Oil for the Rusty Barrel
October 15, 1916. Tekemt 5th by the Ethiopian calendar. Rain fell at dawn. The sound of it on the highlands was nothing like Seoul's. Thick, staccato drops, each one striking the stone walls with crystal clarity—no city's clamor to drown them out. I woke at three in the morning, watched the rain streaming from the eaves, then finally sat at my desk and opened my Hangul notebook.
'Britain does not keep its promises.' I wrote it slowly with pencil, each syllable deliberate. Memories from my past life studies flickered through my mind. The 1919 Paris Peace Conference. Wilfred Thesiger's pledge to support League of Nations membership had been empty; we'd lobbied for it ourselves and joined in 1923. But in 1935, when Mussolini invaded, the League didn't fire a single shot for us. Britain wanted to protect the Suez Canal. France wanted Italy as a check on Germany, and Ethiopia was just a bargaining chip.
Three days ago, Thesiger and Brice had come with documents, calling it a courtesy reply to our neutrality declaration. I sat there with the most courteous face I could muster. Military technical advisors. Some small arms supplies. Postwar diplomatic support. And Brice, tilting his wine glass with a smile: "France salutes Her Majesty's wise judgment." I already knew what hid behind that smile. The carrot. And that carrot came with strings attached.
I kept writing in the notebook. 'Accept aid. But don't rely on it. Take technology transfers where possible. But ensure the experts are ours, inside our borders. Buying guns isn't enough. We need to make them. Or at least, repair them.'
Self-reliance. It all came back to that one word. Eighteen years. Time until 1935. If we couldn't change this country by then, promises like Thesiger's might as well never have existed. Signatures on paper only mattered with power behind them—Father had said that three days ago. He was right.
I closed the notebook and looked out the window. The rain had stopped. This morning, I was heading to Kartushuri.
Addis Ababa Kartushuri, the Imperial Arsenal. Built by Emperor Menelik II in the 1890s. The place where, after Adwa, Ethiopia proved to the European powers it could produce weapons. Seeing it in person, though, "factory" felt like too grand a word. The building had thick stone walls, giving it a solid heft. But inside, the first thing that caught my eye was the rifles lined up on shelves. French Gras rifles, 1874 model. Weapons from Adwa. And next to them, nearly identical models in mirror rows. Different years, but all single-shot bolt-actions. Imports and battlefield pickups from before Adwa, jumbled together in varying states of care.
"Your Majesty."
Fitawrari Habte Giyorgis stood beside me. The veteran who'd propped up this empire's army since Menelik II's time. White hair, thick knuckles, lion pelt over his shoulders. He'd only started calling me "Your Majesty" instead of "Princess" a few days ago. His gaze was still more observation than deference. Those eyes were weighing what this young empress could really do.
To my left stood Tafari. He hadn't said a word since entering. His eyes scanned the rifles quietly, but I knew what they were calculating: ammo stocks, production scale, maintenance costs. And why I'd brought him here.
I lifted a rifle from the shelf. Its weight settled in my hands. Just over four kilograms—a thing I'd only seen behind museum glass in my past life. The fact that this was still the main firearm for most of our infantry felt surreal at times.
I spread a cloth on the table. And began.
Lifted the bolt and pulled it back. Click. Disassembled the bolt assembly, removed the bolt carrier. Tapped the barrel with my fingertip to check the ring. Tap, tap. Separated the stock from the barrel. Thack. Disassembly complete, parts laid neatly on the cloth.
"Look at the barrel interior," I told Habte. "There, rust inside the rifling. When was this rifle last cleaned?"
Habte lifted the barrel to the light. He was silent for a moment.
"...I don't know."
"That's the problem." I placed my finger on the barrel. "No one in this building knows the last cleaning date for issued firearms. I checked yesterday. There are no cleaning records at all."
Habte's eyebrow twitched faintly.
"A rusted barrel drops accuracy. Increases misfires. Look at the bolt spring tension." I handed him the bolt assembly. "In this state, it'll jam on rapid fire. These guns look like they've never been properly maintained since Adwa."
Habte turned the parts over in his hands. Hands that had gripped spears, swords. For the first time, a flicker of bewilderment showed in how he tested the spring tension.
"I know how our soldiers fought at Adwa, Fitawrari," I said slowly. "That courage was real. When tens of thousands closed the noose from the hillsides, the Italian commanders did panic."
Habte looked at me.
"But." I walked to the shelves, picked up another rifle. A Mauser, 1871 model. Imported before Adwa. "One reason we won at Adwa was Italy's scattered advance. General Baratieri sent three columns charging blind into the night, gaps too wide. We struck those gaps."
Something crossed Habte's face. Not displeasure—reluctant acknowledgment.
I saw it. "The next war won't repeat that mistake."
I continued. The Somme. Saying it aloud always sharpened those past-life memories into something keener than textbook numbers. Four months. Straight-line trenches on the Western Front. British first-day casualties: 57,000. It made me queasy, so I stuck to figures.
"On Europe's fronts now, daily soldier deaths exceed our entire army. Men in straight lines from trenches, advancing into machine guns. Not from lack of courage. Machine guns don't calculate courage—at 400 rounds per minute."
Habte set down the bolt assembly. Silence.
"Four hundred rounds per minute." He repeated it low.
"Yes. Hiram Maxim's 1884 design. Both sides in Europe use improved models now. Water-cooled for sustained fire without overheating."
"..."
"Next time Italy comes, they'll bring those 400-round-per-minute guns. And our soldiers will have these single-shots. Fire, cycle the bolt. Fire, cycle the bolt."
I eyed the disassembled Gras parts. "We have courage. Without bullets to match it, it's slaughter."
Minister Habte stared at the parts on the table for a long stretch. I kept explaining as I moved to the workbench by the shelves. The arsenal overseer brought two rifles side by side. One Gras 1874. One Lebel, supplied by France just before Adwa.
"Are these two rifles ammo-compatible?"
The overseer paused. "...No, Your Majesty."
"Correct." I pointed at them. "From what I've tallied, our soldiers carry at least five rifle types. Gras 1874s, Mausers, Lebels, some Winchesters, and Vetterli captured at Adwa. All different ammo specs."
Habte furrowed his brow.
"When supply officers send ammo to the front, do they know which rifles are where? Even if it arrives, wrong spec turns the gun into a club."
"We're aware of that issue," Habte said. His tone sharpened for the first time.
"If aware, it should have been fixed."
I hadn't cut him off. Tafari did. First words from him, and Habte and I both turned.
"Fitawrari." Tafari's voice was its usual low calm. "Her Majesty's words are a diagnosis."
Habte eyed Tafari. Complex gaze: old warhorse sizing up young politician. Wariness? Respect?
Tafari held the look, expression unchanged. "I agree. This facility's issues aren't courage or manpower. Two others."
He lifted the Gras bolt from the bench. "First, standardize rifle types. One rifle, one ammo. Rebuild production and supply around it."
Habte listened.
"Second is more crucial." I set down the bolt, placed both hands on the bench. "How do you repair rifles here?"
The overseer answered. "Artisans hand-file parts to fit, Your Majesty."
"Yes. One artisan per rifle. No artisan, no repair."
I pulled bolts from both rifles, laid them side by side. "What if these bolts were interchangeable? Soldiers at the front swap them without artisans? One rifle breaks, pull the part from another."
Habte's eyes shifted.
"Interchangeability," I said. "Same blueprints, same specs—parts fit anywhere they're made. America did it pre-Civil War at Springfield Armory. Let frontline troops cannibalize broken rifles from the dead."
"..."
"This arsenal lacks the concept. Artisans eyeball parts. Even identical parts from two artisans might not match."
Habte stared at the two bolts forever. He reached out, picked one up, ran fingers over it, then the other, held them side by side. The difference was visible. Subtle, but there.
"This." Habte said low. "Where did you learn it, Your Majesty?"
I didn't answer right away. Where? Four years history major, military history focus. Engineering minor, manufacturing history report. Part-time at a museum exhibit on Civil War arms.
"I studied."
Honest as it got. Habte studied my face long. For the first time, something besides wariness flickered in his eyes. I didn't miss it.
Leaving the arsenal, I ended up walking beside Tafari. Habte lagged behind, talking with the overseer. First moment we were alone.
Tafari was silent. His silences meant two things: thinking, or timing a question.
I spoke first. "You have questions."
He looked at me. "Speak."
"Interchangeability. Standards. Supply systems." His voice flat. "That knowledge doesn't come from military books alone."
True. I thought as we walked, but couldn't say the truth. Couldn't say 2026 Seoul history grad. Denying it would be weirder—he'd just seen I knew.
"Ras Tafari." I met his eyes. "You read French books. Politics, military, administration. Order from Paris bookstores yourself."
He didn't reply, but no denial.
"I read too. Just... more languages than you."
Brief silence. Tafari spoke. "Even American manufacturing texts."
"Fascinating field."
I parried, didn't stop. "But I didn't bring you here for that question."
He looked.
"I can't modernize this arsenal alone." Looking ahead. "Customs revenue covers budget. But getting parliament and nobles to approve? That's administrative control. Your strength over mine."
Tafari slowed a step, then matched. "I handle tech oversight. French advisors? I'll be their liaison. In return, you manage budget execution, Ras persuasion. Official title too."
Before answering, he glanced. I knew what those eyes calculated: alliance or placation? Sharing power? Or both.
Both was fine.
"Define scopes clearly." I stopped. He stopped, looked.
"I hold tech decisions. Standards, production methods, weapon selection. Non-negotiable. Budget approval, manpower, parliament reports go through you. No overreach."
"...Agreed."
Tafari's eyes narrowed slightly as he said it. Consent or calculus? Reading him was never easy. But this deal was necessary. Binding him into the reform structure. Sharing power to keep control—that, I knew.