The interior of the Alchemist Guild tower had been transformed from a dusty repository of useless scrolls into a jagged, clattering cathedral of industry. The air was a thick, suffocating soup of charcoal smoke, hot grease, and the metallic tang of iron being ground against stone. It was a sensory assault that reminded Staff Sergeant Blake of the motor pools back at Fort Hood, yet the technology surrounding him was separated from his memories by nearly a millennium of human evolution. Outside, the great blizzard of 1214—or whatever year this truly was—screamed against the stone walls, but inside, the heat of the forge kept the men in a state of perpetual, grimy sweat.
At the center of the main hall sat the "Oakhaven Mark I," the first true production model of the seed drill. To a modern eye, it was a primitive collection of oak beams and hand-forged hopper-plates, but in the context of Oakhaven's agricultural stagnation, it was a weapon of mass prosperity. Corporal Miller, his massive frame silhouetted against the orange glow of the furnace, was tightening a leather drive belt with the focus of a surgeon. His hands, scarred and calloused from a lifetime of engineering, moved with a grace that belied his size.
Deacon stood at the edge of the light, his arms crossed over his chest. He was dressed in the heavy, fur-lined mantle of Lord Cassian, but his mind was strictly in NCO mode. He was evaluating a supply chain that didn't exist, a manufacturing process that relied on blacksmiths rather than assembly lines, and a workforce that still believed the "spirit of the iron" needed to be appeased with prayer before it would hold a weld.
"Tell me about the tolerances, Miller," Deacon said, his voice cutting through the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of a nearby lathe.
Miller wiped a layer of soot from his forehead with a rag that was more oil than cloth. "It's a nightmare, Sir. We're working with iron that has the consistency of wet clay in some spots and brittle glass in others. I've had to reject forty percent of the gears Blake's teams are casting. We don't have a standardized measurement system here. A 'hand-span' in the lower town isn't the same as a 'hand-span' in the barracks. I've had to make master templates out of cured oak just to keep the drill-shanks uniform."
"Standardization is the first step toward empire, Miller," Deacon replied, stepping closer to the machine. He reached out and touched the internal hopper. "If the parts aren't interchangeable, we don't have a product. We have a series of unique artifacts. We can't maintain a fleet of unique artifacts."
"I know the drill, Sarge. Literally," Miller grunted, a rare flash of humor touching his stoic face. "I've got three apprentices who can finally read a calliper—or at least the version of a calliper Blake and I hammered out. We're getting there. This unit here? It'll sow ten acres in the time it takes a traditional team to do two. And it'll do it with half the seed waste. Once the spring thaw hits and the neighbors see the sprout-patterns in the Cassian fields, they're going to lose their minds."
Deacon nodded, but his eyes were on the long-term logistical map. "We aren't just selling the increase in yield. We're selling the dependency. Blake, come over here."
Staff Sergeant Blake emerged from the shadows of the upper gallery, his apron singed and his goggles pushed up onto his forehead. He looked exhausted but possessed by the manic energy of a man who had successfully bent physics to his will in a world that preferred magic.
"The 'black-box' components are ready, Sir," Blake reported. He held up a small, intricate brass housing. Inside, a series of counter-rotating gears were etched with strange, nonsensical runes. "This is the timing mechanism for the seed release. It's the heart of the machine. To a local blacksmith, it looks like a complex magical ward. To us, it's just a gear-reduction box. If they try to open it without the specific 'key'—which is actually just a tension-release spring—the internal pins shear off and the whole thing jams."
"Planned obsolescence," Deacon remarked. "Cruel. I like it."
"It's not just about the money, Sarge," Blake said, his tone turning serious. "It's about control. If we let this technology out into the wild without a tether, someone eventually figures it out. But if they have to come back to Oakhaven for 'consecrated repairs' every six months, we have an intelligence network in every barony that buys one. Our repairmen will be our eyes and ears. Every seed drill is a Trojan horse."
Deacon walked a slow circle around the machine. He could hear the blizzard outside, a reminder that they were still isolated, still vulnerable. The "Lily Pad" was growing, but it was a fragile growth. They were introducing industrial capitalism into a feudal system that functioned on blood-oaths and divine right. The friction between those two worlds was going to be hot enough to melt the very iron Miller was forging.
"We need ten units by the time the first trade caravans can move," Deacon ordered. "Brandt is already talking to the Widow about the initial 'demonstration' for the Oryn factors. I want these drills to look like they were pulled from an ancient vault. Clean the wood, polish the brass, and for God's sake, keep the 'Thunder Claps' out of sight. We're selling a miracle of growth today, not a miracle of destruction."
"Understood, Sir," Miller said, picking up a heavy mallet. "But Sarge? The men... the locals. They're starting to call this place the 'Iron Cathedral.' They're afraid of the noise. They think we're summoning something."
Deacon looked up at the high, vaulted ceiling of the tower, where the semaphore levers hung like the limbs of a giant insect. "Let them think we're summoning the future, Miller. It's a lot scarier than a demon, and a lot harder to exorcise."