Patriot, M.A. Rothman [reading like a writer TXT] 📗

a second.” Brice held up a finger as he sat in front of a computer terminal, reached into a desk drawer and grabbed what looked like a lacquered cube about the size of a large fist. “Well, I don’t know what these guys told you, but mostly we don’t carry the kind of IDs you’d think.” He motioned for Connor to take a seat next to the desk.

“Okay,” Connor took a seat and upon Brice’s direction, placed his hand on a metal plate. “So, if you guys don’t carry IDs, then how do you know who is a member and who isn’t?”

“Well, that’s the trick. We don’t really exist, so having a conventional ID can pose more problems than it solves.” Brice smiled as he handed Connor what looked like a viewfinder. “Look into that and keep both eyes open.”

Connor stared into the viewfinder as a green light strobed inside the unit.

“Okay, that’s enough.” Brice took the viewfinder, tapped a few commands into the computer and slid the black lacquered box toward Connor. “This box has a lacquer coating that is actually an arrayed microheater fabricated on a silicon substrate. The electric resistance of each heater element will measure temperature differences between what is in contact and not in contact between each of the ridges of your finger.”

Connor panned his gaze to Thompson and Richards, who were both fiddling with something on the table. “Can one of you translate what he said?”

Richards laughed. “All he said was that thing is a big ole fingerprint reader.”

“It does more than that,” Brice huffed. “Anyway, the coin inside this box is ready to be programmed. Just go ahead and put your thumb on the box and hold it there for ten seconds.”

Connor pressed his thumb onto the box as Brice continued explaining.

“You’ll see a puff of smoke—that’s normal. There’s circuity embedded within the box to take the fingerprint data along with galvanic information and a few other proprietary pieces of biometric data. With that information, the coin will be synched to your body’s signature and will go online.”

Connor did actually see a wisp of smoke rise from the box as a line burned across its perimeter. “Okay, it’s been ten—”

“Okay, take your thumb off and open the box.”

Connor held the box in one hand slowly wiggled the top off. Inside, on top of a velvet-lined bed, lay a silver coin emblazoned with a pyramid with an eye in it, surrounded by some Latin. It was the Outfit’s logo. Connor picked up the coin and turned it over. On its reverse side, there was an image of an eagle carrying a sword in its talons.

Connor hefted the coin in his hand and said, “Okay. So, a coin? This can’t be the ID you guys use. Is it?”

“It is,” Brice held up his hand and said, “before you start stating the obvious, like how can a coin be an ID, it can be faked, and all the other nonsense everyone prattles on about, let me fill you in on a few details.

“First, if someone approached you on the streets and claimed they were a member of the Outfit, and that would almost certainly never happen, but if it did, you’d be fully within your right to ask for proof. This coin is that proof.”

Connor turned the coin over and studied it with a frown.

Brice continued, “When two members of the Outfit grab hold of an identification coin, it quickly becomes obvious whether they’re a member or not. Go ahead and hold out your coin with the eye facing up.”

Connor gripped the edge of his coin, showed it to Brice who reached out and gripped the other side of the coin. For a moment, nothing happened. But then, after a second or two, the coin grew warmer, and they eye in the pyramid began glowing.

“Son of a bitch.” Connor smiled. “That’s cool as hell.”

Brice grabbed the empty lacquered box and put it into his desk drawer. “Over time, you’ll find yourself in situations that require that ID to get into places. Just like you always have your wallet and keys, learn to always have that ID on you.”

“Okay, now that he’s got his ID, what do you have for us today, Martin?” Thompson asked. “We need to get our boy here kitted out before he leaves.”

Brice raised an eyebrow. “Leaving already, huh?”

“That’s what they tell me,” Connor said, shrugging.

“Well then, we better get you hooked up.” He turned to Thompson. “What were you thinking? Standard kit?”

“That’s right.”

Connor raised a finger toward the weapon he’d been eyeing. “Before we get too far into his, I have to know… is that part of the ‘standard kit’? Because if it’s not, I’d like it to be.”

Brice followed his finger, saw what Connor was pointing at, and laughed. “The REMAG? Absolutely not.”

“The REMAG?” Connor asked.

The tiny man’s expression shifted to something like elation.

Richards put his face in his hands. “Oh no. You put the quarter in.”

Brice ignored the remark and motioned Connor over to the shelf. “Recoilless Electromagnetic rifle, the only one of its kind. My design.” He grunted, straining to lift the bulky frame. “It’s not exactly recoilless, but I’ve got recoil compensators that reduce the kick by a good amount. It can throw a caseless shell up to ten thousand meters. Accurate up to four kilometers. And other than a loud zap, it’s pretty quiet for what it does.”

“Except it doesn’t work,” Richards said. “It still knocks most people on their ass when firing it.”

Brice rolled his eyes. “It works, it just has some… glitches.”

“Do you mind?” Connor asked, motioning to the weapon.

Brice handed it over.

The rifle was a lot heavier than it looked. Connor guessed it was about thirty pounds, unloaded. He held it up to eye level, as if he was going to shoot it. He could only keep it up for a few seconds before his arms started quivering.

“Probably too heavy for field applications,” he said, handing it back.

“Yeah, well the next