Having woken, the Sig notices Aptitude is wearing its holster and lets fly with a string of insults about my character, parentage and cheap sexual habits. Most of which are true. Luckily it swears in machine code.
A language she doesn’t know.
‘Shut it.’
When the SIG ignores me, I walk it to the edge of a promontory and offer to let it take a close look at the valley floor.
‘You wouldn’t.’
‘Try me.’
We waste a full minute discussing which is worse: being owned by me or rusting at the foot of a hill being shat on by goats, the SIG insisting that rust and goat shit could only be an improvement.
And then we get back to what matters.
‘Right,’ I say. ‘You saw that crashed ship. How many furies were in there originally?’
The SIG doesn’t reply. All the same it’s listening.
‘That was Mum’s ship,’ Aptitude says. ‘With the markings painted out.’
‘So,’ I say. ‘How many?’
‘Lots,’ the SIG says.’ Lots plus. Your guess is as good as mine.’
This time when I hold it over the edge I use only two fingers. Diodes flash along the gun’s side. ‘Thirty-eight,’ it says finally.
‘You’re certain?’
‘No. Of course not. I just picked the first fucking-’ It stops. ‘Yeah,’ it says. ‘Ninety-three degrees. High probable.’ The SIG’s just realized why its holster hangs from Aptitude’s hip.
Doesn’t mean it likes it. But it’s beginning to understand.
There are still a dozen furies out there.
One can take down twenty militia in a concerted attack. Working on those sorts of figures, that means-
The SIG’s there already. ‘Serious shit.’
The sun is low and the horizon starting to go dark. We’re an hour from sunset, which is when I need to leave for Farlight. Two days’ ride, at least. Maybe three. And I have a couple of arguments to have first.
Starting with the SIG.
Only the SIG doesn’t want to argue.
It’s so reasonable I’m suspicious. Until I remember I took it from Aptitude’s bodyguard. So just maybe there’s Tezuka-Wildeside loyalty coded into its make-up somewhere.
‘You’ll do it?’
‘Yeah,’ it says. ‘For her.’
Walking across, I fold Aptitude’s fingers round its handle and hold them tight before the SIG has time to change its mind.
‘Ouch . . .’
The SIG’s already logging her genotype. Unravelling enough of Aptitude’s DNA to lock down her identity. ‘Human/Post human,’ it says. ‘High Clan 3, tailored for trade. Interesting mix . . .’
‘It’s yours until I take it back.’
She must know what parting with the SIG-37 is costing me. Doesn’t mean I’m going to let it show. ‘Keep the battery pack charged. Sleep with it under your pillow. And if you feel it shiver get yourself somewhere safe.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Sven,’ says the gun. ‘Tell me you’re not going to rely on . . .’ It’s dissing my sabre. The one Colonel Vijay sent. At least, I think so.
‘Why wouldn’t I?’
‘Because it’s ugly, outdated and impractical.’
We’re definitely talking about the sabre.
‘If you must,’ says the gun, ‘I could always . . .’ It pauses, considers what it’s offering. ‘Upgrade it slightly? I mean, it’ll still be pig ugly, but less likely to get you killed.’
‘Hurry it up.’
Wouldn’t want the SIG thinking I was grateful.
‘Hold it out,’ the gun says.
So I unclip the sabre and flick on its blade.
Nothing much happens for a second, and then I realize the cutting edge is getting narrower. The blade is also less thick in cross-section. I think I’m imagining a silvery black sheen.
I’m not.
‘Almost there,’ the gun says.
A humming inside the handle changes its balance. The sabre now weighs twice what it did and pivots more slowly. In fact, it feels just like one of those pieces of junk I used to carry in the Legion.
Impossible, clearly.
Never ridden a horse in my life. Never even belonged to a cavalry regiment. But I’ve been carrying a sabre on parade from the age of twelve and it’s always felt just like this.
‘Stabilizing gyro,’ the SIG says. ‘Probably faulty for years.’
Flicking the sabre from side to side, I can feel its blade counterbalance the weight of the handle behind my wrist. Obviously, that’s impossible.