The Sky Above pt. 4

[Olga Barber]

4th of Ash, 124th Year of the Age of Steel

Neither Gunnery Sergeant Jamison R. Dusseldorf nor Private John Baccas were comfortable. Two men, one only accomplished through mere longevity (gosh, was he old), and the other young and anxious enough that Olga wondered if he’d accomplish anything at all. Neither had managed much, outside of Dusseldorf who only refused to retire and die, and yet Olga found herself dependent on both. It wasn’t any fault of her own. She was enough of an engineer to understand the tank and its designs. She was thought of highly, enough that she could simply decide new instructions for the tanks and have Baccas and his compatriots learn something else entirely.

But that sort of mentality wouldn’t see her rewarded.

No. Her inability to collaborate, to even see a perspective that wasn’t hers and hers alone had cost her greatly during her years of service. Four years wasted. Nothing gained and almost everything lost. Everything had gone so horribly, and even now, she couldn’t make any sense of it.

“Will it hurt?”

“Will what hurt?” Olga wasn’t sure who asked, and she didn’t particularly care who. She rolled out the designs in front of her, as she sat down in the circle marked with her own name. “The process? No. It shouldn’t. You’ve consented.”

“Would it if I hadn’t?”

Olga shrugged. “This isn’t a violent magic,” she said, placing notes of information they’d pulled from Private John Baccas. What she didn’t say was that she wasn’t sure. It was an idea, after all. She could force information out of someone, with better efficacy than any torturer she knew. Not that she knew many. Still, this is what Artifice did. This is how a core developed. This is how a golem came to be.

Yes. She could take their thoughts and make them hers. But Artifice wasn’t a violent magic. It didn’t make sense as a weapon itself. Although, she thought looking at the tank, it certainly could make them.

It was only her, Dusseldorf, and Baccas. All three alone in the stretch of cavern that was her laboratory. Them, and the tank. The massive behemoth of a thing that they’d bring to life, forcibly or not. Olga smiled, enjoying the discomfort of men. This was her place more than it belonged to anyone else. Her lab. Her place of being. And no one could ever take it from her. This place, or this magic.

“Are you both ready?” She asked, very sure she didn’t actually care. She watched as they both nodded, and then with force and direction, she pointed her focus, touching it to the Scrivening diagram. And then, the magic started.

And then, they were in business.

[Olga Barber]

It was a whirlwind of thought. She watched as Dusseldorf managed - barely - to remain standing under the sudden power, magic opening his mind to the tank, a flow of thinking outside himself. Baccas stumbled. There was a part of her that pitied him. He was younger than her, and already she knew his future. There was no potential there, no ambition, and hardly a thought within him to spare to this creation.

And then he surprised her. Despite himself, he remained in the circle before she could cry out a warning, and managed to stand tall again. Perhaps there was something after all to him. Not magic, not thought, not whatever she prided herself on - but he was loyal and determined, which surely counted for something in the end.

“Remain still, Private,” she called out, her voice caught in the flow of magic, echoing around from all sides. “Listen. That is all that I need from you at this moment,” she said, and to his credit, Baccas did exactly that. This was good. A third pair of ears, besides hers and the tank’s, to listen as Dusseldorf played his part. Additional reinforcement, besides what she’d added to the circle. “Gunnery Sergeant? I have the designs open. You may begin.”

“Ah - right. Well,” and the old man coughed once or twice as he tried to break the note of apprehension in his voice. “- these things. Tanks, they call them. Sturdy. Excellent against those who might defend behind fortress or magic alike, as the bullets are often the size of dogs and able to be magicked with all sorts of effects. This is -.”

And on he went. Droning on and on about the reasons for the tank’s creation. Matters of warfare to keep to its heart. It shot, yes, but also crushed through and upon. Olga referenced the materials she’d been given as part of the process. Scrolls of designs, drafts and finalized versions, and as she read and listened, she - and the magic - sorted what was needed, versus what could be discarded. This is what she did. The glyphs and pictographs helped her sort, of course, holding the onslaught of memories, thoughts, and more, catching the least of the most direct - the ‘ums, ohs’, and hesitance. A tank wasn’t to need such things, it only needed to act. It needed to know only that which made it, its designs, the limitations, and all of what it could do. Which, mainly, was to destroy. Once upon a time Olga had hoped to do more than make weapons, and perhaps later she would, but what the Gelerian Imperium needed most of all was might - and that, Olga could deliver.

Once she felt the designs were incorporated enough, she began to ask her own questions and give specific instructions. Things Dusseldorf hadn’t yet answered, but would of course be required.

“What is the tank made of?”

“What are specific known threats to the tank? As descriptive as possible, Gunnery Sergeant Dusseldorf.”

“How quickly can it go, before risking its own capacity?”

“How many individuals can the tank hold inside its center?”

“How is it targeted? Can the tank do so on its own, or by command only?”

“Describe the uniforms of the Gelerian Imperium military.”

“Describe the sorts of machines Gelerian Imperium uses in warcraft.”

And so on, for hours. Artifice wasn’t a slow magic, but everyone understood that - and Olga had the capacity to sit and think for hours as the magic began to blur everything else. She had the mind to sit above it, to consider every potential solution and thing needed for the tank - and its replicas, to move and do what needed to be done. Ideally, even with a driver as incompetent as Private John Baccas, the tank should be able to move as it was. And, should this be successful - as she hoped it would be - then she would then receive all the more standing from the Academy and its government funders.

This, she remembered, as she filtered through Gunnery Sergeant Jamison R. Dusseldorf’s answers, his every reaction, as she pulled out his information and knowledge, was her purpose and talent. Carefully, Olga layered and matched what was needed to the Core, and to each of the Core’s twins. She weaved in the tank’s designs and flaws and perfections, and so would the tank have a better understanding of its own body than any of the races that lived on this world. It would understand, instinctually, what could harm it and what it couldn’t, and what it could destroy and what might withstand it. She layered in loyalty to the Gelerium Imperium, to its might and military, and to its drivers.

It would take them the better part of the day - but as breaks were needed, or requested, Olga halted the magic. She froze the flow in its place. They broke for a small and quiet lunch. Dusseldorf with relief his time was over, and Private Baccas with all the anxiety knowing his time had come.

[Olga Barber]

This time, Private John Baccas wasn’t so quiet. Something had changed in the man - where before he seemed to hold himself in, to make himself smaller in her laboratory, he didn’t seem to do so as much now. A strange sort of curiosity bloomed in him.

“And these are all glyphs.”

“Yes,” she said, watching him as he walked around the ritual circles. He stopped here and there to admire the Scrivening.

“They -,” and his face scrunched up with thought as he considered his words. “- do what?”

She almost laughed. But he seemed sincere in his interest. “There -,” and she pointed where he stood, “- they mark out your name. Your title. That which you do, and will do for this process. There, I’ve indicated your thoughts and memories, at least the expression of. And there -,” she pointed further down the circles, closer to the tank. “- they act as a funnel. I’ll sort through all that you give me, to better form the Core. We’re teaching the tank how to be. I’ve told you that already, Private Baccas.”

He nodded. “Will it be alive?”

“In a sense.”

“Not like us.”

“No,” she said. “Not like us.”

“Have you ever made something like us?”

“No,” she said, after some thought. It had been a dream once upon a time. Olga supposed it still was, should she ever find the resources. “But maybe one day. Are you ready to begin, Private Baccas?”

“Yes.”