18. N #5
This system also used storage jars to power the weapon, though larger than those needed by the firelances.
They kept only enough magic for a few shots of molten copper before they depleted.
They did not share any components with the firelance system, which made it easier to install.
He made a quick drawing of a dismounted system, placed on a hand-cart that he could point at the rocks, and blast them out of the way.
Can a shot furnace do that?
He stretched his shoulders, tired from hunching over plans, and brightened the mage-lights to help him see the diagrams.
He traced his fingers along each system, making notes as he went.
The makers had left out any hard numbers about the way the system worked, but he had spell-melted enough metal in his day to have a rough idea of what was required.
He made some rough calculations on a piece of paper, then sat up and whistled.
Each shot moves a lot of magic … enough to punch through a Monster when it attacks.
Maybe enough to punch through the rocks at a cave mouth. Maybe. One way to find out.
Which requires not getting accidentally incinerated.
He read back over the report from the South Wall Garrison and the Manipulator’s death.
The Manipulator had died when magic from the failing Machina fed back into her control helmet.
She had not been touched by the copper. She had been controlling a dozen Machina at the time, certainly a strain.
He scanned her profile. She had been a solid upper-tier Green, well trained, if not terribly experienced.
The star had moved a considerable distance before he realized the spoon was still stirring his now cold tea, and his back hurt from being hunched over the diagrams.
He retrieved the cup and used his finger to reheat the water.
The stuff they called tea these days had long since settled to the bottom of the cup.
He went to take a sip, then blew on it as he realized it was nearly scalding.
Too much. And that was when he had his epiphany.
Focus on the Manipulator, not the Machina.
Triana and the food makers had passed the yellow-gem stage, following the rainbow colors.
Red were scrubs. Oranges good for simple tasks.
Yellows could take in enough Magic to turn sludge into bread …
well, rations. The Machina Manipulators were Greens, and could handle more …
but nothing close to what the furnace required.
I’m a Blue/Indigo and I wouldn’t try it.
He read back through the summary of how the furnace worked once again.
I’m looking for something. I just wish I knew what it was.
He went back to the plans. A servant brought dinner that went cold in the outer office while he worked.
The night guard made his rounds, checking the lights in Haldeen’s office (and gazing wistfully for a moment at the uneaten dinner) before moving on.
The larger moon made its appearance, quartering past Harvest.
Haldeen’s eyes grew bleary and he rubbed them from time to time, trying to clear the fatigue.
The makers in Opal got very cagey about how exactly their furnace worked, but Haldden had the scent.
The Machinas didn’t use ambient magic, couldn’t access it, but the Manipulators did.
He laid out a set of calculations whose crudeness would have appalled his estranged wife, but which gave him a pretty good idea of just how much ambient magic it took to run one Machina.
The Manipulator, who got her brains melted, had been running what …
a dozen with furnaces? A bit more math, and the answer stared him in the face.
He had found the flaw. The designers had built a weapon that rode the thin-edge of what was possible, but made no provision for the Manipulator in case it failed.
The Manipulator used her personal magic to call up the ambient energy needed to operate the Machina system, while the business of heating the furnaces came from the stored jars, but when that system failed, all the magic she called had nowhere to go, except into her.
The moment any one of those dozen furnaces so much as burped, the feedback would have killed her.
Haldeen knew compassion had never been his strong suit, and he vaguely recalled being contemptuous of that same Manipulator back when the disaster had occurred, attributing her failure to female incompetence.
But now that he knew the facts of the matter, he made an exception in empathy.
“Oh, you poor child,” he said out loud. “You never stood a chance.”
He let out a deep breath. He wasn’t to blame.
Someone else owned that girl’s death. Not him.
Good. Something to add to his report to the king.
Someone else in another city to blame, and Alliard would get to scream at another king.
Let the big hardhorns butt heads and leave me alone to figure things out.
Now that he had his answer, he sat for a while considering what to do.
He’d begun the exercise looking to ensure he didn’t kill himself using a powerful and tetchy weapon to clear mountain-slide debris.
He’d ended up discovering that more Manipulators would die.
A Manipulator running three or four Machinas with shot furnaces might survive a hiccup, but spread across a dozen? No chance.
In the end, the decision came easy. The copper shot furnace burned through the thickest hide, shell, carapace, or tree-trunk the Monsters had.
Burned through and hurt them. The officers commanding the Manipulators needed to know the furnaces could fail, and to use them as little as possible, but use them they would, regardless of the risk to the Manipulators.
He set pen to paper to write directly to King Alliard, and lay the situation out in stark terms.
He no longer maintained the Gates, and so was technically no longer the Lord Gatekeeper but he was a Lord Technical still, and this was something that not even he could ignore.
I may be corrupt … but I am not so corrupt as to ignore the inevitable loss of valuable magicians like high-ranked Manipulators.
We don’t have enough now. We certainly cannot afford to lose more if any of us are going to survive to conquer this other world.
Haldeen scribbled out a quick report. His fatigue and haste left him indifferent to its appearance.
Once done, he scanned across it, reading it quickly.
Then, a moment’s inspiration and he would be free of the Lord High Agronomer’s grasping claws.
He hadn’t heard much from Pelias, other than one missive confirming their “deal.”
He’d kept his conclusion terse, but found room for one short paragraph that would get him the resources he needed without having to go hat-in-hand to the Lord High Agronomer.
In short, a defect in the shot furnace requires restricting use of those weapons until a solution can be found.
I have some ideas for that, but will require several fully-operational examples of the shot-furnace weapon, so that I may test what I think will work.
Three examples should be sufficient. He looked back at the report on the failed device, and the risk to him if one failed, at least until he knew how to make them safe enough to use himself. And a Manipulator to operate them.
He took a long look at the finished report. Three shot furnaces should be enough to discover whether he could burn his way out of the cave. He laughed. His work to make them safe enough for him to use might very well save some Manipulators’ lives.
He finished his report and sealed it into the wrapper.
Haldeen stretched his back, feeling the twinges and aches, and felt the sand in the corners of his eyes. He let out a cracking deep yawn, then saw the star peeping over the horizon. Been a while since I’ve worked the night away.
The early morning servants and retainers would have been awake long before, preparing for their days.
He then stuck his head out the outer door and yelled for a servant …
something his dignity rarely permitted. When that worthy came puffing up to his door, Haldeen used him to summon an estate-liveried messenger.
Haldeen gave him the documents he had prepared.
“These are of the highest urgency. You will take them to the king’s chamberlain, and you wait until you have either receipts, or return messages.” The courier bobbed his head, slid the wrapper into his locked satchel, and started away.
“Run” Haldeen yelled after him.
He ran. And Haldeen turned his weary attention to that cold and uneaten dinner.
Waste not, want not.