20. N
The World Gate whirred and flashed behind him, illuminating the cave in brief, bright pulses.
Haldeen shone the mage-light down the ramp, lighting the way for the Probe.
It turned its head to look at him, a development he found deeply, deeply unsettling.
It wasn’t supposed to show any real sign of awareness, and the control rod implanted along its spine should have enforced that direction. Yet, its dead eyes regarded him.
“Follow me,” he said to it, “and don’t drop it.”
He spoke brusquely, trying to hide his unease.
He walked down the ramp, shining the mage-light ahead of him to ensure he didn’t trip.
It carried the Machina’s copper shot furnace in both arms, a weight that should have required three adult males to lift and carry.
The Probe still had its uses, even if its behavior had begun to worry him.
Haldeen stepped around a pile of metal shards and scrap, shining the light for the Probe, so that it didn’t stumble and damage the precious shot furnace.
“If this works,” he said to it, “I’ll be able to melt a hole in these rocks large enough for you to pass through, and then you’ll be back in business.”
He gestured to the front face of the cave, where the roof had been brought down.
He thought for a moment. Triana’s interrogator …
what was her name … had documented that the cave mouth had collapsed in the fight that trapped her there, before the Probe found her.
Supposedly she had been fighting—well, probably fleeing—one of the Machina that somehow had a little magic left to it.
It seemed unlikely that she had been fighting anything; the transcripts made it quite clear that she had never gotten her hands dirty with actual combat of any kind before she landed in his custody.
He gestured irritably at the Probe. “This way. Follow me.”
He led the Probe down across the cave floor.
He remembered his first time there, all those eight-days before, and how he had been so frightened.
The looming metal statues, the junk of a century-old flight, that had seemed so terrifying, and now just looked sad and abandoned.
Longer than ten centuries. One day home is about ten here, so this is a thousand years gone by.
Guess these things are in pretty good shape after a thousand years.
He crossed the cave floor, and the slight downslope that led water out instead of in.
It hadn’t occurred to him until then that this one small detail might be why the Machina remained dusty and intact, rather than corroded and rusted.
Such a small thing, a change in water flow, and yet it had made all the difference.
The obstacles thinned here towards where the cave mouth had collapsed, sealing the entrance.
He opened the boxes he had staged there earlier, and set up a series of mage-lights mounted on staves.
Each needed to be set into the ground, as deep as he could ram them.
He assembled the first, walked to the center of his imagined line, and raised his arms up as high as he could, before ramming the pointed spade into the ground.
It set, perhaps a forearm’s depth into the earth.
He repeated the process with the remaining lights, then stood back to observe his handiwork.
A couple leaned drunkenly, evidence that his upper body strength left something to be desired. Still, they stood upright enough.
He flexed his arms and shoulders. That will be sore in the morning.
He released the spell, and the mage-lights glowed to life. Each ’light had a small reserve that should last long enough for him to complete his experiment.
“That way,” he said to the Probe. He shone the light on the cradle. He had ensured that the bolt had been milled to the same locations as a Mecha. Provided the makers could follow instructions, then the shot furnace should slide into the cradle as easily as it did a Machina.
He made an impatient gesture to the Probe. “Put it up there.”
The Probe didn’t move. Haldeen swore to himself, then smiled. Not specific enough. Good. Still not able to work out what it needs to do.
He sat down on the broken remains of a wagon, and talked the Probe through the specific instructions on how to place the shot furnace in the cradle.
He got it done quickly enough once he remembered to reverse his rights and lefts.
Eventually, the Probe set the shot furnace correctly in place.
Haldeen rose, and reached around it to tighten the fasteners that held the furnace in place.
The Probe’s dry, scaled skin brushed his arm. The touch sent shivers up his spine.
He looked at the Probe and saw blood on its chest and hands, where sharp corners and edges had cut its scales. He wasn’t sure why, but that unnerved him a bit more. It’s under control, he told himself. A tiny seed of doubt whispered back. Are you sure?
“Rest,” he said. The Probe looked at him for a moment, then went into its rest position, squatting down on its ankles and wrapping its arms around its knees.
Haldeen turned his attention to the copper shot furnace, first making sure it had been properly fastened into place.
The cradle stood chest height, and had gears and wheels that let it turn from side to side, and swing up and down.
He loosened the fasteners that kept the cradle from rotating, and turned it bit by bit, sighting along the side of the ’furnace for the spot he wanted to test …
a pile of rocks at the very top of the fall, where they might be blasted away by shot.
Once he had the side rotation approximated, he tightened the fasteners and loosened the ones that controlled the up and down swing.
He sighted along the top until he thought he had the elevation right.
He squinted along the side of the weapon, thinking he had a pretty good estimate of where the copper slug would go.
He double checked to make sure the fastenings were good and tight, then went to the box of copper shot he’d been given as part of his tests.
The slug filled his hand, and he hefted it once or twice.
It felt massy and heavy, with the dull copper sphere feeling the way a weapon should, smooth and round and dangerous.
He inserted the slug into the furnace’s shot-well, then went for the difficult part.
He had six of the storage jars that furnace-makers used to charge and operate their weapons.
Haldeen suspected their deep dark secret on how they filled the jars looked a lot like the ration makers on his estate …
a bunch of barely-wizards sitting in front of gray boxes with their brows furrowed, working to coax magical energy into the jars, in exchange for a day’s ration so they could come back and do it again tomorrow.
He didn’t really know how they kept the magic trapped inside, but he suspected that secret would be about as mundane as how they got the magic in there in the first place.
He knelt down to study the closest of the seven jars.
This jar looked to be a little larger than the others, smooth and gray ceramic on the outside, with no obvious holes or openings.
It was heavy, out of proportion to its size, and he could only just lift it, feeling his back strain as he picked it up and cradled it in his hands.
Its square corners dug into this belly as he carried it the few steps to the shot furnace, then slid it into the opening made specifically to hold the magic storage jars.
He saw the tighteners had a bit of play in them, to account for jars of slightly different sizes. He worked those down until the magical jar rested firmly in its well.
The shot furnace showed no sign of life.
“Well, here we go,” he said to the Probe, which did not respond.
He stood to one side of the furnace, then plucked the control rod from his belt and raised it to discharge the weapon.
He was just about to say the spell when he paused, suddenly aware of just how vulnerable he would be to a fist-sized slug of molten copper.
He wasn’t quite sure what would happen when the slug hit the rocks.
“Aye, maybe a little further back.” He gestured to the Probe. “You too. Come on. Rise.”
The Probe followed obediently as he walked back a few dozen paces, and took shelter behind a group of sturdy-looking wagon wrecks. Once there, he raised the control rod again, and recited the spell. On the last word— “Engage”—things happened very quickly.
He heard a loud whirr that rose to a keening wail.
He’d seen a fancy entertainer once who twirled knives on chains.
The jongleur’s blades had made a similar sort of whirling, dangerous sounds …
only this was a hundred times louder. The whirling, keening sound lasted a few heartbeats longer before being replaced by a loud snap, a roar of thunder followed by a giant boom, and a bright flare of red that left him blinking away afterimages.
He winced at the sound and heard ringing in his ears.
A hot wind rolled back across him and the mage-lights went dark as they were blown over.
The cave went dark and silent except for the steady tick, tick sound of cooling metal.
His personal mage-light remained the only one lit.
He used it to light his way back to where the shot furnace had launched its payload.
Several of the mage-lights remained lit, but had been knocked over by the force of the shot, or the wave of sound and air that reverberated back.
Other mage-lights appeared to have been damaged, either by the hot wind, or by rock fragments that had been blown off of the face of the pile of debris blocking the exit.
He stood the mage-light that still worked back up and reset it into the ground, then walked to study the results. He’d missed the cave mouth entirely and hit the ceiling, gouging a hole and shattering rock. He whistled to himself. Lucky you didn’t bring down more of the roof.
He checked the shot furnace carefully, and used a stylus to clean out the copper residue that had built up around the door.
Just a tiny amount, but after the right number of shots, enough to jam the door and cause an explosion like the one that had killed that Manipulator all those eight days before.
Once done, he realigned the furnace, revised his aim, reloaded it, and went to retreat behind the wrecks.
This time he took the working mage-lights with him.
A dozen shots, and two aiming revisions later, he thought he had broken through.