Paragaea by Chris Roberson Page A

upright for a moment, twitching slightly, and then crashed forward, its massive form falling to the jungle floor with a sound like distant thunder.
    Hieronymus, his saber still held high, and Balam, fangs bared, both turned to regard Leena, who stood holding her still-smoking Makarov pistol in a two-handed grip, her legs wide in a firing stance.
    â€œTrouble solved,” Leena said.

    â€œWhat was the meaning of that ?!”
    Hieronymus, grip white-knuckled on the hilt of his saber, advanced on Leena, his eyes flashing.
    â€œWhat mean you?” Leena slowly lowered the barrel of the chrome-plated semiautomatic, her expression confused.
    â€œA needless waste,” Balam said from the other side of the fallen creature's ponderous bulk, cleaning his knife and claws on the sloth's shaggy fur.
    â€œYou mourn beast's death?” Leena asked, disbelieving. She'd hardly taken the two for sentimentalists, to weep and wail when an animal met its just demise.
    â€œOf course not!” Hieronymus snapped, slicing at the air with his saber to sluice the blood and gore from the blade, and then slamming it into its sheath in one smooth motion. “But you've wasted valuable ammunition when Balam and I had very nearly driven the beast away.”
    Leena tilted her head to one side, and regarded the parallel wounds on Hieronymus's chest quizzically.
    â€œThis is nothing,” he said, following her gaze and prodding at thegashes with an outstretched finger. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them. The volume of his voice dropped, but lost none of the fire in his tone. “A bit of bandaging and a little time and they'll be nothing more than scars.”
    Without warning, Hieronymus reached out and snatched the Makarov from Leena's loosened grip, and shook the firearm barrel-first in her face.
    â€œBut once you fire the last of your rounds from this”—he gestured with the pistol—“you are that much nearer to never firing another round again.”
    Leena, her expression hard, held out her hand palm up.
    â€œPistol mine,” she said.
    â€œIt might be better for all if you kept it, Hero,” Balam said, stepping up behind his companion.
    â€œLook,” Hieronymus said with a shake of his head, laying the Makarov on Leena's outstretched hand. “Firearms are thin on the ground in this world, and ammunition hard to come by. Metal is a scarce commodity here, and there are few willing to spare even the basest lead in the manufacture of bullets, slugs, and shot. Most of what ammunition we have, we find ready-made, having fallen to Paragaea through the gates from Earth.” He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm. “Shoot, but only if your life depends upon it.”
    â€œAnd sometimes,” the jaguar man interjected, “not even then.”
    â€œBut in fight with his people”—Leena pointed at Balam, her eyes on Hieronymus—“you had pistol in hand. Not to shoot?”
    Hieronymus smiled slyly. He drew his pistol from the leather holster at his side, and regarded it with an expression bordering on love.
    â€œSometimes the signifier of a thing serves the same purpose as the thing itself,” he explained. “And by brandishing a pistol I introduce into my opponents' calculations the thought that I might have occasion to fire it. Usually the threat itself serves my purposes well enough that I need not often pull the trigger.”
    â€œMauser,” Leena said, looking at the pistol in the flickering firelight. “C96.”
    â€œWhy, yes it is,” Hieronymus said, somewhat surprised. “When last I sailed the oceans of Earth, single-shot muzzle-loaded firearms were the pinnacle of human achievement, but I have seen such wonders in my years in Paragaea. This pistol was a spoil of war, taken off a brigand on the city of Drift, just as my saber was won during the Battle of Calabria back on Earth, taken from one of the French