"This belonged to Moira Styachowski," Valentine said.
"Yes," Lambert said flatly.
"She gave you her old Number Three?"
"No. Colonel Post gave it to me. I wanted his advice on a good field rifle. He said something about Kentuckians knowing a good long rifle for three hundred years and counting, and that if I got desperate I could probably trade it for a working truck, optics being precious in the borderlands. I am thinking about trading it, though. It's a great heavy thing."
Post knew his guns. Odd of him to give Lambert too much gun. He'd made a present to Valentine of his first .45 automatic. Valentine had lost it, of course, but had replaced it with a similar version at the first opportunity.
Lambert fired off a few bursts with the entry gun, ripping up a blackened old post for a dock missing its planking.
"That's more my size," she said.
Valentine considered a lewd comment about a small size having its advantages in ease of handling, but decided against it. Lambert wasn't a flirt and had been his superior too long for it to feel right, even as a joke.
They each fired off a pair of magazines. The Number Three wasn't quite as handy as the Steyr Scout Valentine had gone west with, but the optics were better and it had another hundred meters on the carbine. It was a weapon that could serve equally well as a sniper rifle and a battle rifle. Valentine wouldn't care to use it for house-to-house street fighting, but for the woods and hills of Kentucky it was ideal.
"Want to switch permanently?" Valentine asked. "I'd love to get my hands on an old Number Three."
"Will said to sleep with it, or you'd steal it," Lambert said.
"Unless it has sentimental-"
"I'm teasing, Valentine. Will said I should trade it if I found something better. I like your gun more. But are you willing to-"
"Only if I'm not breaking up a love triangle between you two and the rifle." Valentine instantly regretted the words. Stupid thing to say.
"I think he'd be pleased as anything if you carried it," Lambert said. "He thinks you hang the moon, you know."
"Only by standing on his shoulders. While he bled," Valentine said.
The cheery intimacy evaporated.
"Let's shoot," Lambert said.
"Ever fired a gun in battle?" Valentine asked.
"During Archangel," Lambert said. "But I don't know if it counts. Our column came under fire at night. I bailed out and started blasting away at the gun flashes with everyone else. Turned out we were shooting at our own men. No one was killed, but two of our men ended up in the hospital."
"It happens," Valentine said.
"Post said when you were young, you lost someone close by accident like that."
"True," Valentine said.
"I'm sorry; was he not supposed to talk about it? He only told me to make me feel better about that night."
"I didn't know you two were that close."
"Oh, I might as well tell you. I facilitated his adoption of Moira's daughter after her plane went down. 'Facilitated' isn't quite the word. Stole, maybe. She was supposed to go to that special school where they're bringing up trans-human children."
"Trans-human?"
"It's just an official designation for people enhanced by the Lifeweavers. You never ran into it?"
"I've been out of the communication loop for a while now."
"Of course."