bizarre paraphernalia, from empty ammo casings to filament wire, steam valves to canisters of propulsion fuel. Likewise, a vast array of equipment and components lined the walls, or was otherwise heaped against them: a rack of long-barreled guns; a plastic bucket of flechettes; two black trench coats; a spare pair of goggles.
He crossed the threshold, bathing himself in the bright light of the arc lamp. This was his workshop: the Ghost's true home.
He'd been an engineer during the war, as well as a pilot, and this was his haven, the place where he was able to create. That he created mostly weapons designed to incapacitate or kill others was a fact that did not sit well with him, but he reconciled this knowledge with the understanding that he wielded those weapons for the right reasons ... and that he always allowed the crooks to shoot first. Violence was the language of the enemy, and he had learned to speak it well.
The Ghost approached the desk and used his left arm to brush away the surface debris with a long, sweeping motion. Papers, batteries, and clockwork components scattered to the floor around his feet in a tinkling shower. Then, his eyes gleaming with the glassy patina of alcohol and enthusiasm, he searched the floor around the desk until he located the device he was looking for. It was almost identical to the flechette launcher he'd been carrying earlier: a long, thin barrel attached to a ratchet mechanism that clipped to his forearm, with a small pneumatic trigger that trailed on a rubber cable and a toploading canister for the ammunition. Unlike the other weapon, however, the barrel of this device had been finely engraved with a thinly traced pattern of roses and thorns. He weighed it in his hands for a moment. Then, popping the lid free of the canister, he tipped the weapon over so that the flechettes inside it spilled out over the desktop in a scatter of shimmering steel. He placed the weapon carefully back on the floor and lowered himself onto a stool, which he extracted from the chaotic mess beneath the desk.
Picking one of the small arrow-shaped blades from the heap, he turned it over in his fingers appraisingly. If they were going to prove effective against the moss golems, he'd have to rethink his approach. He grabbed a small blade from the nearby stack of tools and slipped it between the two metal plates that comprised the flechette. Being careful not to shred his fingers on the razor-sharp rim, he prized the two pieces of metal apart with the blade, just enough so that he could see inside. There was a tiny cavity in the head of the wedge. He smiled with grim satisfaction. He knew what he could do with that.
He dropped the flechette to the desk and stood, heading back into the darkness of the drawing room. When he returned a few moments later he was bearing the half-empty bottle of bourbon. He set it down beside the pile of ammunition and returned to his seat.
It was going to be a long night, and he had much work to do.
he holotube was buzzing. An incessant sound, like a fly caught in an overturned tumbler, trying futilely to escape. Gabriel rolled over and struggled to ignore it. His head was throbbing. He had no idea what time it was, but sunlight was pouring in through the half-open window, and he flinched as he peeled back his eyelids to regard the infernal device on the other side of the bed. His eyes lingered for a moment on the wall clock. Two in the afternoon. He'd only been in bed for a few hours, and he was still wearing his rumpled black suit. He covered his eyes with the crook of his arm and willed the trilling device to stop. Miraculously, it did.
Surprised, but happy in light of this new development, Gabriel rolled over once again and buried his face in the downy pillow. He drifted for a while in a state of delirious coziness, stretching his weary limbs and allowing his heavy eyelids to droop. Then the holotube began ringing again, loudly, and he knew he was in for another long
He crossed the threshold, bathing himself in the bright light of the arc lamp. This was his workshop: the Ghost's true home.
He'd been an engineer during the war, as well as a pilot, and this was his haven, the place where he was able to create. That he created mostly weapons designed to incapacitate or kill others was a fact that did not sit well with him, but he reconciled this knowledge with the understanding that he wielded those weapons for the right reasons ... and that he always allowed the crooks to shoot first. Violence was the language of the enemy, and he had learned to speak it well.
The Ghost approached the desk and used his left arm to brush away the surface debris with a long, sweeping motion. Papers, batteries, and clockwork components scattered to the floor around his feet in a tinkling shower. Then, his eyes gleaming with the glassy patina of alcohol and enthusiasm, he searched the floor around the desk until he located the device he was looking for. It was almost identical to the flechette launcher he'd been carrying earlier: a long, thin barrel attached to a ratchet mechanism that clipped to his forearm, with a small pneumatic trigger that trailed on a rubber cable and a toploading canister for the ammunition. Unlike the other weapon, however, the barrel of this device had been finely engraved with a thinly traced pattern of roses and thorns. He weighed it in his hands for a moment. Then, popping the lid free of the canister, he tipped the weapon over so that the flechettes inside it spilled out over the desktop in a scatter of shimmering steel. He placed the weapon carefully back on the floor and lowered himself onto a stool, which he extracted from the chaotic mess beneath the desk.
Picking one of the small arrow-shaped blades from the heap, he turned it over in his fingers appraisingly. If they were going to prove effective against the moss golems, he'd have to rethink his approach. He grabbed a small blade from the nearby stack of tools and slipped it between the two metal plates that comprised the flechette. Being careful not to shred his fingers on the razor-sharp rim, he prized the two pieces of metal apart with the blade, just enough so that he could see inside. There was a tiny cavity in the head of the wedge. He smiled with grim satisfaction. He knew what he could do with that.
He dropped the flechette to the desk and stood, heading back into the darkness of the drawing room. When he returned a few moments later he was bearing the half-empty bottle of bourbon. He set it down beside the pile of ammunition and returned to his seat.
It was going to be a long night, and he had much work to do.
he holotube was buzzing. An incessant sound, like a fly caught in an overturned tumbler, trying futilely to escape. Gabriel rolled over and struggled to ignore it. His head was throbbing. He had no idea what time it was, but sunlight was pouring in through the half-open window, and he flinched as he peeled back his eyelids to regard the infernal device on the other side of the bed. His eyes lingered for a moment on the wall clock. Two in the afternoon. He'd only been in bed for a few hours, and he was still wearing his rumpled black suit. He covered his eyes with the crook of his arm and willed the trilling device to stop. Miraculously, it did.
Surprised, but happy in light of this new development, Gabriel rolled over once again and buried his face in the downy pillow. He drifted for a while in a state of delirious coziness, stretching his weary limbs and allowing his heavy eyelids to droop. Then the holotube began ringing again, loudly, and he knew he was in for another long
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