‘Why not shoot at target holos like everybody else?’ Sma asked.
‘Holos are all very well, Diziet, but…’ He turned and presented her with the gun. ‘Here; hold this a minute, will you? Thanks.’ He fiddled with something inside the inspection panel while Sma held the gun in both hands. The plasma rifle was a metre and a quarter long, and very heavy. ‘Holos are all right for calibration and that sort of crap, but for… for getting the feel of a weapon, you have to really… really waste something, you know?’ He glanced at her. ‘You have to feel the kick, and see the debris. Real debris. Not this holographic shit; the real stuff.’
Sma and the drone exchanged looks.
‘You hold this… cannon,’ Sma said to the machine. Skaffen-Amtiskaw’s fields were glowing pink with amusement. It took the weight of the gun from her while the man continued to tinker with the weapon’s insides.
‘I don’t think a General Systems Vehicle thinks in terms of junk, Zakalwe,’ Sma said, sniffing dubiously at the contents of the ornately-worked metal jug. She wrinkled her nose. ‘Just matter that’s currently in use and matter that’s available to be recycled and turned into something else to be used. No such thing as rubbish.’
‘Yeah,’ he muttered. ‘That’s the crap it came out with as well.’
‘Gave you ice instead, eh?’ the drone said.
‘Had to settle for it.’ He nodded, clicking the armoured inspection panel back into place and lifting the gun out of the drone’s grip. ‘Should take a hit all right, but now I can’t get the damn gun to work.’
‘Zakalwe,’ the drone sighed. ‘It would hardly be surprising if it isn’t working. That thing belongs in a museum. It’s eleven hundred years old. We make pistols that are more powerful, nowadays.’
He sighted carefully, breathed smoothly… then smacked his lips, put the gun down and took a drink from the goblet. He looked back at the drone. ‘But this thing’s beautiful,’ he told the machine, taking up the gun and flourishing it. He slapped the weapon’s darkly cluttered side. ‘I mean, take a good look at it; it looks powerful!’ He gave an admiring growl, then took up his stance again and shot.
This firing fared no better than the others. He sighed and shook his head, staring at the weapon. ‘It’s not working,’ he said plaintively. ‘It just isn’t working. I’m getting recoil, but it just isn’t working.’
‘May I?’ Skaffen-Amtiskaw said. It floated towards the gun. The man looked suspiciously at the drone. Then he turned the gun over to it.
The plasma rifle flashed from every available screen, things clicked and beeped, the inspection panels flicked open and shut, and then the drone gave the gun back to the man. ‘It’s in perfect working order,’ it said.
‘Huh.’ He held the weapon in one hand, up and out from his body, then slapped the back of the stock with his other hand, whirling the big rifle round so that it spun like a rotor in front of his face and chest. He didn’t take his eyes off the drone while he did this. He was still looking at the machine when he twisted his wrist, brought the gun to a stop – already aimed straight at the distant black cube of ice – and fired it, all in one smooth action. Again, the gun seemed to fire, but the ice sat undisturbed.
‘The hell it’s working,’ he said.
‘How exactly did your conversation with the ship go, when you asked for your “rubbish”?’ the drone inquired.
‘I don’t remember,’ he said loudly. ‘I told it what a complete cretin it was for not having some junk to shoot at, and it said when people wanted to shoot at real shit they usually used ice. So I said, all right then, you scumbag rocket… or something like that; give me some ice!’ He held out his hands expressively. ‘That was all.’ He dropped the gun.
The drone caught it. ‘Try asking it to clear the bay for firing practice,’ it suggested. ‘Specifically, ask it to clear a space in its trapdoor coverage.’
He accepted the gun from the drone, looking disdainful. ‘All right,’ he said slowly. He looked about to say something else, talking into mid-air, then looked uncertain. He scratched his head, glanced at the drone and appeared to be about to talk to it, then looked away again. Finally he jabbed a finger at Skaffen-Amtiskaw. ‘You… you ask for… all that. It’ll sound better coming from another machine.’
‘Very well. It’s done,’ the drone said. ‘You only had to ask.’
‘Hmm,’ he said. He switched his suspicious look from the drone to the distant black cube. He lifted the gun and aimed at the icy mass.
He fired.
The gun rammed back against his shoulder, and a blinding flash of light threw his shadow behind him. The sound was like a grenade going off. A pencil-thin white line seared the length of the smallbay and joined the gun to the fifteen metre cube of ice, which shattered into a million fragments in a floor-thumping detonation of light and steam and a furiously blossoming cloud of black vapour.
Sma stood, her hands clasped behind her back, and watched debris fountain fifty metres to the top of the bay, where it ricocheted off the roof. More black shrapnel flew the same distance to crash into the bay’s side walls… and tumbling, glittering black shards slithered across the floor towards them. Most skidded to a stop on the ridged surface of the bay, though a few small pieces – blown a long way through the air before thumping into the deck – did actually slide past the two humans and the watching drone, and clunk into the rear wall of the bay. Skaffen-Amtiskaw picked up a fist-size piece from near Sma’s feet. The sound of the explosion echoed clangingly back off the walls a few times, gradually fading.
Sma felt her ears relax. ‘Happy, Zakalwe?’ she asked.
He blinked, then switched the gun off and turned to Sma. ‘Seems to be working all right now,’ he shouted.
Sma nodded. ‘Mm-hmm.’
He motioned with his head. ‘Let’s go get a drink.’ He took up the goblet, and drank as he walked towards the traveltube port.
‘A drink?’ Sma said, falling into step with the man and nodding at the glass he was drinking from. ‘Why; what’s that?’
‘Nearly finished, that’s what this is,’ he told her, loudly. He poured a last half-glass from the metal jug into the goblet.
‘Ice?’ the drone offered, holding up the dripping black lump.
‘No thanks.’
Something flickered in the traveltube, and a capsule was suddenly there, door rolling open. ‘What’s this… trapdoor coverage, anyway?’ he asked the machine.
‘General Systems Vehicle internal explosion protection,’ the drone explained, letting the humans board the capsule first. ‘Snaps anything significantly more powerful than a fart straight into hyperspace; blast, radiation; the lot.’
‘Shit,’ he said, disgusted. ‘You mean you can let nukes off in these fuckers and they don’t even notice?’
The drone wobbled. ‘They notice; probably nobody else does.’
The man stood swaying in the capsule, watching the door roll back into place, shaking his head sorrily. ‘You people just have no idea of fair play, do you?’
The last time he had been on a GSV had been ten years earlier, after he’d almost died on Fohls.
‘Cheradenine?… Cheradenine?’
He heard the voice, but wasn’t sure the woman was really talking to him. It was a beautiful voice. He wanted to reply to it. But he couldn’t work out how to. It was very dark.
‘Cheradenine?’
A very patient voice. Concerned, somehow, but a hopeful voice; a cheerful, even loving voice. He tried to remember his mother.
‘Cheradenine?’ the voice said again. Trying to get him to wake up. But he was awake. He tried moving his lips.
‘Cheradenine… can you hear me?’
He moved his lips, exhaled at the same time, and thought he might have produced a noise. He tried to open his eyes. The darkness wavered.
‘Cheradenine…?’ There was a hand at his face, gently stroking his cheek. Shias! he thought for a second, then swept that memory away to where he kept all the others.
‘H…’ he managed. Just the start of a sound.
‘Cheradenine…’ the voice said, close to his ear now. ‘It’s Diziet here. Diziet Sma. Remember me?’
‘Diz…’ he succeeded in saying, after a couple of failures.
‘Cheradenine?’
‘Yeah…’ he heard himself breathe.
‘Try to open your eyes, will you?’
‘Try’n…’ he said. Then light came, as though it had had nothing to do with him trying to open his eyes. Things took a while to gel, but eventually he saw a restful green ceiling, illuminated from the sides by a fan-shaped glow of concealed lighting, and Diziet Sma’s face looking down at him.
‘Well done, Cheradenine.’ She smiled at him. ‘How are you feeling?’
He thought about this. ‘Weird,’ he said. He was thinking hard now, trying to remember how he’d got here. Was this some sort of hospital? How had he got here?