Standing on the Shoulders of Giants (3)
It had been over a fortnight since Kyle had signed the contract with Rozelin. The logistics speed in the southern Empire was painfully slow, gut-wrenching even, but he hadn't wasted a single moment of the wait. Before the factory walls were even halfway up, he'd erected the skeletons of the production equipment first, and preparations inside were already complete to receive the materials Rozelin would bring.
On a table in one corner of the armory lay the rough blueprints he'd reviewed with Grody, now frayed and tattered.
"Grody! Is the rifling doable?"
His voice cut sharp as a blade through the site, laced with the acrid tang of freshly machined metal. Grody, arms crossed as he glared at the blueprints, snorted and roughly scratched his beard.
"Hah, you want me to engrave numbers thinner than a fingernail into steel? You sane? Listen here, milord, even the field gun rifling last time wasn't this insane!"
Grody grumbled, pointing to the pile of scrapped barrels stacked in the corner.
"The gun barrel had some size to it at least—this piddly hole, carving helical grooves inside? You think that's easy? One wrong push and the tool snaps or the groove mangles. First time in my dwarf life I've dealt with precision work this tiny!"
His complaints were valid. Rifling a 75mm field gun was like rough earthworks; rifling the bore of a .30-caliber rifle barrel was closer to delicate surgery. But those tiny spirals were the heart of modern infantry firepower. No compromises.
"I know it's tough. But that little groove spins the bullet like a top, letting you hit enemies hundreds of meters away."
He stated it firmly, face serious. In engineering, precision meant reliability, and reliability meant the user's safety. A weapon that killed its wielder was no weapon—just trash.
"Fine, fine! On my dwarf honor, I'll hit your specs. But don't bitch later when I demand my booze list!"
Confirming Grody had reset his focus, Kyle moved to the side. There sat high-purity nitric acid and sulfuric acid, alongside neatly cleaned cotton wads. He'd already synthesized small batches of nitrocellulose, the propellant that would drive the bullets.
He gingerly dipped a cotton wad into the purified acidic solution. It looked like mere wet cotton, but at the molecular level, it was bonding with the nitric acid, transforming into a monster several times more powerful than black gunpowder.
While the wad nitrated, he placed a previously dried one on the table from the drying apparatus and struck flint.
Schwick!
The white cotton vanished in an instant, leaving only a transparent flame that evaporated into thin air.
"...Huh?"
Grodi, watching from behind, blankly scanned the empty table. No ash residue, no foul sulfur stench.
"No smoke. Hell, no residue either. This really gunpowder?"
"Yeah. No smoke means our position stays hidden, no residue means your precious rifling grooves won't get fouled."
He glanced out the window. Cold evening fog seeped over the freshly walled factory.
"No matter how thick the Count's knights' armor, they can't dodge bullets fired from hundreds of meters away, unseen."
He rolled a bone-dry nitrocellulose wad between his fingertips. The fibers, baptized in nitric and sulfuric acid, had turned far fluffier and more elastic. Kneading the deadly compound like a child's toy, he continued.
"Against bullets faster than sound, what use are knighthood or honor? By the time the crack reaches their ears, their hearts are already pierced."
This white fluff looked harmless, soft even. But in truth, it was a massive bundle of energy, trillions of molecular rings taut, awaiting detonation.
As his voice sank into the chill air, the rumble of massive wagon wheels echoed from beyond the main gate. After a fortnight's wait, Rozelin had finally arrived with the final puzzle pieces: mercury and copper.
The wagons rolling through the factory gates bore the crisp seal of Rozelin's merchant company. Stepping down in a neat coat, Rozelin wrinkled her nose at the dust, oil, and chemical reek.
"Milord, living in this stench? My gardener's screaming bloody murder—says the powder you gave turned his flowerbeds into a jungle."
Kyle chuckled softly. Fertilizer working as intended.
"The goods?"
"On my company's honor. 300 geun of mercury, high-purity copper and zinc. Swept every stock in the northern Empire—quite the ordeal."
Rozelin directed the laborers to unload heavy jars from the wagons. Inside sloshed silvery liquid metal—mercury.
Eying the glass distillation setups Kyle was inspecting, she asked dubiously.
"What're you planning with this poison? Mercury's for alchemists, right? Ominous stuff."
"Alchemy fails to turn lead to gold. Science turns mercury useful. Branch chief, step back—gets dangerous from here."
He dove into purification. Lit a fire under the prepped glass stills, fine-tuning the heat. Mercury vapor was lethally toxic, so he triple-checked seals. Silvery vapor flowed through glass tubes, condensing in the cooler into pure droplets.
Dissolving the refined mercury in nitric acid and mixing ethanol triggered violent reaction in the flask. White gas bubbled furiously as crystals precipitated—mercury fulminate, or brain red as he'd dubbed it with Serina. Ultra-sensitive to shock, it would ignite the main charge. A time bomb primed by the slightest friction, static, or drop.
He precisely smeared a rice-grain-sized dab of fulminate paste onto the base of a small copper cup Grody had stamped out—the primer.
The cool metal touch and hair-trigger weight set his nerves on edge. Next, he fixed the primer into the base hole of the brass cartridge case. Filled the empty case with the powerful nitrocellulose wad. Finally, the coup de grâce: seated a smoothly machined copper bullet atop the case and crimped it secure with a press.
Moments later, three gleaming brass cartridges lay perfect in his palm. Engineering incarnate, compressing loading and firing into one metal unit, shattering this world's common sense once more.
Rozelin stared at the finger-sized metal lumps, laughing hollowly.
"All that fuss for these?"
"'These'? Branch chief, each packs energy to shred the Empire's vaunted knights' pride in an instant."
Holding them to the light one by one, he continued.
"No fiddly loading, no damp powder worries. Just pull the trigger—straight to the target."
Rozelin's skeptical gaze lingered, but the eerie menace of their sleek curves made her swallow dryly.
"Dunno the magic you worked, but... this must be the 'inescapable fate' you mentioned."
"Exactly. Once chambered and bolted, enemy survival odds converge to zero. Not magic, not miracle—calculated physics."
Pocketing the rounds, he eyed the darkening window. Cold wind blew from the direction of the Count's lands.
"No matter his thrashing, the bullet's already en route to his heart. An inescapable fate, just like this."
Reading the icy certainty in his eyes, Rozelin swallowed again, no quips left. Instead, she glanced at the cartridges.
"...Alright, Lord Kyle. I'll keep betting my company's future on your 'fate.' Need more mercury? Say the word."
He nodded lightly. Prep complete.
"Grody, bring it."
No sooner said, Grody hauled a heavy case from the workshop depths. Inside gleamed a rifle utterly unlike the old M1 muskets—cold, sleek metal sheen.
Rozelin blinked curiously.
"Different from the others? Longer barrel, and that weird handle...?"
She pointed to the steel bolt protruding from the right side.
"Muzzle-loading's obsolete."
He lifted the rifle. Solid weight settled on his shoulder. If prior muskets were crude clubs, this was precision machinery.
Clack, click! Yanking the bolt handle back produced crisp metal rasp as the chamber opened.
"Old muskets are relics now. Could re-rifle 'em, but for these rounds, total redesign."
Sliding a cartridge into the chamber, he shoved the bolt forward. Snap! Metal locked tight, chamber sealed. The bolt lugs clamped perfectly, ready to transmit every ounce of smokeless powder blast to the bullet—no waste.
"This is Eisengrad's new standard issue: the bolt-action rifle."
Aiming the muzzle at the distant dark horizon, he checked the sights.
"No black powder smoke blinding you, no misfires in rain. While foes loose one arrow, we dump five rounds. Every one a inescapable death straight to the enemy."
Rozelin stared in awe bordering terror. She sensed each bolt cycle would tear another page from the Empire's history.
"Let's go, Grody. Time to test your rifling."