“So you did. So you did. Well, Ronin don’t make much smaller than the 86 in the monomol range. You want a slug gun maybe?”

“No, the shredder’s good, but it’s got to be smaller than that. What else have you got?”

The woman sucked at her upper lip. It made her look like a crone.

“Well, there are some of the Old Home brands as well—H&K, Kalashnikov, General Systems. It’s mostly pre-owned, see. Sprog trade-ins for mimint smasher gear. Look. Do you a GS Rapsodia. Scan resistant and very slim, straps flat under clothing but the butt’s automould. Reacts to body heat, swells to fit your grip. How’s that?”

“What’s it ranged at?”

“Depends on dispersal. Tightened up I’d say you could take down a target at forty, fifty metres if your hands don’t shake. On widespread, you don’t get much range at all, but it’ll clean out a room for you.”

I nodded. “How much?”

“Oh, we can come to some arrangement on that.” The woman winked clumsily. “Is your friend buying too?”

Sylvie was on the other side of the emporium, a half dozen metres away.

She heard and glanced across at the datacoil.

“Yeah, I’ll take that Szeged squeeze gun you’re listing there. Is that all the ammunition you’ve got for it?”

“Ah … yes.” The older woman blinked at her, then back at the display.

“But it’ll take a Ronin SPo load too, they made them compatible. I can throw in two or three clips if you—”

“Do that.” Sylvie met my eyes with something in her face I couldn’t read.

“I’ll wait outside.”

“Good idea.”

No one spoke again until Sylvie had brushed through the shell curtains and out. We both stared after her for a couple of moments.

“Knows her datacode,” chirped the woman finally.

I looked at the lined face and wondered if there was anything behind the words. As a blatant demonstration of the deCom power her head had been scarfed to disguise, Sylvie reading detail off the datacoil at distance pretty much screamed for attention. But it wasn’t clear what capacity this other woman’s mind was running on, or if she cared about anything much beyond a quick sale. Or if she’d even remember us in a couple of hours time.

“It’s a trick,” I said weakly. “Shall we, um, talk about price?”

Out in the street, I found Sylvie stood at the edges of a crowd that had gathered in front of a holoshow storyteller. He was an old man, but his hands were nimble on the display controls and a synth-system taped to his throat modulated his voice to fit the different characters of his tale. The holo was a pale orb full of indistinct shapes at his feet. I heard the name Quell as I tugged at Sylvie’s arm.