Free Trident's Forge by Patrick S Tomlinson

through the floor as the shuttle touched down. Benson let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. Not seeing anything more important for him to do, he walked to the back of the cabin and watched the security team as they prepared.
    Atwood already had two big crates pulled from storage, and the team busied itself spreading their contents all over the deck. The riot suits were familiar to Benson from his days running Avalon module’s police force. They’d been designed for low-to-moderate threat environments and were rated against physical blows from fists or clubs, and slashing or piercing attacks from knives or other edged weapons. In theory, they would be more than adequate to protect them from anything that could be produced by late stone-age technology.
    In theory.
    The other crate held the other half of their kit, which was not at all defensive. Benson reached in and grabbed one of the rifles, careful to keep his finger well away from the trigger. It was a short, blocky design meant for use in the tight confines of an urban environment, but it would work equally well inside a dense forest. It was black and utilitarian almost to the point of ugliness. It was part of the very first batch of guns manufactured in over two hundred years. Most people had believed mankind was better off without them, and indeed they were still banned for civilian ownership. But the scars of David Kimura’s attack on Shangri-La ran deep. Losing twenty thousand people in minutes did that to a society.
    Complicating matters further was the footage of the final confrontation with Kimura, where Benson had used the last gun in existence, the same FN M1910 .380 auto that had killed Archduke Ferdinand and triggered World War I, to thwart the bombing that would have blown off the back half of the Ark and left everyone to freeze or starve to death.
    Between that and the shock of moving to the surface and having to fight for the top spot on the food chain for the first time in a few thousand years, Shambhala’s leadership had been forced to be a little more practical on the matter of firearms prohibition.
    Korolev saw him holding it and walked over. “We’re a little past stun-sticks, huh chief?”
    â€œYou can say that again.”
    â€œMr Benson,” Atwood’s sharp voice snapped from behind them like a board breaking. “Are you qualified in the use of the P-120 personal defense weapon?” It was more accusation than question.
    Benson held up a hand, but Korolev jumped in before he could answer. “Are you kidding? Chief Benson is the only person qualified. Unless you think a couple of hours on the range is the same as being in a real gunfight.”
    Ah, Korolev. Reliably loyal and predictably hotheaded. Atwood was about to blow her stack, and rightfully so, but Benson averted the eruption by setting the rifle back in its case. “It wasn’t much of a gunfight, constable, considering I was the only one with a gun. Sergeant Atwood is right, I haven’t been trained on this particular weapon. And you should really show more deference to your superiors, Pavel.”
    â€œYes, sir.” Korolev squared his shoulders. “Sorry, ma’am.”
    If Atwood stepped any closer to Korolev, she’d have stood on his toes. She was a good five centimeters shorter than him, but she hardly seemed to notice. “You may have been assigned here as a favor to Mr Benson, but you’re under my command for the duration of this expedition, and until you are relieved, you will respect my authority. Do you understand?”
    â€œYes ma’am. Won’t happen again.”
    â€œI expect not. Now get in your gear. If you’re not squared away when that door drops in three minutes, you’ll stand the rest of this watch naked. Move!”
    Korolev saluted crisply, then fell back and hurriedly got into his riot gear. Atwood glanced up at Benson and motioned toward the front