Glasshouse - Charles Stross [158]
“Ten kilos?” I shake my head. “That’s disappointing. That’s really not good.”
She shrugs. “You want to risk going technical on Yourdon, be my guest.”
She’s got a point. There’s a very good chance that the bad guys will have planted trojans in some of the design templates for more complex weapons—anything much more sophisticated than handguns and raw chemical explosive will have interlocks and sensor systems that might slip past our vetting. The machine pistols she’s run up are crude things, iron sights and mechanical triggers and no heads-up capability. They don’t even have biometric interlocks to stop someone taking your own gun and shooting you with it. They’re a step up from my crossbow project, but not a very high step. On the other hand, they’ve got no telltale electronics that Yourdon or Fiore might subvert.
“Did you test the gun cartridges? Just in case?”
Janis nods. “Thunder stick go bang. No fear on that account.”
“Well, at least something’s going to work, then.” I’d be happier if we could lay in a brace of stunguns, but since I’m not wearing Fiore anymore, that would be kind of difficult to arrange.
Janis looks at me. “Make or break time.”
I breathe deeply. “When has it been any other way?”
“Ah, but. We had backups, didn’t we?” Her shoulders are set defensively. “This time it’s our last show. It isn’t how I expected things to turn out.”
“Me neither.” I finish packing my bag and straighten up. “Do you think anyone will crack?”
“I hope not.” She stares at the wall, eyes focused on some inner space. “I hope not.” Her hand goes to her belly again. “There’s a reason I recruited gravid females. It does things to your outlook. I’ve learned that much.” Her eyes glisten. “It can go either way—peeps who’re still role-playing their way through YFH in their head get angry and frightened, and those who’ve internalized it, who’re getting ready to be mothers, get even angrier about what those brainfuckers are going to do to their children. Once you get through the fear and disbelief, you get to the anger. I don’t think any of the pregnant females will crack, and you’ll notice the males who were along all have partners who are involved.”
“True.” Janis—no, Sanni—is sharp as a knife. She knows what she’s doing when it comes to organizing a covert operation cell. But if she’s a knife, she’s one with a brittle edge. “Sanni, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.” Her tone is relaxed but I see the little signs of tension, the wrinkles around her eyes. She knows why I used that name.
“What do you want to do after this?” I grasp for the right words: “We’re about to lock ourselves down in this little bubble-polity like something out of the stone age, a generation ship . . . we’re not going to be getting out of here for gigasecs, tens of gigs, at a minimum! I mean, not unless we go into suspension afterward. And I thought you, you’d be wanting to escape, to get out and warn everybody off. Break YFH from the outside. Instead, well, we’ve come up with a case for pulling down the escape tunnel on top of ourselves. What do you want to do afterward once we’ve cut ourselves off?”
Sanni looks at me as if I’ve sprouted a second head. “I want to retire.” She glances round at the basement nervously. “This place is giving me the creeps; we ought to go home soon. Look, Reeve—Robin—this is where we belong. This is the glasshouse. It’s where they sent the damaged ones after the war. The ones who need reprogramming, rehabilitation. Yourdon and Hanta and Fiore belong here—but don’t you think maybe we belong here, too?” She looks haunted.
I think for a minute. “No, I don’t think so.” Then I force myself to add, “But I think I could grow to like it here if only we weren’t under pressure from . . . them.”
“That’s what it was designed for. A rest home, a seductive retirement, balm for the tortured brow. Go on home to Sam.” She walks toward the stairs without looking at me. “Think about what you’ve done, or what he did. I’ve got blood on my hands, and I know it.” She’s halfway