Part 11: Call of Booty

"All right." Schuhart rested against the big half-track's side as he inspected the freshly reassembled rifle. "Since you've handled it and learned to take it apart, I suppose you want to fire it now."

Richardson wondered if this was some kind of trick question. "Um... yes?"

"I have to be up front about this," the man explained. "A lot of the others think I should refuse your request."

"Why?"

"They fear you'd become little better than child soldiers." When the pair of gosta gave him blank looks, Schuhart released a resigned sigh. "Okay... Picture a bunch of half-starved twelve year old Africans – kidnapped, brainwashed and amped up on narcotics – going at each other with rusty Chinese AKs on the bidding of ten-a-penny warlords who think 'child welfare' means giving three kicks to the head instead of five. The continent's swarming with 'em, Angola through Zimbabwe... Southeast Asia's got a lot, too."

Harrington looked offended. "But we are not abducted," she asserted. "We are volunteers."

"Not that the yuppies would believe it... Anyway, what do you expect to get out of this? What do you really want?"

"We want to protect ourselves," the girl answered proudly, Richardson nodding in agreement, "and those around us."

"Uh-huh." Schuhart scratched his jaw. "That's your excuse?"

"It is."

"Good enough for me... Next question is, what job do you train for? I assume you two would prefer to stick together?"

Richardson nodded again. "Yes, please."

"You're kind of lightweight for anti-tank or machine gunner duty," the man pointed out. "The most viable option is training as a sniper-spotter pair, but I can only give you the basics on that and I must warn you – it's not an easy career. It takes patience, discipline. You may have to spend hours, even days, waiting to make just one shot. That one shot may be all you can take during an entire mission." Schuhart cocked his head. "But it'd take a while for you to build the requisite skills even if you turn out to be stellar prodigies, so you'll have to settle for squad sharpshooter in the short term. Less sneaking and more action, working as part of a bigger unit. Think you can hack it?"

"It's enough," Richardson interjected. "When can we start?"

"I've got a friend coming in who can teach you the finer points, but I'm sure he'll be happier if you already have the basics down when he arrives." The cyclops nodded towards the Kettenkrad. "C'mon."

Azanael wasn't sure why she'd tailed Renaril and Elaqebil, especially with the guarantee of imminent trouble looming over the pair, but it gave her a first-rate view of what followed. Elaqebil quickly took charge, leading the way into a restricted section. The few personnel who tried to stop her were universally driven back by a combination of her fierce looks, Renaril's unabated agitation and the tall pilot's own looming presence in the rearguard. Though she'd been too bitter to appreciate it at the time, that summer she'd spent in a cell aboard Ekaril's battlecruiser was nothing next to what the system could officially do to those who got out of line. She couldn't suppress a shiver at the frigid attitudes of those who worked in Magnanimous Hyacinth's disciplinary affairs department. Even this part of the station's structure itself seemed to exude a foreboding atmosphere.

It only got worse when Elaqebil bulldozed into the interrogation anteroom. It was soundproofed, of course, and the entire far wall was a one-way mirror. "You see?" Renaril frantically hissed. "You see what they're doing to her!?"

On the other side, a cluster of individuals were standing around a chair with heavy restraints on the arms and legs. Kang was strapped into it, a plethora of fine tubes attached to the needles embedded in her arms. She stared straight ahead as if in a trance: only the beads of sweat on her forehead and a tremor of her fingertips betrayed that she was fighting every moment of the procedure. In addition to the expressionless technicians, the onlookers included an Arume with the same black and gold rank stripes as Renaril's own plus an aging man in forime military-style clothing. The chamber's microphone was disabled, leaving those outside it unable to follow the terse questions and answers passing back and forth within.

"I don't think they're torturing her," Elaqebil observed gingerly, "but an expedient interrogation shouldn't be conducted without your approval." She went over to the inner door and thumped it.

The other group commander soon joined them with a scowl. "What do you want?"

"A-hem." Elaqebil puffed out her ample chest a little, emphasizing her own rank stripes. Though her position as a superintendent of forime affairs put her in a different chain of command than the navy's, she technically outranked both the present commanders. "Group Commander... Benacirael, isn't it? You appear to be intruding on Renaril's jurisdiction."

"It's not hers any more," Benacirael snorted. "The Hong Kong crisis zone has been transferred to my authority, per fleet command's orders." She snapped her fingers at the door guards before turning her back on the intruders. "This isn't any concern of hers."

"Azanael," Elaqebil intoned in her sweetest dare-I-trouble-you voice before the guards could drag her protege from the premises, "would you please take Renaril to the mess and wait for me there? If anyone asks, say I cleared it."

"By the way, Uncle Roland," Harrington asked as she climbed out of his vehicle, "why were you meeting with the enemy?"

"Hm?"

"That person who visited," Richardson clarified. "Uncle Nereus said she was from the Arume."

"Only in a very loose sense." Schuhart commented, bending to fit his brace. "She's definitely not in their pocket, so there's hope yet."

"She is... your friend?" Harrington didn't seem to think such was possible.

"It's a bit of a stretch to say we're old war buddies," the man mused as he picked up his rifle and the two extras he'd retrieved from his field office, "but Colonel Kang and I go back a ways."

"Is she a good person?"

"Hm..." Schuhart considered the question for a few moments. "She lives on a hair trigger, doesn't care about her own safety, thinks democracy is for the bovine and holds that China has been going downhill ever since Zhou Enlai died... But yeah, apart from all that I'd say she's a good person." He peered briefly at the row of wooden posts at which he had earlier been shooting, then started towards them.

The gosta trailed him, Harrington looking unconvinced. "In what way is she a good person?"

"Let's see..." Schuhart picked up one of the posts, inverted it and placed it against the wall, leaving the unblemished end uppermost. "I don't think there's anything she wouldn't do for you if you were in her unit," he suggested, stepping to the next post. "She's strong, fast and fiercely loyal to those she cares about... Could definitely beat me in a fight any day, and she'll never take a bribe."

Richardson spoke up before her companion could voice further skepticism. "It sounds as if you admire her very much."

"I should." The man turned over the final post and abruptly walked back to the Kettenkrad. "She still has something to believe in."

"Uh oh," Harrington whispered in Arumic. "Is this what they call 'touching a nerve'?"

"I think so..."

"Let's get started," Schuhart called, bringing the pair scampering towards the small half-track. "We'll do this over three stages, practicing in turns... Stage three is the M-Fourteen, which you've already been introduced to." He set his customary weapon aside and picked up a longer rifle with wood encasing the barrel all the way to the muzzle's snub cap. "This is a Lee-Enfield Mark Three service rifle: when my esteemed great-grandfather went to the trenches a hundred years ago, this is what he carried. It'll be stage two in your training."

"It's like Uncle Daemon's." Richardson's brow furrowed as she recalled the subtle differences in detail. "Almost like it, I mean."

"Well spotted. That's an Indian variant, an RFI Two-A-One... Now the first stage, for reasons which will quickly become apparent, is this Mark Four trainer. Put these in your ears and watch carefully."

The purpose of the pairs of yellow foam plugs which he passed to each gosta was clear enough, but Richardson found herself stumped by Schuhart's purpose. She couldn't see any significant difference between the latter two rifles, so why train with one specifically before the other? She wouldn't even know which one he put down and which he picked up if she weren't keeping her eyes on him. Switching back to the first Lee-Enfield, the one-eyed man set a cardboard box on the Kettenkrad's left fuel tank. From it he took five grungy cartridges, neatly clipped together with a thin piece of metal, and loaded them with a stiff push of his thumb. "Okay," he yelled at last, ramming the mechanism closed and stepping away, "here we go!"

The long weapon jolted in his hands: Richardson heard the noise of its discharge less than she felt the shockwave from the bullet's passage. While Schuhart, fumbling with a system obviously not meant for lefties, ejected the sulfur-scented casing and chambered his second round, she turned her eyes to the targeted post. The next shot was equally awing, jolting the standing timber which it struck: a display far more impressive than the earlier session with the much-disdained captured rifle. After the fifth round, Schuhart changed over to the trainer and loaded it with a single, smaller cartridge: when he pulled the trigger, nothing seemed to happen.

Whipping the bolt back, the instructor reloaded and indicated that the gosta should watch the muzzle rather than the butt. This time Richardson caught the anemic puff of smoke, almost nothing compared to what she'd witnessed a minute ago. Now that she saw it in action, the trainer's purpose was straightforward. "Uncle Roland," the girl asked, following the shooter's lead in removing the plugs from her ears, "why couldn't you just explain that at the beginning?"

"I could have," Schuhart remarked mildly, "but when I was taking composition classes in school, 'show, don't tell' was the mantra they always hammered into us... Now, who wants to go first?"

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"I don't think so." Renaril slouched in her seat, elbows on the table. "I don't understand," she mumbled. "I though things were finally getting better, but now..."

"Better?" Azanael frowned. "Forgive me if I seem unimpressed, Group Commander, but I can't see how starting wars with Argentina, Afghanistan, Saudi Arabia and Korea could make things better."

"I know." The officer sank even lower, ignoring the pilot's lack of etiquette. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this."

"..."

Azanael's difficulty in thinking of a suitable reply was rendered moot by the entrance of four other Arume. The one in front wore a commander's cape and carried the matching cap in her hand. Her snowy hair was raked back as if she'd walked straight into a gale somewhere down the corridor. Immediately behind her were a pair of petty officers: one with a slightly reddish mane and a timid demeanor, the other hard-faced and aggressively postured. Following these three came a woman as tall as Azanael herself, a chief engineer with a little braid beside her left temple.

"...Believe they called us all the way out here," the angry one was saying. "What do they want to know that we haven't told them already?"

"It could be worse," the engineer replied wearily. "At least we left the grab-ass behind."

"Poor Edamamel," the angry Arume snorted. "How many reprimands has she scored now? Six? Seven? Is anyone keeping count?"

"Don't remind me," the engineer sighed. "Anyway, what are we supposed to tell the spooks?"

"Let me worry about that," the commander cut in, prompting nods of compliance from the others.

"I feel sorry for Schuhart," the quiet one opined. "I mean, it definitely wasn't his fault that..."

Her voice faded as she and the others passed out of the room, leaving Azanael and Renaril alone with their unhappy thoughts.

Richardson was a mass of pain. Her unprepared shoulder throbbed where the .303's stout buttplate had slammed against it again and again, her thumb stung from reaching too quickly for a hot casing which hadn't correctly ejected and her legs and back ached with the strain of holding a half-squatting position at the rear of the Kettenkrad, the venerable machine's aft handrail serving as a rest for the heavy rifle. She wasn't about to quit, though: the other gosta had already moved up to stage three and was contentedly blasting away with the M14 under Schuhart's tutelage. Time to strengthen her own focus: line up the little post and the little notch, take a deep breath and hold it...

Boomph!

Renaril snapped out of her depressed daze only when Elaqebil entered. "Well?" the former demanded.

"It's not good," Elaqebil reported, sitting across from her on the bench beside Azanael. "Apparently Kang was involved in a plot to disrupt your treaty with the Chinese government."

"But... The insurgents?"

"They're actually Russians working for an American arms dealer named Roland Schuhart. It seems they and he were just hired to handle the ground work."

"No..." Renaril shook her head frantically. "No-no-no, that's impossible!"

Elaqebil appeared sympathetic but firm. "The phys-techs put Kang on heavy compliance mix. She told them everything."

Azanael shuddered, the innocuousness of her friend's words only making the feeling of dread worse. 'Compliance mix' meant a powerful cocktail of emotional suppressants and other psychological effectors. Subjected to a steady dosage, the victim would be helpless against even a simple questioning. Use of the drugs was ostensibly restricted to emergencies and its abuse mandated severe penalties. "Elaqebil," she hissed, "by forime law that is torture."

"Law we aren't subject to," the other pointed out. "Anyway, it's over – they wouldn't talk to me until after the session was done."

A glimmer of hope came over Renaril. "Can I see her now?"

"Afraid not. She's been put into an induced coma for her own safety, and Benacirael made it clear that she doesn't want anything to do with you." Elaqebil held up her hands. "I'm sorry, but she wouldn't budge on that. Until further notice, you're off the Hong Kong operation."

"But why is this happening? Why?"

Both the other women flinched at the anguished cry. "Renaril, please," Elaqebil admonished. "I know you like tomboys, but getting so upset over someone you've only known a few days – "

"It's not like that! It's just..." The group commander sagged again. "It just isn't fair..."

"Elaqebil," Azanael said slowly, giving voice to a lurking suspicion, "how much of this information did you hear from the suspect herself?"

"None of it directly. Like I said, they made me wait outside until they'd finished."

"Did they give you a transcript?"

"Said it needed cleaning up." Elaqebil squinted. "Where are you going with this?"

"It's nothing," the pilot answered curtly. She failed to sound sincere and all three of them knew it. "You said the arms dealer was named Schuhart?"

"That's right."

Azanael turned to Renaril. "Group Commander, didn't one of the women who passed by us mention that name?"

"I wasn't paying attention," the younger Arume mumbled, not sounding very attentive now either.

Elaqebil, however, looked interested. "Someone else knew about Schuhart? Who was that?"

"There were four of them," the tallest of the trio recalled. "A commander, an engineer and a couple of junior officers. They were complaining about being summoned to give a report, and then one started to say that something wasn't Schuhart's fault. That's all I picked up."

"Huh." The highest-ranked of the Arume scratched her head. "No names on any of the four?"

"None," Azanael confirmed, "and now that I think about it, I couldn't even place the accent they spoke with... One did mention an acquaintance, however – someone named Edamamel." She looked to Renaril. "If Benacirael won't help you, this Edamamel might."

Elaqebil raised an eyebrow. "It's not like you to get so fired up, Azanael."

"This is all suspicious." The pilot folded her arms. "Admit it – you think so too."

"Irregular, perhaps." The superintendent stood up. "Be that as it may, we all have our posts to attend to. If you come to the movie screening, maybe we can talk after."

"One more thing before you go," said Azanael quickly. "Who was the man with Benacirael?"

"A third-layer security consultant named Hyman. He's American, but I understand the Japan branch picked him up. What about him?"

"Just curious." Azanael also rose. "See you later."

"...Tokarev, Makarov, Interarms and Zaharoff, Heckler-Koch, Spitzgeschoss, tap it, rack and fiiire!" Schuhart began waving his arm as if directing a band only he could see. "Weee didn't start the fighting... It was you who came here, and now you're to blame dears... Weee didn't start the fighting..." He broke off with a disappointed expression. "Eh, that chorus needs work."

"Speaking of work," Nereus called, appearing from inside the warehouse behind the large half-track, "has Hakim called you back?"

"No sign of him. Any progress with the Sherman?"

The older man shrugged. "The engine's fine, still working on the 'dozer blade. The main pipe is a no-go."

"No thanks to the museum staff for that," Schuhart muttered. "Secondaries?"

"Our spares will fit."

"Praise be. I'm taking these two over to KK for consultation, unless you need me."

"Did they turn out okay?"

The monocular man grinned. "It was awesome."

"I'll take your word for it." Nereus went inside. "Don't enjoy yourself too much."

Richardson had to admit, as she lifted out the operating rod for the fifth time, that she was getting bored with field stripping. She and Harrington by now well knew how to break down the rifle and the gosta had discovered that shooting was far more rewarding than reassembling, despite the aches and pains. With Keiko making regular inspections as she orbited the room to check on all the girls, the rest either reading books or sleeping, there was nothing to do but press on with the given task until Uncle Roland came to the rescue.

Harrington had just removed the M14's upper handguard when the door clicked open. "Keiko," Schuhart called softly, "Karan's here."

"Really?" The giant of a woman went to the door. "Hey, long time no see... Better keep it down, some of the kids are sleeping."

"Kids?" That voice was a new one, with an accent Richardson hadn't heard before.

"Our orphan innocents." Schuhart entered with a chuckle, followed by a young man of south Asian appearance with yet another long rifle on his person. "Tread lightly now."

The newcomer looked taken aback. "Roland, these... These are..!"

"Gosta – the few who, out of fear, defiance, empathy or whatever reason, abandoned their makers' intended purpose." The man's tone was entirely matter-of-fact. "They had nowhere else to go and nobody else who would help them, so..."

"But aren't they, you know, dangerous?"

"Haven't had any trouble yet... Some of 'em are still a bit skittish, but they assimilate information like you wouldn't believe." Catching a questioning look from Sauer over the top of A Brief History of Time, he gave her a thumbs-up.

"And... What are you going to do with them?"

"Give them a chance at having lives of their own, obviously. They ought to be fine as long as the sky eyes don't catch them."

The stranger looked down at Richardson and her companion. "Why are these two..?"

"They volunteered."

"Volunteered... Volunteered to fight?"

"Yup. First of a new breed of Janissary... On top of that, they seem to be telepathically bonded."

"...Huh?"

"You should have seen them earlier. It was amazing."

The visitor frowned. "I'll take your word for it. What about the rest, are you going to teach them fighting as well?"

"To improve their odds of survival, if nothing else." Schuhart motioned to the rifles captured from the soldiers, stacked along one wall. "Give 'em those if they show decent aptitude."

"M-Fours?"

"XM-Eighteens. They're made in the second layer – the Arume brought them over to give to local collaborators."

"The Arume brought these?"

"Yeah, but they don't use 'em themselves – they're too fastidious." There was a sardonic laugh. "If there's one thing I'll never see so long as I live, it's a sky eyes crawling through the mud with a rifle."

"I can imagine."

"So?" Keiko came over, cradling what she called her 'big ArmaLite' with affection. "You looking to join us or not?"

"Well... Nereus' message made it sound like you had a pretty serious outfit coming together."

"We do," Schuhart replied. "And while we may look like a bunch of stalkers loosely operating under the methods of Novaya Tula, greater things are in the works. We've got some awesome people aboard already."

"Like who?"

"Arbuthnot Ponsonby, for a start."

Karan's eyebrows arched. "Ponsonby? The genius of applied chemistry?"

"And sometime social commentator, yes."

"I thought he was working for Seele."

Schuhart chuckled again. "Emphasis on the past tense there..." Richardson briefly tuned out the conversation to help Harrington inspect the M14's parts for fouling. She looked up again when the arms dealer went over to one of several boxes stacked in the room's corners and took out a huge four-barreled device with the words KAIJIN CONTROL ONLY stencil-painted on it. "This serious enough for you?"

"Uh... Yes."

"Okay, then." Schuhart put the launcher down. "Welcome to Eto Delo. You already know Keiko and most of the other ops staff. The girls are Richardson, Harrington, Sauer, Benelli, Rubin, Astra, Korth, Mannlicher, Webley, Carcano, Johnson, Lebel, Krieghoff, Vickers, Borchardt and Krag."

"That's a lot of names," Karan remarked. "Why are they all..?"

"Seemed like a good idea at the time," the man with the braced leg confessed.

"I should have known." The newest member looked around. "When do I start?"

"Right now, if you're up for it." Schuhart motioned to Harrington and Richardson. "These two are aiming to follow in your footsteps. I've shown them the basics, but you know I'm no medalist."

"I get it," the other man said. "Lead on."

On Schuhart's cue, the gosta trainees began to reassemble their weapon. "Anyway," he said as they worked, "how was Bangalore?"

"Terrible," Karan replied glumly. "Our government is run by thieves and idiots and the streets are clogged with extremists... Muslim, Hindu, nationalist, traditionalist, they're all the same. I couldn't stay there."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's worse over the border... What about yourself? Have you been back to the States?"

"Not once," Schuhart grunted. "I'm a stateless person now, even."

"Congratulations."

"Thanks... All set?"

Harrington nodded, resting the M14 on her shoulder. "We are ready."

"Off we go, then – hup-two, everybody!" Schuhart opened the door and was halfway through it when he froze. "What the hell are you doing here!?"

"I love that movie," said Elaqebil as the evening's audience dispersed. "So quotable... 'Here's looking at you, kid,' and 'Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.'"

Azanael – never a great fan of heterosexual romance – rolled her eyes when her friend's back was turned, but annoyance gave way to worry as Renaril pushed towards the duo. "Group Commander, are you all right?"

"I've got a new problem," the youngest of the three answered. "According to the database, Edamamel doesn't exist."