CZM Book Club: Printed Guns & Sold Schematics by SJ Klapecki

all bus story. That's today. You all are the guests. Every single one of you is welcome the Cool Zone Media book Club. Okay, so today we got sci fi story for you and it is by SJ. Klupecky. Who's s J. Clopecky. I'm glad you asked, because I'm going to read their bio.

it's Sunday. Don't don't drink whiskey early in the morning on Sunday unless you really want to t Get yourself here some tea or whatever you would like, and cozy up because you're the guest today. Printed Guns and Sold Schematics by s J. Clipecki. The weapons of the future suck. Everyone imagined great sci fi glassings, the world being reduced to a gray nanite sludge, some viral contagion that only kills men, or some shit. But it's none of that.

It's drones, not even the proper Lockheed Martin ones. Instead their quad copters, the type rich kids get when their parents feel bad for divorcing. Only some assholes strapped a bomb to them too. The market for guns is still big, but they changed made of layers of printed plastic, doped with as much metal as needed to keep it together, and not an iota more. I have a pepperbox revolver I printed myself, strapped to my chest. The hard edge

of an unsanded handle digs into my breast. The gun's a hack job, made before I left and without any my usual care put into it. But it's six shots of nine to nineteen parabellium that I can't go without in my pocket. There's a USB on that USB. There's designs that were originally made by an afghanji hottist, iterated upon by an American Nazi, taken by a French anarchist, and changed before being sent to me. Another American Darwin would be proud of how quickly things now evolve, how

they iterate and phil niches. The compound I was told to go to is a small place, at least small for compounds that radical groups hang out in fifty acres of land in the middle of fucking nowhere. I know it's the right place because the only way in is a break in the birch trees. There's a sign that reads Clarefield Farm standing outside. Those are the two clues I was given as a standard. No phone, no way to trace me if I'm not carrying anything with a signal.

Even if the state security APPARATUSUS have collapsed, others might want my trail. Sadly, that means no GPS. There's a building in the middle of nowhere with its lights on. It doesn't look new, retrofitted, so the roof is covered with solar panels. A red flag is illuminated from behind, the words Montana Free Corps in bold gold lettering glowing from the window. I wonder briefly how many different compounds exist, how many radicals stake out just across the border, flitting

back and forth. But it doesn't matter. This is the place. I let out a sigh of relief and walk right on up. A blinking camera shifts this attention to me. The disembodied eye of some security guards staring I wave. An intercom lights up. A gruff, deep voice speaks, demanding my name and the passcode Rahai Yotan's daughter. I replied the fake name. I gave them Buck the front power to the people. I feel silly even saying it, but I don't control the passcodes that the clients give me.

I don't control their ideologies or what they do, or what stupid things they obsess over. It's not like it matters, so long as they're good on their cash. There's a moment of waiting. I tap my foot on the ground expectantly. Rain dribbles down my back, cold and uncomfortable. Wish they'd hurried up so I could at least be a little bit dry. Don't know how good a bunch of leftists are for hospitality, but when dealing with the type of people who run out to the woods to do a

bunch of training, it's always a mixed bag. Sometimes it's a bunch of unwashed men who keep thinking you're there to get with them. Sometimes it's a polite group of ideologues who try to win you over with tea, biscuits and god awful pamphlets. Sometimes it's just the smell of gunpowder and laconic grunts until the transaction is over. The last one is always the one I hope for, quick clean, done in and out. A boy greets me. His voice

is squeaky. He's young, no older than nineteen. If I had to guess, he's wearing a beret and a T shirt with from some punk band. I don't recognize. A beard that refuses to grow as much as he's been trying, and a revolver strapped to his waist. The smell of gunpowder and weed hits me as the warmth of the house bleeds out come in, he says. I step inside. The door closes behind me. A low sigh escapes involuntary from my mouth. I take off my jacket. Underneath is

a thin polyester windbreaker. Under that my revolver. I don't feel the need to strip further. As I put my jacket on the coat rack, the squeaky voiced man asked me a question you hear about the I have the schematics. I am kurt, but not rude, measured, someone who seems even tempered, mild if direct. The man shifts uncomfortably. He must have wanted more from me, an apology for lateness.

Perhaps I run my fingers through damp, short hair. Maybe he heard my name expecting someone more ladylike than my make up list demeanor gives off no matter. I shake my hands dry and clasp them in front of me. Your name is, I ask Louis? He says, in the French pronunciation, I'm louis. Probably a nom de guere based on some FLQ member or something. I can't remember too much about history. That's not where I bake my bread. Well, Louis, I try to shake off the cold of the storm

as I speak. Wouldn't want to come across as rude, now would I I was told there would be a commander or something I would be meeting or something the guy who wanted me to sell you all what I have. Louis's face changes. I can see that he's trying to figure me out, read me as best as he can, and process new information. I don't know if he was told why I was coming here. I doubt it. He didn't see him in the inner cadre, so to speak, Yeah,

that would be uh. He's raking his mind. I can see the confusion on his face, the way his eyes scrunch a little as he searches for a name, or maybe as he figures out what name to use. Half these guys use a half dozen names, not that I can judge, right, I'll get them for you. I don't know who I expect, but it's sure as hell not who shows up. Funny how after years of dealing you never really clear that image out of your mind of the rebel leader with a beard, a beret, a hopeful

and youthful look. Chay is burned into the neurons of my brain that I associate with rebel, but I've never seen a chay. The man I see before me is clean, shaven, dower. He looks in pain based on the limp my eyes trailed down, and a medical brace is tight around his leg, which he had shown up sooner. He says. He sounds old, maybe in his forties, with a gruff voice, the type someone gets from a packa day smoking a cigarette. Isn't in his mouth right now, but it's a matter of time.

I don't particularly like speeding when I'm carrying a legal stuff, doubly so when it's pissing brain outside. I say that gets a smirk out of him. He understands, So what do you got from me? M We discussed it on h fuck. I can't remember they squashed these sites as soon as they pop up. No, they don't, not since the Americans started fighting in their homelands more than they

did in the overseas ventures. Five Eyes collapsed when the central government did an anti insurgency, turned from that flawed system of panopticonic internet trawling and investigation to whack a moles that none of their allies could handle on their own. I remember exactly the site, I remember the username, the contact used. I know this game and sidestep the implied question I have. I look around the hall. Bookshelves are

full of radical literature. Bookchin lenin. I don't care all of a maw or two well read radicals across their own narrow spectrum of ideas. An idea strikes a good idea of political power to hand over if you're keeping your end of the bargain. He smirks a grin. He liked the reference to the old warlord. Play to the customer, keep them thinking I'm on their side. I won't mention that the Christian Front made me an offer too. Yes, well, maybe you can tell me a little bit more about

the form that power takes. He raises a hand to his face, scratches behind his ear. If I recall it was an anti tank round a nod. It isn't, but the differences are slight when it comes to blowing up technicals. It's a squash head round that could be mass printed with basic three D metallurgic techniques. The last guy you touched it didn't trust the plastic to hold and overcompensate it with the metal. That's probably the design you're using.

If you printed them right now, I actually know what I'm doing, so a gesture as I speak, trying to sound unrehearsed and on the fly. I modified the design to use fifteen percent less material with only a five percent reduction of material strength. And that's irrelevant to your purposes. If you're using this in rockets, you're using them in rockets, right you heard. I'm sure about the people in Kansas who blew themselves up trying to stick something like this

in an M seventy nine. Dropping out of that engineering course is the best damn choice of my life, all things considered. They hadn't yet beaten safety pro to call into my brain, but they sure taught me a lot about material science, how plastic flexes and bends, and how it snaps breaks on a windshield and sends glass and tannerite into the eyes of a driver fractions of a

second before the detonator goes off. He nods approvingly and waves Louis away, because, dear listener, who is of course our guest, this man knows a good deal when he hears one, and I think you know a good deal too, which is why all of our ads are for good deals. And you can totally trust me, because I'm saying this not coerced by a capitalist system. I just genuinely believe in everything you're about to hear. And we're back. Come

on inside, he urges. His voice is warm and cheerful now, as though he's trying to put some fatherly affect into his words. Water off A Duck's back to me, do you drink tea? I reply? Nothing harder A call for someone else, someone named Isabel, to put a pot on, A half hearted reply that she's been putting too much pot on tonight. I stiffle a laugh, don't trouble yourself. Then I insist. The older man leads me deeper into the house. We passed through the main hall, a kitchen

messy and with a sink full of dishes. A barracks or something like it, with a dozen or so bunk beds crammed together. People sleep soundly, despite haligen Court's lights burning over them. One of the rooms has been converted into an impromptu armory, printing caseines for bombs and upper receivers for rifles. Someone is working on a quadrone, trying to armor O the limbs, don't I point to the drone. The arms can take it. You need to focus on

the rotors. Any good great bird shot will tear those up. The armorer is a woman. Faded black dye covers up her blonde roots. Her shoulders drop, and she smirks at me. If I had to guess, she'd been telling people the same, but only now did someone agree with her. She holds her gaze at me for a fraction too long before nodding and getting back to work. If this was a different context, I'd hoped to heaven she was gay too. But it's not good business to flirt on the job, right, Well,

we got those designs from a person and occupy. He tries to justify himself his mistake. Everyone does, and they're wrong. I cut the man off, so survivorship bias probably wasn't factored in. You need those things to hit their target, nothing more. It doesn't matter if they get buckshot lodged in an arm It matters if their rotors are shredded into foil. He doesn't like this. I can see senses demeanor change. He is a bit icy as he gestures

towards the central computer. I don't know how many hundreds he spent on the design. Schematics. But hey, at least he doesn't need to invest in new ones. Should be thanking me. Really, I don't sit down. Instead, I take out the USB, plug it into the computer and ask him to sit down. I'm sure you know your system's better than I do. I'd hate to screw anything up. It's disingenuous, I know, but it convinces him. He sits down.

I notice the outline of a pistol tucked into his pant line between the disheveled dress shirt and the khakis. He opens the files. The actual instructions are encrypted. I have the key on a piece of paper tucked into my windbreaker. If it wasn't, then stealing my designs would be as simple as copy paste. Instead, he gets a series of PNGs from some short videos, my own voice through the speakers explaining what is different about these squash heeads.

He watches them closely, glancing at my hand every so often to check if still on the USB. It always is right, he says, But the designs, I want to see them in actual printing programs first, so I know you're not selling me a pile of shit. I want my money first, four thousand euros cash. That's what your contact promised me, mister, I nudge for a name. He grumbles and sighs. Tom, Just Tom. A few moments pass, I consider ripping the USB out since he's starting to

get on my nerves. He shifts back in the chair, an old leather piece of work with more duct tape than filling. Is he going to make a move and put my hand over my zipper? Ready to go for my own gun? Look, I don't know what my contact promised you exactly. He has this tendency to make you know deals that I don't exactly agree with. Tom explains he promised me four thousand euros in cash. I made that pretty clear. I think my hand plays with a zipper.

Can we agree on something more reasonable? It's only designed plastic, after all, his voice takes a grating edge to it. I probably fucked up telling his armorer how to do her job. It's only designed plastic. That took me twenty two hours of work, math, chemistry and more to work out a prototype for and four days of testing to make sure it worked according to my calculations, and then a month of shopping it around. And I know that

there's people like me, right, now doing the same. Who wouldn't be caught dead selling to someone who isn't good on the money in crypto. Well before they sent the design over, I unsit my windbreaker, hoping he doesn't notice the bulge of the revolver. I'm taking a risk here, and I don't want to take any more. He glares at me. I can see the game fall apart in his head, what he wanted to do, how he wanted

to haggle. But I'm still in the room full of his friends who are all armed to the teeth and are out here on a moment of R and R and training, probably before descending back down into Montana and helping his folks down there some plans that I'm starting to feel less like an accomplice to and more like a hindrance to Freya. He says, You're putting me in a fucking difficult position right now. His voice raises to a growl, a hiss between Tobacco's stained teeth. I clench up,

step back, and yank the USB from its port. My hand plunges into my windbreaker, wraps tight around that unsmooth handle. I don't draw it yet, but he knows that I have it and that's enough, right, he says, I'm putting you in a difficult position too. I get that, but you've seen what the Front's doing down in Montana, right, the fucking burnings. Moral considerations aren't what got me into this job. They're not gonna make me budge. He has to know that I'm not in this for some glorious revolution.

What she might be in it for, dear listener, flash guest, is the deals. Like you know that, that's kind of a thing, And much like you, you actually only listen to podcasts for the ads, and I respect that, unless, of course, you listen to cooler Zone Medium, which case you get the ad transitions and none of the ads. But if you're just on cool Zone Medium, just perfectly legitimate, then you get to hear the ads like these ones. Yeah I've seen them. Oh I'm back by the way, Yeah,

I've seen him. Frontists laughed as they screamed, so fucking what people like me sold them the weapons? Hell, I might know the guy who did. I know what the sides are doing. I know your fucking friends. And the GDF did when they captured a bunch of the Front's men, lined them up and shot them. No trial, nothing, that's war. I sell war. You want to buy war. Don't try to clean this up. Stands. I see the pistol in his waistband glock nineteen polymer, not a shadow gun, probably

for long term carry. Sweat sticks his shirt to his body. You aren't gonna hurt me, I say. My voice is confident, my soul is shaking. You either pay me now or I take this and leave. I threaten. We had a deal set up, and I won't haggle again. I already did that with your contact. They said four thousand, no less, damn fucking cheap for that price, and you know it. I don't think you fucking understand. Actually you've seen the videos,

but you haven't been there, even smelled the aftermath. You haven't given food to the hungry or water to the thirsty. His voice devolves into something almost rehearsed. We're doing good workout there, and you can help us. Oh, yes, the ideological crusade. They think I care about. The shifting acidic weight heating at me intensified. I tried my damnedest to not show it, not to give any clue of what was happening in my head. I failed. He took his chance.

If I don't know your type, he steps towards me. You think I don't know how little info you keep about yourself, how fake your name is?

A pang of fear strikes through me. There's only one way out. My back would be turned to him, the whole way. If I ran, good way to get my spine ventilated. Maybe backing away would work. A step back, glancing over my shoulder to the door. So you're going to hand it over as palm is extended outwards? Are you fucking robbing me? I try to stall for time. It's a USB and a few hits to your dignity, hardly grand theft. We can make this far more painful if you want, but I'm not going to give you

a lot of time to think it over. He notices my step backward, a flash of movement. A gun points at the ground, aimed at my feet. My heart stops cold dead. An exasperated sigh comes from behind me. Christ Above, Tommy, you're being a shithead, The lady working on the drone says, just give her the fucking money. You think we can't take the hit, Go and fuck with Henry. He set up the deal. If he promised something, that's all on us to keep in an internal matter to resolve. We're

not the fucking front. We have protocol silence for a moment. Tom looks at me, then at the armorer. There's something between them that I can't place. Maybe they were in battle together. That connection people have in the trenches is hard to place, hard to replicate. You think you have a fucking right to tell me what to do, Tom growls, yes. She says, yeah, I fucking do. Swinging your cock around isn't going to help any of us. Her tone is measured, casual,

like this is a Tuesday for her. Hell, what if she did give you the designs? Did you ever think past five minutes from now, she'd give you the USB, run like hell and tell every damn person in the business that we're liable to rob you blind and call it business. How would that look for us? Tom sighs. He removes the magazine from his pistol and racks the slide. A bullet clatters on the concrete ground. My shoulders drop. I breathe in clean, fresh air, almost purifying. I hadn't

realized how long I've been holding my breath. I wipe the sweat off my forehead and relax the grip on my revolver. Maybe this would actually go all right? You're right here, right, he sighs Alex, he looks past me. The woman perks up. Go to the vault. I think we have enough fifties and hundreds. If you can, I'd like to go with her, if you don't mind, I say. Tom frowns, but Alex waves me over. I follow her down the hall. She smells like peaches under the burnt

metal and sweat and WD forty. I'm so sorry about Tom, she says to me. The second we're out of ear shot. He's got a real fuck you got mine attitude, and I've tried to whip him into shape. It's not really working out. I'm just glad I'm not leaving here in pieces, I say. She laughs. It's sweet, gentle, reassuring. I remind myself once more that I am working and think about her too much. He's a business partner, after all. She lets out a laugh, a tired laugh, somebone who's had

to deal with far too much nonsense. We wouldn't do that to you, promise. They keep all their money in a room, hidden in filing cabinets and sorted by denomination. Some foreign currency, a lot of Canadian. Obviously, there's one thing the Canadians got right other than poutine. It's polymer currency. Europe has yet to catch up. And so my eyes wander to the piles of cotton bills four thousand euros. Right, Fuck Tom might have a point, as my wipe our reserves.

Not again, I'm not playing this haggling game again. A cute girl won't change my answer. Not my problem, I hope you know, I state. She nods and starts counting a real hard nose. I see her voice grates like glass shards. I must have foiled some plan. You know, Tom's not a bad person. I don't care about his morals, I say, I just want promises kept right right. She hands me stacks of currency. I count through it quickly. None of it seems fake, though I might need to

inspect closer later. The ero is always a good bet. The Canadian and US dollars both collapse and rise and turn, but across the pond the EUS managed to keep things relatively stable. I say goodbye to Alex and start down towards the entrance. As I pass through the hall, I see a few people on a couch watching television. One of them seems real strung out. Another is intently watching

the screen. The television plays footage from the Christian Fronts fighting with the remains of the National Guard, and anchor is speaking about the need for intervention from Britain or something something. I need to pay attention to new players in the field and all that. Tom meets me as I walk no gun. At least it doesn't look like. I don't take the time to search him up and down. He doesn't speak. I have nothing to say to him. It's a short walk to the door, but it feels

so so long. This didn't go smoothly, and I've put these guys firmly on my blacklist, but I won't contribute to the rumor mill. Maybe one of my competitors won't be as lucky as me. That'd be nice. I stand at the threshold, and a final few thoughts cross my mind. But how they might not have the right materials. It did include a list in the text file. How they might try to alter the designs themselves, might fuck it

up too. The Alex seem capable just not listen to They rarely listen to the engineers, at least until the survivors need to pick up the pieces. A thousand thoughts run through my head. I opened the door, say goodbye to Tom, and I leave the idiots to blow themselves up the end. If this was an old movie, it would say Finn, although it's French when it says Finn, So who knows? Maybe you don't. Maybe is it's probably how it's pronounced, because you never pronounce all the letters.

Why am I randomly making fun of him? This is the problem, is that you all are my guests, and you've been a little bit quiet, So I've been left to make these terrible jokes. But that's this week's story. I don't know. I like this story, and I thought

that you all might like it too. I like this kind of simple exploration of the complications involved in revolutionary struggle and how you know, often at least I read stuff that's like from a revolutionist's point of view, right, and you know, it talks about the complications as like, oh well, it's just complicated. You know, sometimes you got to break goup served the making an omelet or whatever fucking bullshit, you know, And I like something that's from

the perspective of a sort of a neutral observe. So I thought you all might like it too. But there's a few things I want to plug. Well, first I want to plug s J. Clipecky, who you should follow. You should follow on Twitter, which, as I said, is s J k l A P E C W R I, T I n G on Twitter. Also, you can follow s J. Clipecky on Patreon, which is SJ Underscore. We'll

just google it. Clipecky is k L A P E c K I. And probably more than anything else, I want to plug their book, which I haven't read yet, but was published by ak Press, who also published cool Zone Media Friend of the Pod Me and also cool

Zone Media Friend of the Pod Robert Evans. Ak Press published ak Press is a collectively run publisher who puts out really good shit and has started to put out a lot of really good fiction and ak Press put out Station six by s. J. Clepecky and I think you'll should check it out because I have it on my shelf and I'm excited to read it, especially after reading this story. That's the end of book Club. I'll see you all next week. Maybe I'll have a different guest.

Maybe you'll be the guest again. Do you like being the guest? If so, I don't know, Well, I guess you're kind of always the guest.