I sealed up my warded coat, its edge brushing my mid-thigh, the warded ceramic plates sewn inside molding it snugly to my body. It was real, biological, cultured leather, from a vat aboard the Belithain, and creaked comfortably when I moved, the smell of freshly applied polish tickling my nose.

  Just the way I liked it.

  I settled my leather stockman on my head, feeling the wards embedded beneath the wide, hanging brim. The hat hugged my head like the old friend it was, the brim shadowing my face, its wards capable of filtering out dust and volatile chemicals.

  As mageshields went, it was a void-loving good setup. I'd engraved and imbued the wards myself, filling them with the power of the void. Wearing my coat and stockman, I could deflect bullets, survive a splash of plasma, and even stand in front of a riot cannon for a measurable fraction of a second. Not that it would do me any good against a cruiser, or even a frigate. But there are no capital ships on a planet. We had other things to worry about.

  "How are your guns?" I asked our combat detail.

  The two marksmen merely grinned. Talain slapped her long-scope rifle, a twenty-millimeter semi-automatic cannon, anodized a matte black, with a reflection-warded, fifty-times magnifying scope and built-in com that adjusted for distance, wind, atmospheric density, temperature, and what you ate for breakfast. Hearing Talain talk about it was like watching a love triangle with no triangle. She'd spent more time on board maintaining the gun and running diagnostics on its com than talking to us, and she talked a lot. I liked her.

  Her rifle's barrel was as long as my body, steel, and heavy enough to crack someone's skull, its spiked bipod skewering them. No bending, one-shot polymer here. No maker's mark either, or serial number, but that could mean anything from home-built to a dark market professional. Talain had boasted that she could hit a five-centimeter target at two thousand meters, in wind. I'd take that with a pinch of salt and a bag of justified skepticism until I saw it. She also carried a Klei automatic in a side holster. The Klei was a spray-and-pray gun, good for close in work. A good complement for her rifle. Smart.

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  Geir, Talain's partner, merely grunted, looking over his own rifle, a twin of Talain's, then wiping away an imagined spot with a small, white rag he pulled from his armor. He, too, wore a sidearm, a light, small-caliber Chimer.

  They trusted their gear, that was good enough for me. All I had to do was get my own.

  "Stand back," I said. Then I removed a section of steel wall plates from the Bucket's main corridor.

  Nothing marked them from the other plates, yet they pivoted silently on well-oiled hinges, revealing my gun locker. I lifted my wards, and keyed the security locks open. The thumb-thick doors swung open, the locker's blue light filtering out into the corridor.

  Looking at my guns, I picked up my Mino M3 and put in a side holster. Two spare magazines went into the opposite belt pocket, a hundred-pack of fresh rounds went into the bag on my shoulder. Semi-automatic and large caliber, the M3 was a heavy gun, good for short range brawls against lightly warded opponents. Not very subtle, but that was fine by me. Sometimes, a big bang is what you need.

  My flameblade went into the hidden scabbard beneath my pant leg, the warded knife adding a reassuring weight. Then I grabbed the real artillery.

  My magerifle.

  Magerifles are some of the most mythical guns in the galaxy. Most people have no idea what they can do.

  A magerifle won't bring down a space ship. They can't fire into orbit, or shoot flesh-eating magic bullets. A magerifle isn't a magic weapon, merely a weapon powered by magic. It is a piece of warded tech that requires no ammunition, can blow a half-a-meter hole through both sides of an armored assault suit, and, assuming you're skilled enough, can fire through the void, bypassing such things as armor completely.

  It is also capable of ripping your mind to void-loving shreds. Only crudmunging idiots use a magerifle as their primary weapon.

  But on a Syndicate world, a man was measured by the amount of damage he could deliver, and a magerifle was a good way to advertise your capabilities. I'd have to take the risk of someone trying to purchase it by means of massive firepower.

  It felt good, hanging on a strap across my back. Carrying it was like putting on a well-worn boot or sitting down in a favorite chair. For all its danger, it felt right.

  "Everyone ready?" I said, received a round of nods. We'd gotten to know each other well enough during the journey.

  I keyed my locker shut, replaced the wall plates, and headed out. My hands were steady.

  It meant the battle had started.