AI. Just in case.”
“Then why is he looking at me like that?” I said. “If he doesn’t remember what happened to the old him?”
“I don’t know,” said the Armourer. “Instinct?”
“What does he do here, exactly?”
“He keeps me company! He’s very intelligent . . . though for a first-class robot dog AI, he does seem to be having remarkable difficulty with the simple concept of Fetch!”
“Perhaps he’s just too smart to,” I said.
The sound of loudly disagreeing lab assistants rose suddenly in the background. Followed almost immediately by the sound of energy weapons discharging, followed by explosions, muffled screams, and really bad language. Scraps.2 lurched abruptly to his feet, his eyes glowing brightly as his metal ears pricked up, and then he padded determinedly off to investigate.
“That’s right, boy!” said the Armourer. “Off you go! You sort them out! Don’t take any nonsense from them . . .”
“So!” I said. “What are you working on at the moment, Uncle Jack?”
“Oh, nothing much,” he said. “Just sitting here. Thinking . . .”
“But you’re always working on something!”
“I’ve been making a list,” said the Armourer, looking vaguely at the papers scattered across his work-bench. “Of all the things I created for this family, down through the years. How many have become standard, useful items—like the Colt Repeater, or the portable door. And how many just worked for a while, then developed problems. And how many turned out to be something that just seemed like a good idea at the time. And you know what, Eddie? In the end . . . I don’t think any of them really mattered. A well-trained agent is what makes all the difference out in the field. The man, not the weapons.”
“I couldn’t do the job without your help, Armourer,” I said. And I meant it.
And then I got distracted, as a large eyeball fitted out with membranous batwings went fluttering past, pursued by a determined-looking young woman with a large butterfly net. Everyone else ignored them.
“Why do you encourage your assistants to work on such weird stuff, Uncle Jack?” I said.
“Because you never know what might come in handy someday,” said the Armourer. “And it encourages them to think outside the box. Some of them are so far outside the box they can’t even see the box from where they are.” He stopped, and looked at me for a long moment. “They’re a good bunch, Eddie. They do good work. But I’m still worried because I haven’t been able to find a suitable replacement among them. Someone to take over from me, so I can retire. The assistants come and go, all the good boys and girls . . . excellent minds, but never anyone special. They mean well, and they turn out impressive work, sometimes, but . . . none of them seem to have that special spark.”
He gestured with an only slightly shaky hand at two figures standing really close together, leafing through a thick file of reports. I recognised them immediately. Maxwell and Victoria, the Armourer’s two most impressive and most irritating students. First-class scientific minds, and so in love with each other they couldn’t help but get on everyone else’s nerves. They would insist on sharing their happiness with the whole world, whether the world wanted to know or not. They were both almost indecently young for such senior assistants—barely into their twenties. The Armourer sighed loudly.
“Look at them! Love’s young dream, and masters of mass destruction. Brilliant weaponeers, when they can stop cooing at each other. And they’re the best I’ve got. I brought them in to help carry the load. To keep things running, while I’m . . . busy, thinking. I’m feeling old, Eddie. I get tired. I take naps. Maxwell and Victoria are good organizers—but have they got that special something that makes them Armourer material? They’d better have. There’s no one else . . .”
“You’ve never complained of feeling old before,” I said.
“Yes, I have. You just didn’t want to hear it. Like everyone else in this family. Oh, the Armourer’s good for a few more years yet, so let’s pile on even more work, and more responsibilities . . . But I think I’ve done enough. It’s time for me to put down the load and walk away. Well past time, in fact. My best years are behind me, Eddie; that gets clearer every day. It’s . . . difficult, to look back at the kind of work I used to be capable of and know I’m