After lunch, the pair set out for Doctors’ Commons, walking half a block before a cab came along.

They climbed in and Blair said, “We’ll get there early and let you take a look at the marketplace. You should invest in some good guns, first off. Then maybe some other tools for your class. You are a Battle Rogue Technologist? I can’t say I’ve ever heard of anything like that. What are your base skills?”

Mentally, Rip checked his stats through the implant.

[You are a Tier 1.97 Battle Rogue Technologist.]

[Skill: Airship Pilot, 1.00]

[Skill: Lock Picking, 1.30]

[Skill: Mechanical Discernment, 1.32]

[Skill: Disarm Traps, 1.33]

[Skill: Stealth, 1.46]

[Skill: Weaponry, 2.03]

[Skill: General Combat, 2.19]

He listed off the skills for her in the order they appeared.

Blair said, “Hmm. Well, General Combat and Weaponry should rise on their own, what with everything we do on a regular basis. I imagine Stealth and Disarm Traps will see plenty of use, as well. I don’t know about Mechanical Discernment, I’m not familiar with that one. And I doubt very much you should get many opportunities to use Airship Pilot. It’s nice to have, but there’s no way to level it up, practically speaking.”

Rip nodded and said, “Yeah, I doubt Mr. Powell would be very interested in letting me fly the Steel Comet.”

She smiled, then added, “You should definitely buy a set of lock picks when we get to the marketplace. Feel free to practice on the doors in my townhouse. Do take care not to frighten Nancy, though.”

They soon arrived at the drop off point for Doctors’ Commons. Rip noticed an increased number of policemen and women, standing around in uniform and eyeing everyone with suspicion.

They checked in and marched past a row of royal guards also standing at attention, Tommy guns strapped to their backs. Rip thought the guards looked even more alert than usual, if that was possible.

In the park between buildings, blue and red uniforms alike dotted the landscape, outnumbering civilian pedestrians two to one.

“I suppose the attack yesterday has everyone on edge.”

“Indeed. No chance of a Nobber bothering us today out here.”

They followed the path and made their way to the Venture Society headquarters.

“Let me show you the marketplace, and you can buy some things. Judging on the increased show of force out there, I would imagine we’ll be assigned a mission, soon.”

Blair led him toward the back of the ground floor and they stepped outside. Looking up, Rip saw a metal latticework 50 feet high holding multiple panes of glass, forming a clear roof.

“It’s like the Crystal Palace!”

“Oh, you’re familiar with the Crystal Palace? We had to move it from its original location, you know.”

“I’ve only read about ours, on our world. It was taken down long ago.”

“Well, this is based on the same idea. It allows light in, but keeps rain out. So the marketplace is ‘outdoors,’ in a manner of speaking.”

Rip wrested his attention back down to the ground. Here, stalls and small buildings were arranged in rows, with vendors hawking their wares.

“On this side, you’ll find tailors, although I think you’re set so far as clothes go, for a while.”

“I still owe you.”

She gave him an affectionate smile and said, “Don’t worry about that. Now, in the middle you’ll find the weapons merchants. And on that side, tools of the trade. I’m going to leave you to browse while I go find the Colonel and see if he needs us for the report.”

“We don’t have to be at every report?”

The thought made Rip happy. It meant less time speaking in public, if true.

“Last night was not an official mission. We may have to show up for the report on it, but you shan’t be speaking unless someone has a question. Not every hearing will be like Dr. Oggolopoli’s.”

“Okay. I’ll catch you later, then.”

She gave him a quick squeeze on the arm and a final smile, and headed back inside the building.

Rip looked across the stalls and made for the middle, with all the weapons for sale. A handful of other Venture Society members roamed this area. Rip watched as one fellow examined a 9-50, hefting the huge gun and examining the breech.

“Looking for a gun, sirrah? Search no more!”

A merchant near the front made a sweeping gesture behind him, where a large rack held all sorts of weapons.

Rip smiled politely at him but headed deeper into the market’s center.

Here he found some specialists, selling only revolvers for instance. He also found one heavy weapons merchant, with something that looked like a Gatling gun proudly on display. Others called out to him about the great prices they had on bulk ammunition, crates of .45 caliber bullets, .38’s and others stacked in front of their stalls. Still more had knives and swords for sale.

Toward the back, at the very last stall, he caught the eye of a young woman wearing a crisp dress that Rip thought looked brand new. She smiled at him with a professional expression on her face.

“Looking for a gun, sir? We have a wide selection.”

He glanced on the back wall on her booth and decided she did not have many, really. Not in comparison to the merchants near the front.

He made a reasonable conclusion.

“Are you just starting out?”

She flushed a little, but maintained her composure.

“I’ve taken over my father’s business. He is too ill to continue. I’m Marigold Peat, at your service.”

She gave him a smooth curtsey, to which he nodded and touched two fingers to his forehead in return, recalling the book on etiquette. This was the proper way for members of the opposite sex to greet one another formally in public. Back home they probably would have shaken hands.

“I’m Ripley Coulter, a new member of the Venture Society. And yes, I need a gun.”

Her eyes grew wide.

“You’re that other-worlder from the steam vaults!”

It was Rip’s turn to flush.

“I’ve read so much about you! You’re in all the papers.”

“Really? I suppose I should read what they’re saying sometime.”

As if realizing she had stepped outside the bounds of professionalism, Marigold schooled her face and brought the topic back to her wares.

“What would you be interested in today? The Thompson submachine gun is an excellent choice.”

She pulled one off the rack and handed it to him. He examined it, ignoring the notifications that popped up on his implant.

“Do they have these on your world, Mr. Coulter?”

“Yes. My father collected vintage firearms, and although he never had an original Tommy gun, he did buy one of the modern replicas in semi-auto. What I’m curious about is how it was named. On my world, this gun was created by a general in the US Army. Uh . . . back in the colonies. Did a man named Thompson invent it here, too?”

“Oh, yes sir. John T. Thompson was the inventor. He managed His Majesty’s small arms for a while in our military.”

“Interesting.”

Rip knew for a fact that John T. Thompson was an American on his world. The man graduated from West Point back in the day, and invented his eponymous gun to be used as a “trench sweeper” in World War I.

Somehow, his family must have stayed on this side of the Atlantic in this world, but he still wound up in small arms design.

“The starting price is a hundred pounds, but these are only 95.”

Her expression was not perfect, Rip thought. She looked like she expected him to haggle.

Instead he smiled and said, “I’ll take two. How does that work? I don’t have the money on me.”

Her face lit up in surprise and delight, telling him he probably should have haggled.

“I’ll settle the books at the end of the day, inside. Here you are.”

She pulled down another one of the guns off the wall and handed it over.

“How do you know I’m good for it? Just curious.”

She waved his concerns aside.

“Everyone knows who you are, Mr. Coulter. How could you cheat someone and get away with it? I’m sure you have plenty of funds from that reward King Alto gave you for taking down the black airship.”

He frowned and said, “I really need to read the papers and see what they’re saying about me.”

“Now, how about a pistol or three? And, you’ll be wanting some ammunition as well.”

In the end, he bought a small Walther like Bixby carried, and a Webley revolver for backup, both in .38.

In talking guns with Marigold, who proved to be quite knowledgeable about small arms, he found there were other calibers out there as well, in particular .25 and .22. Neither were considered very effective at stopping people, and Venture Society members generally eschewed them. Consequently, she did not carry anything in those smaller calibers.

Larger rifles, she said, generally shot the .30-06, which Rip knew as an American caliber, and the .950, which he decided was original to this world.

Unless there were other worlds where that caliber existed . . . he set aside that thought for later.

Satisfied with his purchases, he left a very happy Marigold Peat and wandered over to the side of the marketplace carrying tools and knick-knacks.

More than a few people stared at the two submachine guns strapped to his back, and the pistols jutting out of his belt. He also had a heavy canvas bag slung over his shoulder filled with boxes of ammunition and several spare drum magazines.

“You need an interspatial wallet, my good man.”

That stopped him. He turned and found a man smiling at him in front of a booth filled with bags, briefcases, rucksacks and other accessories.

Rip approached the booth, intrigued.

“Are you familiar with interspatial wallets, sir? They’re the latest thing. They were literally introduced just this week. My name is Evander Greenstone, purveyor extraordinaire of bags, cases and boxes, at your service.”

He gave a formal bow, to which Rip acknowledged with two fingers to his forehead again.

“As a matter of fact, my team leader has one.”

“Who is your team leader? Are you with Colonel Bixby by any chance?”

Rip nodded.

“I sold him that one. You must be the famous Sergeant Coulter we’ve heard so much about.”

“You would think there’d be a little more anonymity in this world, without the internet and surveillance tech.”

Greenstone blinked, uncertain what to make of this statement. He recovered quickly, though.

“I have two more interspatial wallets for sale. You could put everything on your person, all those guns and that heavy ammunition, in one, and still have room to spare. Here, try it out.”

Greenstone reached under a counter and pulled out a plain leather wallet.

Curious, Rip opened it up. It looked like a regular bifold. But when he peered inside, he found a huge open space staring back at him, with empty slots.

“That just doesn’t seem real. How did they do that?”

“I’ll leave that question to the boffins who created it, my good man. Now, these set me back a pretty penny. But I’ll be willing to let you have this one for . . . 12,000.”

Rip frowned.

Greenstone held up his hands and said, “Right, right. I’m sure the colonel shared with you his purchase price. I’ll sell it at the same to you, 9,800. It’s a good deal, these were not cheap to come by, I promise you.”

Rip had to admit having everything in the wallet was very nice. He transferred all but the Walther, keeping it hidden under his jacket.

Continuing along, he ended buying a shoulder holster for the Walther from a vendor specializing in holsters and gun cases.

Then he picked up a set of lock picks and a garrote wire, because he thought a rogue should have those. He grabbed a good supply of canned food which the vendor assured him would be ideal for long excursions, and a canteen. He also picked up a set of screwdrivers, some fuses and rope with a grappling hook.

A woman selling pocket watches caught his eye, but then he recalled that his implant had a clock, so he passed her by. That’s when he noticed he was late for meeting with Blair.

He went back inside and made his way to the main hall, keeping an eye out for her.

“There you are,” she said, approaching him. “Come along, the hearing has already started. Our little excursion last night attracted all sorts of attention, and the report will be attended by quite a few more people than I thought.”

She guided him by the arm to one of the larger meeting rooms. They walked in, and Rip’s lips curled down. The place was packed.

Hedgefield stood up front, addressing the crowd.

“In conclusion, based on Lord Bixby’s report, I recommend we send a larger force down into Chelsea Station immediately. These Septic Rats need to be thoroughly investigated, and if they are up to no good, they need to be stopped.”

Several cries of “Hear, hear!” came from the audience.

Bixby stood and nodded to Hedgefield. He noted the arrival of Rip and Blair, nodding at them, too.

He said, “We’ll gather additional teams and leave immediately.”