Edmund stepped out into the morning light.

Was it portentous, the fact that the sun shone brightly on the brown mud of Harmingsdown for the first time in weeks, or that the piercing reflection of the white snow hurt Edmund’s eyes, forcing him to squint? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he had a plan, and he wasn’t sure it would work.

This was a new and frightening situation for Edmund to be in. After all, his entire life had been spent in the meticulous crafting of detailed plots that blossomed to fruition with only the smallest amount of uncertainty. As Matron had told him before: What use was a plan that had the potential for failure?

The loss of Pinsnip was of significant concern to Edmund, but not as immediate. The far more timely issue was stopping the Wickes from implementing their Tactical Gasses.

There were multiple ways Edmund could have done this, but his brush with the assassin had unnerved him. He needed to rebalance his humors, if not resettle his stomach, and so he opted for taking a personal hand in the sabotage.

The barn in which the Wickes Laboratory was situated was old, but sturdily built. Archaeological studies performed after the war’s end — when the importance of Harmingsdown’s role in its ending was established — place the building of the farmhouse and barn sometime after the Roman invasion of Britannia. The wooden walls were weather-hardened to the point that they were as hard as iron. The winds had blasted the walls as smooth as glass, ensuring a very difficult time for any spies who thought the front door would be too conspicuous an entry point.

A week passed.

There is no doubt that a great amount of important things occurred during this week, but little regarding Edmund’s plans for how to stop the Wickes. His major obstacle was that he didn’t know what they were trying to do.

Lacking this most basic mooring, Edmund’s nights were filled with discord. Every morning, his nocturnal notes brought a new cluster of diagrams, dissertations, and plans that covered each facet of Harmingsdown, Brackenburg, and the entirety of the Great War. He was ready for anything. Once he knew their plans, with the right application of force he could set in motion a series of events that would foil the Wickes for good.

But no matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t see their greater goal. They continued to invent new machines, improved weapons, and deadlier tools that were steadily countered by the Spanish Inventor…whomever they were.

We come back from the show. Good show. Fall asleep. Darkness dreaming without. Within. No pleasure no pain. Empty void full of Ozzie.

Next morning. Hurts. Dry. Always a pain, the next morning.

Open eyes, see blurs, blink it back into shape.

Never know where you are at first. Everything settles on you in a different place. Still dressed from last night. No sheet. Mattress. Someone next to me. Darla, most like.

The Battle of the Ironclads is one of the most famous events in the entirety of the Great War, second only to the Harmingsdown Truce, which came months afterwards. Indeed, even students of no fixed subject are aware of the Ironclads, the T-1 “Chesteron” on the British side, and the M-S5 “Rojoja” on the Spanish.

A reconstruction of the T-1 is currently on display at the Ninnenburg Museum of Natural Warfare, differing from the original only in the type of rubber on the pedirail feet and in the length of its cannon; a full three inches shorter. The M-S5 became the foundation for later models, such as the M-S6 and the M-S8. While no official reconstruction exists, copies of the original blueprints are readily available for perusal at almost any Spanish engineering school.

Historians and scholars, take note; this was not the first appearance of what later became known as a trench-crawler. A prototype trench-crawler first entered service in the Spanish army during the Battle of South Waterdyer, resulting in the deaths of seven soldiers and the operators within, after the machine exploded. That battle is not commonly known of, and while much debate is possible in regards to whether the effectiveness of this trench-crawler was overstated, no one can deny the simple chronology of the war: The Battle of South Waterdyer had occurred only half a week ago, word had not yet spread to the far end of the front where Harmingsdown lay, and no one present had seen or even heard of the monstrous device that was now barreling over the trenches like a mad rhino.

“Bring it down!” Colonel Muggeridge shouted over the fray. “You, get on the telegraph and tell HQ what’s happening. The rest of you men, charge ahead! Put your backs into it! We’ll show that metal blighter what-for!”

“It’s quite short.”

Edmund had not expected much more from Colonel Muggeridge. He had not struck Edmund as a particularly curious or attentive officer, instead as more of a Colonel. In addition, the Colonel was not new to war. He knew what worked, and therefore mistrusted anything unfamiliar.

He wasn’t a complete fool, however. He knew he was not a genius, and the two recently commissioned Colonels were, so when they brought out their first invention since arriving at Harmingsdown, he knew it had to be a remarkable and revolutionary invention.

This resulted in the Colonel staring in silence at the rifle for over five minutes — along with the small cluster of other officers he had brought along to the Wickes demonstration — in hopes of discerning what made this rifle different than the standard issue bolt-action rifles his men were already supplied with.

In the end, he had noticed that the rifle in question was a good two feet shorter in the shaft.

So damn thirsty, need a sip, nothing but tap water. Brown, let it run. Hiss like. Dizzy, but smooth. Just let it run, get all the dust out. Rust out. Dusty rusty.

Time for a show. Show a show a shoe dancing on concrete. JJ POP gone, we all stand up. Time to go show the show go to time.

Always a good show at the Square. Real dancing, real drums, like native. Jump up and down until your brain is free falling. Pass around the pills, the tabs, the sticks and the sauce, and sizzle til dawn. Forget your cares, and just make some noise. Everyone loves the Square. Safe club. Famous like. So many people know it, even the posers know it. Dangerous, that. Get a poser who thinks they know the chant. Gotta keep an eye out.

There was no train to Harmingsdown. Being a small farming village on the southern end of the country, there had never been enough call for transport to such a distant pastoral town. Without industry, fortune, or noblesse oblige as a draw, Harmingsdown had stayed a quiet and sleepy village for the better part of a century.

Then, due to a remarkably unfortunate series of historical events, the Spanish army had established themselves in the southern part of England. Quite inadvertently, Harmingsdown had become The Front. This meant the once pastoral village needed troops, supplies, equipment, and a great deal of other sundry items. Harmingsdown was not alone in this; any number of heretofore useless and ignored territories were suddenly vitally important to the war, and required a quick method for logistical support.

Had Edmund made a mistake?

The thought crossed his mind only once in the span of time between sitting outside the Brigadier’s office and the signing ceremony, and the answer was quick in coming. No, he had not made any mistakes. He simply couldn’t afford to.

Edmund didn’t wait for Brother Bromard to leave again. He didn’t wait for Brigadier McNaymare to file an official command. He didn’t even wait for Major Schtillhart to step outside and demand to know why Edmund was sitting around and wasting time.

He was wasting time. He needed to get back to Filing Room B to prepare.