A New Rifle
When my eyes cracked open, the first thing I saw was the weathered wood grain beneath the office desk.
A thick stack of blankets was layered beneath my back, and someone had even propped a guest leather cushion under my head. For a patch of hardwood floor, I'd slept surprisingly well. Slanted morning light was already creeping in through the parted curtains.
Memories of last night flickered through my brain like a projector skipping frames—the workers' bathhouse in the laundromat downstairs, the steaming water, and the exact second my brain flatlined after my forehead thumped against Section Chief Irina's shoulder.
...Don't tell me I passed out right there?
I scrambled to sit up, only for a sharp tug at the nape of my neck to bring me up short. Reaching back, I found my hair gathered into a neat ponytail, held fast by the very same black silk band Irina had unfastened from her wrist last night.
That alone was enough to make me want to kick a hole through the floorboards, but the moment I looked down at what I was wearing, my heart practically dropped out of my chest.
It wasn't the damp, ash-gray shirt I'd haphazardly thrown over my wet skin after the bath. I was wearing a clean white shirt—the one with the slightly short sleeves that usually hung in my bedroom wardrobe—and a pair of comfortable black cotton trousers.
My leather gun belt and the holstered Sermaize revolver were set down beside the blanket, laid out in immaculate alignment.
A wave of heat surged straight to the tips of my ears.
Wait, hold on. Not only did she carry me all the way up to the second floor, she gave me a full outfit change?!
Across the room, Irina sat at the window desk with her legs crossed. Dressed flawlessly in her ink-black longcoat as if she hadn't lost a wink of sleep, she was engrossed in the fine print of an order from corporate headquarters. At the rustle of my sudden movement, she lifted her eyes from the leather binder.
"You're awake. How are you feeling, Sonya-ssi?"
Her voice was leisurely, calm as a glassy pond. Tugging nervously at my cuffs, I asked in a voice that barely rose above a whisper,
"Um... Section Chief. Did I walk up the stairs myself?"
"No. You were fast asleep, so I carried you up."
"Then... these clothes?"
"Your wet hair had soaked the entire back of your shirt. I was worried you'd catch a cold, so I fetched dry clothes from your room and changed you."
"...Did I not wake up at all?"
"I shook you three times. You just kept on snoring."
Just kill me. Where's the Han River when you need it... Wait, do I have to go fling myself into the South Gate canal here?
Having her wash my hair had been mortifying enough, but now I'd dumped the aftermath on her while completely unconscious. I smoothed out my sleeves only to bunch them back up in my fists. Swallowing a cough, I reached for my gun belt, my fingers so stiff with embarrassment that I fumbled the buckle and cinched it one notch past where it belonged.
"...I'm sorry. You couldn't sleep properly because of me, could you?"
"It's quite all right. I traded watch with the Boss at dawn and managed about two hours."
"Next time... just slap me awake."
"You didn't strike me as someone who would wake up even if slapped."
A sly, amused curve tugged at the corner of Irina's lips. Left with nothing to counter that, I tightened my belt and kept my eyes glued firmly to the floor.
A little past seven in the morning, the front door swung open, and Boss Orban walked in carrying two brown paper bags. The warm, rich aroma of fresh butter from the alley bakery swept into the office.
"Everyone's up, I see. The egg sandwich is yours, Sonya. Meat pies are for me and Section Chief Irina."
As he set the bags down, the Boss caught sight of my hair—still tied in the ponytail Irina had fashioned. His mouth twitched into an almost-smirk before he cleared his throat and glanced toward Irina.
"...Look at that. You tie your hair back and you actually look halfway human."
"If you're going to make fun of me, cough up another slice of pie."
Chewing through the sandwich, I gingerly stretched out my right knee. It pulled far less than it had yesterday. Apparently, sleep and rest really did make a difference—a realization that made me choke on a crust of bread.
The moment breakfast was finished, I slipped into my room to pack my kit: a black powder horn for the Sermaize revolver, a pouch of lead balls, spare percussion caps, and emergency pressure bandages.
Rummaging through the back corner of a drawer, I fished out the pack of low-grade Cheonghoecho I'd swiped yesterday. Four cigarettes remained, though one was bent sharply in the middle with dried blue shreds spilling out.
Smoking Cheonghoecho numbed the pain, but it dulled the senses so badly that I might miss the exact second my leg decided to snap. Resolving to use it only in a bone-crushing catastrophe, I tucked it deep into my coat's inside pocket.
"I'm heading out to the gunsmith, Section Chief."
"I have already instructed Bram to put everything on ARC Headquarters' corporate tab," Irina answered without looking up. "Take whatever you need. Do not hold back."
Eight in the morning, Bram's gunsmith shop.
The storefront was still securely shuttered, but when Orban rapped out the code on the back door—three quick knocks, then two—the heavy brass bolt snapped back with a dull clunk. From behind the workbench, Bram emerged rubbing his bloodshot eyes, wiping his palms on a stained leather apron.
"If you're thieves, come back later. Haven't had my morning coffee yet."
"We're paying customers carrying an invoice backed by ARC Headquarters, Bram."
"Meaning you're here to run up a tab."
At Orban's smooth retort, the half-dwarf's eyes snapped wide open. I pulled the heavy Sermaize revolver from my waist and set it down on the scarred wooden bench.
Bram slotted a jeweler's loupe into his eye and ran his calloused hands over the weapon with practiced ease. Cocking the loading lever back and probing the barrel wedge, his brow furrowed.
"Heard you emptied five rounds back-to-back down at the docks?"
"Yeah."
"Wedge pin's worked itself loose. Fire it like this for much longer and the whole assembly'll rattle apart. One of the percussion nipples needs swapping out, too."
Bram took a small brass mallet and tapped the wedge with delicate precision, then threaded in a fresh nipple to replace the deformed one. Daubing oil onto the arbor pin, he gave the cylinder a test spin. Click, click, click. All six chambers locked up as true as a dial indicator.
"Why not take this chance to upgrade to a modern double-action that takes metallic cartridges? You said ARC's footing the bill anyway."
"Don't want to."
"And why the hell not?"
"This one looks cooler. Besides, I'm used to it."
Old man clearly doesn't understand the romance and soul of a proper officer's sidearm.
Bram clicked his tongue in utter disbelief, giving his shaggy head a slow shake.
"Now I see why those blue-blooded officer bastards refuse to let go of these antiques. Stubborn to the bone, every last one of you. You won't live to see old age, Sonya."
"Mind your own business."
With the revolver tuned, Bram pushed aside the blackout curtain behind his workbench and disappeared into the hidden armory. Moments later, he trudged back out, grunting softly under the weight of a long bundle wrapped in gray, oil-soaked canvas, and dropped it onto the bench with a heavy thud.
The cloth parted to reveal cold, blackened steel.
A military bolt-action service rifle.
Stood on its buttplate, it would reach right up to my shoulder. It was a rugged, monstrous thing, its dense wooden stock bound tight by two thick steel bands. Along the side sat a stout bolt handle, and within rested an internal five-round magazine. I liked it immediately.
"Oh."
"Early production run of the service Type 91 Rifle, straight out of the Herzen Northern Arsenal."
Bram ran a fond, oil-stained palm along the stock.
"The later batches cut corners with thin stamped metal to pinch pennies, but this early lot was hand-machined by master craftsmen. The frontline troops whined that it was too heavy, but out of all the rifles I've tuned over the years, this pattern broke down the least."
Flipping the rifle over, Bram showed me the underside of the stock. Embedded flush within the dark walnut was a blackened spine of high-carbon steel, running like a rigid backbone from the buttplate all the way to the front barrel band.
"Custom contract for the ARC Railway Guard," Bram explained. "Built for tight railcars and crowded platforms where you don't have room to fix a bayonet—reinforced so you can swing the whole rifle like a war club to parry a saber. It'll cross blades with a standard broadsword half a dozen times without snapping."
"It can take a broadsword?"
"Just don't pull the trigger if the barrel takes a deep gouge. Barrel bursts aren't pretty."
I took the rifle in both hands. It was hefty—roughly four and a half kilograms. But to the synthetic sinews of a ten-year augmented human, it settled into my palms as light as balsa wood.
My left hand cupped the front handguard while my right pulled the slender neck of the stock firmly into the pocket of my shoulder. Instantly, the blade of the front sight centered itself within the rear notch with razor-sharp alignment.
Perfection.
Working the bolt was like slicing warm butter—slick, precise, and completely without hitch.
Clack-snick.
The trigger break was crisp and even, remarkably clean for standard military issue.
"How much is this going to run, old man?"
"Why do you care? Section Chief Weiss sent a Guard courier with full written authority to bill all operational gear straight to corporate."
"So you dug out the priciest piece that wouldn't sell, huh?"
At Orban's chuckle, Bram shoved his barrel chest out without an ounce of shame.
"She asked for something indestructible, didn't she? This is exactly what she wanted. The company's paying for it, so why are you pinching pennies?"
Bram brought out boxes of 7.62×54mmR service rounds slotted into five-round brass stripper clips. Three small, palm-sized boxes made of dark green waterproof cardboard—ten rounds to a box, thirty in total.
Clack, shrrk.
Pressing a clip against the guide, I swept my thumb down, stripping five heavy cartridges smoothly into the internal magazine. I closed the bolt over an empty chamber.
The remaining twenty-five rounds, still on their clips, were tucked securely into a heavy canvas pouch buckled to the back of my belt.
Bram logged the Type 91's serial number and price in his equipment ledger. Beneath the user line, I signed my name. He then wrapped the rifle back in the gray canvas and secured it with three leather ties. From a distance, it looked like nothing more than an awkward roll of cargo.
"Yank that loose end hard and the knots come undone in one pull," Bram warned. "Don't unwrap it until you're ready to shoot. Walk down the street brandishing a military-pattern rifle and the City Guard will put lead in you before asking questions."
"Understood. Thanks, Bram."
The office clock showed eight-forty by the time we returned.
Lieutenant Havel was already waiting. Tucked inside the lapel of his civilian overcoat were two arrest warrants, both stamped with the stark crimson seal of an Imperial judge.
The targets: the ARC Central Branch Security Chief, and the Accounting Clerk who had cased our office two days ago.
"The Security Chief cleared the front gate at eight-twelve," Havel reported, tapping the tip of his pen against two points on the floor blueprints spread across the desk. "The Accounting Clerk was confirmed entering through the East Freight Gate at eight-twenty-five. Both are inside the building."
Standing by the window, Irina checked her pocket watch and issued her orders.
"At precisely nine-twenty, the Central Station telegraph room will physically sever the Central Branch's external communication lines. At nine-twenty-seven, we enter the building and take our positions. At nine-thirty sharp, we breach the third floor in coordination with the City Guard."
Cheonghoecho and matches in my coat pocket—check.
Sermaize revolver on my right hip—check.
Type 91 service rifle slung across my back, sling adjusted—check.
Boss Orban stepped outside to hang a sign over the front door plaque.
From the bed, Department Head Beltz bowed his head deeply toward us, his gaze solemn behind the cracked lens of his spectacles.
"Please... come back safe."
Nine-twenty-five.
Across the square from Belok Central Station, just outside the ARC Central Branch building.
The ground-floor lobby was a chaotic sea of passengers clamoring for ticket refunds and merchants clutching freight consignment forms. Plainclothes City Guards blended seamlessly into the crowd of petitioners, while Boss Orban slipped away toward the eastern freight entrance.
I took my position half a pace behind Section Chief Irina.
With a faint click, Irina opened the silver lid of her pocket watch. The second hand ticked steadily upward toward the twelve.
Nine-twenty-seven sharp.
Irina snapped the cover shut, slipped the watch into her coat, and murmured under her breath,
"Let's move."
Her gloved hand shoved forward, pushing open the heavy glass revolving doors of the Central Branch.