A Necromancer's Guide to Clearing a Game Like Tower

Chapter 346: Chapter 337 — What England Bought II

It was not loud in the way people expected.

It was loud, but the thing that came through the reinforced glass first was not sound — it was a flat concussive push against the whole pane, arriving about a third of a second after the flash on the monitors, that made everybody in the observation block feel it in their sternum before they heard anything at all.

Eight hundred metres away, the barrier went.

The monitors had it and the men on the tablets had the numbers and Pembroke, watching the eight-hundred-metre camera feed, had the only version that mattered visually: the panel of projected light held for a fraction of a moment, went white across its whole area, and stopped existing.

And the thing that had done it did not stop.

It went through the armour stack. All nine plates, front to back, in a line — the readouts came up one after another down the side of the screen as each instrumented layer failed — and it came out of the ninth plate and put a hole in the witness block that was still smoking when the range team reached it forty minutes later.

Dust lifted around firing position three and hung there in the wind.

Nobody spoke inside the observation block.

It was not shock. Every single person in that room had read the specification, some of them had written it, and two of them had signed for it. What went round the room in that quiet was the thing that comes after a document turns into an object: *it does what the paper said.*

”Penetration through nine, into the block,” said one of the men with tablets, over the net. ”Barrier collapsed at — hold — barrier collapsed inside forty milliseconds of impact. That’s inside spec.”

”Deviation?” said Pembroke.

”Eleven centimetres from point of aim, sir. At eight hundred.”

Pembroke did not say anything about that either.

He turned the page in his folder and wrote *141 — pass* in the margin in his own hand.

---

They did not repeat that for the readers of the report.

They repeated it for the metallurgists.

Over the next two hours, eleven more weapons out of three different serial batches — batch six, and four units pulled deliberately from batches four and five that had already been accepted and issued and brought back specifically to be shot again — went down onto mats at positions one through eight with different crews behind them.

Twenty-eight rounds at eight hundred metres. Twelve at twelve hundred.

The barriers failed every time. Not once did a stack hold past the sixth plate. The witness blocks came back with holes in them that varied by a width the engineers argued about for forty minutes and which the range officer described in his log as *within acceptable dispersion across batches*.

That was the sentence that mattered.

Not *it works*. Anybody can build one thing that works.

*Within acceptable dispersion across batches.* It worked the same when somebody else built it, on a different week, out of a different run of steel, fired by a different twenty-four-year-old who had been on a course.

---

Pembroke took the Ganner Corp link in the observation block at half past one with the door shut and two of his own people in the room.

Adrian came up on the screen in an office with a grey wall behind him.

”Batch six.”

”Twelve of twelve,” said Pembroke. ”Two failed the dispersion tolerance on the first round and passed on the second, and my officer has logged it. I’d like the tolerance investigated rather than explained.”

”You’ll have a report.”

”Thank you.”

Adrian did not say anything for about a second and a half, and Pembroke, who had spent thirty years in rooms, let him have it.

”You’ll be aware,” Adrian said, ”that we’ve had a family matter in the press.”

”I read the coverage.”

”It has no bearing on delivery. Batch seven is on schedule. Batch eight is ahead of it.”

”I hadn’t assumed otherwise.”

”Good.”

And that was all either of them said about a man who had been dead eight days, because Pembroke had no interest in it and Adrian could hear exactly how little, and because Adrian Ganner was a supplier on a secure link talking to the man who signed the acceptance forms.

He was not directing anything. He wanted something very badly, and what he actually had was a delivery schedule.

Pembroke closed the link and went back to the range floor.

---

The Crown’s reasons had nothing to do with any of it, and Pembroke had never once pretended otherwise in front of the people who needed to know.

Eleven months ago he had inherited a portfolio in which the entire defence of the realm against anything that came out of a Tower rested on the willingness of between forty and sixty individual registered Challengers, each of whom held a private licence, each of whom could decline, and several of whom were under contract to commercial guilds headquartered elsewhere.

His predecessor had gone abroad personally and had come home in a box, and the Crown had spent a diplomatic year it could not afford.

Pembroke’s assessment — submitted in March, eighteen pages, and read by four people — had been that a state whose hard power was licensed to individuals did not have hard power. It had an arrangement.

Nothing in that paper mentioned Ireland. Nothing in it mentioned a necromancer.

It said that the Crown required a capability which belonged to the Crown, could be operated by soldiers, could be manufactured, stored, counted and issued, and did not have to be asked.

The Longbow was that. The Longbow was the first eleven pages of it made out of steel.

---

The last thing he did at Shoeburyness was walk through the storage and vehicle area, which was where the programme stopped being a demonstration.

It was a long open-sided shed with a concrete floor and a rolling door at each end, and it smelled of oil and wet canvas and hot metal.

Along the northern wall, hardened transport cases were laid open on trestles — dark, ribbed, foam-lined, each one cut for one weapon and its shoulder assembly and its bipod. Men in coveralls were bedding Longbows into them two at a time, checking the serial plate against a form, closing the lid, and putting two tamper seals across the join.

`141.` `142.` `143.`

Beside them, ammunition. Green cases, stacked four high in rows, with the lot numbers stencilled on the ends, and a warrant officer going down the line with a torch and a clipboard putting a tick beside every one and initialling the bottom of the sheet.

At the far end, four military trucks with their tailgates down and the engines running, and a fifth pulling in.

And on the southern wall, under the rolling door, on racks, another line of finished weapons waiting for the next acceptance day. Fourteen of them. Batch seven.

Pembroke walked the length of it once and stopped at the end.

The field-readiness report came to him there, printed, on two sides of one page, and it did not use any dramatic language anywhere.

Sixty accepted. Thirty-one certified crews. Four hardened depots. Ammunition holdings at ninety-one per cent of the establishment figure. Six hours to the southern depots, nine hours to anywhere on the mainland. Two further batches through the factory by the end of the quarter.

Sir Alistair Pembroke read all of it, and then signed the bottom of it, and released batch six to its assigned units.

The first truck pulled out of the shed and up the range road with twelve sealed cases in the back of it and a security vehicle behind.

Behind it, along the southern wall, fourteen more Longbows sat on their racks in the salt wind, waiting for somebody to come and fire them.