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.
Edmund was a Moulde, and that meant he was not one to allow small obstacles stand in the way of what needed to be done; so it should come as no surprise that, after the lamp-lighters had all gone about their business bathing the night-darkened streets of Brackenburg with an jaundiced glow from the street lamps, Edmund left Filing Room B and walked out into the darkness, as casual as any gentleman out for a nightly stroll.
Subterfuge and legerdemain were reliable tools in the Moulde bag-of-tricks, and it felt good to dart from shadow to shadow again.
It is a common trait among humans that when they wish to divert attention, they always point in the opposite direction of what they are hiding. This makes it quite simple to find anything one wishes to hide; simply look in the exact opposite place someone expects you to look.
As a ABC clerk, Edmund received Schtillhart’s likely false administrative filing, submitting one (1) sample of Chrome, 4cm, 8.5 grams, to be stored in the Flitwork street warehouse. For reasons far too complex to explain, after reading this file Edmund was certain Schtillhart had hidden the sample of Chrome in the Illingsbeak street warehouse.
Kyle didn’t chant for Wellen. I got better. Doing well now. Kyle got mad. Left then.
Could have stayed. Could have waited til I knew the rocks, but gotta jump feet first. All hop like. Down the gutter goes, sluce. Swinging free. Could have been lost. Dangerous, like. No one know old Oz then, look over him like a heap o’ trash.
Didn’t have time. No rest. No sleep. Gotta find a rock. Gotta keep moving. You stay, you dust. Left Kyle’s circle that night.
Took weeks. I talked. I listened. I heard about Horse, who was a real rock. I heard about Linds, who was real nice, likable, soft and gentle. Not a real rock, but didn’t let no one stray. Like a sheepdog. Heard about all the rocks in Upper West, but Binny’s digs were only a street away from where I was, so I head over to the street corner where they say he hung out.
It took Edmund almost the entire rest of the day to sort out what he needed to do next.
Edmund did not think slowly; rather, when he put all his efforts into plotting and planning, he thought about so many things at once that it merely appeared that he thought slowly. This is akin to how a train powerful enough to carry a hundred cars full of diamonds may move slower than a rather small dog pulling a roller skate.
Edmund’s plan, such as it was, had not fundamentally changed. In traveling to Princebridge, he had hoped to ascertain whether the inventor of Chrome was someone he could work with, or someone he had to circumvent. The fact that the inventors were the Wickes did not make the answer obsolete, merely obvious.
It was almost six in the afternoon by the time Edmund had finished typing out his report to the Brigadier and made his way up the stairs to McNaymare’s office.
