Free Rogue-ARC by Michael Z. Williamson

carbine, not as massive as the M-5 but decent for a military engagement (and we were invaded by Earth not ten years ago, so don’t give me that “it can’t happen here” crap. Arm your adolescents. We may need them again) and she had a little Merrill that would do the job and fit inside her clothes without bulking up. Now she had a 15mm Armtech.
    I slipped it off the rack, inspected the already open chamber and handed it over. She took it, inspected the chamber and dropped the bolt. It was a bit large for her, but manageable. “It’s a double-roller blowback with a gas piston shock absorber,” I told her. “But it will still kick. Take it to school tomorrow and go practice afterwards. Do a test range with it this weekend.” I handed her two boxes of ammo to supplement the ten rounds in it and the two magazines clipped to the butt and receiver. It was a bulky weapon, but the best thing for her to have at any range practical. “And the ammo in your pistol is at least six months old,” I told her. “Shoot it out after you buy some fresh.”
    “Yes, Dad,” she agreed. She felt a bit reassured with the riot gun in hand. I’d really scared her.
    I hoped I’d done so for nothing.

CHAPTER 4

    We boarded the shuttle without trouble, because there is never any trouble on a Grainne launch. We had tickets; they let us aboard.
    I actually felt a little nervous. It had been ten long years since I did this, and that was leaving a desolated Earth. Before that, it had been my trip to Earth. None of that was conducive to pleasant memories.
    I’m not claustrophobic, but I felt confined. I actually appreciated Silver’s presence.
    That seemed to be the other part. I was back in “military” mode and operating without orders, support of a chain, or with any backup besides her. So the two of us were our element. Everyone else was an outsider.
    I guess my brain shut off. We talked about something, I zoned out staring at couchbacks, then we docked at Vista Station.
    We had regular luggage, and some well-concealed gadgets that no Customs flunky should be able to identify. We had several shipments going to mail drops, and to our embassies, which would take some wiggling to get hold of. We had our wits for making more, and a lot of cash.
    I elected to do Customs at this end, because I figured they’d be less suspicious of someone asking to be inspected.
    It was straightforward enough, but there was an element of nerves. We were officially in Caledonian space by electing to do this, and any discrepancies would end our trip right now.
    The inspector was Indian in ancestry, with slicked black hair. Fit enough generally, dour and bored. He spent some time scrutinizing our ID and passports, which were from FreeBank. I made sure to look relaxed and keep a hand around Silver’s shoulder.
    “You seem a little nervous,” he said to her.
    “First time out,” she muttered weakly.
    “Ah. Well, there’s nothing to worry about.” He smiled and waved us through.
    He didn’t check the bags. He accepted our medical and immunization declaration, which was valid but under fake names. That meant Randall could have done the same.
    Once in our small stateroom aboard the Princess Caroline —double bed that folded down from the wall, workdesk likewise, closet recessed around lavatory, commode and shower stalls—she untensed and sighed.
    I met her eyes and said, “Yeah, you have to be less nervous when we arrive, and for future trips. Especially arrivals.”
    “I know,” she said. “I wasn’t really afraid of being detained, but of blowing the mission.”
    She unfolded the bed and sat down with another exhaled sigh.
    “That’s fine,” I said. “Everyone takes a bit to get used to it. Remember this is the easy part. The worst that happens is a Caledonian jail, and we get bailed out. They’re nice enough people, and civilized. More likely, there’s some kind of meeting, we look clueless, bumbling and apologetic, and off we go, to