After inspecting the projects, he would retreat to the newly built town hall, where he immersed himself in sketches of new weapons. The office was bathed in the soft, constant light of light-gems, an expensive luxury but an achievable one; the true rarity was an adept capable of energizing them—lucky for them they had Quixotina.
In the last battle, the flintlock weapons weren't as decisive as the grenades, Carlos reflected, his pen gliding over the paper. But that was because the fight was in a dense forest... and the settlement is surrounded by that very same dense woodland. With the steam engines, I could industrialize musket production and equip the entire army quickly. But would all that effort be worth it? Is it just a futile effort?
He flipped through the heavy "Guns and History," and its pages revealed the future: diagrams of repeating rifles, lever-action rifles, and robust revolvers. A smile of anticipation spread across his face.
Cannons... those giants will only be possible when the Bessemer converter is spitting out quality steel ingots in quantity. That's a chapter for later, he pondered, drawing a circle around the heavy artillery designs. No, the next logical step, the real leap, are repeating weapons. Rifles, repeaters, revolvers... these will be the game-changers.
However, his enthusiasm was quickly tempered by the practical reality unfolding in his mind. He visualized not the finished weapons, but the tortuous path to manufacturing them.
But this will be a Herculean task. The beauty and the curse of these weapons lie in their precision. They aren't pieces forged by a blacksmith on an anvil; they are complex mechanisms. We need millimeter tolerances, interchangeable parts. And for that... for that, I first need the machines that make the machines.
He grabbed a blank sheet and started writing, creating a physical mental list:
- Steam-Powered Lathes: The heart of everything. For turning, threading, making tapers. They would be essential for machining the barrel, the cylinder, and countless other parts, turning raw metal bars into symmetrical, precise components.
- Steam-Powered Milling Machines: For precise cuts, grooves, gears, and surface planing. They would shape the bolt, the receiver, creating the perfect fittings where the tolerance between parts would be measured in hairs' breadths.
- Steam-Powered Planers: For flattening and smoothing large surfaces with an impossible-to-achieve-by-hand precision, like the base of a rifle's receiver, ensuring all parts fit together perfectly.
Carlos sighed, looking at the list. The truth was crystal clear and overwhelming.
After all, I can't have Nia doing absolutely everything by herself; it would be unfeasible and criminal. She's a genius, not a slave. Therefore, the strategy is clear: it's better for her to focus her unparalleled ability on building these machine tools first. Once we have steam-powered lathes, milling machines, and planers, we can set up a production line. Only then will the industrial fabrication of these weapons cease to be my dream and become a reality for the quilombo.
"Besides, there's another issue with making these weapons." Sighing, Carlos listed the necessary steps on a new paper:
Start with Sulfur and Sodium Nitrate. (I have the sulfur.)
Use them to manufacture Sulfuric Acid and Nitric Acid.
Use the acids to nitrate Cellulose (Smokeless Powder) and dissolve Mercury (Percussion Caps).
Use the Powder and Caps to load the Brass Cartridges.
Use the Cartridges to feed the Repeating Rifles.
"This is going to be a challenge for me," he murmured, rubbing his eyes. "Chemistry was never my strong suit. If only we had an alchemist around here who knew the basics... But in a colony like this, I doubt there's a scholar on the subject. I'll have to manage on my own. Good thing I got those chemistry books from the mill."
After hours of study, a disturbing thought took his breath away. He analyzed the pile of projects and noticed an alarming pattern.
"This... everything depends on Nia," he thought, his conscience weighing heavily. "Everything, from flour to paper, from weapons to steel, depends on her and her ability to produce increasingly complex machines. As much as she loves what she does, I'm already starting to abuse her goodwill. It's not fair. After she finishes the machines for the priority industries, I need her to build machines to manufacture... other steam engines. That would take a huge weight off her shoulders."
He sighed deeply. This decision meant more sleepless nights, more studies, and more scheming. And that's exactly what he did, becoming, as usual, the last to leave the town hall, even during the holidays he himself had decreed, like Christmas. Although not everyone in the settlement was Christian, the majority were, and with ties to the church strengthening, Carlos judged the celebration politically and socially wise. In the end, regardless of belief, everyone appreciated an excuse for a day of family rest, the smell of special foods filling the air and the sounds of animated conversation echoing through the streets.
Amidst all the work, the end of the year approached. And, in the little free time he had, Carlos decided to dedicate his attention to a small personal project.
It didn't take long, and an official announcement spread through the settlement: on New Year's Eve, there would be a grand festival, and everyone would have the following Monday off. The excitement was universal—who would refuse a day of rest?
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Furthermore, Carlos promised everyone a big surprise during the celebrations.
Quixotina, Nia, Tassi, and even the normally serious Pedro were dying of curiosity.
"By the gods, Carlos, what are you up to?" asked Quixotina, leaning against his office door. "A secret this well-guarded can only be something very good, or very, very dangerous."
"A bit of both, perhaps," he replied with a mysterious air. "But it's a surprise. You'll have to wait and see."
Nothing they said could pry the information from him. Some residents reported seeing him, accompanied by guards, disappearing into the forest with sacks of gunpowder, further fueling the mystery.
Finally, the day of the festival arrived. The celebration spread out, occupying part of the festivities hall and extending to the outdoor area. The night was long and vibrant. The sound of guitars and singing filled the air, competing with the laughter and the contagious rhythm of the drumming. Different dances flourished: capoeira, with its agile and acrobatic movements; the dance of the orixás, full of meaning and energy; and the batuque, pure, contagious joy. The smell of roasted meat and boiled corn emanated from the bonfires, creating an atmosphere of genuine festivity.
At the height of the excitement, Quixotina, wearing a stunning red that made her ruby-colored eyes shine even brighter, approached Carlos and firmly took his arm.
"And so, my dear chief," she said in a comical, gallant tone, "would you grant me the honor of a dance?"
Carlos, who was finishing a juicy piece of roasted meat, almost choked in surprise, visibly flustered.
"Hold on," he stammered, wiping his hands, "isn't it the man who's supposed to ask the woman to dance?"
Quixotina let out a crystalline laugh.
"Oh, please! Last time, you had me running around carrying a heavy machine like a pack mule. Besides, haven't you noticed? I'm not one for following protocols much. I like dresses and sweets, yes, like many women, but I also love fighting, competing, weapons, and armor. And, to be honest..." she made a dramatic pause, looking around, "...there isn't a man here brave enough to ask me. So, if the mountain won't come to Muhammad... Some even blush if I just start a conversation."
Carlos got the message. With a resigned smile, he took her hands and, awkwardly, let himself be led by her to the contagious sound of the batuques and guitars.
On the other side of the hall, Tassi, who normally maintained an impenetrable facade, was enjoying herself in the capoeira circle, a practice she had loved since her days at the mill. She always claimed it was just martial training, but the truth was the dance's choreography captivated her deeply. After tiring herself out, she left the circle, her body sweaty and heart racing, and went in search of something to drink.
What would my old comrades from the army say if they saw me now? she thought, raising the cup to her lips. They'd probably kill me for heresy and debauchery.
She took a sip of the caipirinha, Carlos's new invention, and reluctantly admitted she liked the drink very much.
I always denied myself so many things... And now, I think I can let loose a little. After all, what's the point of fighting for something if, in the end, I can't enjoy what I'm fighting for?
Despite her newfound freedom, the old need to justify herself still haunted her. As she rested, she watched the scene with a slight smile: Carlos dancing awkwardly with Quixotina; Nia, all smiles, clinging to her husbands. It was then that a voice pulled her from her thoughts.
"Rare to see you smiling like that, Tassi."
She turned and saw Pedro, his blue eyes reflecting the bonfire light.
"Lately, people keep telling me that," she replied, the smile not completely fading. "I guess it's becoming less rare. And I don't think that's a bad thing."
"I fully agree. And I'll say more: you made the right choice to stay and help Carlos. Honestly? I'm tired of the army routine, just training and more training. At least the Specter is more lenient with me, because of my closeness to him. I can enjoy nights like this."
"I really was very lucky," Tassi thought again. Unable to maintain frivolous conversation for long, she fell into a contemplative silence, until Pedro broke the mood again, his voice more serious.
"You know... I'm sorry. For everything."
Surprised, she stared into his blue eyes, and the slight smile disappeared from her face.
"I wish I could tell you that I hate you for everything you did," she said, her voice low but firm. "But the truth is, you only changed, you only sided with Jorge... after Zézinho was born. And, as much as I want to, I can't hate you for choosing your son. If it were the old Tassi, the real one, she probably would have tried to kill you in some dark moment by now."
Tassi's voice grew colder. "However, Pedro, just do one thing for me. Instead of begging for forgiveness from everyone who came from the mill, just show it with your actions. Today, I'm really happy, I'm having fun, and I don't want you reminding me of the 'wonderful' times we had together at the mill."
Pedro opened his mouth to respond, but the words died on his lips.
Carlos had stopped dancing and climbed onto a bench, calling for everyone's attention.
"People of the settlement!" his voice echoed, firm and clear, over the hubbub. "We are closing a year of struggles, of conquests, and of very hard work. Look where we are! We emerged from the shadow of the sugar mill and are building our own future, with our hands, with our sweat. Soon, masonry will replace thatch, industry will give us strength, and education, which begins with our new school, will give wisdom to our children. The year that begins will be the year we cease to be merely survivors. We will be builders! We will be a strong community, respected, and above all, free! Our enemies think we are a heap of desperate people. Soon, they will see that we are a forge, and we will make our anvil from them!"
He paused, looking at each face illuminated by the light gems.
"And, with that said, I have a little spectacle for all of you! Follow me outside!"
The group, now electrified, began to flow out of the hall, with Carlos leading the way through the crowd to a previously prepared and isolated area.
"Step back a bit, for safety," he instructed, "...and... well, look at the sky!"
Carlos then crouched and, with a fuse, lit a series of fireworks planted in the ground. With a sharp whistle, the first projectiles shot into the sky. A silence of expectation fell over the crowd, until—CRACK!—an explosion of green and gold light illuminated the night, followed by a volley of "oohs" and "aahs" of admiration. More fireworks followed, painting the dark sky with red, blue, and silver shooting stars, each explosion echoing like festive thunder and filling the air with the unmistakable smell of smoke and gunpowder.
Tassi, whose spirits had been shaken by the conversation with Pedro, felt her heart rejoice again at the celestial spectacle. Her eyes, like everyone else's, were fixed on the ephemeral and wonderful lights streaking across the firmament, a promise of hope for the year to come.