Old Ozzie never Dust.

Dust.

Dust is like…

Dusted. Settling. Drifting down, and when it touches, it’s dead.

We’re all dust in sunbeams, floating drifting caught on drafts. River currents carrying us along. Alive as long as we’re in the air.

Edmund threw himself into the closest chair, and then immediately stood up again. He couldn’t sit. He couldn’t stand. He couldn’t pace. His mind was afire with consternation.

On impulse learned from his time in the trenches, Edmund glanced around the room for a drinks cabinet.

He had been asked to retire to the nearby General’s Lounge to await the Tribunal’s final verdict. Being a place for the upper-class to sit and chat, the absence of any liquor cabinet would be out of character, to say the least. He didn’t particularly care for the taste of alcohol, but he heard that it could ‘steady one’s nerves,’ and was a quite useful prop for looking nonchalant.

Edmund poured himself a glass of gin, and sipped it.

Nothing happens quickly in the military.

In the olden days, word of peace spread like molasses. When word of peace arrived in one town, time was spent celebrating and reveling, sometimes long into the night, before someone remembered they needed to send the message on. Sometimes, whole years would pass between a treaty’s signing and the last arrow loosed.

Eventually, official messengers were assigned the mission to convey the message of peace to pertinent officials. This worked only marginally better, as the messengers often times stuck around for a nip or two, just to keep the chill evening wind out, and ended up staying the night, drunk off their horse.

When newspapers were invented, word passed faster still. The Telegraph made communication almost instantaneous, but even then there were delays as Generals had just one more cigar, a glass for the road, or played one final hand before turning off the lights.

“Singing?”

“And playing games,” Edmund nodded, with perhaps more pride in his voice than he intended. He hadn’t expected it to work out so well. “Even the guards have unlocked the cells and allowed enemy prisoners to return.”

“Our prisoners?”

“And theirs. Everyone.”

Schtillhart opened her mouth, and then closed it. “Are you telling me, Lieutenant, that not one week after I was made an Acting Colonel and given command over the trenches at Harmingsdown, that my men have stopped fighting and are now singing and playing games with the enemy?”

“Sharing meals, too. I believe their chef was given a surplus of grape-leaves that needed eating.”

One day, sitting on the steps, coming down from a sizzle when Cindy stands there, leaning on the rusty fence like nothing important.

I blink her eyes back into her head. Looking at me with no red-shot eyes. No teeth. All good. Sizzle just a hiss in the back. Nothing bad.

“Hey,” she says, like nothing important. Me, I nod, because Ozzie’s polite. Wearing the girl’s jacket, like they swap. Must be serious, I think. Cindy, she just looks, and says, “Gotta favor to ask.”

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.