Day 160. The Underground Workshop.
The air in the secret chamber beneath the city foundation was thick enough to chew. It tasted of sulfur, wet stone, and the overpowering, nauseating stench of burning animal fat.
Rian stood before the workbench, his face streaked with soot. He wasn't looking at a sleek machine from a sci-fi movie. He was looking at a monster.
The Mark I Steam Engine sat on a reinforced stone block. It was ugly.
The cylinder was made of cast iron, heavy and pitted. The flywheel was a repurposed wagon wheel reinforced with steel bands. The pipes were hand-hammered copper, bent at odd angles and sealed with hemp rope soaked in tallow.
"Pressure gauge?" Rian asked, his voice tight.
Beside him, Kaelen, the young clockmaker refugee, squinted at a small brass dial he had spent two weeks crafting.
"Needle is steady, My Lord. The boiler is singing."
"It's not singing, it's screaming," Grom grumbled from the corner, holding a bucket of water. "That iron pot is going to blow us all to the netherworld."
"It holds," Rian said, though he wiped a bead of sweat from his temple. "We used the new rivets. Open the intake valve. Slowly. Quarter turn."
Kaelen's hand trembled as he reached for the iron wheel.
He turned it.
Hiss.
A jet of white steam escaped from a loose flange, scalding the air.
"Tighten that bolt!" Rian barked.
Grom stepped forward, wrenching the nut with his massive strength until the hissing stopped.
Inside the cylinder, the pressure built.
Clank.
The piston rod moved an inch.
Clank.
It moved back.
"It's moving..." Kaelen whispered, his eyes wide. To him, this was sorcery. Metal moving without a horse? Without a river?
"More steam," Rian commanded. "Half turn."
Kaelen turned the valve.
The engine shuddered. The flywheel began to rotate.
Chug... Chug... Chug...
It was slow. It was loud. It leaked water and grease everywhere. But it was running.
Rian watched the piston slide back and forth. He listened to the rhythm.
This was it. The heartbeat of the Industrial Revolution.
"Grease!" Rian shouted over the noise. "Keep the piston wet!"
Kaelen grabbed a ladle from a bucket of rendered pig lard (the slickest fat they had) and poured it onto the exposed piston rod.
The fat sizzled instantly, turning into acrid white smoke.
Chug... Chug... SCREEE.
The rhythm faltered.
The smooth sound of metal sliding on oil changed. It became a high-pitched shriek.
"Heat!" Rian realized. "The friction is too high!"
The pig fat wasn't lubricating. It was frying. It was vaporizing before it could coat the metal.
Inside the cylinder, the cast iron piston was expanding from the heat. The cylinder walls were expanding at a different rate. The gap was closing.
SCREEEEEEEEE!
The sound was agonizing, like a sword being dragged across a slate, but amplified a thousand times.
The flywheel jerked.
"Shut it down!" Rian yelled, diving for the release valve.
But it was too late.
The physics of the primordial world were unforgiving.
With a sound like a gunshot, the piston seized. The momentum of the flywheel tried to push it, but the metal had welded itself together.
CRACK.
The main connecting rod—forged by Grom himself—snapped in half. The flywheel spun free, wobbling dangerously before crashing into the stone wall, sending sparks flying.
Steam bellowed into the room, blinding them.
The Aftermath
Ten minutes later.
The steam had cleared. The silence in the room was heavy.
Rian stood staring at the broken connecting rod. He reached out and touched the cylinder casing.
It sizzled. It was hot enough to cook meat.
"We failed," Kaelen whispered, looking at the broken machine he had spent a month building. "The metal... it wasn't strong enough."
"The metal was fine," Rian said quietly. He picked up the ladle of pig fat. "The blood was weak."
He poured the congealed white fat onto the floor.
"Animal fat burns at 200 degrees. Inside that engine, it's 300 degrees. The moment the fat touched the metal, it turned to smoke. Bone rubbed against bone. It seized."
Rian looked at his hands. He had the knowledge of the 21st century. He knew how to build a Ferrari.
But he was stuck in the Stone Age using pig fat for oil.
"We can't build a steam tank," Rian declared, wiping his hands on a rag. "Not with this."
"So we stop?" Grom asked, kicking a piece of scrap iron.
"No," Rian walked to the map of the continent pinned to the wall.
He didn't need an ancient scholar. He had the System.
"System," Rian thought.
Rian traced a line on the map, far to the West, beyond the Baron's lands, beyond the trade routes.
"There," Rian pointed to a blank spot on the map marked 'Wasteland'.
"The earth there bleeds black blood. It's called Petroleum. It doesn't burn off. It stays slick even in fire."
He turned back to Kaelen and Grom.
"Pack up the tools. Cover the engine with a tarp."
"We are shelving the Steam Project?" Kaelen asked, disappointed.
"We are pausing it," Rian corrected. "I cannot build an engine without the blood. And to get the blood, I need an expedition that can cross 400 miles of monster territory."
Rian looked at the gold ring on his finger—the profits from the first batch of soap.
"We need more money. We need a bigger army. And we need to secure our base."
He patted the cold, broken iron of the engine.
"You are hungry, beast. I will find you food. But you have to wait."
Rian walked toward the exit stairs.
"Kaelen, go back to the Guildhouse. Help Silas with the perfume bottles. We need that glass perfect."
"Grom, go back to the forge. We need more crossbow springs."
"We go back to low tech," Rian said, opening the heavy door to the snowy outside world. "For now."
End of Chapter 47