Free Maximum Offence by David Gunn Page A

party was only sensible.
    All the same . . .
    ‘Sir,’ says Haze. He’s cupping his hand as if it holds an empire’s worth of treasure. So far as the SIG’s concerned, it does.
    ‘A cinder-maker chip?’
    ‘Better, sir . . .’ Haze grins excitedly. ‘It’s a conscience override. Would you like me to fit it?’ What he means is, please may I . . .
    Tossing him the gun, I watch Haze swivel a grip to click the chip into place. Some of what he does deals with a handshake routine for the power pack, but mostly he’s just checking everything is in order. That’s what he tells me anyway.
    In the bottom of the case we find two more power packs. Both full.
    ‘Sweet,’ says the gun.
    Rotating through incendiary, explosive and hollow-point, it swallows a third of the first pack and flickers happily. There is an old law against hollow-point, but no one pays it much attention.
    ‘Lock and load,’ says Shil.
    The SIG-37 snorts. ‘It’s load and lock.’
    She scowls, just for a change. Although that might be at the way Rachel is still smiling at me. Neen, Franc and Haze pull weapons from a box, and are obviously disappointed. They were hoping for pulse rifles.
    What they have are Kemzin 19s, militia standard.
    Mud-coloured and squat, short scopes, blunt muzzles, long magazines, under-slung rangefinders. Ugly as fuck.
    The galaxy is full of them. At least the bits we occupy.
    You can buy a Kemzin 19 rifle for less than the cost of a meal at a café on Zabo Square. There are places you can get one for the price of a beer. Hell, there are probably places where you buy a beer and they throw in a Kemzin free.
    ‘Shit,’ says Neen.
    Shil is swearing in her turn.
    Needles in the trigger guards have just drawn blood, allowing the weapons to lock themselves to their owner’s DNA. That kind of modification is expensive.
    And OctoV isn’t known for being generous.
    So either the U/Free are paying, or the general and OctoV need to be sure no one else is going to be firing these. That means we have to be going somewhere that guns are rare. Even Kemzins.
    At least I think that is what it means . . .
    Our new combat jackets are interesting. They’re sleeveless, with a dozen ammunition pouches. That’s not what is interesting. Each one has scrub camouflage, great patches of yellow, greys and brown.
    ‘Rags,’ says Shil.
    ‘Ballistically lined rags,’ says Haze.
    I’d kill for a couple of fat-wheel combats or a light IV, but maybe we’re going to pick up half-tracks at the other end. And maybe we’re not, because the next things we find are boots, with air soles, double bonding and padded sides. These things matter. At least, they matter to anyone who relies on being able to move and keep moving to stay alive.
    ‘Armour up,’ I tell my troopers.
    We lose our fancy jackets, our old boots. All the kit we got for Paper’s party. What interests me is that none of our new kit is Octovian-made. You could slaughter the lot of us and learn nothing from picking over our bodies. In fact, if all you had was Haze to pin the choice on, you would think we were metalheads.
    It makes me want to ask Colonel Vijay exactly what getting this U/Free observer back involves. Not that I give a fuck either way, you understand.
    Colonel Vijay scowls when he sees us. I’m not sure if it’s the fact we no longer look neat, or he simply doesn’t like what was in the boxes. Everyone wears a sleeveless jacket; everyone wears a helmet, with flip-down visor. Except Colonel Vijay, who still wears his full-dress uniform. He looks about twelve.
    The co-pilot’s seat is empty, so I take it.
    Having opened his mouth to order me out, the colonel changes his mind. Maybe he believes officers shouldn’t argue in front of their men. Instead, he takes his place in the pilot’s seat in silence.
    ‘Sir,’ I say.
    A sideways flick of his eyes tells me he is listening.
    ‘About our mission. When do I get briefed?’
    He sighs. ‘It’s need to know,’ he says.