“Guns are illegal here too, but the resistance has ways of arming themselves. Of course, that’s always been true. The only people who are disarmed in this world are the Amish,” he jerked his head toward Jed, “and all the other ignorant, urban civilians. We usually call them ‘victims.’” Pook looked over to Jed and smiled. “Pardon my terminology, Jed. I’m sure you don’t philosophically agree with the use of weapons.”
Jed just shrugged and stared back at the pistol as its representation began to materialize on the computer screen. He certainly didn’t intend to get into any religious or philosophical discussions while running for his life out among the English. He knew that back in his old life he’d be asleep in bed. In only a few hours, he’d be waking up to milk Zoe. None of this—this running around, hiding, fighting, making guns—none of it made food for people to eat or put clothing on their backs. He understood that perhaps these people felt like they needed to fight and struggle to be free, but the struggle was birthed from their departure from a simple worldview. The English had long since abandoned the idea that man needed only food, raiment, and perhaps shelter. Once man leaves the farm, he needs more… always more. The hunger for more inevitably leads to conflict, wars, tyranny, oppression. And always, always, always this more that man actually gets… comes in the form of more government.
Pook touched the screen a few times, moving the image about and checking it for any noticeable errors, and as he did this, he continued talking.
“This is all really old technology. This pistol and these printers and computers are all relics from the second decade of the twenty-first century. Being in the antique business has its benefits.” Pook opened his hand as he touched the screen and the image grew larger. Jed could now see more detail in the animation.
“Once I get a complete scan of the gun, the clip, and all the parts,” Pook said, “the computer will render a perfectly identical model—accurate within forty microns, or about half the breadth of a human hair. The printers will reproduce the item precisely, even down to the internal moving parts.”
Pook then walked over and filled each of the machines in measured doses with resin powders from the different boxes he’d stacked in front of them. When he was ready and had double-checked all of the settings, he pressed some buttons on the computer, and the 3D printers jumped to life.
A gray arm on each of the machines began traveling back and forth within its case, laying down each micro-layer of polymer from the bottom up. After each pass, the panel that was holding these slowly forming weapons dropped down an almost infinitesimal distance, ready for the gray arm to make another pass. A white, drying powder also filled the case as the printing progressed, suspending the newly printed parts in three dimensions.
Pook turned and looked at Jed, who was staring, mouth agape, at the process, and smiled with amusement.
“Have you ever fired a gun, Jed?”
“No, sir. We don’t hunt. Some of our people have small rifles for killing pigs or cattle, but we’re all pacifists.”
“Yes,” Pook replied, smiling, “I suppose you are. It must be nice, having other people fight your battles for you.”
Jerry seemed to bristle at this, and answered before Jed could think of what to say.
“He never asked anyone to fight for him, Pook,” Jerry said. “I mean his people didn’t. Jed doesn’t owe you or me or anyone else anything at all. You can’t force people to be thankful just because in your mind they seem to benefit from what you’re doing… especially when what you’re doing is something you would do anyway, even without them as an excuse.”
“Well now!” Pook said, laughing all the while. “Irony always amuses me. It looks like now you’re the one who’s come to Jed’s defense, but I don’t suppose he owes you any thanks for that.”
“No,” Jerry replied, staring at Pook. “No, he doesn’t.”
“Well then,” Pook smiled. “It looks like no one owes anyone anything!”
(10
REPLICATIONS
Less than an hour later, there were ten finished polymer replicas of the Glock 21 sitting on the rolling table. Pook assembled the pistols, examining each one intently before handing it to Jerry, who inserted the clip and pulled back the slide, checking to see that the gun functioned properly.
“The ceramic and polymer resin produces a fine and lightweight weapon,” Pook said. “Once you’re used to it, you may like it even more than traditional, predominantly metal guns. I guess we won’t know for sure that these are perfect until we’re forced to fire one, but we’ve done this before and I’ve never had a problem.”
“I’m anxious to try one out,” Jerry said.
“I’m sure you’ll be put to the test soon enough, Jerry,” Pook said.
“I can’t wait!”
“Good, then this one here is yours.” Pook handed the last pistol to Jerry as if he were presenting a ceremonial sword to a newly christened knight.
“Really?” Jerry said, his face beaming.
“Really.”
“What about ammo?” Jerry asked as he snapped one of the clips into place.
“We have our own underground version of that, too. The ammo we’ll use is constructed of a synthesized material made up of polymer resin, ceramic, and okcillium. All of those materials—except the okcillium, of course—are easy to get on the black market and, luckily for us, here in the City I am the black market. Believe me, they didn’t have anything like these where you came from.”
“I’m sure they didn’t,” Jerry said.
“The good thing is that these guns and ammo are also undetectable by TRACER drones, which means we can go armed and shouldn’t trigger any aerial attack.”
“That is a good thing,” Jerry said.
Pook opened an antique trunk, pulling out some old blankets and sheets and tossing them to the side before removing a false wooden bottom. He extracted six or seven small white boxes and then replaced the false bottom before closing the trunk. He tossed two of the boxes to Jerry, who began loading clips with the special ammunition from the boxes. The rest of the boxes Pook stuffed into a backpack.
“Load these in the same way as you’re used to, Jerry. Thirteen per clip.”
“You said something like that earlier,” Jed interrupted. “You said ‘TRACE resistance groups,’ or something like that. Are TRACER drones in any way related to these groups?”
Pook laughed. “Yeah. Like a bird dog is related to a bird!”
“I don’t get it,” Jed said.
“Well, Jed, there’s probably a ton of stuff you need to know, but we’re on a short schedule here and we’re going to have to get moving, so I’ll need you to keep your questions to a minimum—but, since you asked… TRACE, well, that’s us. There are a few hundred of us in the City. TRACE is the resistance. So when I say ‘us,’ I mean Dawn and me, the refuseniks, and the people like us who fight in an organized way against Transport and their schemes. TRACER drones, those are the aerial drones operated by Transport that hover in and around the city in order to find and kill people like us. That’s why they call them TRACERs. TRACERs are designed to kill TRACE operatives. They track us. Most of the drones are probably grounded right now with this offensive going on. At least I hope like hell they are.”