The XO smiled grimly. "Press it."
Smith did. A lip of blue flame curled out of the silencer-flash-hider muzzle.
"Butane cigarette lighter," the XO explained. "Never know when you're going to need a light." The XO's smile widened. "Ain't she a kick in the teeth?"
"Yeah," Smith growled, trying to shake the flame out, "if you like mirror-finish hardware. Why don't I just suck on the muzzle and pull the trigger? With this thing strapped to me, the warlord will see me coming two oceans away."
The XO looked wounded. "It's a CIA prototype. It came this way. It's called a BEM. Stands for Bullet Ejecting Mechanism."
"Looks more like a FUG-Fucking Ugly Gun." Smith dropped it back into its case. "Send it back. My H me just fine."
"This is part of the mission. Now, shut your dumb face and listen for once."
Winston Smith made a grim mouth. His eyes seemed to retreat into his skull. Folding his arms, he listened. He did not look happy.
"Aside from the features just described, this BEM weapon can be personalized to the end user."
"The what?"
"That's what the manual calls you. The end user. It's some kind of technical jargon. Forget it, Smith. Just listen."
The BEM came out of its case again, and the XO pressed something and tiny varicolored lights strung along the barrel began blinking like a pinball machine. Smith rolled his eyes, and the dull gold loop in his left ear began dancing in the bad light.
"Now," the XO continued, "I've engaged the voice-rec function. Just say a few words into the gun."
"Fuck you, gun."
The gun said, "Fuck you, gun." It sounded like a bad imitation of Winston Smith's own voice.
"A few more words. I don't think it got it."
"It's a stupid gun, then."
"It's a stupid gun, then," said the gun in a much clearer tone. This voice sounded almost exactly like Smith's voice this time. The LED display came on. It said "Rec."
The XO smiled. "Okay, it should be configured to your voice pattern. Here, try to shoot a hole in the bunk."
"We're on a submarine. We'll get our boots wet."
The XO smiled. "Trust me on this."
"Okay," Smith said, smiling the cool smile that made him instantly recognizable despite his war paint to other members of the Navy's elite counterterrorist unit, SEAL Team Six. "I will."
He took the weapon and leveled it at the bunk. His thumb did the natural thing and found nothing.
"Where's the safety?"
"There's no conventional safety. Test fire a round."
Smith squeezed the trigger. The weapon didn't so much as click. It might have been a very heavy supersoaker.
"Broken," he said.
"Now tell the gun to arm itself."
"You tell it to arm itself. I don't talk to ordnance."
"No, it won't recognize my voice. Watch-arm one."
The gun lights continued blinking merrily.
"Try firing it."
Smith squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened.
"Now, you say it."
"Arm one," said Smith.
The gun beeped. The barrel lights winked out.
"I think I killed it," Smith said.
"Try squeezing off the round now."
Smith dropped the barrel until the muzzle came in line with his dented pillow. He squeezed once. To his surprise, the gun convulsed. A hot round went into the pillow, and a smoking shell dropped clinking onto the steel deck floor.
When the submarine didn't start taking on water, Winston Smith threw the heavy pistol back at his XO and said, "So what?"
"You don't get it, you dumb SOB, do you?"
"No, I don't."
"This baby has a little chip in it. You know, like the one on your stupid shoulder, only ten times smarter. It recognized your voice. You say 'arm one,' and for five minutes, you can fire it all you want. Then it cuts out. If you're caught or disarmed, the gun is useless to the enemy. You can't be shot at with your own weapon. What do you say to that, smart mouth?"
"If you like talking to your gun, it's wonderful. If you get lonely on night drops, it's reassuring. I don't like either, so take the thing and shove it up the ass of the fool who designed it."
"Stow the attitude. This weapon is part of the mission. I'm ordering you to carry it."
"Can I take my H oo?"
"Absolutely. Not."
"Fuck."
"Fuck," echoed the gun.