Harry the Horse is our departmental armorer. He looks like an extra from The Long Good Friday: belt-straining paunch that’s constantly trying to escape, thinning white hair, and a piratical black eye-patch. Last time I saw him he was explaining the finer details of the care and feeding of a Glock 17 (which we’ve standardized on, damn it, because of an ill-thought requirement for ammunition and parts commonality with the Sweeney); I responded by showing him how to take down a medusa (something which I have unfortunately too much experience at).
I recover from the back-slapping and straighten up: “It’s going well, Harry. Well, kinda-sorta. My ward got smoked a couple of days ago and I’m on heightened alert—there’s been an incident—”
“—As I can see from your head, my son, so you’re thinking you need to armor up. Come right this way, let’s see what we can kit you out with.” He yanks the inner door open and pulls me into his little shop of—
You know that scene in The Matrix? When Neo says: “We need guns,” and the white backdrop turns into a cross between Heathrow Airport and the back room at a rifle range? Harry’s temporary office in the New Annexe Third Floor Extension Security Area is a bit like that, only cramped and lit by a bare sixty-watt incandescent bulb supervised by a small and very sleepy spider.
Harry pulls something that looks like an M16 on steroids off the wall and picks up a drum magazine the size of a small car tire. “Can I interest you in an Atchisson AA-12 assault shotgun? Burst-selectable for single shot or full auto? Takes a twenty-round drum full of twelve-gauge magnum rounds, and I’ve got a special load-out just for taking down paranormal manifestations—alternate FRAG-12 fin-stabilized grenades, white phosphorus rounds, and solid silver triple-ought buck, each ball micro-engraved with the Litany of Khar-Nesh—right up your street, my son.” He racks the slide on the AA-12 with a clattering clash like the latch on the gates of hell.
“Er, I was thinking of something a little smaller, perhaps? Something I could carry concealed without looking like I was smuggling antitank guns on the bus?”
“Wimp.” Harry puts the AA-12 back on the rack and carefully stows the drum magazine in a drawer. I can tell he’s proud of his new toy, which from the sound of it would certainly blast any unwanted visitor right off my doorstep—and the front path, and the pavement, and the neighbors opposite at number 27, and their back garden too. “So tell me, what is it you really want?”
That’s the cue for business: “First, I need to indent for a new class four- certified defensive ward, personal, safe to wear 24x7.” I pause. “I also want to draw a HOG, cat three with silvered base and a suitable carrier. And—” I steel myself: “I’ll take your advice on the next, but I was thinking about drawing a personal protective firearm—I’m certificated on the Glock—and a box of ammunition. I won’t be routinely carrying it, but it’ll be kept at home to repel boarders.”
“You don’t need a Glock to get rid of lodgers, my son.” He spots my expression. “Had a problem?”
“Yeah, attempted physical intrusion.”
“Hmm. Who else will have access to the weapon?”
I choose my next words carefully: “The house is a level two secure site. The only other resident is my wife. Dr. O’Brien isn’t certificated for firearms, but she has other competencies and knows not to play with other kids’ toys.”
Harry considers his next words carefully: “I don’t want to lean on you, Bob, but I need more than your word for that. Seeing as how it’s for you and the delectable Dominique—give her my regards—I think we can bend the rules far enough to fit, but I shall need to put a ward on the trigger guard.”
“A—How?” That’s new to me.
“It’s a new technique the eggheads in Q-Projects have come up with: they take a drop of your blood and key the trigger guard so that the only finger that’ll fit through it is yours. Of course,” his voice drops confidingly, “that doesn’t stop the bad guys from chopping your finger off and using it to work the trigger; but they’ve got to take the gun and the finger off you before they can shoot you with it. Let’s just say, it’s more about stopping pistols from going walkies in public than about stopping your lady wife from offing you in a fit of jealous passion.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, I can live with that.”
He brightens: “Also, we can make it invisible, and silent.”
“Wha—hey! You mean you’ve got real concealed carry?”
He winks at me.
“Okay, I would like that, too. Um. As long as it’s not invisible to me, also. And, um, the holster. An invisible gun in a visible holster would be kind of inconvenient . . .”
“It’ll be invisible to anyone who doesn’t have a warrant card, my son, or your money back.”
“Will you match my life insurance, if it isn’t and some bright spark sets an SO19 team on me?” (One of the reasons I am reluctant to carry a handgun in public is that the London Metropolitan Police have a zero-tolerance approach to anyone else carrying guns, and while their specialist firearms teams don’t officially have a shoot-to-kill policy, you try finding a Brazilian plumber who does call-out work during a bomb scare these days.)
“I think we can back that, yes.” Harry sounds amused. “Is that your lot?”
“It’ll do.” A new ward for myself, a Hand of Glory if I need to make a quick strategic withdrawal, and a gun to keep at home that I can carry in public if I absolutely have to: What more could an extremely worried spook ask for? Ah, I know. “Do you have any alarms?” I ask.
“I thought you was dead-set on home defense the DIY way.” Harry looks momentarily scornful, then thoughtfuclass="underline" “Things ain’t that bad yet, are they?”
“Could be.” I shove my hands deep in my pockets and do my best to look gloomy. “Could be.”
“Whoa.” Harry’s forehead wrinkles further. “Listen. There could be a problem: you drawing a HOG and a gun, and your good lady wife’s violin, that makes you a regular arsenal, dunnit? Now, if I was signing out an alarm to, oh, that nice Mrs. Thompson in Human Resources”—I shudder—“there’d be no problem, on account of how she and her hubby and that no-good son of theirs ain’t certificated for combat and wouldn’t know a receiver from a slide if they trapped their fingers between them. Right? But let me just put it to you: suppose I sign an alarm out to you, put you and your missus on the watch list, and a bad guy comes calling at your front door. You and Dr. O’Brien go to the mattresses, and you activate the alarm, and being you and the missus you give as good as you get. Thirty seconds later the Watch Team are on your case and zoom in. Heat of battle, heat of battle: How do the Watch Team know that the people shooting from inside your house are you and your wife? What if you’ve gotten out through the back window? That’s how blue-on-blue happens, my son. I figure you ought to think this one through some more.”
“Okay.” I look around the compact armory. “Guess you’re right.”
We’ve got a panic button, it’s part of the kit the Plumbers fitted us out with; but an alarm of the kind I’m talking about is portable, personal, you carry it on your body and there’s a limited list of folks who carry them—that kind of cover is computationally expensive—and if you’re on the watch list and you trigger the alarm, SCORPION STARE wakes up and starts looking for you. And for everyone who might be threatening you. You don’t want to press that button by accident, believe me.
“One ward, one HOG, and a +2 magic pistol of invisible smiting. Anything else I need to know?”