"Arms discourage and keep the invader and plunderer in awe, and preserve order in the world as well as property . . . Horrid mischief would ensue were the law-abiding deprived of the use of them."
—Thomas Paine
The three young men wandered into the bazaar and separated slightly. They had long practice at being far enough apart to deny involvement and close enough for backup. They kept an eye on a table of jewelry. It was not even cased, but lying out on a table. There were no cops visible anywhere, the nearest had been across the street at a restaurant. These people deserved to be robbed. Two of them edged closer as the third wandered away.
The first one idly pushed the second, who caught himself on the edge of the table, surreptitiously sliding a necklace off. He regained his balance, snapping at his accomplice and making a show of pushing back while pocketing the stones. They continued walking.
"Excuse me!" the table's owner, a small, slender woman shouted. "That's my necklace!"
The two gangers slipped easily into Plan B. The thief whirled, stepped toe-to-toe with her and screamed down at her. "Ya callin me a thief, snatch?"
The second one viciously pushed her into her table. It collapsed, spilling sparkling metal and stones across the grass. He drew back his foot to deliver a kick, only to notice the crowd moving closer. They should have been running or pointedly ignoring the scene, not interfering. He spun aside, dragged a cheap knife he'd found in the trash out of a pocket and held it out. His grip made it seem more of a talisman than an actual weapon. "Someone wanna fuck wid me?"
His wrist was suddenly clamped and bent into itself. The blade, still in his hand, punched into his kidney. Before the streak of pain properly registered, a massive weight crashed into his skull, behind the right ear.
The third one found a whole table full of guns! The array was bewildering, gadgets and mechanisms he didn't recognize at all. This place was heaven for a person trying to get what he deserved from life.
That one looked familiar and he picked it up. "Ya got pops for this?" he asked, grinning.
"Ammo?" the dealer queried. "Sure. You want ball, explosive, tracer . . . ?"
"Explosive! Hell yeah, man!" Unbelievable.
He took the offered box very carefully, put the gun down and loaded three into the magazine. "I'll take it," he said and made a show of reaching into a pocket. As the salesman nodded and reached for a box, he moved quickly, shoving the magazine home and cycling the slide. He jammed it forward toward the proprietor's chest, yanked the trigger, turned while snagging the box of shells and dug down to sprint.
Several reports, from suppressed pops to unadulterated roars sounded. He felt the freezing burn of bullets entering him and dropped convulsing.
"You okay, Gerry?" he heard a voice ask.
"I'm good, Shard." the gun dealer replied, coughing. "Damn moron shoulda used ball ammo against my vest. How's he?"
"Who cares?" was the response, hazily overhead. "He isn't moving, so he isn't a threat. I'll call City Safety."
"Thanks. Five years wearing this thing in case of an accidental discharge and some little fuck tries to murder me. What are the odds on that?"
The hood vaguely realized he was bleeding to death and wouldn't survive to see an ambulance.
There were hundreds of similar incidents across the system that week. They tapered off on a rapid curve, not because the perpetrators learned, but because they died. Human evolution had all but ended on Earth once man controlled his environment. But Darwinism still existed and those who couldn't adapt to massive changes in environment could still die.
Some who didn't adapt still managed to survive. That was not necessarily a positive outcome, either.