Free The zenith angle by Bruce Sterling Page A

the Moon! I saw them through the sighting-scope on his rifle.”
    She laughed. “Oh, that? You mean that digital thing? That thing is digital, Alexei.”
    Excited tension drained swiftly from the Colonel’s neck. Of course. Just a fault inside the stupid equipment. Were there really space aliens up there, live volcanoes on the holy Moon—or just a pixel or two, turned red inside some screen? What foolishness.
    Kickoff tugged at the Colonel’s sleeve. Kickoff gestured at his laptop. His tiny airplanes, hidden in the night sky, were sending him fresh pictures.
    A Toyota pickup truck, spanking-new and doubtless Saudi-supplied, was working its way up the gorge. The Colonel held up his leather-gloved fingers: two. There would be two trucks, for there always were. There would also be bandits on foot to escort them, with rifles and walkie-talkies. Kickoff shook his head and made a throat-cutting gesture. Kickoff didn’t care to wait for the chance of bagging both the trucks. That was not necessary to Kickoff’s technical purposes. His assignment, it seemed, was merely to field-test the equipment and the support system. Kickoff gently plugged a small video wire and jack into the side of the rifle’s scope. He blew dust from a flat plastic wafer and inserted a fresh, spotless disk from a jewellike case. Then he urged the Colonel on. The Colonel nodded and bent to his labors. The first .50-caliber round, a thumb-sized lozenge of spinning steel, flew through the Toyota’s hood and completely through its engine block. As the truck lurched to a stop, the Colonel put two more rounds through the exploding glass and metal of the cab. The spidery white gun kicked very gently on its bipod. There was a high-pitched hiss of escaping gas. And yet, no burst of visible fire from the long black barrel. The rifle was gentle, surgical. The rifle almost fired itself.
    A glowing human figure burst free of the shattered truck, and the Colonel missed him as he fled. The fourth round struck him true, though. The oil thief tumbled instantly into two hot glowing pieces: a ruptured carcass, and a severed, spinning arm.
    The Colonel sought the phone. “Tell him that we need to leave this cave now. There will be other bandits. They are never afraid of us, and they will want this weapon very badly.”
    Kickoff listened politely to the anxious squeak from the phone. He made an air-circling gesture. The Colonel leaned in toward the mouthpiece. “I don’t care how many toy airplanes he has, or what they can see. We’re in the dark, next to bandits on foot, moving under cover. They will fire rockets on us from far up the slope, above the cave. Oh, and tell him it’s a lovely gun.”
    Kickoff listened to the reply and made an extensive prepared speech.
    “Alexei, he says to thank you for the compliment. He also says he’s coming home to see me.” She was excited.
    “And he’s taking our satellite phone away, my dear?”
    “Of course he’s taking our phone. But he’s not taking that gun, Alexei. He’s not supposed to carry it inside America. He says that you should keep it. He says he knows a good soldier can use a good gun. He wants you to know that he appreciates you.”
    “He’s a generous man with a gift, your big friend here.” Kickoff was giving a soldier a fine weapon, instead of some mere sordid bribe of dollars. That was very tactful of the American. The Colonel was touched. A handsome gift like this was a clear hint that the two of them would meet again in the future. That seemed probable enough. There certainly wasn’t likely to be any shortage of oil thieves.
    “Trust me, Alexei, he didn’t pay for that gun himself.”
    “Oh, no. Of course Kickoff didn’t pay for it.” Yet others would. A fancy rifle like this was worth a great deal of money. Especially in the right set of wrong hands. The Colonel winced a little at that thought. Young Russian troopers, bewildered, conscripted, doomed, their flesh flying apart under those