Gunsmith
“No.” Mal Irro replied without bothering to turn his head. “Not even close.”
“Mal!” There was a petulance to the tone, a whining note that made Kenneth far less than the ideal companion. Had they not been related, Mal would never have considered the idea of bringing the thin young man alone on one of his material runs, but business was booming and he needed a second set of hands and eyes that he could trust. Blood, even dull and thin, was often the best choice. “You told mom you'd be nice!”
“Wrong,” Mal said, spinning on his heel and stopping Ken in his tracks with a dark glare. “I told her I'd take care of you, which is exactly what I'm doing. Your family isn't in good shape, little man, and without my help you'll never move up and out of the Pre-fabs. I'm not here to make you feel all nice inside or tell you what a smart boy you are. I'm brought you along to learn, and learn quickly.” He took a step forward and held out a hand. “Give it here.”
With a pout, Ken passed over the dark-colored chunk.
“First question,” Mal went on. “Do you know what this is?”
Ken frowned more deeply. “Uh...metal?”
Mal raised his hand and the kid shrank back; his stupidity seemed to be by accident rather than on purpose, so Mal put the hand down and settled for another stern glare.
“Yes,” he said with a grimace. “But what kind?”
“I...” Ken squinted at the dark chunk in Mal's hand. “I dunno.”
“This is pressteel,” he held it out for the young man to touch again. “Look as I change how the light's hitting it, see those reflections?” The sun was wan overhead; Pellsan was a garbage world for all manner of industrial sins, and clouds typically choked the sky. That any sun broke through at all was something of small miracle.
Ken nodded as Mal moved the large piece back and forth. “They're very dull,” he went on, “even considering how little sun we're getting. Part of crafting weaponry is about making the pieces look good for buyers – no high-ranker is going to want a cheap-looking pistol – and part of it is about delivering a blaster that exceeds expectation when it comes to performance.” He tossed the cheap metal aside and strode forward, pushing past Ken as he spoke. “I didn't build my reputation designing and selling inferior products – I'll leave that to all the other Home-world scum. My job,” he bent and picked up a shining hands-width of metal, then discarded it as it began to crumble in his hands, “is to create pieces that not only stand the test of time but give my clients the security of knowing they carry a Mal-made at their side, knowing it will never fail.”
Quick footsteps behind told him that Ken was keeping up and keeping his mouth shut. There might be hope for the kid yet.
“What we really need,” Mal was about to move into another section of the junkyard when a green-tinged reflection caught his eye, “is right here!”
He bent down quickly to scoop up the fist-sized knot of twisted green metal, its small flat sides throwing brilliant light across dusty junk piles as sunlight filtered down.
“But Uncle Mal,” Ken's voice was heavy with dullard's confusion. “That one's so tiny,” he leaned in closer to the gray-green shard. “And dirty!”
“This is what you must learn, Kenneth,” Mal said, slipping the chunk into his pocket. “If you want to be any use as my apprentice. What we've found here is Plasticite, one of the few man-made substances able to compete with pure metal options. This particular variety is used in high-level industrial applications and its dregs,” he patted his pocket, “are simply thrown away.”
A quick press of his homing button and the shuttle was on its way. The less time spent on Pellsan the better – while salvage was encouraged on the world, there were no laws protecting those who claimed items first. Blaster fire often decided ownership.
“So?” Ken said, confusion loud in his voice. “It's good, but it's such a small piece. What good is it?”
“Better than you'd think, Kenny boy. Only a coating of Plasticite is necessary for the inner barrel of a pistol. Once its been fused, no cleaning or lubrication will ever be necessary and no matter the rounds being fired – slug or energy – our customers won't experience any loss of speed.”
A high-pitched whine from overhead told Mal the shuttle would be on the ground in minutes and he turned to face his wayward almost-nephew. “You must learn these things, and quickly, or I will find another assistant. I have hundreds waiting for the privilege, but would prefer to keep this in the family if at all possible. Do well, and you will have a share of my good name. Do poorly,” Mal lightly touched the pistol at his hip - the first one he'd ever crafted - and Ken stepped back.
Turning as the shuttle finally landed, Mal strode for the access hatch and didn't bother to check if Ken came along. Such a check would have shown not only that the young man moved forward quickly but that a sly smile had spread across his face and his eyes narrowed to a guile-filled version of their dumbstruck former selves. “I don't want your good name name, Uncle,” he said under his breath as he stepped into the shuttle. “I'll be making my own – and you'll be the one to supply what I need. Killing you will be a pleasure.”
“You in?” Mal barked, then pulled the door closure as Ken nodded. “Good. Sit down and shut up.”
- D
No comments:
Post a Comment