Death by a Salesman
[tab]He sighed. The first rule in the drug trade is that you’re never supposed to use your own products. He wasn’t often in that business, but more or less the same thing held true for arms trafficking. If you wind up having to fire your merchandise for anything other than demonstration purposes, either you’ve done something very wrong, or someone else has. In either event it means things have gone badly, and things were going quite badly indeed.
[tab]He sat behind the bar, legs splayed, and smoothly and mechanically ejected the combirifle’s empty ammo magazine into one hand (it was poor form to simply allow mags to drop regardless of depletion) as rounds pinged overhead ahead across the smooth composite surface of the bar and thudded into the opposite side. It was less a testament to the bar’s construction and more a testament to the low caliber weaponry his would-have-been customers were employing. He set the magazine aside and slotted a full one into place, securing it with a satisfying
click and confirming the display’s all-clear readout. Glass and alcohol continued to shatter and spray as he worked. “Listen,” he shouted over the din, “let’s not allow a dispute over sales terms to come between us and an amicable agreement. TermiCon continues to value your interest in its products and if you would kindly—”
[tab]“Screw off and die, you slag freak!” came the response from the other side and the rate of fire redoubled.
[tab]He sighed again and used a foot to draw a hardcase he’d brought over to within arms’ reach. For a moment he had occasion to observe the bartender down the way—some typical Hankish sort—curled up and muttering to herself. He noticed she wasn’t flinching at the various near misses. Perhaps, he thought, they were trying not to hurt the civilians. Strangely sound business policy, if a serious tactical blunder. “If you were employing our merchandise this conflict would already have been resolved,” he offered.
[tab]The reply came purely in the form of more ordnance.
[tab]He grasped the case’s handle and drew it up, putting his thumb on the access pad to verify his identity before keying in the access code. It chirped and unsealed itself, revealing parallel rows of hand-sized, ergonomically contoured and regularly scored discs in snug dumbfoam holders. With thumb and forefinger he plucked two out, and with the circuit completed, used his retinal interface to key them to fragmentation using his skin conductivity. They had been preconfigured for easy operation by baselines. “Last chance to make a deal,” he said, dropping all pretense at civility from his voice in the face of such uncouth barbarians.
[tab]The fire slackened at the sudden tonal shift but did not abate. He watched his interface tick through ten seconds before forcefully flicking the discs up over the bar counter. They began transmitting thermal sensor readouts before they had cleared the edge while his interface correlated it to spatial information about the bar. It fit the acoustic data perfectly. There were seven shooters. One of the discs embedded itself in the ceiling while the landed and stuck on a tabletop like a thrown knife might. They waited for a second to check their targets before exploding, smartshrapnel vectoring itself toward the shooters or otherwise endeavoring to avoid nonhostile heat signatures if the numbers just didn’t work. Simultaneously he was rising.
[tab]He stood, leveling the combirifle smoothly along the indicated target vectors to within a tenth of a percent’s accuracy (the combirifle only needed a ninety five percent match, but sloppiness never rewarded anyone) and squeezed the trigger, transitioning it lightning quick from vector to vector. With each shot the combirifle’s encased rails arced and crackled as excess charge dispersed itself along the plasma trail left by the slug. The sizzling afterglow of the first of which had not fully disappeared from view even as the last seared its way through the smoky atmosphere. Along each track paint and plastic and wood splintered and vaporized as the slugs—designed to fragment on contact—smashed into the walls and disintegrated to prevent overpenetration.
[tab]There was relative silence: some whimpers, the dripping of fluids, death gurgles. He leaned down and sealed the grenade case, picking it up and walking around the bar with it in hand, combirifle still held at the ready. He surveyed the damage, walking from gunman to gunman. The final one mildly surprised him, for he was yet still clinging to life despite the gaping hole on one side—apparently that tenth of a percent had been just enough.
[tab]The gunman was clearly on his way out, but still had the presence of mind to look up at him and recognize him. “Who the hell are you?” managed the gunman.
[tab]“I’m a salesman,” he replied. He used his interface to dial the combirifle’s power down to its lowest setting before putting the barrel to the gunman’s head and pulling the trigger. Bloodsplatter was much harder for the suit to clean off than booze. “And all sales are final,” he added with a whiff of studied disdain.
[tab]He slung the combirifle’s strap over one shoulder and retrieved the other case of wares, resignedly and wistfully apologizing “Sorry for ruining your evening, folks, just a business misunderstanding. We’ll be wiring this establishment fees for damages and enough in recompense that all your drinks will be on the house for a month.”
[tab]There was, finally, some stirring from the patrons as he gave the standard damages spiel.
[tab]By then he was at the threshold of the door, and he added “Remember, TermiCon: for when the only satisfactory conclusion is a Terminal Conclusion,” before lightly kicking it open and stepping outside. He could already hear the sirens and had just made it away from the threshold when a police urbadyne sporting the universal black and white paintjob and red and blue whirling lights slid into view at high speed before braking abruptly in front of him.
[tab]Two officers piled out very smartly, guns drawn. “Hanksville PD, creep! Freeze!” commanded one.
[tab]He slowly set the cases down and raised his hands, leaving the combirifle dangling in a secured position, barrel downward. He slid one hand aside to smooth his hair back into place and gave it his best chipper tone: “Gentlemen, hello! There appears to have been a slight altercation! I believe you will find the assailants inside and witness testimony will reveal that—”
[tab]“I said freeze!” shouted the same officer, making a show of emphasizing the gun pointed at him by shaking it slightly.
[tab]He let an amused smile spread across his mouth. “That looks like a HankSec P-244 you’ve got there. Tell me, officer, is your office interested in upgrading to something that’s actually effective?”
[tab]The officers exchanged glances as he stood in the glare of their lights, grinning.
***