The next day, while ANVIL agents were busy combing over the rooftop of Lord’s Tower, Jon made an afternoon trip to the Countermeasures Department. It was something of a rarity for directors to be attacked so brazenly, and he did not want to rely solely on his powers for protection.

  Fort Argent sat on an isolated stretch of the Appalachian trail, a great grey tower in a clearing far from human civilization. They did not need to worry overmuch when it came to supplies, owing to their massive stockpiles but also their portal doorways made it trivial to keep them stocked up. But, even without that, the airstrip and helipads allowed for great quantities of freight to be transported around. Behind the massive electric fence that bordered the perimeter, it was easy to see a myriad of SAM sites and gun emplacements. These were the most obvious defensive features, and nobody had dared to stage an attack on Fort Argent that would cause the other less-obvious measures to activate.

  Many employees commuted via portal doors, the keys to which were tuned to their biometrics. Others had no commute at all, making use of the living quarters in the base’s expansive dorm.

  Countermeasures sat in a boxy grey building only a short walk from the airstrip. Agents in power armour patrolled the perimeter, stopping to salute Jon and Anya passing.

  It was Doctor Targe who greeted them when they arrived, a slim woman of Chinese descent with greying hair and a few wrinkles framing her eyes. “Director Carver, Deputy Director Kleiner,” she said, nodding to each of them in turn. “Would that we were meeting under better circumstances.”

  “Don’t think there are ever better circumstances here, Doctor,” said Jon. “But I’ll take what I can get. Been a long time since someone tried to kill a sitting ANVIL director.”

  “Ten years, in fact,” she said knowingly. She turned and motioned them deeper inside, the glossy black floor clacking noisily under every step. “Your predecessor managed to really get the ire of the Neo Reich when he cracked down on them. Enough to make White Lightning call a professional hit on the man.”

  “I’m aware.” After all, Jon had been the one to personally blast molten death down White Lightning’s throat at Weaver’s behest. The man had had a simple philosophy. If someone came at him, they had best be sure they killed him. Otherwise he’d be sure to return the favour tenfold. Jon quite liked that approach.

  They passed several test chambers, where ANVIL scientists were putting their latest gear to use, the reinforced plate glass windows giving a clear look inside. Jon saw, in one room, a scientists clutching a mounted laser rifle nearly the size of his whole body. The large batteries on the barrel blazed with emerald light, unleashing a great wave of energy that rapidly melted a block of titanium.

  In another, a row of mannequins were set ablaze and then immediately extinguished by sprays of fine white foam unleashed by an apple-sized grenade. Lastly they passed a room where one armoured agent was holding up a riot shield wreathed in shimmering blue light. A turret at the far end of the room fired upon him, only for each bullet to be halted in place by the radiating energy.

  “A few odds and ends we’re still working the kinks out of,” Targe said absentmindedly.

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  “They seem functional to me,” Anya said.

  “Functional, yes, but they haven’t been stress tested in a combat scenario. To say nothing of the usual issues in mass producing supertech.”

  “We’re making some progress, at least. Too bad we can’t just copy ever piece of gear we recover.” While Artisans did not have physical abilities, their technology was similarly capable of defying all conventional logic. He recalled, vividly, a documentary where NASAs top engineers were asked to collaborate with a teenage alterhuman genius known as Whiz-Kid. The NASA folks were all some of the smartest men in the States, if not the world at large, yet even when they followed Whiz-Kid’s instructions step by step, they could not recreate the technology he built.

  Artisan tech, however it was made, seemed to only function when built by said Artisan. It was why, for the most part, it could not be mass produced or reverse engineered. Only low end things, like the armour and guns used by ANVIL and similar groups, had any kind of mass production, and even that had required massive amounts of research and effort.

  The doorways, which ANVIL relied heavily on, had been a technological gift by one particularly clever Artisan. The woman had been kind enough to futureproof it, making the design modular too. But if it were damaged, it would be a colossal blow to the organisation.

  Still, Jon already had an idea in mind for improving ANVIL’s arsenal. Even if it would doubtless land him head first in hot water.

  They entered a large cubic room, white-walled, with a three-inch thick plate suspended on the far end. Targe led the way to a large steel chamber and lifted up a large black handgun, distinguished by a strange tube-shape affixed to the underbarrel.

  Jon lifted it and inspected it. The pistol was a weighty thing, and he knew a normal human would have a little trouble wielding it. They’d doubtless pick a lighter, more practical weapon.

  “This one, at least, we know is functional. It’s the sidearm used by guards at alterhuman prisons. The Model 3. On one setting it fires blobs of adhesion gel, for nonlethal incapacitation. If you turn that switch on the side, it will activate the compressor to alter the ammunition. For more...” Targe waved a hand, “lethal incapacitation.”

  He fired off two shots, each press of the trigger releasing an echoing hiss. Two blobs of transparent adhesion gel thudded against the steel, expanding into pools thicker than the span of a splayed hand. It was a sturdy substance, good for restraining targets with superhuman strength. It wasn’t infallible, but most supervillains could be dropped by a few well placed shots.

  “Not bad,” Jon murmured. He clicked the switch, the compressor letting out a distinct hissing sound. The next two shots echoed with much much force, pale balls of condensed adhesion gel shooting outward and slamming into the plate. They struck hard enough to dent the steel.

  “Suffice to say a normal human, even one in kevlar, likely wouldn’t survive a hit centre mass from one of these. Low-level Dreadnoughts, like those clones you fought yesterday, would be hit pretty hard by them. Anything stronger than that, well, you’re better off trying the non lethal option.” Targe made for a nearby wall, covered by a myriad of pinned diagrams. “Actually quite proud of the design. I was the original designer, as it happens, and I’ve barely had to iterate on it over the years. You truly can’t improve on perfection.”

  Anya fought the sudden urge to roll her eyes. “Never let it be said you don’t do good work,” she said, forcing a smile. “To that end, anything for yours truly? If I’m in the field with the director again, I think a piece of my own would be good for my peace of mind.”

  “Well, nothing quite so potent. The Model 3 is rather cumbersome to wield, compared to a normal handgun. Which, in turn, would be useless against the average alterhuman. But we do have this little number.” Targe bustled to another table, motioning to a device on the steel surface. A large black box with a trigger attached. Two brassy prongs protruded from the front.

  “The Stunner. Can be used in melee or a limited range. The dial on the side controls the voltage. Everything from ‘drop a grown man’ to ‘fry an elephant’ levels of voltage. We’ll keep working on defensive devices in the meantime. I think we’re close to a breakthrough on personal shielding.”

  Jon grunted as Anya examined the Stunner. Seemed they’d been on the verge of a breakthrough there for the better part of ten years. Stagnation, that was the bear trap that was clamped squarely around ANVIL’s leg.

  The only thing for it, Jon reasoned, was to get new blood in the think tank.