Strange Trades by Paul di Filippo Page A

up on their heads. Honeyman dismissed all thought of them from his mind.
    The ferry nosed into its berth, its rear half projecting out of the building. A ramp rattled down on its chains, people disembarked, and the eastbound passengers filed on.
    Yes, he was certain of it now. Those were several of the Beer Nuts. And they seemed to be carrying holstered sidearms, right out in the open—Goddamn it all, what was going on?
    Addie led the way upstairs to the open observation deck, and they moved to lounge at the railing. The ferry blew its horn and got underway. Once out on the river, under the cloudless July sky, enthralling breezes brought them scents of the city and the distant sea. Honeyman put his arm around Addie’s waist, and tried to forget all his troubles.
    Someone bumped into him. It was Ped Xing, the Orthodox Jewish Zen Master. He wore tinted goggles. He had been slinking along, bent at the waist, frequently swivelling as if expecting attackers to emerge from every bulkhead.
    In one hand he carried a large plastic gun.
    “Xing, what the hell—”
    “Quiet, moll, this is war. It’s every man and woman for himself. Herself. Whatever.”
    The shaven-headed Ped Xing made as if to prowl on, but Honeyman restrained him with a hand on his tensed shoulder.
    “Xing—just hold it right there. War with whom? And what kind of gun is that?”
    “Well, not war, really—just war games. We’re all playing Survival. Earl said it’d be good for us, sharpen our senses and reflexes for anything that comes our way. These are splat guns. They shoot those paint pellets—you know. Oh, that reminds me.” Ped Xing unzipped his coverall down to the waist, revealing a scrawny and hairless chest, and took out a second gun that had been tucked into the elasticized top of his Jockey shorts. “As an honorary Beer Nut, you’re a legitimate target. I’m doing you a big favor, warning you this way. I could’ve scored a lot of points off you. Anyway, you’d better take this.”
    Honeyman accepted the spare pistol automatically, even as he was saying, “Xing, this is crazy, I won’t get involved.” He was suddenly overcome by a strange kind of feeling, something weirder than déjà vu, and he realized that he was being forced to decide once more about organized violence, a choice he thought he had made twenty years ago, when he slit open the envelope bearing the government’s “Greetings.” Was once never enough…?
    Ignoring Honeyman’s protestations, Ped Xing was already duck-walking away. He called back enigmatically over his shoulder, “Satori comes whether you want it or not.”
    At that moment a shrill cry of victory paired with a wail of defeat emerged from below decks. There was the sound of pounding feet, and several people burst out of a hatchway onto the upper level: Leather ’n’ Studs pursuing a hapless Hilario Fumento, liberally bespattered with technicolored bull’s-eyes. Blinded by panic, Fumento headed straight for Honeyman. The writer looked as if he intended to vault the rail and plunge into the river. Leather dropped into a crouch, bracing her arm to squeeze off another shot. The ferry rocked in a swell just as she pulled the trigger and the shot went awry, striking Addie right on the chest. A bloom of blue paint blossomed on her left breast.
    The world went red and hazy in Honeyman’s eyes. He let out a wordless roar that transfixed all the Beer Nuts.
    “Hey, moll,” began Leather, “I’m really sorr—”
    It was too late for temporizing. Honeyman emptied his gun at the frozen woman, spotting her white suit from neck to ankle. Fumento had stopped beside his protector, and Honeyman now wrenched the gun from his hand and turned toward Studs.
    “Yikes,” she whimpered, and turned tail. Honeyman potted her backside once or twice, then took off in pursuit.
    The rest of the twenty-minute trip passed in a mad blur of running, hiding and sharpshooting. From bilge to fo’c’sle the game ran its course.