Weaponising History
04 Feb 2018Monolith Preacher
[OOC - I've been waiting for about half a year to write this log, and it's long even by my own standards. I couldn't find any uncopyrighted pictures to set the scene, so instead I've added a few links as breathing space. I'd recommend using them unless you're the kind of rabid reader who can consume seven thousand words in one sitting. If you are...I like you, you are warm. And be aware the "hacksaw" link has an nsfw picture so 18+ on that one, kiddos!]Preacher had been to a lot of industrial systems in his time. His home system of Gcirthi, although it was a terraforming system by trade, had a couple of industrial outposts which he had frequented when he was learning the basics of his ship management. His new home at HIP 106072, acting as it did as a control system for the Kumo crew, was itself an industrial system which focused on exporting agricultural technology such as water purifiers and crop harvesters to a few surrounding systems which had also fallen under Black Omega's control over the past year or two. But Kamorin, this place was a different beast entirely. Kamorin was an industry which created and exported weaponry.
“We're not talking about your run-of-the-mill pulse lasers and Enforcers 'ere, blood, we're talkin' real weaponry from back in the day. The finest reproductions of Narn ceremonial weaponry, Cylon battlesuits tailored to the individual's body mass, DL-44 XT blasters utilising the latest lightweight alloys so even a child could spin them around and look pretty good whilst doing so, rifles from when the idea of a war taking up a planet was tantamount to Armageddon, and more hand-to-hand combat weaponry than you can shake a force pike at! Heck, even I don't know what half my stock does, and that's not even mentioning the stuff I've got in the back that's legitimate original merchandise. Some of this stuff costs more than a starship! I've got so many certificates of authenticity I might as well have a rainforest in my trousers to keep up with the demand for more paper....although according to me Julie that's not too far from the truth, if ya get me, blood! Anyways, the name's Wray Hammerson, nice to meet 'ya!” The shopkeeper offered Mono his hand.
The man who owned the most reputable historic weapons dealership in the known galaxy was certainly more uncouth than Jaquel expected from someone known to make kings of the Imperium flip their Cutters for the sake of some dusty unusable gun which was used to kill a random Federal admiral four hundred years ago. Hearing the extent of his initial sales pitch gave him some idea of how easily this fellow would probably be able to bamboozle all but the most ardent kommandos with his technical jargon and breakneck pacing, and his handshake was quite firm for a man who must have passed his centenary by now even allowing for stem cell rejuvenation processes. Considering he looked older than half of his merchandise and smaller than some of his guns, Preacher was surprised he still had the exuberance he was displaying. Whether it was that odd second wind some people seem to get near retirement or whether he had a line to some Fesh was uncertain.
His skin was tanned leather, although whether this was from spending enough time in the sun to cook his noodle or from burning enough mercury to make him mad as a hatter was anyone's guess. He wore a wife beater and some floral shorts, his feet bare as he leaned back in his chair and rested them on this desk. He was wearing sunglasses indoors, and had a few necklaces strung with varied accoutrements ranging from bullet shells to sea shells to random incompatible religious symbols and possibly a few living entities. It seemed this guy may have spent too much time watching surfing videos, although whether they were of the Dick Dale or the Marlon Shakespeare variety were anyone's guess. Mono couldn't really picture the guy in a wetsuit, but stranger things had been seen on the seven seas of space than an arms dealer with a penchant for getting all Zen on the waves in the evening. Part of him wondered if this guy still operated an old HAM radio with a SysBoost to allow for GalNet broadcasting, but he dreaded to think how circuitous such a person's ramblings would be if this was the case and so decided not to ask the question.
Black Omega had been slowly expanding their influence towards Kamorin for the better part of a year. They had been ready to take the system at the start of September, but everything had gone crazy for a few months after that and it was only now they had managed to make the final step and take what Jaquel considered to be the jewel in their crown. Sure, Tjakiri had some fine mining to be had, but Preacher's blood ran cold at the idea of watching those limpets cycles from asteroid to cargo hatch when he thought about how much he'd been made to mine for the sake of keeping in the graces of the Galactic Engineering Guild since their opening to the Pilot's Federation. No, Kamorin was the prize he had been waiting for, and a small part of him was glad that Ouberos had left and allowed him to claim it as his own. Sure, he could've just called rank on the ol' diamond heister if he was still here, and the loss of an active member of the crew still hurt, but looking around the wonders at the front end of Wray's palace to pacification was enough to make him weak at the knees. There were rumours in Gcirthi that the pyrat kings of old had stowed many of their prize hordes at this exact location with his forebears in the past, and his thoughts were suddenly tugged towards Marra, wondering if she ever did manage to find her father's lost treasure. Some things were best left unasked. He didn't want to start such an awkward topic at the best of times, and he was sure she'd get back to him if she managed to. She wasn't the only one with pyrat blood, and such ties ran deeper than any clan or power affiliation.
“You still there, berk, or you away with the fairies? Does a Monolith have fairies, or just little glints of radiation? Does radiation actually glow yellow like in the movies if you use the right spray on it?”
His host's flippant heresy brought preacher back to the present.
“I wouldn't know. Only three living preachers have actually seen the Monolith. The Master, and his two Hands. The rest of us have faith and spread that faith to others through conviction”
“Sounds less like a Monolith and more like a pyramid to me” Wray winked wryly
Jaquel didn't often bite at base jibes, but that was an impudent statement to make in his presence.
“Well I'm sure radiation's metallic tang is more becoming than the air of must you've got floating through this shop. Do you keep the place this dank to attract punters, or to degrade your merchandise so they can bring it back for an expensive repair after they've bought it so they have to sell their Clipper on top of their Cutter?”
Hammerson levelled a stony gaze at the Preacher as all of his previous joviality instantly turned to ice within an instant. Whether the air actually cooled via an empathic atmospheric interface or it was just psychosomatic was impossible to tell.
“Look mate, if you can't take a bit of bants we're going to have a hard time moving forward, so maybe we should lay down some ground rules here. You own the port, fine, but you're not the first faction to flip this system and I doubt you'll be the last. I'd be surprised if you last a decade. I, on the other hand, have been working at this place for forty years since I took over from me pops, who himself took over from his pops, and...well, let's just say we've had a couple of Jameson's here in our time. So if you can't take me knocking your stone in the sky that's your issue, and I might lay off if you treat me right, but implying that this place is anything less than the most reputable arms dealer in the bubble and that backwater shithole pretending to be glamorous that some upstarts have set up corewards is a fallacy and we both know it.”
An awkward silence hung in the air for a good minute or so before both men started laughing from their bellies. Wray came round from behind his counter and gestured broadly at his merchandise.
“So what's yer poison, blood? Unfortunately we don't have much in the way of large heavy tomes here, but we do have a bible with a 9mm linked up to a personalised keyword trigger. Probably somewhat heretical in practise, but it might be good for psyops...”
Jaquel could tell this guy was used to a cold read, and decided to go along with his new friend's train of thought and see how good his comprehension was.
“...but all jokes aside, your gait on the way in tells me you're not carrying anything heavier than a handgun holster, and the lack of twist in your step tells me that if you are, you're evenly spread.”
Hammerson slowly circumambulated his new customer, his keen eye looking through his monocle, but the lack of data displayed within it said he was doing this appraisal without any augmented vision. Mono couldn't help but appreciate his old-school mentality. It was fun to guess something, and in today's data age it was all too easy to skip the groundwork and lose all sense of mystery. In refusing to deduce, one would soon lose an edge and rely on technology rather than one's own ability. It was as important in trade as it was in combat or exploration to be the sharpest tool in one's own box, as more than a few CMDRs had found themselves out of pocket, out of ammo, or out of fuel by relying too much on their HUDs and not enough on their noggin. Preacher stayed perfectly still, allowing his jacket and trousers to hang just as they did when he was standing at ease.
“From the looks of your stance, you're more of a CQC guy than a long range fighter. Your eyes are too racy to have the patience of a sniper, and your musculature tells me you've not really got the stamina to lug a heavy weapon on your back for fifty miles in a day. That being said, your calves tell me you could walk that unencumbered.”
Wray finished his appraisal and looked at Jaquel dead in the eye before letting out a siren-eqsue descending whistle.
“Well it's not often I need more than one guess, and in this instance I must say the reputation of Jake the Knife has preceded you. You're a smart enough man to carry a lasgun and a ballistic gun on you for any encounter, and I'd say your right hand is stronger considering the latter is on your left hip.”
Jaquel couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. He was rather sure his jacket covered both guns quite well at the hem, custom tailored as it was, but Wray had seen right through the sewing. His appraiser stood looking at him with a weary eye for half a minute before finally bursting out with a tone full of chagrin.
“Alright, I give. How many knives are you carrying? I'll estimate you've got at least five, but beyond the linerlock at your clavicle, the butcher's on your left arse cheek and the custom Fairbairn-Sykes you've put the old ricasso back on to and added a fuller in. I'm interested in seeing how that later modification has affected the durability of the blade, and what kind of a madman you got to do such mods to such a knife.”
Jaquel had to admit he was rather impressed. This guy was talking in lingo that a layman wouldn't have the foggiest about, and this was looking through clothing. He could only wonder how much time this man had taken pouring over the stock he owned, and how much he had forgotten beyond what most people would ever learn on the subject of weaponry. He decided to show him his wares.
With his usual penchant for the dramatic, Preacher unzipped his jacket and cast it off into a car corner of the room to hang on an M1918 which was sitting pretty in the corner of the room. His host pulled a chair up to a nearby coffee table and indicated for his new friend to sit, and Jaquel began placing the tools of his trade on the glass as Hammerson began brewing up a coffee.
“I finally managed to source some of that Harma Silver Rum. A fair sight more becoming to my palette than the Eranin crap every Federal Admiral swears is “the good stuff”. One shot or two? The cappuccino has Void Extract so it pays to take the edge of with something. Paint thinner would be smoother on the gulliver otherwise”
“I'll have a double that looks like a triple and we'll call it even” Preacher replied.
Wray settled down with the coffees and began looking through Jake's personal collection.
“Most people here turn up with the most dodgy shivs you could imagine. One chap last week had tried to hot-rig a soldering laser on to a ballistic knife's business end. When he attempted to show me his “patent pending product” he nigh on seared his purlicue off. If I wasn't wearin' me monocle he would've taken out me eye when the blade shot forward. Suffice to say he did lose a digit to me in recompense, and I'm not just talking about his bank balance! But this is quite the collection for a personal carry.”
He touched the side of his monocle, and engaged the overlay to better study the pieces.
“May I handle the merchandise? Obviously I won't test the sharpness on anything. Blades like this need to be checked against flesh, and my monocle will give me readings accurate to within a few nanometers anyway”
Preacher nodded his assent, and Wray immediately picked up the hollow-ground balisong to check the hinges with a few tricks and started talking about sharpening techniques.
“You see, this shows you know what to do with a knife. Sure, people can flick their knives about this way and that, but we both know tricks are for kids. Heck, the Y2K was old had an aeon ago, and anyone who doesn't know their hellish from their hellbent probably never even shanked anyone. You sharpen the right blade the right way for its purpose. A drop point is not a spey point, despite what the untrained eye may think it discerns on the edge, and if I had a dime for every time somone thought a clip point was an over-used trailing point I'd have a pool out back of ancient coins to start up another line to my business!”
He finished his spinning, locked the knife and put it back down onto the table before taking an Onionhead smoke out and lighting it.
“That balisong's well-weighted, but I'd recommend not oiling it so much. A little bit on the screws is fine, but over-oil the blade and you risk not being able to coat it properly. In your line of work, I can only imagine the amount of high-tech tinctures you must get people to knock up for you. You want a smoke, Preacher man?”
Jaquel declined, but made a mental note to drill Glaboski on his knowledge of toxins and try to knock up a few new concoctions when he got back to Deggie's. The smell of the Onionhead made him somewhat nostalgic for a moment, but he decided it was best to keep a lid on that particular addiction for a while longer until he was sure he could enjoy it in moderation.
“Suit yourself, more for me.” Hammerson took a deep drag and blew it out above him, taking a moment to let his muscles relax before continuing his study. He picked up a few of Jake's throwing knives and juggled them for a mo, before balancing them on his index fingers and looking down their profiles.
“The spines on these are all over the place, and it's affecting their weighting. I'd imagine you're getting a fair amount of variance in their flight paths because of it. You been cracking open monkey nuts with these or something?”
Preacher wasn't sure whether that was an honest question or a cheeky slur, but he decided to answer it honestly.
“Well they're easily replaced and I'm not gonna use the hilts of my better knives to crack open walnuts. If I lose my temper I might damage the tang knowing me”
He couldn't help but find himself warming to this guy. He might be a bit rough around the edges, but his knowledge made up for his uncouth manner. Plus, Jaquel saw worse on a daily basis at Deggie's anyway. At least this guy was honest in his intentions.
“You've got a point there. I had a street samurai turn up a few weeks ago who had spent a sidey's worth on some kunai. They looked nice, they were made of plasteel adamantium alloys so they might as well have been origami for how light they were, and their flight path was impeccable. The cheeky cunt tried getting a free sharpening out of me when I threw one at a straw target for testing, saying they were primarily ornamental pieces and that he was only going ot use them like a sniper. I asked what the hell he meant by that and he said “one shot, one kill. You owe me a body but I'll let you off with a sharpening.” Suffice to say he was a ronin by the time he left port.”
The pair shared a laugh at the anecdote, and Wray moved on to gander at Preach's firearms.
“Now these are a different order of things entirely. This revolver has a bore in desperate need of re-threading, and your blaster looks like it hasn't been cleaned since you got it.”
Jaquel looked incredulously at the old timer across from him and wondered if he could handle his smoke.
“It runs off battery packs, there's nothing to clean.”
Hammerson rolled his eyes.
“Yup, you're a knife nut alright. I bet you spin your guns more than you shoot them, eh? Probably watched a few too many spaghetti Westerns and decided Doc Holiday was a circus act instead of an actual gunman huh?”
Mono had to own up to that one, but he thought he should at least validate his reasoning.
“Well considering my line of work the 21ft rule tends to apply pretty hard. With the exception of a recent run-in with some desert folks I haven't fought in an open space in the better part of a decade. If someone wanted me to snipe, I'd probably just get back in my ship and Hammer the fucker. The handguns are just for if I'm at the end of a hallway really. I've always said guns are for show, knives are for a pro.”
Wray let out a short “Hm” before spinning both the blaster and the revolver to check their balancing. Preach couldn't help but admire his ability to keep them even despite the weight difference of about a kilo each. Watching how lazily he managed such advanced techniques, Jaquel had to admit he was pretty good.
Hammerson stopped his spinning after a few minutes, checked the sights on each, and fired a laser and revolver shot at a metal target on the wall. The laser left a red heat spot on the metal momentarily, and the bullet splashed green luminous goo as it shattered.
“Interesting. Your blaster is severely underpowered, so whomever sold you that must've laughed all the way to the bank, but these bullets of yours are nasty little fuckers. I'm guessing from the lingering smell they're cryonic bullets hollow-tipped with toxic waste?”
Preacher was happy that the geriatric gentleman finally missed a trick, and decided to pick him up on it.
“Almost, they've also got a bit of myyrh and some other esoteric substances within the alloy. Suffice to say that certain sections of my cult believe they have been able to create haunted bullets. To be perfectly honest even I am dubious as to the legitimacy of the techniques, but it makes for some nice taglines to use against more superstitious types. Still, a .45 is a .45 for the most part, eh?”
Wray spat on the floor, a few small flakes of 'head falling from his mouth as he did so.
“No, my new patron, they most certainly are not.” He took a deep breath, pushed his chair back, and began walking towards his counter. “That being said, methinks I savvy yer angle, and as the new guv'nor and someone who takes at least some of his armaments seriously I guess you get to come into the back and see the real shit I don't show LYR or Duval when they come around.”
Preacher blinked with a dumbfounded expression on his face at this comment.
“Oh come on now, you didn't honestly think you were my biggest client did you? When I said we're the best in the galaxy, I wasn't kidding. But if I don't like someone, it doesn't matter how big they are, it just means they're getting charged more for less. Conversely, there's a guy who can't rub two sticks together that's got infinite credit for saving my skin a few times in the past.” He walked through the door at the back of the store and a warm draft wafted through. “That door will close in twenty seconds. I like you enough to let you through, but if you don't get up off your arse you're not getting a second chance.”
Mono made a snap decision. Wray had intentionally done this as a trust exercise, as he now didn't have time to collect all his weaponry off the table and get through the door in time. He decided to walk through unarmed as a show of trust.
The room he walked into was thrice the size of the room he just left. The walls were lined with varied weapons, armours, and military technologies, some obvious and some entirely alien. There was a glass lift in the middle of the room, and the flags and insignia of hundreds of juntas, guerillas, partisans, and paramilitaries lined the ceiling. Preach mused aloud as he scanned the room for things he might actually have a use for.
“So how far does this go down? I assume you've got some rather plush living quarters...”
He turned to see his host pointing the largest two barrels he had ever seen a few inches from his face. He should have been afraid, but his curiosity was stronger.
“What the very fuck am I looking into, mate?”
Hammerson was squatting on his haunches in the most extreme stretch of kiba-dachi he had ever seen, and the perspiration was as evident as the strain on his biceps and deltoids.
“This...is...my...chunk...gun. The top...barrel...is a... punt gun....the bottom...I ripped....from a Hammer...and I can kill...you twice if...I don't run out... of breath.”
His back gave way before his arms, and he sprawled on the floor in a massive heap around his gun. He began chuckling and hacking up phlegm at the same time.
“Let that serve you as a warning, Preacher man. We might have a mutual respect already on talkin' shop, but 'ya know me 5 minutes and come in here unarmed? I'm touched, but 'ya still a fool.”
Mono helped his host off the floor, and they both hoisted the eight foot gun onto its anti-grav rack on the wall.
“Wouldn't it make more sense to stick an AG field on the barrel to make it easier to use?” he opined as the weight suddenly lifted from his arms.
“Aye, but that might affect the accuracy of the punt gun, and besides...it's cheating!” Wray let a wry smile form on his lips.
“So anyways, I reckon I've got a few things that might tickle 'ya fancy back 'ere, blood. I'll start with what you need and move on to what you want. We can work out the details at the end.”
Preach had known enough merchants to know there was bound to be a haggling section to their conversation, but he saw the benefit of leaving it until the end instead of going through the motions on every piece he was offered. He was ushered into the glass lift, and the lack of hackable panels was immediately obvious. Unless they were hidden in the floor, this lift was probably operated via voice recognition software picked up by ambient microphones in the rooms themselves routing to a central mainframe which could be anywhere in the planet, or possible even relayed to another part of the system. His host was nice enough to answer that question for him obliquely.
“Three-Seven-Five”
The lift started moving three seconds after he gave the command. The mainframe was off-world.
“This lift moves about as fast as it can without frying your brain, but you might wanna hold on to the railing 'cause it takes a moment for the gravity field to kick in when it starts to drop.”
Three seconds later Preacher was peeling himself off the ceiling and planting his feet back on the ground.
“This is our stop.”
The doors opened, and the room the moved into was around the size of a football pitch. Shelves were stacked from knee level to the top of the twenty feet of space between the top of his head and the top of the room. There was about enough space to walk laterally through the alleys between the shelving, and they were all filled with knives. Wray walked through briskly, herding his client to a specific shelf around two thirds of the way back and a few rows along. None of the shelves were marked, although he could tell as he moved through them they were organised by type, length, and possibly a few other integers he couldn't work out with how quickly he was being shuttled along.
“How do you keep all this together in your head?” he mused to his host.
“Well I'm sure you've guessed I'm no idiot savant. Nanomachines, son!”
Mono was a bit disappointed, but considering the size of the place, it was understandable that you'd need to cut a few corners to save yourself from going mental.
Wray pulled out a jambia and handed it over hilt first.
“That one has been restored. I'm not saying it belonged to T. E. Lawrence, but it was certainly used at Aqaba. Can be used as a throwing knife with a bit of practise, but as you can tell from the angle on that blade, it's pretty good at getting around the bone. Call that one a loan. If you like it, we can talk price. If you don't, I'll take it back. If you lose it, you pay double.”
Preach thought about looking a gift horse in the mouth, but decided against it. They moved on down the rows, and he caught his knee a few times on the corners of varied shelving units but managed not to dislodge any sharp objects into his person. He also noticed the air down here smelled faintly of ozone.
“I've seen things most people wouldn't believe. I saved a Krait left stranded near the arms of Orion. I've salvaged plasma guns used in the battle of Tannhäuser Gate. Back on level Three-Ought-Two, I've got a stun baton used in Plutition Camps by those mining guards who made the headlines for their numerous violations of the Vienna mandate.”
Hammerson was warming to his topic, and Preach decided to let him prattle on for a while in the hopes of him getting around to something relevant.
“I notice you prefer your smaller knives. A guy of your stature can barely get a head above me, and that's saying something! I doubt you're in the market for a Taureg any more than I'm in the market for a Bowie. I mean, everyone likes a ”Sweet Thing”, but times move on, and you don't look like the type to just hacksaw someone in the neck. No, you're an artisan like myself. You like to savour all the little emotions and engage with the kind of butchery that'd make a surgeon feel like he needed finer fingers.”
A few minutes passed by as the babbling and rustling through shelves continued and he got the feeling his host wasn't really sure what he was looking for any more. Maybe some of those nanomachines had started short-circuiting with the humidity. Just as he was feeling light headed from the smells, a loud ”AHAAAA!” snapped him back to his senses as a butcher's knife with a heavily corroded handle was handed to him like some kind of relic. Mono checked the weighting and it was terrible. He could see the warp of the tang through the handle. He was not impressed.
“What is this? It looks like you fished it out of a river.”
Wray's eyes lit up. “Yes, yes! Exactly! My great-great-et cetera-grandfather fished it up himself five hundred years ago.”
Jaquel was not impressed. “So are you going to spin me the yarn or am I just going to restore it myself and thank you for giving me a piece of bait?”
A DNA scanner was thrown at his head fast enough that he nearly pulled up the knife to deflect it instead of his open hand to actually grab it.
“I knew you'd say that. No-one besides me even knows I've got this here, because I wasn't willing to sell it to anyone until I found someone who actually cared about their knives. Give it a scan and you can tell me how much you think it's worth.”
Preach nonchalantly ran the DNA scanner over the dull edge of the blade. It found nothing
“Is this some kind of trick, old man? 'cause I'm sure there's a few things here I could actually buy when you're not wasting my time.”
Wray walked straight up to Jake and stared him dead in the eyes from two inches away.
“Watch your tongue there, lad. Scan it slowly and maybe you'll learn to respect your elders. Also, bear in mind the price just went up.”
Jaquel stepped back a pace so he could wave his arm along the blade once more. He slowed the second pass to a snail's pace waiting to see what section of the actually had any residue left on it. He found a speck on the dulled edge near the butt of the knife and gave the machine three minutes to do a deep scan in order to verify its authenticity.
The scan came back with a 97% match.
“Yeah bullshit. How did you even find the DNA to match?”
Hammerson grinned widely, showing his lack of two molars.
“There was an auction of her remains ten years earlier, which caused my forebear to liquidate most of his assets to afford both the corpse and the trawling needed. What's left of her is down in the eight hundreds, but you're not gonna be seeing that. Some things must be kept in the family.”
Jake knew this one was going to cost him big.
“So what's the price then? You've not given this to anyone, so I'm wondering why you're offering it to me and what I can offer that no-one else can in return.”
“Oh, that's quite simple. I know where your handle comes from, and I'm a firm believer in reincarnation. Having heard enough about your work, I decided to grill you when you came through. I've had some programs running through some simulations whilst you've been here, and I'm rather sure you're him, in a manner of speaking. This isn't something I expect you to trust, but you can call it a lucky break if it makes you feel better. As for my price...well obviously I can't let it go without a fairly sizeable chunk of cash, but I'd be willing to settle for you buying me a couple of those new Chiefs all done up if you agree to owe me a favour.”
Preach knew well enough that if an offer sounded to good to be true, then it probably was.
“I'm not going to sacrifice Black Omega, Kumo, or any of my Monolithian brothers for any scheme you may be plotting, so you should probably be more specific.”
Hammerson spread his arms wide and gave an overly dramatised look of dejection
“My friend! I would never ask someone to betray their loyalties, that's uncouth even for me! No, I'll just call on you in the future to do a bit of wetwork for me.”
More vagaries. As Wray lit up another smoke, time drifted slowly as Preacher mulled over the gravity of them and his new friend just stood there with a slowly more sappy looking grin on his mug. The air was quite well balanced for temperature in here, but the humidity needed to keep the blades in top nick was starting to drench his clothing.
“How about you lob me one of those smokes and tell me how many people you're expecting me to kill when you come calling, then?”
Snapped out of his reverie which had occupied him for the past five minutes, he fished out a rather thin but rather long smoke which best resembled a witch's finger and flicked it a few feet forwards towards his guest. As Jaquel took the first drag of 'head he'd had in over a year and felt his heart rate start to slow, the reply made it his skin go cold.
“Just one.”
He did his best not to choke, and muttered one word in reply.
“Who?”
His friend didn't move a muscle.
“You'll know when the time comes. But if you really are that good, you'll be able to do it. If not, well...let's just say you'll pay off the blade by trying.”
Silence, sweat, laboured breathing. Anyone listening in would've thought they were filming a seedy movie all of a sudden.
“Do you have anywhere more comfortable to think about this than being cramped between two shelves of knives?”
The old man gestured him back to the lift, and they rode above ground to a floor three stories above ground level. As he stepped out he saw a large waiting area with leather sofas and entertainment booths littered around rather haphazardly. It smelled of primer, pheromones, and claret. He'd been in worse dives.
“This'll do. Can you lob me another smoke and give me an hour.”
His wispy supplier obliged his request.
This was a lot to ask. It was obvious that whomever this guy wanted dead it was someone who couldn't be killed in a ship. Jaquel knew full well there were scores of combat pilots out there better than him. Heck, he'd still not even moved beyond his Dangerous rating. No, this was a job that was going to be up close and personal. It would probably involve a fair amount of infiltration, and that could be vocal and technological as well as physical. As his head spiralled in and out of more conspiracy theories than he'd entertained during his trips corewards, he managed to narrow the culprits down to around fifty known people and a few more outlandish theories involving aliens and perceived messianic figures or godheads. All in all, he reckoned he could give it a fair shot regardless, but the chances of him getting away with it were slim to nil if he managed to take his mark.
But that knife was worth it. That knife would be worth anything. Truth be told, he'd probably have turned his back on the Monolith for that knife, but he dared not think about it too hard. Such heresy hadn't entered his thoughts when he left Gcirthi to the Feds, and he almost felt selfish to admit it.
With two minutes to spare, he reached for the intercom on the wall. Just as he touched it a wall opened and his wisened companion stepped through with his hands clasped behind him like so many butlers in old movies.
“And our survey says?”
Mono took one deep breath to make sure he knew what he was doing.
“We have a deal.”
That crooked smile returned to Wray's face, and he took his hands from behind his back to present two guns to his new partner.
“I thought you'd agree. I have gathered from my last year of research that you, like myself, are a man of culture. Here's a couple of freebies to replace those awful things you walked in with. I've already melted those as scrap, but I doubt they meant anything to you from the way they'd been treated.”
He had a point, but these new guns were unknown to Preacher. He picked them up and noticed the revolver was pretty slick, but the blaster had a fair bit of weight to it.
“What are these things? I know you trade in relics but this stuff looks older than a first-gen Cobra!”
“That's because they are. The blaster you are holding is based off schemetics I managed to uncover form a gun that shouldn't actually exist. You saw the replica DL-44s in the front of the shop? Well these are a special version of those. Let's just say they won't be overheating any time soon. And I re-chambered the revolver to take your funky bullets and kept one so I may replicate them. Tasty little pellets those. What you hold in your hand is the greatest handgun ever made: the Colt Single Action Army.”
Jaquel span them both around a bit, checked the sights, and fired them at a sign on the wall. The bullet hit squarely in the “O” of “hooters”, and the laser melted the word “hot” above it.
“Yeah, they'll do. I assume you've serviced my knives downstairs?”
“Of course, and I've kept your boring old Sabatier as you'll not be using it any more. You new knives have been kept sharpened to the highest specifications during their time here but I gave them the once over to be sure, and I've thrown in custom anti-grav holsters fitted to each blade as a gesture of goodwill.”
Jaquel nodded and tried to look nonchalant about the whole affair.
“...and I suppose you'll want me to send my wingmates your way for their weaponry henceforth?”
The old man had materialised a pipe from his jacket and began lighting it, but he stopped momentarily to answer the question.
“Only..” he paused to finish lighting the pipe “...if they've got the care for my wares and the money to buy them.” He took a few puffs and blew an odd geometric smoke cloud out of the corner of his mouth. “I don't sell to just anyone, after all.”
Jaquel started to realise that he had been given more specialist treatment than his demeanour had probably warranted.
“You will obviously be placed under special protection by Black Omega. I know we're not as big as we were when we operated as a paramilitary unit, but we've still got enough connections we could smuggle your operation a few systems away within a weekend siege.”
Hammerson nodded sagaciously
“That is one thing I was hoping you would say. I, like yourself, have burned a few bridges in my time. I do have one more stipulation, though”
Preacher was worried at what he would leave 'til last considering how high the costs had been so far.
“I thought you said one favour?”
Wray's eyes slitted slightly.
“Yes, but this is more a personal predilection than a favour per se. Just don't tell your friends my name. There are people closer to you than you know who could do me a great deal of harm, and I'd rather wait for them to remove themselves from the picture than face them head on. Knowing them, it shouldn't take long. I have allowed you a few personal courtesies I don't give to others due to feeling something of a kinship if I'm to be honest. I wasn't sure until you walked through the door, but you can judge a man quite well from the cut of his jib and his handshake as much as his stare. You passed those tests and the rest was just double checking my own intuition from there.”
Jake couldn't help but ask a probing question.
“Anyone in particular I should watch my tongue around?”
“As the old adage goes: the truth is out there, but trust no cunt.”
As Preach fired up the ἀποκάλυψις 8:11 and prepared to leave Kamorin, he wondered if this was going to be the start of a beautiful friendship, or just a massive liability. Either way, he had a business card for his new accomplice which merely tagged him as “The Gruff Gentleman”. He thought it was as good a handle as any for his newfound partner in crime. He just hoped none of his wingmates put their foot in it, as this guy seemed to be more of a loose cannon than he let on. He decided to get Scarlet to run some background checks of her own on him, but also thought better of telling her his real name. It would be interesting to see if he'd let that slip on to GalNet at all during his long life. If he had, Scarlet would find it for sure.
