Heris wondered if Lepescu knew that somewhere on Home Station were a gross each of military-quality rifles and the stubby-barrelled weapons which had been called OOZ for time out of mind. Heris remembered that one instructor at the Academy had said they were supposed to be 007’s, but through a computer glitch they’d been renamed. The landing force’s gory jest was that they were called OOZ because that’s what they made of anyone foolish enough to get in the way. And how many were on the other Stations? She did not ask, but smiled ruefully at the salesman instead. “That would cause problems,” she said. “At least now. You’ve probably heard that we’ve a standing watch aboard—?”
“Yes—that’s why I thought—”
She shook her head at him. “The Stationmaster was none too pleased about that; Lady Cecelia is sure he will not like having that crew armed with modern weapons. Of course they’re harmless—it’s only a handful, and most of them don’t yet know how to use these—” She tapped the holo catalog and the image shivered. “But she said to gather the weapons here and transport them under her personal seal and responsibility when we leave. She is concerned as well that such weapons look too . . .” Heris’s lips pursed and she gave the salesman a look of complicity. “Too real. You know—it would ruin her decorating scheme or something. I wondered if you had a small number of those which could be customized to look more like hunting weapons.”
The man’s eyes brightened. “Ah . . . yes. Here.” The catalog image flicked to something with a stock of burnished wood instead of extruded carbon-fiber/alloy and a civilian-style sighting system and computer socket. “It’s the same, exactly, but with add-on about two hundred grams heavier. It does cost more. . . .”
“Perfect,” said Heris firmly. “Twenty of the rifles, and five subs. . . .” The OOZ had been prettified with wood and inlay, but less successfully. They would pass, however, for the weapon many explorers carried on pioneer worlds.
“I don’t have that many set up,” the man said. At her frown, he added quickly, “But it doesn’t take long. The hunt’s away today, and my techs are both free. A few hours only. . . .”
They didn’t have a few hours. “How many do you have ready?” Heris asked. “I wanted to show milady what they would look like.”
“If brasilwood and corriwood are acceptable, I’ve got a couple of beauties already made up.” He vanished behind a mesh grill and returned with two of the rifles and a single submachine gun. The rifle stocks had the curly green and blue grain of brasilwood, probably from a plantation on this very planet; the OOZ’s wood decoration was in the pale yellow and gray grain of Devian corriwood. Heris ran her fingers over both; the rifles felt silky and the sub a bit tacky, giving a grip that would always hold no matter what. She picked up each weapon to check its balance.
“You’ll want to fire them,” the man said with certainty. “Our range is back here—”
“Just a moment,” Heris said. “This is not all, remember? On Lady Cecelia’s personal account, not the yacht account, I will need to select personal weapons for her.” She paged through the catalog, and allowed the salesman to lead her toward the items she already knew she wanted. Light hunting rifles with day—and-night optics, IR range finding, and computer links for special purposes, a narrow-beam optical weapon that could also be used to operate ship controls, personal protective gear. . . . The salesman seemed to consider it natural that she ordered for herself as well, but she dared not put vests and helmets for the young people on the list.
Then it was done, and he led her through another mesh grill to the indoor firing range without waiting for her opinion. She forced herself to follow with no sign of hurry. Surely Cecelia wouldn’t get the flitter loaded in the time limit she’d given her. And despite her need to hurry her training held—you could not trust a weapon you had not personally tested.
When all the weapons had checked out, as she had been sure they would, she came back to the main showroom and glanced around. “I’ll contact you when Lady Cecelia approves the choice of wood for the stocks, and I’m hoping to convince her to buy appropriate armor for the crew as well. We’ll be using these in the next few days; I’ll need ammunition. . . .”
“Here,” he said, stacking boxes of clips. “And I presume a weaponscart?”
Heris nodded, glad that she would not have to pay for this. Cecelia’s credit cube went into the reader, and the assembled weaponry stacked neatly into a covered cache on a cart that looked like a miniature flitter and hummed at her.
“Palm-print it,” the man said. Heris laid her palm on the membrane set in one side of the thing’s bow, and it bleeped. “It won’t open the cache to anyone else,” he said. “It’ll follow you; if you want it to stay somewhere, palm-print and say, ‘Stay.’ But I’d keep it with you; if it’s stolen someone could break in. Local law says those weapons are your responsibility now.”
“Thank you,” said Heris, and retrieved Cecelia’s cube. She hadn’t even looked at the total; it was like going into Fleet refitting.
On the way back to the flitter bays, Heris’s mind caught up with her again. What she was about to do, with Lady Cecelia and a supply flitter, was exactly what Admiral Lepescu had demanded that she do with her crew and ship . . . what she had refused to do, in fact. Why was she so willing now to charge into an obvious trap? If she wouldn’t risk a crew of professionals, why would she risk one rich old lady? And what did that say about her loyalty to her employer?
If she tried this, and failed, Lepescu would have beaten her twice—he would have made her play his game, something she couldn’t avoid as a military officer. . . . But now she had options.
If she could think of them. If she had time. If she could convince her employer who was even more stubborn, if less vicious, than Admiral Lepescu.
Of course, she could try another end play and tell Bunny herself. Let Lady Cecelia fire her, if that’s what it came to. That’s what she’d done last time, and it hadn’t worked. . . . She did not have to make the same mistake twice.
This time, if what she suspected was true, Lepescu was in the trap—not her. She could win, using her own strategy, and prove she’d been right.
But she had to convince Cecelia.
Chapter Thirteen
“This is the island we’re on,” Petris said, outlining it on the chart. They had survived their first night on the island; Ronnie felt much better, and ignored the dull pain in his head. He had kept that first ration bar down, and another this morning; he was sure he was over his concussion. “About eight kilometers by five,” Petris went on, “but most of it’s narrower. Relief’s about two hundred meters—this hill’s given as two-twenty. It’s steeper on the west, but nowhere difficult, except for this little ravine here—” He pointed. “Now—the cover is mixed: open forest, on these slopes, and down near the water scrub undergrowth. It’s full of trails as a kid’s playground in some park—”
“That’s what it was,” Bubbles said. “I told you; we all camped over here. My cousins, too. About—oh—five years ago was the last time I remember. We’d stay here while the grown-ups were on Bandon. We’d sail over in little boats. My father thought it up—it was out of some old books from England on Old Earth. Kids went camping on an island—”