant I was conditioned and trained already in several forms of combat. Nor did they teach us to fight fair at the Academy. We used padded robots so that we could throw real punches and kicks at any and every vital area we could reach. Also, I was wearing my steel-cap insert non-skids. It didn’t even occur to me to pull the ancient .50 caliber pistol I was then carrying.

It was hardly a fair fight as I indicated. One of them put his body in the way. The second man tried to come from behind while the first one did his best to keep me busy. As soon as I felt the second man’s hand on my shoulder, I ducked down and swept my arm back to hit him in the groin. He backed off as quickly as he could while doubled-up. I jumped up from my position, leaving my duffel bag on the ground, and planted a steelcapped kick into the ribs of the first man, knocking him over backwards onto his ass. His hand clutched at his ribs. I was sure I broke at least one. I hadn’t held anything back as I made that kick. It was meant to maim, if not kill. I hadn’t held anything back on the first man, either. He was still clutching himself while tears of pain fell down his face. I picked up my stuff and resumed walking away. As I left them, I could hear the two of them saying something about not seeing a ring on me while trying to blame the other for making a bad choice of victims. I know that three years ago, it wouldn’t have taken but one of them to make me shit in my pants and hand over everything.