just not up to it any longer. I can repair things, even improve on them sometimes. Like Scraps. But I can’t innovate any more. I don’t have the spark these days . . . But I can’t stand down, can’t let the family down, until I’m sure I’ve found a suitable replacement.”
“Come on, Uncle Jack,” I said uncomfortably, struggling to find the right thing to say. He was scaring me now, talking like that, but I didn’t want him to see how worried I was. “You’ve got years of good work in you yet.”
“Not many,” said the Armourer. His large engineer’s hands came together in his lap and held on to each other, as though for comfort. “I’m older than I look, Eddie. I’m wearing out, at last. Worn thin . . .”
He looked slowly round the Armoury, at his quietly hardworking assistants. “I used to know every inch of this place. Had a hand in everything that was going on. Knew who everyone was and what they were working on. Who needed encouraging and who’d profit most from a good kick in the arse . . . Now, I don’t even recognise half of them. All the assistants from my generation are gone. And most of the generations in between. Which is as it should be; no one is ever supposed to stay a lab assistant. One way or another, they move on, hopefully to better things, in the family. You need to be young just to stand the pace here. I can’t help feeling . . . I’ve outstayed my welcome.”
I decided it was well past time to change the subject. Before he depressed the shit out of both of us.
“So!” I said brightly. “What new toys have you got for me this time, Armourer? What new guns and gadgets to help me brown-trouser the enemy?”
“Nothing,” he said flatly. “If you really feel you need something, go talk with Maxwell and Victoria. They handle all that sort of thing these days. But you don’t need my toys, Eddie. You never did, really.” He broke off and gave me a long, careful look. “I heard what you said in your little talk with the Matriarch.”
“You were listening in?” I said.
“Always. It’s a matter of self-defence in this family. Forewarned is forearmed in the Droods. So I have to ask what’s happened, Eddie. Something must have happened for you to decide so suddenly and so definitely that you’re not going to kill again out in the field. To be just an agent, never an assassin. So what was it? What happened to change your mind? You’ve always known the ultimate sanction is always going to be part of the job.”
“It shouldn’t have to be,” I said.
The Armourer nodded slowly. “Killing does take its toll. No matter how good the reason, or how great the cause. The ghosts . . . mount up. That was one of the reasons I retired from fieldwork, back in the day. Talk to me, Eddie. What changed your mind?”
His gaze seemed sharp and fully focused for the first time, as he gave me all his attention.
“You might say I was made to see things differently,” I replied. “A sudden insight into what I do, and why I do it. And I didn’t like what I saw.”
The Armourer considered this. “I killed my fair share and more when I was a field agent. Rushing around Eastern Europe, trying to hold things together in that coldest of Cold Wars. All of them people who needed killing . . . There’s no doubt in my mind that the world is a better, safer place for them being gone. But I never did it as often as your uncle James. The legendary Grey Fox . . . some say the greatest field agent we ever had. He always was more of an assassin than an agent. By his own choice. It seemed to come so easily to him. It never came easily to me. I did what I had to, when I thought it necessary, but I was never so . . . casual about it. James never gave it a second thought. But then, he never was one for looking back.
“Which is probably why he left so many bastards scattered across the world. Half the up-and-comers in secret organisations and hidden bunkers have his eyes, or his smile. I keep thinking we should do more for them. Bring them in, bring them home, into the family fold. Not