“Will you screen messages?” she asked.
I winced. “Probably not.” She looked confused and upset and once again she was my little girl. “Outsystem calls are monitored most places. And there’s few enough of them relatively that they’re easy to trace. Very basic traffic analysis will narrow it down to only calls to the Iota Persei system, and any suspicions will be proven with my pic. So I won’t. Sorry. Andre’s here if you need any help, and here,” I said. I handed over the flashcard. “That’s Marshal Naumann’s ten-div-a-day emergency number. It’s wired into his skull. Don’t call if you don’t have to, but do if you have any confirmable fears. ‘Is that bad enough to call about?’ is a confirmable fear.
“So call if you need to, but not if you don’t, but don’t hesitate and don’t abuse it,” I said with a grin. “Because one hundred seconds after you call that number, there will be a Black Ops counterterror squad and three battalions of Blazers and Mob surrounding the building. Memorize it and keep the card. He’ll stop by with other information, including a bailout plan, in a couple of days. Now let’s look at the Armtech.”
She followed me through to my room. I keep the weapons on a rack in the closet, where I can get to them in a hurry. I have the basic five everyone should have, plus three—now four—more for her. I have my Merrill pistol, a last generation M-5 rifle I bought surplus, subcaliber rimfire practice versions of each and a twenty-millimeter Pendleton riot gun, police spec. To her Little Weasel I’d added an Alesis carbine, not as massive as the M-5 but decent for a military engagement (and we were invaded by Earth not ten years ago, so don’t give me that “it can’t happen here” crap. Arm your adolescents. We may need them again) and she had a little Merrill that would do the job and fit inside her clothes without bulking up. Now she had a fifteen-millimeter Armtech.
I slipped it off the rack, inspected the already open chamber and handed it over. She took it, inspected the chamber and dropped the bolt. It was a bit large for her, but manageable. “It’s a double-roller blowback with a gas piston shock absorber,” I told her. “But it will still kick. Take it to school tomorrow and go practice afterwards. Do a test range with it this weekend.” I handed her two boxes of ammo to supplement the ten rounds in it and the two magazines clipped to the butt and receiver. It was a bulky weapon, but the best thing for her to have at any range practical. “And the ammo in your pistol is at least six months old,” I told her. “Shoot it out after you buy some fresh.”
“Yes, Dad,” she agreed. She felt a bit reassured with the riot gun in hand. I’d really scared her.
I hoped I’d done so for nothing.
CHAPTER 4
We boarded the shuttle without trouble, because there is never any trouble on a Grainne launch. We had tickets; they let us aboard.
I actually felt a little nervous. It had been ten long years since I did this, and that was leaving a desolated Earth. Before that, it had been my trip to Earth. None of that was conducive to pleasant memories.
I’m not claustrophobic, but I felt confined. I actually appreciated Silver’s presence.
That seemed to be the other part. I was back in “military” mode and operating without orders, support of a chain, or with any backup besides her. So the two of us were our element. Everyone else was an outsider.
I guess my brain shut off. We talked about something, I zoned out staring at couchbacks, then we docked at Vista Station.
We had regular luggage, and some well-concealed gadgets that no Customs flunky should be able to identify. We had several shipments going to mail drops, and to our embassies, which would take some wiggling to get hold of. We had our wits for making more, and a lot of cash.
I elected to do Customs at this end, because I figured they’d be less suspicious of someone asking to be inspected.
It was straightforward enough, but there was an element of nerves. We were officially in Caledonian space by electing to do this, and any discrepancies would end our trip right now.
The inspector was Indian in ancestry, with slicked black hair. Fit enough generally, dour and bored. He spent some time scrutinizing our ID and passports, which were from FreeBank. I made sure to look relaxed and keep a hand around Silver’s shoulder.
“You seem a little nervous,” he said to her.
“First time out,” she muttered weakly.
“Ah. Well, there’s nothing to worry about.” He smiled and waved us through.
He didn’t check the bags. He accepted our medical and immunization declaration, which was valid but under fake names. That meant Randall could have done the same.