Future Ship

Mauser

26 Mauser Just the word—Mauser—its reptilian sibilance, menace of something primitive, uncivilized, cruel. Then the stock, unlovely wood, splintery rippled grain the color of dried mud, as if a crude approximation of an ideal stock, some pedigreed hunting rifle sculptured to a high gloss. And the barrel, lithe invincible steel, snub rod sticking out of its thin carapace of wood, top-piece clamped halfway down its length to sheathe its mechanisms from fire and flung dirt. Mauser.The rifle german foot soldiers used, measured not in calibers but millimeters, 9 millimeters, redolent of something exotic, something unfamiliar and strange. My father held it up and stepped back:“This is not a toy,” he said.“Never point a weapon at anyone. And never assume it isn’t loaded.Always look: open up the breach and look,” which he did by slamming the bolt back and peering in.“Now you’re ready,” he said.“Now you can’t hurt anyone by mistake.” He fed a round into the chamber, brass cartridge gleaming in the sun, bullet pointed like a flame— drove it home with a snug, oiled efficiency and handed the weapon to me. “Now aim it,” he said,“sight straight down the barrel towards that tree. Don’t pull the trigger until you’re ready, just squeeze it, slowly. Hold your breath.”Which is what i did, because a single hearbeat might disrupt its flight, describing the contours of a lethal trajectory, arc of my own deadly and determined will. ...