И • п о й д е т
п о й д е т
н а • с л а в у
п о й д е т
н а • с л а в у
Frost 89, 121 Age of Steel
Nearly two whole seasons of time and effort had gone into the great project, an entire semester flashing by in the blink of an eye, but at last it was time. It was a bitterly cold day, and as Anton and the other students trudged through the snow to the firing range he was grateful beyond words for the heavy woolen coat that all but concealed his frail frame. As part of the standing cooperation between Eastpoint and the College of Sciences, this yearly exercise was always held at Fort Cathevelle. Partly for safety, it would not do to fire cannonballs on the Institute's grounds after all, and partly for convenience - almost all of the students and cadets would be returning to warm homes on the West End as soon as the trials had concluded.
Examining the artillery that had been prepared for the class to showcase their best efforts at creating a shardless gun charge, all pointed west towards the above and beyond the fort's walls into the great vastness of the Zaichaeri hinterland, Anton was forced to stifle a laugh. For once, he saw something that others did too, the military cadets reacting either in much the same way as the lordling or with a more professional disappointment. The arrayed cannons were some of the worst in the service, ones that any merciful officer would have ordered melted down for scrap. Such castoffs were of little use to the Army, their barrels cracked or burst and repaired just enough to not be of more danger to their crews than to the enemy.
Destined for retirement, someone had decided that if the students were going to blow any cannons up, they had best do it with the garbage. As if to prove to the assembled that theirs was not a totally forlorn effort, each doomed battery had their crew at the ready, and as the milling crowd settled down they went to work. Powder and shot was loaded, and the cry went out from a colonel to fire. A tremendous wall of fire and flame erupted, and the sword toting officer turned to address the class's professor.
"The cannons have proven to be in good and working order. Do you have any complaints, professor?" he asked politely, but in a voice that clearly said get on with it.
"Of course not, of course not. A splendid display as always sir, simply splendid," the elderly chemist said, his face completely engulfed by his coat and scarf and hat. Clasping two mitten clad hands together, he did his best to raise his voice and attract the attention of his students. "The Defense Corps has once again been very gracious to us, so please do be mindful of where we are everyone," he cried out to the academics who had entered the Fort. Dressed however they pleased, academic dress codes did not concern itself with winter wear for some reason, they cut a stark contrast to the identical mass of cadets in their greatcoats and shakos. "With that said, let's not waste any time. Cadet Aber, start us off would you please?"
And so they began, going down the class roster alphabetically, Anton breathed a sigh of relief for the random chance of his birth. Sitting comfortably in the middle, M would avoid the intense scrutiny of the first volleys as well as the intense desire to go home that would infect the air when poor Zumwalt fired his shot. As Cadet Aber manned the cannon, handing off the charge he had concocted to the artillery crew to load, he gave a perfunctory explanation of his approach that was entirely lost as the wind picked up anew and a fresh flurry of snow began to fall from the sky. No one complained when he didn't bother to repeat himself for their benefit - only the professor really cared, and he had their writeups to consult anyway.
The professor himself had retired to a viewing pavilion with the colonel of artillery and his officers, warmed by a comfortable brazier blazing away behind them. "Yes yes, thank you Aber. You may fire when ready!" the professor called out while fiddling with papers and stylus, ready to record the results of each shot.
Cries of triumph, and a very heartfelt sigh of relief, sounded when the crew touched off the fuse and the entire cannon didn't explode when it let out its resounding boom. High and hollow compared to a caster shell shot, it nonetheless seemed to do the job, the cannon ball propelled a good yard from where it had started. Useless, for warfare, but a perfect mark by the standards of an undergraduate chemistry course. "Well done Cadet, well done," the professor called out as the cadet fell back into line, the gun crew clearing the barrel of the residue of his shot. "Next!"
On and on they went, though interest had dissipated almost immediately with the first test being an unqualified success. Money changed hands among both students and soldiers in light of the triumph, even the colonel ruefully handing over a gold aven to his executive officer. Anton had avoided the betting himself, but it had infected the entire class as soon as Frost began, everyone seeming to wonder how long it would be for the first pass. Of course, that wasn't the only wager hanging in the air. What monetary stakes remained were of a more macabre nature, for the second most popular gamble was guessing when the first disaster occurred. Rumors swirled every year that a student a term prior had been killed when his cannon burst, but as far as Anton could tell those were just rumors. Still, it didn't stop the wondering.
Intended as an entertaining capstone to an otherwise rather boring course, the grading criteria was rather loose. Successfully clearing the barrel was a perfect mark, while causing any form of explosion was considered a pass. The great gulf in between those two extremes were graded as more of an art than by any exact rubric, the impressiveness of the hazard holding great weight. As such, even a complete barrel burst was not calamity. Instead true failure, barring out and out cheating at the least, occurred if nothing happened. The goal, after all, was combustion, and creating a compound which remained inert in the cannon's barrel could be accomplished by just throwing in wads of paper.
Very few students did so horrendously however, as it took an almost willful lack of attention to achieve. Part of the course covered common explosive materials, and the laziest students simply prepared one that they had been given the formula for and then got on with their lives. Even those who had aspired higher but failed could simply replace their frustrated effort at the last moment with a known quantity. In Anton's class, only one student seemed primed to such an ignominious fate, a timid boy who looked at the falling snow with horror.
When he stood forward for his turn at the cannon, he seemed nervous beyond belief, and through bits of his explanation and his quite obvious nervousness the entire class heard one thing quite clearly. "-I'm afraid that when wet my powder does... not perform adequately, but I think the container I had for it kept it safe from the elements." Powders were a common choice after all, many knew the horrors of grain silo explosions, but luck and weather was against the poor student, as they were notorious for clumping together under even small amounts of moisture. Such a temperamental material could never really be considered fit for war. The cosmos took pity on the poor student in the end, as the belching cannon delivered enough force for the ball to gently roll out the mouth of the barrel. He seemed disappointed at the performance, but a perfect grade was a perfect grade.
At last it was Anton's turn, and as he trudged his way through the snow to hand off the canister he breathed a sigh of relief at half a year's tension being lifted off of his shoulders. It was, quite literally, out of his hands now. He had created a gel, derived principally from ammonium nitrate with a starter to prime the fertilizer-derived chemical to actually explode. It had worked well enough with Vanessa's cannons, but he had noted in his report that the compound was... vigorous. The experienced artillerymen took little chances on days like this, and used a long fuse as a matter of course, giving themselves time to dive for cover just in case.
It was a wise decision in this case.
The weakened barrel had burst in Zaichaer's service once before, and a copper weld had patched it to put it back into the field as quickly as possible. That weakness proved incapable of enduring the forces that Anton asked of it, and the propellant soon realized its true potential as a bomb. Metal sheared in half as the ball roared down range, the first time that day any of them had managed to have their projectile clear the fort's outer wall. Unfortunately, it was joined in its flight by the cannon itself, the upper half soaring into the sky while the lower dug a deep furrow into the earth.
"Mr. Michaelis!" the professor shouted, standing from his chair with an amused face very barely covered by outrage. All around him, students and soldiers exchanged money again, the colonel arching a brow at Anton as he was now handed an aven by his subordinate. "One hundred points for clearing the barrel. Minus fifteen points for destroying the barrel."
"Thank you, professor!" Anton shouted back, amazed as those around him didn't mock him for the failure, but instead cheered just as loudly as they had for Aber. Laughter filled the firing range, and as he took his way back in the line he was nearly bowled over by an unexpected pat on the back.
Before he could settle in, a junior officer left the pavilion, rushing to his side. "Mr. Michaelis," the man whispered, "the colonel would like for you to know that your father did much the same when he attended Eastpoint." The lieutenant left as soon as he had arrived, leaving Anton to do nothing but let out a laugh of his own as the professor tried to contain the crowd.
"Yes yes, very exciting. Now, next!"