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

Margaret reads you a story about an engineer in a collapsed United States, just trying to make her living selling weapons to rebels.

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:01):
Cool Zone Media.

Speaker 2 (00:05):
Book Club book Club book Club book Club. It's the
Cool Zone Media book Club, which is a book club
where I read you a story. I'm Margaret Kildre. I'm
the I in the aforementioned I read you a story.
People say that pronouns are hard, but I is an

(00:26):
example of a pronoun and I bet you've used it.
I bet you can figure it out. You might have guessed.
The other thing you might have figured out is that
I don't have a guest today. It's just me. I'm
gonna read you a story. It's a me reading you
all bus story. That's today. You all are the guests.

(00:47):
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.

Speaker 1 (01:07):
S J.

Speaker 2 (01:07):
Clipecky is a writer from the North of Canada who
focuses on queer themes in the way that power interacts
with people. Starting from anarchist principles, they write science fiction
and fantasy about those who do not fit within the norm.
You can find them at s j klup heck writing
on Twitter, which is s J k l A p

(01:29):
e c writing on Twitter. This story is called Printed
Guns and Sold Schematics. So get yourself your whatever you
it's Sunday. Don't don't drink whiskey early in the morning
on Sunday unless you really want to t Get yourself

(01:52):
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

(02:14):
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

(02:36):
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

(02:59):
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

(03:22):
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

(03:44):
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,

(04:05):
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.

(04:28):
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.

(04:51):
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

(05:12):
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

(05:35):
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,

(05:55):
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

(06:19):
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

(06:43):
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

(07:05):
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

(07:27):
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

(07:48):
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

(08:10):
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

(08:32):
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

(08:54):
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

(09:15):
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

(09:37):
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,

(09:58):
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

(10:20):
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.

(10:41):
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

(11:02):
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

(11:24):
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

(11:47):
in everything you're about to hear. And we're back. Come

(12:08):
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.

(12:31):
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

(12:51):
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

(13:13):
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,

(13:36):
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

(13:57):
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

(14:19):
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

(14:39):
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

(15:03):
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,

(15:28):
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

(15:52):
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

(16:15):
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

(16:36):
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

(17:00):
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

(17:21):
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

(17:42):
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

(18:03):
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.

(18:34):
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.

(18:54):
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

(19:17):
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.

(19:39):
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.

(20:00):
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?

Speaker 1 (20:07):
Hell?

Speaker 2 (20:07):
I bet you don't even have a license on you,
let alone someone who's worried for you. I inhale sharply.
The chime comes up, A sour taste forces itself under
my tongue. I can feel my body. My bone's shaking. God,
I hope I'm not showing it. I hope he's not
seeing the twitch in my eye, every tug, every involuntary
pull of a stressed muscle. I feel everything. Tom knows

(20:29):
he's got me in a bind. I think over the
exits in my head, try to remember where anything 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

(20:49):
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

(21:10):
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

(21:33):
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

(21:53):
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

(22:14):
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

(22:36):
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

(22:58):
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

(23:21):
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

(23:44):
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

(24:06):
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.

(24:28):
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

(24:48):
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.

(25:11):
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

(25:33):
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

(25:53):
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

(26:16):
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

(26:37):
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

(26:59):
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

(27:21):
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

(27:43):
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

(28:05):
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

(28:27):
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.

Speaker 1 (28:40):
Oh.

Speaker 2 (28:40):
Also there's me. I have a podcast. If you heard
this on they it could Happen here feed. You can
also hear me on The Cool People Who Did Cool
Stuff Feed where every Monday and Wednesday, I tell you
a different kind of story. I tell you a story
of history instead of this futurest I'll.

Speaker 1 (28:54):
Just shut up.

Speaker 2 (28:55):
See you all next week.

Speaker 1 (28:57):
It could happen here as a production of cool Zone Media.
For more podcasts from cool Zone Media, visit our website
cool zonemedia dot com, or trick us out on the
iHeartRadio app, Apple podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts,
you can find sources for It could happen here, Updated
monthly at coolzonmedia dot com slash sources. Thanks for listening.