Free When Diplomacy Fails . . . by Michael Z. Williamson Page B

inventory as ‘gun system, soldier portable.’ We didn’t say, ‘With four barrels of automated death ready to paint the walls with people’s livers.’ ”
    “I see bullion, cash, a bag of spangly jewelry, good cigars, enough for trade, some liquor . . . I’m not seeing grenades either hand or projectile.”
    Jason reached past him. “Yeah, and this shotgun drum is shot, slug and recon only, no flame or explosive rounds.”
    “I don’t see any explosive kits for Elke.”
    “Please do not offer that information. We’ll relay it through Alex.”
    “Yeah. So they shorted us on everything explosive. Does the Medusa have loads?”
    “Not for the grenade launcher, no.”
    “Fuckers.”
    Jason indicated the crates. “They don’t seem to have been opened, so the stuff was never loaded. I don’t know if that was a military thing, a BuState thing, something personal from Highland, or just some kind of cock-up.”
    Aramis shrugged. “In the meantime, we do have small arms.”
    “And that,” Jason said.
    “Oh?” Aramis opened the box. Harness. Nozzles . . .
    “A jump belt?” he asked to confirm.
    “Good for about thirty seconds of lift. Between the need for recon, the apartment blocks and those stupid walls they’re building between factions, I figured we might use one.”
    “Heck, only one?”
    “One was all I could get them to unload,” Jason said.
    An hour later, Aramis was amazed. Jason knew more about small arms than any dozen armorers he’d met. He could rattle off from memory alloys, strengths, ranges, ballistic patterns, timing and torque specs, masses, generation upgrades. He could strip a carbine in twenty seconds without even looking at it. He had a small but detailed tool box, and Aramis helped him sort and lay out parts as he modded all their weapons.
    “Since we have permission from the principal, money from Corporate, and the tools to do so, we’ll go with the best, personalized.”
    Aramis asked, “How do you know how everyone wants them personalized?”
    “From two years of operating with you,” Jason said with a grin. He slapped retaining pins on the weapon he held, cycled through a function check, and shoved it at Aramis.
    Aramis took it. He checked the chamber, settled it in his grip and . . .
    Holy crap. That was awesome.
    It fit his hands perfectly. Controls for the weapon, attached launcher, optics and accessories sat right under his thumbs and forefingers. Three easy clicks took him from scope to standard to battlesight, with a thumb flick for night vision or UV for seeing through smoke. It balanced exactly between his hands. Everything was mounted with quick detach keys. He’d already seen the compartments with spare parts, batteries and cleaning kit. It was self-contained light support for a squad, and they each had one, plus some spares.
    “Damned good work, man,” he said.
    “Thanks. There may be some problems with the encryption. If so, let me know.”
    Aramis shifted his grip. The biometrics didn’t disengage, as required by law. He still had a live weapon even when only his finger was on the trigger, no palm on the grip.
    “It seems to be working fine,” he said. Fine for what he needed it for.
    “Good. I’ll work on the others. Tell Elke I have hers almost ready.”
    “She’ll be jealous that she wasn’t first.” He stretched and started to stand.
    Jason grinned. “She’ll be fine. We go way back.”
    “When did you first work with her, anyway?” He crouched back down for the story.
    Jason leaned back and grabbed a rag to clean his hands. “I was actually still in service. We had an exercise going on, and mining charges set to do a hasty dig of some boulders. You’ve seen the OmniDig multipurpose engineer vehicle?” he asked. Aramis nodded. “Well, in addition to trench, grade and load blades, it has a high-speed pole drill. On pilot bore, it cuts five centimeters, and can reach down three meters. More than enough. We chased out, bored under this