legendary Soul of Albion."
"And then my mission turns into a suicide run," I said, nodding
slowly. "No wonder you felt the need to bribe me with the offer of a place on
the council. The odds are you’re sending me to my death."
"But will you do it?" said the Matriarch. "For the family, and
for England?"
"Of course," I said. "Anything for England."
Chapter 6
Dangerous Lab Interns
So I went off to pay a visit to the family Armourer. Bit of a
dry old stick, but there’s nothing he doesn’t know about weapons, devices, and
things that go boom, whether scientific or magical in nature. In the more than
likely event of something going horribly wrong on my new mission, it was clear I
was going to need all the serious weaponry I could get my hands on, if I was to
protect the Soul of Albion from all comers.
I wanted a new gun. A big gun. A really, really big gun. With
atomic bullets.
The family armoury is situated a decent distance beneath the
west wing, set even deeper in the bedrock than the War Room. That way when
(rather than if) the whole armoury finally blows itself to hell, it won’t take
the rest of the Hall with it. The Armourer and his staff, geniuses one and all
though they may be, and enthusiastic to a fault, have always had a tendency
towards the kick it and see what happens school of scientific enquiry. They also
have unlimited access to guns, grimoires, and unstable chemicals. I’m amazed
this part of England is still here.
The present armoury is set up in what used to be the old wine
cellars, behind vast and heavy blast-proof doors. Designed to keep things in,
rather than out. The cellars are basically a long series of connected stone
chambers, with bare plastered walls and curving ceilings, all but buried under a
multicoloured spaghetti of tacked-up electrical wiring. The fluorescent lighting
was a sometime thing, and the huge air-conditioning system grumbled constantly
to itself. The stone chambers were full to bursting with the Armourer’s extended
staff: researchers, expediters, mechanics, weaponeers, and human guinea pigs.
(Someone had to test each new device. This was decided by a lottery among the
staff, and the loser was the one who wasn’t smart enough to fix the outcome in
advance.)
The armoury is always coming up with new weapons devised,
constructed, and tested right here in the labs. Which is why the place is always
so appallingly noisy. I stood by the closed blast-proof doors awhile, waiting
for my ears to adjust to the din. Men and women with earnest, preoccupied faces
bustled back and forth, giving their whole attention to the latest generation of
deadly devices they were producing for agents to use in the field. And hopefully
getting all the bugs out in advance. I could still remember the explosive
whoopee cushion, which didn’t, and the utterly impenetrable arm-mounted force
shield, which wasn’t. No one paid me any attention at all, but I was getting
used to that.
Lights flared brightly, shadows danced, and lightning crawled
all over one wall like electric ivy. Sharp chemical stinks fought it out with
the gentler aromas of crushed herbs, while molten metal flowed sluggishly into
ceramic moulds, and smoke drifted gently on the air from the latest unfortunate
incident. The armoury didn’t have a first-aid box; it had its own adjoining
hospital ward. A hell of a lot of people crowded around test benches and
futuristic lab equipment, alchemical retorts and silver-bullet moulds, and of
course the ubiquitous computers and chalked pentagrams. Most of these very busy
people were cursing loudly and emphatically as they tried to persuade their
latest projects to do what they were supposed to without exploding, melting
down, or turning the experimenter into something small and fluffy. Somebody
close to me reached for a handy lump hammer, and I decided to go somewhere else.
I strolled through the labs, keeping an eye out for the
Armourer. Doorways
"And then my mission turns into a suicide run," I said, nodding
slowly. "No wonder you felt the need to bribe me with the offer of a place on
the council. The odds are you’re sending me to my death."
"But will you do it?" said the Matriarch. "For the family, and
for England?"
"Of course," I said. "Anything for England."
Chapter 6
Dangerous Lab Interns
So I went off to pay a visit to the family Armourer. Bit of a
dry old stick, but there’s nothing he doesn’t know about weapons, devices, and
things that go boom, whether scientific or magical in nature. In the more than
likely event of something going horribly wrong on my new mission, it was clear I
was going to need all the serious weaponry I could get my hands on, if I was to
protect the Soul of Albion from all comers.
I wanted a new gun. A big gun. A really, really big gun. With
atomic bullets.
The family armoury is situated a decent distance beneath the
west wing, set even deeper in the bedrock than the War Room. That way when
(rather than if) the whole armoury finally blows itself to hell, it won’t take
the rest of the Hall with it. The Armourer and his staff, geniuses one and all
though they may be, and enthusiastic to a fault, have always had a tendency
towards the kick it and see what happens school of scientific enquiry. They also
have unlimited access to guns, grimoires, and unstable chemicals. I’m amazed
this part of England is still here.
The present armoury is set up in what used to be the old wine
cellars, behind vast and heavy blast-proof doors. Designed to keep things in,
rather than out. The cellars are basically a long series of connected stone
chambers, with bare plastered walls and curving ceilings, all but buried under a
multicoloured spaghetti of tacked-up electrical wiring. The fluorescent lighting
was a sometime thing, and the huge air-conditioning system grumbled constantly
to itself. The stone chambers were full to bursting with the Armourer’s extended
staff: researchers, expediters, mechanics, weaponeers, and human guinea pigs.
(Someone had to test each new device. This was decided by a lottery among the
staff, and the loser was the one who wasn’t smart enough to fix the outcome in
advance.)
The armoury is always coming up with new weapons devised,
constructed, and tested right here in the labs. Which is why the place is always
so appallingly noisy. I stood by the closed blast-proof doors awhile, waiting
for my ears to adjust to the din. Men and women with earnest, preoccupied faces
bustled back and forth, giving their whole attention to the latest generation of
deadly devices they were producing for agents to use in the field. And hopefully
getting all the bugs out in advance. I could still remember the explosive
whoopee cushion, which didn’t, and the utterly impenetrable arm-mounted force
shield, which wasn’t. No one paid me any attention at all, but I was getting
used to that.
Lights flared brightly, shadows danced, and lightning crawled
all over one wall like electric ivy. Sharp chemical stinks fought it out with
the gentler aromas of crushed herbs, while molten metal flowed sluggishly into
ceramic moulds, and smoke drifted gently on the air from the latest unfortunate
incident. The armoury didn’t have a first-aid box; it had its own adjoining
hospital ward. A hell of a lot of people crowded around test benches and
futuristic lab equipment, alchemical retorts and silver-bullet moulds, and of
course the ubiquitous computers and chalked pentagrams. Most of these very busy
people were cursing loudly and emphatically as they tried to persuade their
latest projects to do what they were supposed to without exploding, melting
down, or turning the experimenter into something small and fluffy. Somebody
close to me reached for a handy lump hammer, and I decided to go somewhere else.
I strolled through the labs, keeping an eye out for the
Armourer. Doorways
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