before moving on to take up other forms of service in the family. Few stay in the Armoury for long. It wears people out and burns them up, very quickly.
The rows of mourners suddenly opened up, falling back to allow the coffin to be brought forward. It glowed brightly in the Summer sunshine; formed from the golden strange matter of my uncle Jack’s armour. Complete with a bas-relief representation of the Armourer, lying stretched out on the coffin lid, with a calm, composed face and his arms folded neatly across his chest. The golden figure looked very peaceful, very dignified. I barely recognised him. I wasn’t sure Jack would have approved of this. He certainly never gave a damn about appearing dignified while he was alive.
“You still haven’t explained,” Molly murmured, “why your family felt the need to hold this funeral so quickly. When did the Armourer die exactly?”
“Just this morning, apparently,” I said.
“Then what’s the rush?”
“There’s no body inside that coffin,” I said. “He would have been cremated immediately after his autopsy. Nothing suspicious or sinister about that; it’s standard family procedure. You have to remember, it’s all about Drood DNA. We can’t risk a Drood body, even the smallest part of it, falling into enemy hands. Or even potentially enemy hands. Which is pretty much everyone who isn’t family.”
“Why?” said Molly, frowning. “What makes your family’s DNA so special?”
“We have all been changed,” I said carefully. “First by the Heart, and then by Ethel, so we could bond with our armour. Only we can wear the torc, and summon the armour. So even if a torc should fall into enemy hands, they couldn’t use it.”
“Then you’re not fully human?” said Molly, smirking suddenly. “That would explain a lot . . .”
The lab assistants, past and present, formed a long corridor of white coats, two rows of bowed heads for the golden coffin to be carried through, as a mark of honour and respect. The coffin itself was being carried by six very favoured assistants. Chosen by lot, because they would all have volunteered for the Armourer. Several assistants at the back of the crowd fired off a bunch of assorted experimental weapons in salute. From the look on the Matriarch’s face, they hadn’t cleared that with her first. No doubt they meant well, but I thought it sounded a bit ragged. They should all have agreed on the same weapon. But then, getting lab assistants to agree on anything is like herding cats. It can be done, but only with lots of rough language and the liberal use of a cattle prod. A choir of assistants sang “My Country, ’Tis of Thee,” a cappella. One of Jack’s favourites. Followed by “Moon River.”
Molly leaned in close to me again. “I’ve never thought to ask before: is there any particular thing you’d like sung at your funeral, Eddie? Or haven’t you thought about it?”
“Of course I’ve thought about it,” I said. “I’m a field agent, and damn few of us survive to reach retirement age. Many’s the stakeout I’ve passed, occupying myself with all the details of my funeral. I want lowered flags, and fireworks, and a day of general mourning. I want rent clothes and lives ruined forever. And as I’m put to my rest I want everyone to sing that hardy old perennial ‘Remember You’re a Womble.’ Just to annoy everyone. They’ll all be going, Oh, that must be very significant. It must have meant something special to him. But, no, it’s just me having one last laugh. In fact, if people listen carefully they’ll probably be able to hear giggling from inside the coffin. What about you, Molly?”
“I want ‘The Witch,’ by the Rattles,” Molly said firmly. “It was an old Sixties hit, and my mother’s favourite song when she was a kid. Either that, or Redbone’s ‘Witch Queen of New Orleans.’ My mother was always singing that when I was little.”
“I’m sensing a theme here,” I said. “They’re both very you.”
She grinned. “It’s either that or ‘Kick Out the Jams Motherfucker.’”
People on all sides were glaring openly at us. So Molly and I glared right back at them.
Next came a flyby overhead, as several female lab assistants in white coats rode across the sky in an organized display, on white winged unicorns. It all looked very impressive, as they swept back and forth in carefully executed patterns, though I was just a little bit worried about the danger of sudden unicorn droppings. I also wondered when