Better to Beg Forgiveness by Michael Z. Williamson Page B

carbine, didn't check the chamber, and waved it around. Jason politely reached out, accepted it, and inspected it.

    Well . . . it was okay. Bore was a bit worn, trigger was a bit loose.

    "Okay," he agreed with a nod, to Jim's eager grin. "But I need something stiffer, longer, more powerful." He made an appropriately rude gesture with both hands and the rifle, and Jim giggled.

    "I be have it, man," he said with a nod, while licking his lips. "Hold on." He reached in and hauled out . . . 

    "Oh, yeah, that's it," Jason said. He tried not to grin, but this was more like it—one of H&K's newer box-belt-fed machine guns. This one was crusty and beat up outside, but it didn't take long to determine the inside was clean enough. "What about a test fire?" he asked.

    "Sho," Jim agreed, and slapped on a box. He knew how to load and fire well enough. The finer, snobbish points of safety and maintenance he eschewed. He got past loading without killing anyone, pointed out over the fence and pulled the trigger. The H&K responded with a nice, steady roar and a scattering of case bases in a neat pile.

    "Good mechanism," Jason agreed. "How much?"

    "Two tousan," Jim said, and sounded very sure of that price.

    "Fuck me what?" Jason said at once. You haggled by being offended no matter what the opening bid was. Then the amount registered. Holy shit, that was offensive. "Do I look like a masochist you can bend over and fuck?"

    The look on Jim's face suggested he just might swing exactly that way. He raised his hands placatingly and said, "Nono! Two tousan list. For you, eightee hunnerd."

    "Five hundred. It's stolen, used, and I know you didn't pay that much."

    "Fiteen." He looked annoyed at being talked down. Not annoyed enough to suit Jason, though.

    "How about I go somewhere I won't be insulted?"

    Elke played along brilliantly. She tugged at his sleeve and said, "There was that guy by the port. I'll bet he'd start at a thousand. He had a new one, too. I don't really care if the UN is missing it."

    "Twelf."

    "Actual list is nine fifty. I'll pay that. I want three. You'll throw in ammo and tools."

    "Hunnerd exta for that," Jim said. Now he looked disgusted.

    "Done. I want hand and rifle grenades. I'll pay twenty per grenade. Two hundred for mountable launchers."

    "Two fitty," Jim said, squinting.

    "How about I leave this shit and go elsewhere?" He made as if to throw the H&K.

    "Go!" Jim replied with an open hand. "You won' get cheaper."

    "Six launchers, fourteen hundred."

    Jim nodded. "Okay. Haf ta see if I have six."

    Jason had expected as much. Jim was likely used to selling to local gangs, and would take whatever was on hand in trade. A "legitimate" arms smuggler would have set prices at a reasonable markup over list, with discounts in quantity, and parts on hand. Of course, all the "legitimate" ones were traced by somebody who could be made to talk.

    "I want four cheapie Bushies, too. Something I can throw away."

    "Fiteen hunnerd for fohr."

    "Done." That was reasonable. Jim wasn't stupid, just small time and hopeful. Now they could bargain decently. Someone went running off to get the ordered goods.

    Nosing over, Jason took a look in the crate. "Shit, what's that?"

    "Old," Jim said. "No good."

    "Let me see."

    "Okay."

    He took the weapon handed to him and drooled. It was well over a century old, and worn. It was an original AK-120, vintage twenty-first-century. A museum piece.

    And Jason lived in one of the few nations where he could own a weapon. He'd have to find a way to get it home, but . . . 

    "Holy crap. I'll take it. Three hundred?" he offered.

    "Yeah, sho." Jim seemed happy.

    "Jim, I misjudged you. You're all right."

    "Thanks. We friends?"

    "Indeed we are. Where can I call if I want more?"

    Jim scrawled on a card, and his writing was passably literate.

    "Thanks. We'll wait in our car."

    "Gotcha." The slang word was identical, even though so many proper words weren't. Jason