The man’s eyes widened just slightly. “Is this for yourself, madam, or your… um… escort?”

“This would be for me,” Ky said, smiling. “When I shoot someone, I expect them to stay down awhile.”

He looked at her as if he wanted to say more, but didn’t immediately speak. When he did, his voice was even softer. “We have a number of weapons of that caliber. We have three ten-millimeter Rossi-Smiths in the shop at present. Two are customized, one with rose-gold inlay and floral carving on the grip. I’m sure madam would like to see the one with rose-designed—”

“The plain one, please,” Ky said. For just an instant he stared.

“Wait one moment, please,” he said. “And if I could just have madam’s credit references?”

“Cash,” Ky said. She did not want some spy at the bank to know exactly what her weapons were. His eyebrows went up and his lips tensed. Ky went on. “Perhaps you would be good enough to switch on the excellent site security I’m sure you have. I would then be glad to explain.” His mouth was still tight, but he nodded, pressed a button, then brought out from beneath the desk one of the squat cylinders Ky recognized.

“The outer perimeter is now shielded to most scanners,” he said. “This completes the acoustic shielding, and the windows behind the display cases are one-way. Is madam satisfied?”

“Thank you,” Ky said. “My name is Kylara Vatta.” His lips twitched; she nodded. “Yes, that Vatta family. As you clearly are aware, my family is under attack. I was in transit when the trouble started and know no more than what’s in the newsfeeds. I have been informed that the local station considers Vatta corporate accounts unreliable and is demanding cash; I assumed that you would follow suit. If I have insulted your honor, please accept my apologies.”

His face softened. “My dear… madam… I understand completely. If the local financial institutions have frozen Vatta accounts, then you are right. I’m sorry to say that because of our location, so far from the center of humanspace, we are unable to offer credit if local accounts are frozen. However, we would be pleased to accept barter, if you do not, perhaps, have access to local supplies of cash.”

“My cargo’s selling,” Ky said. “And I’ve opened a separate account; I expect to have access to cash shortly. However, in addition to purchasing a weapon from you, I wanted to ask your advice on two things. First, I have some… er… family valuables that I could sell, but I have no idea who would give me an honest price. I have had to rely, so far, on assessors attached to Immigration.”

“I understand your concern, madam. As for the valuables… it depends on the type. Items of historical value, or precious materials?”

“Materials,” Ky said.

He glanced at her case. “With you, perhaps?”

“A portion,” Ky said. She slipped her fingers into the pouch and removed one diamond. “This, for instance.”

He nodded, showing no emotion. “Quite nice,” he said, as if customers laid diamonds on the counter every day. Perhaps they did. “We can arrange immediate appraisal; the firm we use is certified by interstellar convention and bonded. Is that satisfactory? I am already persuaded that your items are of sufficient value to cover any likely purchases.”

“Quite,” Ky said.

He opened a drawer and laid the Rossi-Smith on the pad in front of her. She picked up the weapon. Perfectly plain, the grip of some dark… “Wood?” she asked. It felt organic, but not quite like wood.

“No, madam. That’s bloodbeast tusk, from Xerion. It shares with Old Earth ivory the characteristic of remaining grippy even if one’s hands should sweat, but it has much better impact resistance. Madam will note that the action is the classic 1701 model, rather than the newer 1900—”

“Which tends to develop a stick with repeated rapid fire,” Ky said.

“Exactly,” he said, smiling. “Perhaps madam would like to try it out on our range?”

“Indeed yes,” Ky said. She followed him through a curtain, down a narrow passage, and then into a two-person gallery. Here he offered ear protectors, goggles, and discreet assistance; the rounds he gave her were clearly marked target rounds. She loaded, lined up, and fired; the trigger pull had just enough resistance, and the recoil, with the target round, was negligible. Her first three shots were in a line, left to right, across the middle of the target. “Drat,” she said mildly. “It’s been too long.”

“Not bad,” he said. “But you were rushing.”

She tried again, this time remembering all the tricks her father had taught her, and produced a tight cluster.

“Better,” he said, as if he were her instructor. He probably was. “You are aware, madam, of the difficulty of hitting targets in variable g?”

It was something they’d studied in the Academy; Ky remembered the frustration, on that trip to the Academy’s own orbiting training station. “Oh yes,” she said, perhaps a bit too fervently. “Luckily, I’m not going to be shooting at anyone who’s not shooting at me…” She took another clip of target rounds, loaded, and placed the group in half the area of the last one.

“Very nice, madam. Now, station regulations limit the permissible ammunition loads to frangibles and chemical immobilizers, no… er… spudders. Rounds with total delivery force small enough to avoid structural damage to the station, of course. For this model, we recommend the Rossi-approved PF for a frangible round, and the CPF, which encapsulates the latest legal release of an immobilizer–marker combination. Dispersal is limited by droplet size to within a meter of the impact point, so there is minimal collateral involvement.”

“Does the station management have a preference?”

“Some criminals do wear protective gear, which of course limits the utility of the frangible rounds—”

“Personal armor,” Ky said. “I meant to ask about that, too.”

“We carry protective gear, of course, in a range of sizes and price points.”

“I’d better take a look,” Ky said. “And yes, I’ll take this one.” How much trouble did she expect to have? “I’ll take another two clips to sight in with, and then five each of PF and CPF.”

“And perhaps a holster and concealed carry permit? The background check is, I assure madam, brief and discreet. If madam’s escort does not already have one, it would be advisable to obtain one for him, as well.”

She had not carried a weapon on her person except for forays into the woods back home, where a very obvious holster on the hip was fine. “I’m thinking,” she said with a smile, reaching for the next clip.

Her bill mounted up. Weapon, ammunition, carrying case, cleaning kit—” Alas, madam, no one has ever been able to make a firearm perfectly self-cleaning…” —permit to carry openly or concealed, and finally the wearable protection. Here the top-grade torso armor was so thin and flexible that she found it hard to believe it would do any good. Barris put it over a human form whose base wobbled when he nudged it, stood it up in one of the lanes, and fired at it. The torso model on its pole barely moved; the armor stiffened, changed color, and the light towel he hung down the back appeared scorched brown when he lifted it to show her.

“One-way heat radiation, madam. Substantially reduces impact effect, as well as protecting against penetration. Only recently licensed for civilian use, though supposedly it’s been available in the black market for several years. Not that I would trust my life to that version.” His expression reminded Ky of a cat that had accidentally stepped in something abhorrent.

She tried on one of the vests in her size. Not much heavier than a wool vest, and surprisingly comfortable. It fit invisibly under her business suit. “Serious assassins go for the head, of course,” Barris said apologetically. “We can’t armor that without being obvious, which I gather is not madam’s desire.”

“I would prefer to be inconspicuous, yes,” Ky said.