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(Page 1 of 6) Below Waterline by James McDonnell
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From the Liberty City Chronicles
BELOW WATERLINE
I looked approvingly at the hand cannon's stubby composite carbon barrel with real brass-filled epoxy reinforced fittings around the breech. This meant it could now take a heavier load of shot. I grasped it by the crystalline grip – a signature touch I always add to my weapons. With pride, I raised my latest urban assault gun up to the dim, green radiant-phosphor bulb above my workbench, appreciating my most recent contribution to quick death. Made from ‘found' parts, it was a scofflaw's work of art. The best Below Waterline, best in Liberty City, hell, best in the whole Martian Republic. Then again, the Chan Family Association expected nothing less from their master gunsmith.
Amateurs calling themselves Smithies would have been content at that, but not me. I placed my creation in the vice and after adjusting the mirror with the two remaining fingers and thumb of my left hand, I reflected the faint green light onto the weapon. To provide faster reloading, I put a special ceramic bearing onto the pivot arm of the seven shot revolving ammo chamber. Here, Below Waterline in Liberty City's tight, dark space station corridors that we call streets, you don't often get a second chance, and a lightweight weapon with major boom-boom might let you get away alive with only one shot. A second shot was a lucky luxury.
In a Taoist-Shinto tradition, I took the weapon over to the corner where my father's shrine flickered red from two mock candles casting a thin glow on either side of his urn. Placing the gun at the foot of the altar, I lit incense and said a silent prayer to my ancestors that they would make this weapon fire true every time and bring luck to its new owner. My father was a Master Gunsmith as were all my ancestors dating back seven centuries to the 1800's and Shanghai, China on Earth. Gunpowder was in my blood, and all over my nine square meter workshop.
Pulleys jury-rigged to the shaft of my clandestine workshop's vent fan drove my drill and the lathe. While I had enough electricity for my shrine candles, one overhead light and a low-voltage scanner, which let me monitor radio and net communications, excess consumption would bring Security Office goons down to investigate, and the Association disliked unnecessary attention. So the fan provided an ideal undetectable power source. If they cut my power, I'd have to relocate somewhere up in the Takata or Singh Associations' levels, away from Chan protection. If another association caught me, it would mean ransom and, as a valued Association asset, possibly a war. I guess I could always go down a few levels, but with the dwarfs, muties and berserkers popping out of every vent, my chances of survival there would be even slimmer. Well, there was always the Estrada Association, they'd let me stay up in their territory and promise not to kidnap me -- for a hefty tong. Things will work out fine here as long as I keep everything copasetic.
Keeping our munitions factories secret and out of the enemy's sight was an important strategy of the Association.
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