Secret Histories 10: Dr. DOA (13 page)

“Really?” I said. “None of my relatives seem too sure about that, just at the moment. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“Of course,” said Ethel. “Your Matriarch is sulking.”

“What?” said Molly.

“She demanded to know why I care so much about this family,” said Ethel. “Why I provide you with torcs and armour and so on. She was very insistent that I explain my reasons and motivations, and what
I’m getting out of it. She really is a very suspicious woman for an ex-gardener. And I wouldn’t tell her.”

“Why not?” said Molly.

“Because my business is my business,” said Ethel. “So she’s mad at me, and trying to pressure me by distancing the family from me as much as she can.”

“That’s it?” I said. “I can’t believe she’d be so petty . . . Well, actually I can, because she’s a Drood. No one is ever allowed to be more important than the Droods. You’re not thinking of leaving us, are you? Because of her?”

“No,” said Ethel. “I’m not sulking.”

“Why are you looking after us?” I said.

“Perhaps I’ll tell you,” said Ethel. “Just you. When you get back from your mission.”

“If I get back,” I said.

“Let’s all be positive,” said Ethel. “I promise you this. I will avenge you, Eddie, if no one else can.”

“Everyone wants to avenge him, but no one wants to save him!” said Molly. Her voice broke, and she looked away so I wouldn’t see her holding back tears.

“I’m sorry,” said Ethel. Her voice sounded flat, and quite final.

“Can’t you See who did this to me?” I said.

“No,” said Ethel. “And I should be able to . . . Isn’t that odd? I’m going to have to think about this.”

Her voice cut off abruptly. Molly and I both called after her, but she didn’t respond.

“We have to find Dr DOA,” Molly said finally, “and make him fix this. He wouldn’t work with a poison unless he had a cure, in case of accidents.”

“What if he doesn’t?” I said.

“Then before we kill him, we make him tell us who hired him,” Molly said steadily. “Who hates you enough to want you killed in such
a horrible, cowardly way. Who doesn’t have the guts to face you himself. I’ll make him talk, and when he finally dies, it will feel like a release.”

“I can live with that,” I said.

“Don’t you have any idea who it might be?”

“I’ve been racking my brains,” I said. “But like the Sarjeant said, all my enemies are dead. It could be the family of someone I killed . . . or a friend. Sometimes, with the best will in the world, you can’t avoid collateral damage in taking down an enemy. I like to say I’ve never killed anyone who didn’t need killing, but other people are bound to be affected. The damage I do doesn’t always end with a death.”

“No,” said Molly. “This kind of killing feels more . . . personal. There are real hate, real spite and vindictiveness in this. Remember the Manichean Monk, on the airship? He was mad as hell about something, and he wanted you dead. Could he be connected to this?”

And then we both broke off as images of the Armourer, unsteady visions of Maxwell and Victoria, appeared suddenly before us. I could tell they were projected images, because I’d seen Uncle Jack use the process, back when he was Armourer. He invented it some time back, and for a while he was sending images of himself all over the Hall, when he had something to say and didn’t feel like leaving the Armoury. The Hall was full of surprised squeals and startled bad language as the Armourer appeared out of nowhere in front of some poor unsuspecting soul. And then he bothered the Sarjeant-at-Arms while he was on the toilet. The Sarjeant had a lot to say about that, and shortly afterwards image projection inside the Hall was banned.

It seemed Maxwell and Victoria had decided the ban didn’t extend to the Hall grounds. Perhaps they were jealous of Ammonia’s sending.

“There you are!” said Maxwell. “We’ve been looking for you!”

“You have to come down to the Armoury before you leave!” said Victoria.

“You must!”

“Oh, you really must!”

“We’ve got some things for you,” Maxwell said temptingly.

“Really cool things,” said Victoria.

“I don’t think I’ve got time,” I said tactfully. “I have things to do.”

Maxwell and Victoria were immediately very upset. They looked at me with big puppyish eyes, their lower lips trembling.

“But you have to!” said Victoria.

“I don’t need anything,” I said.

“But it’s traditional!” said Maxwell.

“You always see the Armourer before you go off on a mission!” said Victoria.

“I know we couldn’t help with the poison,” said Maxwell, “but there are some things we can do.”

“You have to let us help you!” said Victoria.

“All right!” I said. “I’ll come down.”

Maxwell and Victoria beamed hugely, and their images snapped off.

“We really don’t have the time,” said Molly.

“I know,” I said.

“But we’re going anyway, aren’t we? You indulge them.”

“I know!” I said.

*   *   *

We went back into the Hall. I was getting really tired of having to go back in, every time I thought I was free of the place. I strode through the entrance hall with my best
Get the hell out of my way
look on my face, but there was hardly anyone around. As though everyone had decided they didn’t want to see the dead man walking any more. Or maybe the Sarjeant had quietly had a word. As long as it kept people from staring at me like an exhibit on display, I was fine with that.

And so we descended the steep stone steps that led to the Armoury, situated deep in the bedrock under the Hall. So that when things inevitably go wrong or Bang! very loudly, it shouldn’t affect the rest of
the Hall. The Armourer’s lab assistants have always had a
Prod it and see
attitude when it comes to testing new things.

“Why can’t you have a nice, shiny high-tech lab, like everyone else?” said Molly. “I always feel like I’m visiting some eccentric old boffin, in his shed at the bottom of the garden.”

“The Armoury is set up in what used to be the family’s old wine cellars,” I said patiently.

“Really?” Molly suddenly looked interested. “Does your family still have wine cellars?”

“Hell yes,” I said. “Extensive ones, under the North Wing. One of the best-protected areas in the Hall. I’ve never been a great wine drinker myself, but my cousin Christopher once told me the family has been laying down fine wines since before the days of King Arthur.”

“What are you saving them for?” said Molly.

I stopped at the bottom of the stone steps and looked at her. “Do you know, it’s never occurred to me to ask.”

“Definitely something to look into, when we get back,” said Molly. She wasn’t quite rubbing her hands together in anticipation, but she had that look in her eyes.

The Armoury is sealed away behind heavy blast-proof doors designed to keep things in, rather than out. They usually opened for me the moment I arrived, but not this time. New Armourer, new security.

“You could knock,” said Molly.

“On blast-proof doors?”

“I could huff and puff and blow them right off their hinges.”

“No time to be making enemies,” I said.

The doors opened on their own, heavily reinforced hinges groaning theatrically from the weight of the doors. Molly looked at me.

“I don’t see any cameras watching us, so how did they know we were here?”

“This is the Armoury,” I said. “Home to many lab assistants with
far too much time on their hands, no inhibitions, and even less regard for privacy.”

“Of course,” said Molly. “I was forgetting.”

We stepped inside, and the heavy doors slammed back into place. The Armoury is basically a long series of connected stone chambers, with white-plastered walls and low, curved ceilings, mostly buried under a multicoloured spaghetti of tacked-up wiring. It’s supposed to be colour-coded, but I’ve never been able to find anyone who could explain it to me. Some of it’s been there since Tesla put it up.

Stark fluorescent lights cover everything with an unrelenting glare, and the air conditioning works when it feels like it. Strange lights come and go, chemical stinks and pungent herbs drift on the air, and there’re always some kind of gunfire and deeply disturbing laughter coming from the firing range.

I strolled down the central aisle with Molly hanging on my arm, keeping a safe distance from everyone and everything. We also avoided glowing chemical spills and chalk-drawn pentacles on the floor. Someone had set up a mantrap in the shadows, heavy enough to hold Bigfoot. All around us, hardworking young men and women in charred and stained lab coats clustered around workstations and test benches, combat areas, and clearly defined no-go areas. It was all much more organized and efficient than it had been in the old Armourer’s time. Uncle Jack ran a tight ship, but he approved of individual initiative. Even if it did tend to lead to a lot of cleaning up afterwards. His way led to many important new breakthroughs, and a lot of happy accidents. Provided you were inclined to be somewhat loose in your definition of happy.

I missed the spirited chaos of the old days, where I could always be sure of encountering something weird and wonderful on my visits. This new era of efficiency and discipline was no doubt safer for everyone, and maybe even more productive, but it did look a lot less fun. Less survival
of the fittest, or, at least, the most ingenious. Until a lab assistant came running past, brandishing a really big butterfly net, in hot pursuit of a miniature horse with eight legs. Not far away, another assistant was wrestling with a chainsaw battle-axe, while looking frantically for the
OFF
switch. And another assistant was looking down at the four extra arms protruding from his sides with a look that clearly said,
This is not what I had in mind.

A loud explosion from the firing range shook the floor, followed by screams, laughter, and much drifting black smoke. Something caught fire, something disappeared, and something else turned into something else. Young lab assistants at play. Business as usual in the Armoury, after all.

Maxwell and Victoria came hurrying forward, smiling happily at Molly and me. Until they remembered the solemnity of my condition, and did their best to look properly grave and professional.

“Welcome to the Armoury!” said Maxwell.

“Been a few changes since you last saw us!” said Victoria.

“But we still do good work,” said Maxwell.

“Of course you do!” said Victoria. “His trouble is, he’s too modest, Eddie. Aren’t you, dear? You don’t talk yourself up enough, Max!”

“Oh, I don’t like to . . .”

“But you must, darling; you really must. Or people won’t take you seriously!”

They suddenly remembered they had guests, and put on their professional aspects again.

“We still supply weapons, devices, and really quite appalling dirty tricks to agents in the field,” said Maxwell. “Everything they need to baffle and brown-trouser the enemy.”

“Never really understood that expression,” said Victoria.

“I’ll explain it to you later, dear.”

“Is it dirty?”

“Later, dear . . .”

“What have you got for me, Armourer?” I said. “What is it you think I’m going to need?”

“You can never be too careful,” said Maxwell.

“Or too well prepared,” said Victoria. “I trust you still have your Colt Repeater?”

I slapped my side. “Best gun my uncle Jack ever turned out. Aims itself, never runs out of ammo; regular or specialized. A classic.”

“Jolly good,” Maxwell said vaguely. “Here . . .”

He offered me a small black plastic box, with a dial on the top. I hefted it warily, but it didn’t seem to be doing anything.

“That is a chemical nose,” said Victoria. “It’s been attuned to the poison in your system. Once you get near anything chemically similar, that box will take you straight to it.”

“Okay,” I said. “That could prove useful.” I slipped it into my pocket.

Maxwell handed over another small plastic box; this time in bottle green, with a single black button on top. “This is a neural inhibitor! Only works at close range, for the moment, but point this at any opponent and hit the trigger, and it will interrupt their thinking quite dramatically. Don’t point it at anyone you like; the side effects can be upsetting. And a bit messy.”

“Oh, don’t remind me,” said Victoria. “It took ages to clean up after poor Cuthbert.”

“He volunteered!”

“Not for that, he didn’t.”

“Moving on,” Maxwell said quickly, holding out yet another small plastic box, this time in a garish purple. “Now, this is something rather special. You’ll be the first to test it.”

“Meaning it hasn’t actually been used in the field?” I said.

“Not as such, no,” said Victoria.

“Once you turn it on,” said Maxwell, “it generates a field that
compels people to tell the truth. They don’t even realise anything’s changed; it all feels perfectly natural.”

I accepted the thing gingerly. “What are the drawbacks? Come on, there’re always drawbacks.”

“Well,” said Victoria, “apart from a tendency to overheat and blow up quite dramatically if you leave it running for too long . . . remember you’ll be inside the field too. So be very careful what you say out loud.”

“It does lead to a certain feeling of liberation,” said Maxwell. “A desire to speak out and damn the consequences. People say all kinds of things. Don’t they, dear?”

“Oh my word, don’t they?” said Victoria. “We had ever so much fun playing with this last week. I haven’t been able to look at Jeremy the same way since.”

“Is that it?” said Molly as I tucked the various boxes away about my person, while making careful mental notes as to which colour did what. “That’s all you’ve got to offer? No weapons? No big guns, no unnatural nastiness, no protein exploders?”

“Since when do you feel the need for weapons?” said Maxwell, just a bit defensively.

“Since I decided this was a killing mission,” said Molly.

Maxwell and Victoria looked at each other uncomfortably.

“Well,” said Maxwell, “we do have something . . .”

“We’ve always preferred to concentrate on espionage,” said Victoria. “General sneakiness, aids to information gathering, that sort of thing, rather than death and destruction.”