“Militia? You were in the militia?”

He turned red. “Well… actually… not that long. See, they didn’t like my family that much, and when they found I’d shot a swamphog—well, three actually—with one of the militia weapons, they used that as an excuse to kick me out. I don’t see what’s so wrong about that. I was going to replace the ammunition, and I cleaned up the rifle before I put it back.”

Ky bit her lip. It would not do to laugh, but she was beginning to have a good idea what kind of family Jim had come from. They had a few like that on Corleigh—old George was one of them—who had not, as her father put it, ever moved into the city from the frontier, even after the frontier was settled. You want them on your side, her father had told her. Their virtues weren’t needed most of the time, but when they were, nothing else would do. So now she had what her father called a “bush rat” of her very own, and she’d better make proper use of him.

She called Martin in to look at the catalogs from the various shops. Martin’s face was eloquent; she didn’t need his verbal comments to second her opinion that Bernie’s Knives and Guns was out of the running, along with Arms4U. He thought the gun club might have serviceable weapons for the crew, but Ky noticed that the list of available weapons hadn’t been updated for several weeks. Blade, Bullet and Bow had top-quality weapons and prices to match, like Terrifield, back home on Slotter Key.

Her father’s personal weapons were all from Terrifield; she had gone there with him once, and remembered the quiet shop with its slightly faded green carpet and old-fashioned display cases where the weapons on display were all antiques, and customers and staff spoke to each other in strings of cryptic numbers. “I’m looking for a P1400 with the 21–37 adapter,” she’d heard one customer say. And the clerk had retired behind a curtain—a bulletproof curtain, her father mentioned later—and returned a moment later with something in a flat gray case. Her father tapped her shoulder—rude to stare, that meant—and made his own numerical request, which appeared on the counter in a few moments in a dull green case. It had been years before she understood what the numbers meant, and the difference in quality between the weapons there and the ones at Connery’s Sporting Goods in Corleigh Town, which all had names as well as numbers: Hotshot 2100, Blastem—which came in attractive colors—Matchmaker. She shook herself out of that memory, and the surge of fear that her father was dead. She had to hope he wasn’t.

Crash, as the obvious favorite shop for law enforcement and military, would have a wide selection and no trashy stuff, but Martin objected. “It’s got ties to law enforcement; they’ll have someone in there who talks to them. Until we know more about how things work here, that’s not a good idea. Blade’s a good choice for your weapons, if you can afford it. I’ve heard of them from people who’ve been here before.”

From their docking slot at Hub Two, Hub Four with its multitude of arms merchants could be reached by external shuttle or internal tram, with transfers. Blades, Bullets, and Bows, though in Hub Three, was reasonably close by tram, and on the way to Hub Four, where she planned to visit MilMartExchange. One trip would be safer than several. Martin recommended she take Jim along as well as himself and Beeah.

“The boy’s an obvious gawking tourist,” Martin said. “He’ll be a distraction to others, and anyway he’s got to get better shore clothes.”

Lastway Station was as bustling and colorful as Belinta had been quiet and dull. Despite the danger, Ky’s heart lifted at the sight of hurrying pedestrians, bright shop entrances, exotic smells, the dock entrances of other ships, familiar and unfamiliar logos. She wanted to take off and explore, like any giddy apprentice on a first visit to other worlds, but she schooled her pace to a steady walk and managed not to gawk and point the way Jim was.

They reached the interhub tram stop without incident. Martin pointed out to Jim the kind of shore suit he should buy as soon as possible: plain, dark, suitable for any of several occupations. Ky wondered if Jim was paying attention; his eyes were wide. The tram itself was much like those on any station; they bought five-day passes and boarded one of the pressurized cars. Only one other passenger was in their car, a young girl with an obvious schoolbag. She was slumped in a corner, staring at her hand reader.

The tram slid away from its stop, moving smoothly through the translucent transport tube between hubs. Ky craned her neck, trying to orient herself to the whole station, but it was impossible. Hubs two and three and their arms blocked most of her view. The planet below was beneath the car’s opaque floor. Her stomach lurched as the tram spanned between the artificial gravity of Hub Two and Hub Three, then they were pulling into the Hub Three tram stop as the usual voice synthesizer announced “Approaching Hub Three station. All Hub Three passengers transfer here to Hub Three radial trams. Approaching Hub Three station. All Hub Three passengers…” The schoolgirl didn’t look up as Ky and her crewmembers rose.

Hub Three, where passenger liners docked, had a fancier tram station. Sound-reducing tiles covered the floor and walls in an attractive blue, green, and beige pattern. Instead of ticket machines, there was an information booth with a live clerk behind the window. Ky had already looked up the location of the shop—less than a hundred meters from the tram station—so she turned right and found herself in a passage with obviously expensive shops on either side.

Past a haberdashery, a jeweler’s, a window display of fine china and crystal, a window with two lengths of velvet on which rested three silver salvers, she came to the windows of Blade, Bullet, and Bow: on the right, a pair of swords like something out of legend leaned against tall black boots and a cocked hat with a plume; on the left, a fan-shaped array of arrows around a recurved bow. The door had no handle, just a button. Ky pushed it.

The door opened; she faced a slender middle-aged man, clean-shaven, in a gray suit as plain as her own and as well tailored. Behind him, at a discreet distance, was another man whom Ky knew would be armed. “May I help you?” the man said. As he spoke, his gaze slid past her to Martin, Beeah, and Jim, then back to her face.

“I want to buy a personal weapon,” Ky said.

“Meaning no disrespect, madam, but if you are a stranger to this station, there are less expensive shops…”

“But not, I suppose, those carrying better quality,” Ky said, smiling.

“No, madam. Would madam care to step in? I am Andrew Barris.” He said that as if she should know the name.

“Thank you,” Ky said. “May my escort attend?”

He looked past her again. “Perhaps madam would feel secure with only one?”

“Of course,” Ky said. She turned. “Martin, two of you can wait outside.”

“Beeah, Jim, stay close to the shop,” Martin said.

Ky smiled again at the salesman. “You will of course wish to ensure that he is not armed.”

Now the smile widened. “Madam is perceptive. Ardin: you may proceed.”

Martin quirked an eyebrow. “Standard Arms 11 mm, shoulder holster. I presume you’d rather I didn’t reach for it?”

“Is that all?”

“The only firearm, yes.”

“Would you remove the holster harness?”

“Be glad to.” Martin removed his tunic and shrugged out of the harness. The store employee took it carefully, without touching Martin’s weapon, and placed it on the counter before running a hand scanner over Martin.

Then he nodded at his employer, who nodded at Ky.

“How may we serve you?” was the next question.

“I’m thinking a 10 or 11 millimeter Rossi-Smith, with whatever ammunition is legal for everyday carry on this station. Frangibles? Spudders?”