<h3 style="text-align: center">Tom


    A few weeks into working at the Army Engineering Labs, I was walking out of the front doors at five in the afternoon with my nose in a book as usual. There was a lot to learn about electric mills, and I was determined to learn it all. Many of the most relevant texts were in Crisaynish, with Crisaynish being the language both of the Crisayni Empire far to the west and the Kaichurans to the east across the Sunrim.


    My Crisaynish was far too poor to allow me to understand the material, but thankfully there were a couple of men in the lab front office who were willing to translate relevant passages. I would go through the books at night, using the included diagrams to determine what was of interest. Then I would mark a section in pencil and pass it off to the translators when I arrived in the morning. At the end of the day, leaving the office, I would take the books back with included handwritten translations.


    I stepped down the few concrete stairs to the front garden. Most of the men from the lab were hurrying to catch a departing cable car, but I consciously decided to let it go. There would be another one in ten minutes'' time, and I was in no hurry. I actually preferred the cool of the front gardens to the cramped accommodations of the lodge where I now lived.


    I had a touch of black grease on my white shirt, which I took as a mark of pride. There was a roll of blueprints under my arm. I walked with my nose down, eyes scanning the translated note on state-of-the-art mill configurations.


    As I reached the curb, a black motorcar pulled up in front of me so suddenly that I almost walked into it. It came to a halt as if to deliberately block my way, and I stopped short. Then I saw the back passenger window of the car roll down. Inside was my superior, Major Summiter, dressed in uniform and wearing his cap.


    I shut the book, sliding the translated page out just a little to keep my place.


    "Tom," said the Major.


    "Major," I said back with a nod. Not officially being Army, I was not instructed to salute.


    "How are the electric mills?" Summiter asked.


    "Unwieldy, sir," I said, "but getting more compact every day. I''ve actually been learning a lot about the practical applications. From what I''ve been reading from Kaichura, the biggest advantage of a full electric conversion is actually the modularity of the machine shop setup, the fact that you can arrange more efficient factory patterns that don''t have to revolve around the placement of the central drive belt. It’s—”


    Major Summiter put up a hand to stop me, chuckling at my passion.


    "I was expecting an answer like, ''It''s going well,''" he said. "I''m happy to hear the specifics when I''m in the office, ideally in the form of a written report."


    "Of course. Sorry, sir," I said with a smile. "I suppose I got carried away. Yes, it''s going well."


    "Can the work survive until tonight without you?" Summiter asked.


    I hesitated. I wasn''t sure what line of inquiry would follow. "It can, sir," I said.


    Summiter slid aside to leave an open space on the back bench of his luxury motorcar. "Get in," he said, motioning for me to open the door. "This''ll be an education for you."


    I opened the door, which swung smoothly on an oiled hinge, and got in. The high-end upholstery of the cab muffled the noise of the street outside as I shut the door again. The car began to move, and Major Summiter leaned forward to speak to the military driver.


    "To Paxlight Field," he told the young man.


    I was surprised to hear this. "Are we going to be flying?" I asked him.


    "They''re flying. We''re watching," said Summiter. "Tri-Gem Aviation wants to show off some new planes. They''re coming over from Archcove to court us for a military contract."


    I suddenly felt underdressed. "We''re being courted and I''m showing up with bearing grease on my shirt?" I asked, looking down at the black stain just above my waistband.


    "We can get you a change," said the major. He was in a good mood. "Where do you live?"


    "At the Guildson Men''s Lodge," I told him. "I rent a quarter room."


    "Bunking with a load of potmakers?" asked Summiter.


    I was surprised to hear him remark on the Guild Lodge with disdain, but I supposed that it must have sounded rather provincial compared to being a big-time Army officer. "Pax isn''t cheap," I said, to explain the choice of lodging.


    Summiter shook his head. "Well, that''s too far the wrong way. What''s your Western shirt size?"


    "Fourteen-inch neck, thirty-two sleeve."


    Summiter leaned forward again. "Driver, stop at the plaza up there and buy him a shirt and sweater. Did you get those numbers?"


    "Yes, Major," said the driver, with attentiveness.


    I looked out past my boss and saw a mess of black cars filling the street, so many that they were in each other''s way. I had never seen a jam like that before. "I didn''t know there were this many motorcars in the whole country till I moved to Pax," I remarked.


    Summiter nodded. "The future of man is the motor. In a factory, a train, we can use coal power, but every car, plane, and tank needs oil, and Paxana is starving for it."


    I understood the scope of the problem. We were coal-rich and oil-poor, and the latter was hurting us daily. "I''ve heard of efforts to try and liquify coal as a petroleum substitute," I offered.


    "In the Almenreich, yes," said Summiter, referring to that great and verdant land far to the west. "There are two men working on the method. We''ve sent liaisons to learn what they can from each of them."


    I scoffed. "Gosh. It seems like every time there''s a new frontier for industry, it''s the Almenreichers getting there first."


    The car inched forward, and as we sat in the traffic, Summiter opined on his view of the world''s affairs. "They''re the most hardened of the hard-born peoples," he said of the Almenreich, "and the most like us. The Kaichurans are the most advanced in the world, yes, but they''re easy-born. Their god gave them a land of corn and riches. The Kaichurans have no need for synthetic petroleum. They have oil flowing underground, up to their necks. Any problem, they can solve with money. But we must struggle, and in that struggle perfect our warrior heart, and with that heart we will win."


    "Against whom?" I asked him.


    "Everyone," said Summiter, "in the race to master the physical world."


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    Summiter''s driver managed to maneuver the car through the traffic and over to the market square. He shifted it into park, but kept it running, and got out to buy me new clothes per Summiter''s request. With the two of us alone, I took the opportunity to voice something I''d been thinking for a while.


    "I''ve been thinking it might be good to open an Army Labs office in Archcove."


    Summiter grunted. "You''re wading into a years-long argument with that one."


    I suppose I could have expected this to have already been proposed. Still, I made my case. "Pax just isn''t the center of industry anymore. The government''s in Archcove. The major shipyards. Even Tri-Gem. I mean, they''re only flying out here to Pax because they want the contract."


    Major Summiter considered his response. "Being far from Cabinet Hall might not be the disadvantage you think."


    I scowled, trying to take in his meaning. "You''re saying Cabinet would meddle with Army projects if we were close at hand?"


    "I''m saying everyone has an opinion," said Summiter, "sometimes it''s better to let us work in peace."


    The driver returned with the clothes, which fit me well, and we made good time once we left downtown driving over to the overcast airfield. Lacking a coat, I put my hands in my pockets and shivered as I walked with the major to join a dozen other Army and Navy personnel. They were all men, mostly in uniform, ranging in age from their twenties to their fifties. I didn’t recognize a one, but I knew by the shine of their medals and their proud dispositions that they must have been somewhat important.


    On the side of the airfield, parked on asphalt, I noticed two familiar varieties of plane. The first was the gray-painted A-10 Honeybee, a biplane fighter in service for nearly a decade. The second was the A-3 Chickenhawk, a biplane bomber. They were variants of Western designs, but entirely domestically produced. This was a massive point of pride for the nation, and for myself as well.


    Standing with Major Summiter, I introduced myself politely when called to, and otherwise kept quiet. This was not a domain in which I was comfortable enough to be chatty or make comments out of turn. Before long, with all of us clustered on the tarmac, our attention was drawn by sound to a handsome white triplane overhead. It neared, did a soaring backflip above us, and swung down with grace over the grassy fields of Eastwall.


    As the buzz of the triplane prototype faded, I heard a man huff with amusement. He was older than most of us there—mid-fifties, I guessed—with a kind, pale, round sort of face and a large gray mustache in the middle. I could see from the olive and gold of his uniform he was an Army Corps general.


    He leaned in to speak to me. "It’s a good try."


    "Not impressed, General?" I asked him, watching the triplane. I felt proud of myself for identifying his rank simply through his shoulder-stitched insignia.


    Shortly after I said it, we heard a tire screech, and the prototype slowed to a stop on the runway ahead. On cue, a pencil-mustached aircraft executive in a pinstripe suit approached Major Summiter. This man I knew through the Clearwaters. He was Edgar Lowton from Tri-Gem, and he had come to make a sale.


    With a showman-like flair, he halted a stopwatch in his hand. "It can take off from a short-style carrier deck, too," he said of his prototype, speaking directly to my boss but keeping his voice loud enough that the whole gang of officers could hear.


    Major Summiter, scowled and crossed his arms. "Edgar," he said, having clearly also met Lowton before. "Everyone I talk to in the field says the future is monoplanes, and here you and Tri-Gem are going up from two wings to three."


    "It’s by far the best for dogfight maneuvering of the options we tested," said Lowton, perhaps a touch defensive in his response.


    Brushing past me, the large-mustached General Dell stepped in. "And what about top speed and climb?" he asked.


    Now Edgar Lowton was dealing with both Dell and Summiter at once. "Our design spec assumes an environment where our fighter is already up and positioned at air-to-air altitude for offensive action," said the man from Tri-Gem.


    "You sound like a politician," said Dell, surprisingly blunt. "Your answers do not inspire confidence, Mr. Lowton."


    The pinstriped man smiled with nerves. "Respectfully, General Dell, the speed-first doctrine of the cavalry might not exactly translate to modern warfare."


    From the looks on the faces of Summiter and Dell, I knew Lowton had misstepped. Summiter stuck a finger toward Edgar Lowton in anger. "The General knows more about warfare than you could ever hope to," said my superior. "When he has concerns, you listen."


    "I meant no disrespect," said Lowton, now stuttering. He now had the disadvantage of a large crowd watching his faltering performance.


    Summiter shook his head. "It’s a no. It’s going to be a no."


    "Herman—" Lowton protested.


    "Isleman already pitched us a monoplane fighter, and we turned that down too, so you’ve got a high bar to beat."


    "Herman—"


    "Don’t interrupt me," Summiter snapped. "Every gildnote we spend on air-to-air is a gildnote we don’t have for desperately needed infantry arms. Now, if I put one of my pilots up in an A-10 Honeybee against your triplane and run them both right now on a straight race out to the port and back, plus maneuvers, are you honestly telling me you would beat the Bee by the twenty-percent benchmark we require?"


    Edgar Lowton gritted his teeth. I could see in his eyes that he now knew he was defeated. "Not with the port race, no," he said.


    Major Summiter seemed to appreciate his honesty, and nodded in an effort to cool things down. General Dell showed a mote of compassion. "It was a good showing, Mr. Lowton," said the grayed cavalry general, smiling and patting the aircraft representative’s padded shoulder. "I’ve always believed in Tri-Gem. Don’t let this get you down. My door’s always open. I’ll be rooting for you."


    Edgar Lowton bowed with respect. "Thank you, General. Major. It’s an honor to have the opportunity."


    In this show of decorum, tensions were lowered, and Lowton walked off to debrief with his junior engineers. With the industry men gone, I took the chance to tell Summiter what I had been thinking since I first saw the pencil-mustached man.


    "I know him," I said to my boss.


    "Oh?" said Summiter, surprised that Lowton and I might have a connection.


    I nodded. "He’s friends with Jack Clearwater Sr., who’s on the Paxcorp board. I grew up with Jack’s son, Jack Jr."


    General Dell, who was still nearby, joined our conversation. "All the consortium men know each other," he said with a rich, husky voice. "And all their wives know each other, too. I, for one, think it’s good to have the voice of commerce in the Army’s ear. Their greed makes them warn us away from wasteful fights. They want Paxana rich."


    Summiter was still thinking over what I’d said. "I didn’t realize you were so connected, Trussford," he mused.


    "I wouldn’t say connected," I said with humility.


    The older general cleared his throat. "As much as I’d love to chat, Herman," Dell said to Summiter, "the regiment calls. Good to meet you, Tom. My hopes are high for you."


    "Good to meet you as well," I said with a bow.


    "Be seeing you, Zadoch," said Summiter, teaching me Dell’s first name in the process.


    Dell smiled warmly and got into the back of his own private car. I watched it as it began to drive at a low speed down the airfield tarmac. "You can call a general by his first name, Major?" I asked, unclear of the levels of formality required between the upper ranks of the brass.


    "All the Army men know each other," Summiter shrugged. "All their wives know each other…"


    Then a second later, there was a ghastly and roaring explosion. I looked over in its direction and saw the hood from General Dell’s black car flying straight up into the air. A huge fireball lit up the gray horizon, engulfing the vehicle. Smoke billowed and people were shouting, and in that instant I couldn’t believe my eyes.


    Then action took hold of me and I began sprinting for the car. I arrived about the same time as a couple of other military men, leaving Summiter behind. I could see that the explosion had been centered under the dash, and that the driver was dead, his head blown open in two places. The image seared into my mind—the blood and the flesh half-blackened where a living man had just been. It was my first time seeing anything like that. I’ll never forget the sight and smell.


    "General!" I shouted, looking in the back seat and seeing the limp form of Dell amid the overwhelming smoke.


    "Someone call for an ambulance," one of the Army men behind me said to another.


    I heard the flames and saw the orange roar engulfing the upholstery of the front seats. "This fire’s spreading," I said over the noise. "We need to pull him out. General Dell, can you hear me?"


    "Yes. Yes," said the general, croaking.


    With the help of another man, I grabbed the mangled back door and pried it off. My hands bled from the twisted edges as I gripped it, but I didn’t care. Then, putting the door aside, we reached in and grabbed General Dell.


    With a grunt and a cough, we pulled him out of the roaring flames and smoke onto the tarmac. One of his legs, except for a few gory strings, did not come with him. I stared at the wound and his grimacing face, and for the first time I really understood that our nation had foes without mercy.