recoilless rifle.
The outside of the book gave the main facts, and they were amazing. It fired
single shot like any ordinary rifle. On continuous fire it worked at six hundred
rounds per minute. But in three-shot bursts it fired at over two thousand rounds
a minute: a staggering rate. The other innovation was that the 4.7 mm cartridges
were caseless, which meant that he could carry a much greater supply of ammo
than with a conventional weapon.
Flicking through the manual, Ryan’s eye was caught by several facts he wanted to
study at greater leisure. But right now, with the vids recording his every move,
it would be smart to leave. He snatched the gun—nearly dropping it because of
the film of oil that still covered it—filled his coat pockets with mixed ammo
and quickly followed the disappearing figure of J. B. Dix.
“THE BIG HUNK CALLED JOE just gotten himself iced,” said Okie through a mouthful
of doughnut. She was watching yet another old police serial, Hill Street Blues.
Ryan was lying on his narrow bed, perusing the arms manual for his new gun,
occasionally helping himself from a bag of mutlicolored sugary sweets called
Jelly beans that Krysty had found.
Finn and Hennings were playing a noisy vid game called “Klingon Blasters.” Hun
was stretched out on her bed, running her fingers through her green hair,
listening to some music called soul on her cans.
Doc was lying on his own bed, eyes closed, chest moving regularly in sleep. J.B.
was muttering to himself as he tried to persuade one of the microwaves to
disgorge several cheese-filled portions of chicken breast.
“I’m the Klingon expert, you stupe,” yelped Finn, excitedly.
Henn walked away disgustedly. “Fuckin’ Klingons. Next time we’ll play for
creds.”
“What’ll you spend it on?” asked Krysty, sitting by Ryan, brushing her long,
flaming hair, allowing it to spread in fiery waves across her shoulders.
“A fifty-shot mag on this beauty, J.B.,” called Ryan, cradling his new toy.
“Doesn’t tumble like the five-fifty-six does. Won’t mebbe do the damage, but I
figure it’s better for— well, look who we got here.”
Everyone turned, except Hun, who was deafened by her own music. Standing at the
door was the Keeper, paying them a visit.
Quint was flanked by his two wives, Rachel grinning toothlessly on his left,
Lori a couple of paces behind on the right. All three of them were holding their
MP-5 SD-2 silenced submachine guns under their arms, in a casual, unthreatening
way.
Ryan immediately began to feel concern. Not one of them actually had easy access
to a loaded blaster. Indeed, Hun, eyes closed, humming away to herself, still
hadn’t seen them.
His deep-set eyes were rheumy, red-rimmed and his straggly beard was stained
with some sort of sticky oil, but Quint was nodding and smiling. He stopped
about twenty paces from them.
“Keeper says greetings to our guests. First guests in a long day. Savin’ those
as sleeps down below. Sleeps the long sleep as ordered by the Keeper, don’t
they, my dear?” he asked Rachel, who nodded like a child’s doll.
“Glad you’ve come, Keeper Quint,” said Ryan, standing by his bed, signaling
behind his back with his fingers, warning the others that he didn’t like the
course things were taking—warning them to be as ready as they could without
actually taking any provocative action.
“The Keeper comes and goes when he wishes. When are you goin’?” he snapped, the
colored ribbons fluttering in his beard.
“Day after tomorrow,” replied Ryan.
“Eh?”
“He said they’re goin’ day after next, Quint,” said Rachel.
“Keeper says mebbe. Mebbe they will and mebbe they won’t.”
Ryan Cawdor’s eye was caught by the young girl, Lori. Standing just behind the
old man, her husband, her mouth kept opening and closing, as though she was
about to faint. In the quiet, Ryan heard her spurs tinkling.
“We go when we please, old man,” J.B. said.
“Don’t you speak to my brother like that, you glass-eyed shitter!” spat Rachel.
“Brother!” exclaimed Finnegan. “Thought he was your husband.”
“Ah, you clever fat prick, he is. Brother. Husband. I’m his wife.”
“Then… ?” said Ryan, pointing to Lori.
“Oh, the dummy. She’s his daughter’s daughter. Don’t have the brains of a frozen