Our Last Echo

11

Metropolis

Three months later

"You're holding a .365 magnum loaded with armour-piercing bullets," Brodie told Bill. "Give it a try."

Bill weighed the gun in his hand and took aim at the figure in front of him. It wasn't a real person, just a test dummy dressed in armour. The armour was the important thing. It had been recovered from the ruins of Metropolis by one of his clean-up crews. How an Amazonian suit came to be there, no one knew. Bill guessed that somehow, during his battle with Kovalan, Scyro had removed it. Perhaps because, on Earth, he didn't need it any longer. Ever since then, BillLabs had been working to reproduce the armour. They had finally succeeded, and Bill was here to test the prototype.

He held the gun in a two-handed grip, as he had been taught, held it steady, targeting the middle of the chest. He took a deep breath, then another and slowly squeezed the trigger.

He thought he was prepared for the kickback, but the gun leapt in his hands, the report deafening. Bill remembered to bring the gun back on target, but he didn't need to fire again. He stared.

The test dummy was still upright, but slumped to one side on its stand, showing that his bullet had hit it. But the armoured chest plate appeared to be untouched. Maybe his aim had been off?

Brodie gestured to him to lower the gun and when he did, she walked into the firing zone. She bent and picked something up from the concrete floor, looked at it, and smiled.

Bill held out his hand and she dropped it into his palm. The armour-piercing bullet was still warm. It was also as flat as a dime.

Bill crowed with delight. He raised the gun again, waited for Brodie to get out of his line of fire, then shot again, and this time kept shooting until the gun was empty. The test dummy jerked and danced with each shot. His ears ringing despite the protection he wore, Bill discarded the gun and crossed the zone to the dummy. He pulled it up and ran his fingers over the armour.

Not even a scratch.

Bill turned around and saw the men and women watching him, waiting for his verdict. He looked for the lead scientist, Doctor Wilder. He beckoned and the man came forward.

"I trust you're satisfied, sir," he said cautiously.

"How quickly can we get this into mass production?" Bill asked.

Wilder looked taken aback. "I don't know."

"That's not acceptable," Bill snapped.

"I'm sorry, sir. What I meant to say is while we are now able to synthesise the Amazonian materials used to make the armour, making them on this small scale is very different from mass production. How long it will take depends on a lot of different factors. I can consult with specialists in the manufacturing division, but I can't give you an answer right now."

Bill nodded. "Better. How many of these suits can you manufacture in, say, six weeks? Using your current methods."

Wilder considered. "Sir, it took eight weeks to make this one. The next will go faster, but six weeks?"

"How many?"

"On what budget, Mr Centron?"

"Oh, piss on your budget! I'll write you a blank cheque. Answer the fucking question!"

Wilder swallowed. "I believe I can promise three. We may be able to do better, but that's the most I'm able to guarantee."

Bill relaxed. "Manufacturing will be in touch with you tomorrow. In the meantime, email me an itemised budget request. I will give you seven weeks, but I need at least five of these suits."