The First Rifle
August 22, 1919. Addis Ababa, Menelik Palace.
I, Tafari Mekonnen, walked the palace corridors, slowly repeating that number to myself. Two months. Precisely sixty-two days. Two regular reports to the Council of Ras. Three diplomatic dispatches sent. Two private consultations with Advisor Ye Woon-hyung. And amid it all, the quiet, heavy unease that had been building.
It had been two months since Her Imperial Majesty Empress Zenebework had emerged from her study. Of course, she hadn't vanished entirely. Morning briefings proceeded without fail, day after day. She appeared in the grand hall when the Council of Ras convened. She even dined on gukbap sent from the Korean Empire. But otherwise, she remained in that study.
What lay within that study was known to everyone in the palace, myself included. Disassembled rifle parts. And stacks of paper.
It had begun in early June, the day after Her Majesty declared she would design a rifle domestically. Two attendants had carried a single Spanish Mauser rifle from the storeroom—along with ten rounds of 7mm Mauser ammunition—into the study. And that rifle hadn't left the room in the two months since.
The stacks of paper? Occasionally, Her Majesty would carry them out herself and burn them in the brazier at the end of the corridor. Two or three times a day. They started sparse but grew in number. More papers burned meant more failures.
I pondered this as I walked the corridor. Zenebework Mikael was failing.
Rolling those words in my mind stirred a strangely complex sensation. Worry? Relief? Or both? Every time she moved beyond my predictions, I confronted this feeling.
Truth be told, when that declaration came in June, I privately deemed it impossible. Rifle design. Domestic production. By her hand alone. Lining up those three words led to one logical conclusion—and Fitawrari Habte Giyorgis's initial reaction had captured it perfectly. To achieve in a 1919 Ethiopian imperial study what Europe's major arms manufacturers had built over decades? It bordered on technical madness.
Yet even then, hearing her declare it, I didn't object. Because I'd seen the look in her eyes.
Zenebework's gaze held two kinds, as I knew them. The planning gaze. And the gaze of certainty.
That June day, it was the latter.
One with certainty doesn't sway to persuasion. Only evidence moves them. So I held my tongue.
By the time I reached the study door, the shadows on the walls showed the afternoon sun had dipped low. No briefings scheduled today. Yet here I was, walking this corridor out of simple worry, if I'm honest.
The Empress kept the study lamp burning through the night more than every other day. Her chief maid reported fewer coffees brought in. As for meals, attendants clearing the dishes said she ate only half.
I tallied these reports. Sleep deprivation. Reduced appetite. Sustained intense work. This was overwork.
And though Her Majesty had never voiced it directly to anyone, I suspected something deeper. Her habit of muttering to herself at dawn in a language no one in the palace understood. The tone when she murmured, as if consoling herself, "There is no later." Too much weighed in that voice.
I halted before the study door. As I raised my hand to knock—
"It's complete——!!!"
The voice rang out from within.
Nothing like her low, elegant courtly diction. I'd heard it a few times before—the Amharic laced with an alien accent that slipped out when she was utterly unguarded. Ecstasy. Relief. Exhaustion. Two months' worth exploding at once.
My hand froze. I should knock. Given the circumstances, protocol demanded it first. I knew that. But it wouldn't move.
In the end, instead of knocking, I opened the door.
The moment it swung wide, oil and paper assaulted my nose.
The study was more chaotic than I'd imagined. Piles of paper towered by the windows—not neatly stacked, but crumpled and torn, some spilling from the desk to the floor. A few bore half-burned scorch marks. Too lazy to reach the corridor brazier, she'd apparently set a small one inside to burn them herself.
And on the desk: the Spanish Mauser, disassembled and laid out neatly on a cloth. Bolt, barrel, magazine, bolt carrier, recoil spring, trigger assembly. Two months of repeated disassembly and reassembly gleamed in the even oil film on every surface.
Before it stood the Empress in her nightclothes.
I stopped short. No silk imperial robes, no tidy house robes. Loose white cotton pajamas, hair half-undone—and in that state, she clutched a sheaf of papers in both hands. Then she saw me.
A beat of silence.
"……Knock."
Her Majesty spoke.
"Did you? Ras Tafari."
Her voice remained low and clear, but laced with deep fatigue and acute embarrassment.
"……I couldn't."
"May I ask why?"
Her eyes narrowed; a chill sweat prickled my back.
"……Out of concern."
Another silence.
Her gaze shifted. From initial fluster to something else—the look she gave when forgiving, or rather, when her emotions tilted toward acceptance.
"……Come in."
She said it softly. Then, clearing a space on the desk, she offered the sheaf of papers.
Several sheets. The top one: a cleanly penned final blueprint, unmistakable. Below: intermediates thick with revisions.
I took it. Skimmed the first lines.
Amharic headings.
[Ammunition spec: 7mm Mauser.]
[Action: Bolt-action.]
[Effective range: 500m.]
[Part count: Minimized.]
[Tolerance standards: Refer to attached per-part figures.]
I read a line, two of the figures and diagrams below—then stopped.
The blueprint was complete.
Setting that aside, what struck me first was elsewhere.
'Part count: Minimized.'
I mulled those words slowly.
Designed to Ethiopia's arsenal machining capabilities. Not the best rifle—but one we could make here, now. Pragmatism. Ruthlessly cold.
I looked up from the blueprint. Her Majesty had crossed to the bed in the interim. And collapsed onto it.
Somewhere between falling and lying down. The silk bedding rustled, and less than three seconds later, silence fell.
I gazed down at the sleeping Empress.
Two months.
Two months gripping that one rifle in this study—burning failed designs, starting anew, failing again, restarting yet more.
And today: completion.
I glanced once at the rifle parts on the desk, blueprint in hand, and quietly exited.
A faint, even breathing followed me.
"……Well done."
I murmured it just before the door clicked shut. Whether she heard, I couldn't say.
The moment I passed through the main gate of the Imperial Arsenal, the duty supervisor bowed low.
"Ras Tafari, Your Excellency. At this hour…?"
"Blueprints."
I cut him off, raising the sheaf Her Majesty had granted me.
"Completed by Her Imperial Majesty herself. Summon the technical advisory board and chief artisans immediately."
His eyes widened.
"Immediately? It's already evening…"
"Immediately."
I said no more and strode inside.
The main workshop was quieter than daytime, but a few night-shift artisans remained. They spotted me, halted work, and bowed.
I spread the blueprints on the central workbench.
Chief artisan Alemu arrived first. Behind him came the chief of the Korean Empire's technical advisory group, papers in hand, approaching slowly—eyebrows slightly raised at my presence.
That Korean chief technician. I'd heard his name a month ago but didn't recall it precisely, so I never addressed him directly. Still, I knew his pivotal role in the arsenal's modernization, second only to Her Majesty.
He reached for the top sheet, lifting it.
Silence fell.
Alemu peered beside him, tracing figures with a finger, lips moving faintly.
About ten seconds passed. The Korean technician looked at me.
"Her Majesty drafted this herself?"
Korean. I didn't understand the language, but the interrogative tone was clear. The interpreter rushed over, rendering it in Amharic.
"Yes."
"……."
He turned back to the blueprints. Longer silence this time.
Alemu and the technician pointed to the same section, murmuring low—Amharic mixed with Korean.
Alemu looked up.
"Ras."
He said.
"These tolerance specs…"
"Speak."
"They allow 0.01 millimeters more leeway than we've achieved up to last month. We can make this."
Alemu spoke quietly but clearly.
The workshop hushed.
The Korean technician spoke again; the interpreter relayed swiftly.
"Fixing the ammo to 7mm Mauser matches our current production standards. Minimizing parts controls defect rates…."
He scanned the final page's notes once more.
"……This structure is feasible."
Hearing that judgment, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders.
The blueprint was approved. The technical team deemed it viable.
Her Majesty's two months weren't wasted.
"When can we start?"
"Review tonight, draft per-part work orders—prototype machining tomorrow morning."
Alemu replied. The Korean nodded, adding via interpreter:
"There'll be prototype revisions. It won't be perfect first try. But the design direction is sound. Our tools and setup can handle it."
I looked each man in the eye.
"Tonight, then. I leave it to you."
I stepped back. That sufficed.
These men moved when ordered. No need for further explanation or prodding.
The workshop stirred quietly anew. Night-shift artisans copied blueprints; the Korean summoned his chief assistant for low words; Alemu sketched part sequences by hand.
I watched a moment, then departed the arsenal.