it out, it's a
gun. Chambered to take 9mm and converted to accept a sten magazine, it
has a very high cyclic rate of 1600 rounds per minute, muzzle velocity
350 metres per second, magazine capacity thirty rounds. This cylinder
is a two-stage wipeless supressor, not what you might have seen
in the movies as a 'silencer'; it doesn't silence the gun, but it cuts
the noise by about thirty decibels for the first hundred or so rounds
you put through it.
"You need to know three things about this
machine. One: if someone points one at you, do whatever they tell you,
it is not a fashion accessory. Two: if you see one lying around, don't
pick it up, unless you know how to carry it safely. You might blow your
feet off by accident. Three: if you need one, dial the Laundry
switchboard and ask for 1-800-SAS—our lads will be happy to oblige,
and
they train with these things every day of the week."
Harry isn't joking. I nod, and jot down some
notes, and he sticks the submachine gun back in the rack.
"Now this—tell me about this. "
I look at the thing and rattle off
automatically: "Class three Hand of Glory, five charge disposable,
mirrored base for coherent emission instead of generalised
invisibility … doesn't seem to be armed, maximum
range line-of-sight, activation by designated power word—" I glance
sidelong at him. "Are you cleared to use these things?"
He puts the Hand of Glory down and picks up the
M11/9 carefully. He flicks a switch on its side, looks round to make
sure he's clear, points it downrange, and squeezes the trigger. There's
a shatteringly loud crackle of gunfire followed by a tinkle of brass on
concrete around our feet. "Your call!" he shouts.
I pick up the hand. It feels cold and waxy, but
the activation code is scribed on the sawn-off radius in silver. I step
up beside him, point it downrange, focus, and concentrate on the
trigger string, knowing that it sometimes
takes a few seconds—
WHUMP.
"Very good," Harry says drily. "You realise it
cost an execution in Shanxi province to make that thing?"
I put it down, feeling queasy. "I only used one
finger. Anyway, I thought our suppliers used orangoutangs. What
happened?"
He shrugs. "Blame the animal rights protesters."
I'm not back on duty—I'm suspended on full pay.
But according to Boris the Mole there's a loophole in our official
procedures which means that I'm still eligible for training courses
that I was signed up for before being suspended, and it turns out that
Andy signed me up for a full package of six weeks of prefield training:
some of it down at the village that used to be called Dunwich, and some
at our own invisible college in Manchester.
The full package is a course in law and ethics
(including International Relations 101: "Do whatever the nice man with
the diplomatic passport tells you to do unless you want to start World
War Three by accident."), the correct use of petty cash receipts,
basic
tailing and surveillance, timesheets, how to tell when you're being
T&S'd, travel authorisation requests, locks and security systems,
reconciliation and write-offs, police relations ("Your warrant card
will get you out of most sticky situations, if they give you time to
show it."), computer security (roll around the floor, laughing),
software purchase orders, basic thaumaturgic security (ditto), and use
of weapons (starting with the ironclad rule: "Don't, unless you have to
and you've been trained."). And so I find myself down on the range
with
Harry the Horse, a middle-aged guy with an eye patch and thinning white
hair who thinks nothing of blowing things away with a submachine gun
but seems somewhat startled at my expertise with a HOG-3.
"Right." Harry ejects the magazine from his gun
and places it carefully on the bench. "I think we'll keep you off the
firearms list then, and pencil you in for
training to COWEU-2—certification of weaponry expertise,
unconventional, level two. Permission to carry unconventional devices
and use them in
gun. Chambered to take 9mm and converted to accept a sten magazine, it
has a very high cyclic rate of 1600 rounds per minute, muzzle velocity
350 metres per second, magazine capacity thirty rounds. This cylinder
is a two-stage wipeless supressor, not what you might have seen
in the movies as a 'silencer'; it doesn't silence the gun, but it cuts
the noise by about thirty decibels for the first hundred or so rounds
you put through it.
"You need to know three things about this
machine. One: if someone points one at you, do whatever they tell you,
it is not a fashion accessory. Two: if you see one lying around, don't
pick it up, unless you know how to carry it safely. You might blow your
feet off by accident. Three: if you need one, dial the Laundry
switchboard and ask for 1-800-SAS—our lads will be happy to oblige,
and
they train with these things every day of the week."
Harry isn't joking. I nod, and jot down some
notes, and he sticks the submachine gun back in the rack.
"Now this—tell me about this. "
I look at the thing and rattle off
automatically: "Class three Hand of Glory, five charge disposable,
mirrored base for coherent emission instead of generalised
invisibility … doesn't seem to be armed, maximum
range line-of-sight, activation by designated power word—" I glance
sidelong at him. "Are you cleared to use these things?"
He puts the Hand of Glory down and picks up the
M11/9 carefully. He flicks a switch on its side, looks round to make
sure he's clear, points it downrange, and squeezes the trigger. There's
a shatteringly loud crackle of gunfire followed by a tinkle of brass on
concrete around our feet. "Your call!" he shouts.
I pick up the hand. It feels cold and waxy, but
the activation code is scribed on the sawn-off radius in silver. I step
up beside him, point it downrange, focus, and concentrate on the
trigger string, knowing that it sometimes
takes a few seconds—
WHUMP.
"Very good," Harry says drily. "You realise it
cost an execution in Shanxi province to make that thing?"
I put it down, feeling queasy. "I only used one
finger. Anyway, I thought our suppliers used orangoutangs. What
happened?"
He shrugs. "Blame the animal rights protesters."
I'm not back on duty—I'm suspended on full pay.
But according to Boris the Mole there's a loophole in our official
procedures which means that I'm still eligible for training courses
that I was signed up for before being suspended, and it turns out that
Andy signed me up for a full package of six weeks of prefield training:
some of it down at the village that used to be called Dunwich, and some
at our own invisible college in Manchester.
The full package is a course in law and ethics
(including International Relations 101: "Do whatever the nice man with
the diplomatic passport tells you to do unless you want to start World
War Three by accident."), the correct use of petty cash receipts,
basic
tailing and surveillance, timesheets, how to tell when you're being
T&S'd, travel authorisation requests, locks and security systems,
reconciliation and write-offs, police relations ("Your warrant card
will get you out of most sticky situations, if they give you time to
show it."), computer security (roll around the floor, laughing),
software purchase orders, basic thaumaturgic security (ditto), and use
of weapons (starting with the ironclad rule: "Don't, unless you have to
and you've been trained."). And so I find myself down on the range
with
Harry the Horse, a middle-aged guy with an eye patch and thinning white
hair who thinks nothing of blowing things away with a submachine gun
but seems somewhat startled at my expertise with a HOG-3.
"Right." Harry ejects the magazine from his gun
and places it carefully on the bench. "I think we'll keep you off the
firearms list then, and pencil you in for
training to COWEU-2—certification of weaponry expertise,
unconventional, level two. Permission to carry unconventional devices
and use them in
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