Secret Histories 10: Dr. DOA by Simon R. Green

around here.”
    One by one the lab assistants departed, taking their equipment with them. The doctors tried hard not to look like they were thinking,
We told you so.
The assistants looked to me like mourners filing out of a funeral. Maxwell and Victoria stood close together, too busy comforting each other to think about comforting me. Victoria was dabbing at her eyes with a crumpled tissue.
    “If anyone should be crying here,” I said, “I think it should be me. Stop trying to upstage me.”
    “He’s being so brave!” sniffed Victoria.
    “We’re the Armourer!” said Maxwell. “We’re supposed to come upwith something amazing at the last moment, and save the day. But we didn’t. I can’t help thinking your uncle Jack would have succeeded.”
    “No, he wouldn’t,” Scraps.2 said firmly. “Trust me. The first thing you need to learn about your job is that not every problem has a solution. Come on; I’ll take you back to the Armoury. You can think better there.” He turned his heavy steel head to look at me. “Sorry to leave you, Eddie, but I can help them. I can’t help you.”
    “Understood,” I said.
    The Armourer went off with the robot dog, leaving me with the doctors. I looked at them steadily.
    “How long have I got?”
    They muttered together for quite a while, not wanting to commit themselves, but every time they glanced at me, I was still looking at them, so they went back to debating the matter. Finally, Dr Mary faced me squarely.
    “Best estimate, three months. And the last month will be . . . pretty bad.”
    It hit me hard to hear my death sentence announced so certainly.
    “So all that’s left,” I said after a while, “is to track down my murderer. And make him pay.” I looked at Molly. She was crying quietly. I squeezed her hand. “Don’t, love. I’m dying, and I’m not crying. It’s just another deadline. We can do deadlines.”
    Molly stopped her tears through an effort of will, and nodded her head firmly. “Who could have done this?”
    “I might know,” said the Sarjeant-at-Arms. “Everyone but Eddie and Molly, leave the area. This is a security matter.”
    No one argued. No one does, when the Sarjeant says that. The family trusts him to keep us safe. The doctors filed out quickly. I got the sense they were almost relieved to be getting away from the accusing gaze of the man they couldn’t save. I knew I was being hard on them. I didn’t care. The Sarjeant waited till he was sure everyone was gone, and then leaned in close.
    “There is a man most people believe to be just an urban legend of the hidden world. Dr DOA. Blamed for every death that has no obvious cause, he is the killer that other killers fear. The assassin who strikes from the shadows, who murders his victim without even being noticed. By the time the victim finds out he’s been poisoned, if he ever finds out, it’s too late. Dr DOA’s poison is always fatal. Always.”
    “No one has ever recovered?” said Molly. “No one’s ever beaten the poison?”
    “No,” said the Sarjeant. “And he’s supposed to have killed some people I would have said were unkillable. Whatever he’s using, there’s no defence against it and no cure.”
    “What do we know about this . . . Dr DOA?” I said.
    “Not much. No one knows who he really is, where he came from, or how he does what he does. Which is why most people prefer to believe he’s just an urban legend. But this fits his usual MO, and his usual arrogance. To get inside Drood Hall, past all our security, poison one particular Drood, and then get out again without ever being noticed . . . Before today, I would have said that was impossible!”
    “Calm down, Sarjeant,” I said. “A complexion that colour can’t be good for you.”
    I was genuinely amused to see him taking all of this as a personal affront.
    He sniffed loudly. “I will find out how he did it. And if any of my people have been lax, there will be blood on the walls.”
    “Any