[SOLO] The Gunsmith

[Gale]

Saunders' Forge| late evening

7 ROALIS 2718

It was late in the evening she worked, the shutters down and the doors sealed from the outside world. She could not risk the looks of others, the curious glances that raised questions. Better yet it meant she could work in relative peace while the rest of the world carried on without her.

There were certain things Gale never left lying around in her workshop, in particular was various information on firearms and the related drawings. Instead there were mere scatters of notes here and there, mixed in with other designs that seemed to match. For example, if she required particular measurements for a gun barrel, she would look at the various common diameters and measurements for pipes. For information on creating more mechanical pieces, she would look to the various ratchets and gears – pieces that would find use in a variety of factories. The layout and positioning of holes? Grills and grates. They were, of course, little more than outlines with a collection of numbers either side of them, but never the less important.

Other things she simply just knew, that sulphur, charcoal and saltpetre were needed – with the latter being the most lengthy to make. A concoction of urine and straw, left to effectively ferment for half a year to produce the salt crystals. Her room had stunk for the last five months by this point. The rest was a case of gathering it; charcoal was used by her for smelting anyway. Sulphur was more of a problem, getting hold of it was troublesome; but not always necessary. She understood that it lowered the temperature needed for igniting the charcoal to begin with. Of course, for the occasions something better was needed she would turn her attention to that of Pyrite – or Fools Gold as it was more commonly known. Her gaze moved and shifted to the heated furnace and the almost sealed front, if not for the heavy iron pipe that lead down, away from it and into a clay pot that was currently submerged in the salt water trough. She gave it a cautious squint, watching the occasional wisp of yellow vapour escape from the gaps on its journey. Of course the yield would be significant less than what was actually available, but it was better than nothing.

Gale returned to the task at hand.

It was a round cylinder clamped into a vice, the heavy graphite marks upon its flat surface. Above and poised in the press was the drill, an equally meaty device that she had to crank. She pulled the gloves over her hands, the goggles over her eyes and went to work. A slow, arduous task, often thankless to her hands and arms. Cranking it, it hummed and scratched through the surface, the continuous rotation slowly but surely pushing downward into it. Occasionally she lifted the drill, letting the tip buoy at eye level on its stand. A blow, the steel shreds were dusted aside and the way was clear.

Many would have argued it would have been quicker to create a mould or to create the piece with the holes already in place – but Gale did not trust the nature of steel to behave or maintain integrity. Minutes went passed, ticking on as the central hole was drilled through; the six chambers were next, the minutes turning up into hours as she continued to work. She stopped when the drill finally broke through the base of the last chamber, exchanging the bit for a reamer. Stretching her legs, she checked upon the furnace and fed it – catching the distinct acidic scent that burned off. She clicked, stretched and proceeded to get back to work. Her aim was to finish the chamber tonight, while the rest could be brought together in the upcoming days. The holes were smoothed and enlarged, fingers brushing away the fine powder.

Once cleaned off, she carefully marked half a centre meter down around the base, small and tiny marks ready for her to create indents. Her current thought was to make a Ratchet rotation, allowing the chamber to only rotate around in one direction. She pushed on, despite the hour growing late. Carefully filing down and in where the marks were, carefully sawing into the steel and creating the small indents. Time continued to pass by, the tiny saw being replaced with files to get rid of the stray edges, before the six dents were done. She sighed, pinching her brow before packing down for the night.

[Gale]

Saunders' Forge | late evening

13 ROALIS 2718

For the last six days the furnace had been at a constant burn, the sulphurous condensation collecting as crystals in the submerged, clay pot. She gave a look inside, momentarily curious at the yield – barely a few heaped teaspoons – before she put the contents away and out of sight. Around the furnace she had been working, fulfilling tasks for a variety of clients – nothing too strenuous to say the least. Yet as the day dwindled on, she prepared herself for another late night.

She sat the cylinder before her, now bearing a shaft down its centre and sticking out a great length. At one end more notably was a hexagonal flattened head broad enough that it could be pinched between her fingers. It would be the basis of the Cylinder would go around, giving her something to work with for the moment. Now was to work on the frame.

She had chosen a piece of steel piping to be the barrel, measuring it up to nine inches with the full intention of trimming down the length eventually. The frame was also to be steel and separate from the barrel, built around a square ‘U’-shape where the cylinder would sit. The hammer would sit behind it, and if her plans were correct enable her to use a trigger to sent the hammer forward.

Rubbing at her chin she roughly drew out the shape on the surface, solidifying it in her mind before drawing in the base of the handle. Two separate pieces, currently at least. Making more accurate measurements, she set about getting the forge hot once more. With it she would prepare the rest of the pieces needed – at least in their most basic of shapes. The hammer she based off one of the iron meat hooks she would made, locating the broader of the moulds. The handle would find itself being built from one the cutlery knife moulds, later to be bent round into shape. It would then have to be welded to the awkward ‘U’ shape.

She vowed to make a mold of the final product. Just for ease.

Gale started on the easier of the pieces, breaking down the various hunks of steel ingots that she acquired with her trade. There the contents were placed into the crucible and into the smelter. Leaving them there she pottered about the rest of the forge, planning what she needed to do next in her head.

The barrel, she decided, would be removable. As would other parts of the gun. The ability to disassemble was vital, it made any potential need for repairs that much easier. The main frame would be one solid piece; the grip would hold a majority of the mechanical details of the device, allowing the cylinder to rotate around and lock into position. Then there was the actual issue of creating the firing mechanism. That caused some pause. Her fingers drummed on the surface of her workstation, her lips twisting as she thought.

How was she going to get it to fire?

She envisioned the hammer striking against the back of the chamber, the contents as consequence igniting and firing the shot at the intended target. The issue however was perhaps getting hold of the materials to begin with. She understood the theory of using something percussion based, it meant there would be significantly less smoke; she vaguely remembered her father toying the idea and almost blowing his fingers off in the process. In his attempts proved to be too volatile, something that would sooner cause harm to the user than the intended target.

Gale sat down at her bench. Drawing on the pack of cigarettes, she popped the end of one in her mouth. Her fingers next found the matchbox, taking out one of the matches with careful thought before striking it across the wooden surface of the work station. It hissed into life, the tiny flame dancing, before she ignited it. Shaking it out, the Metalsmith inhaled the taste of the tobacco before eyeballing the burned out match. She placed it down, drawing another and striking it across the surface once more.

The Metalsmith smiled, “That’ll do.”

[Gale]

Saunders' Forge | late evening

19 ROALIS 2718

It was in the frame of the grip that Gale fitted the spring, hooking it over a nipple before bolting it in place. The straighter end was then slipped beneath the trigger mechanism – a small triangle of metal that had its own spring nestled between it and the trigger itself. She screwed it in place, before leading the end of the larger spring finally up to the base of the hammer. Fixing it all in place, she held the frame of the grip in her hand. Her thumb squeezed the trigger, watching the hammer do nothing. Exhaling, she pulled the hammer back so it reached the back of the frame, watching it click as it held there. Within the larger of the springs grew taught, the flatter edge stuck against the aforementioned metal triangle. She exhaled, slowly squeezing the trigger. A click, the hammer shot forward and back into its original position.

Exhaling, she put it to the side and moved to the main experiment of the day. Taking up a tiny knife she slid the box of matches before her. Carefully she took each one, scraping the hardened substance off the heads of the match into a small iron bowl. The rest of the match was then discarded into the smelter, burning up quickly. She repeated the process, yawning loudly while she worked her way through the entire pack. Hands rubbed at her eyes, arm complaining as she moved it. The rest of the experimentation came next.

She found the sulphur, taking out barely a quarter of a teaspoon and placing the crystals into its own separate bowl. The charcoal came next, already grounded up into a powder. The more interesting however was the saltpetre, currently being presented as a handful of small crystals once again mixed in with ashes. The best way to clear the crystals away from the detritus she learned was to mix the solution in with water and pour it through a bed of ashes – the worst of the much was then filtered away. She separated two teaspoons of it into a mortar and begun grinding at it. Arm aching, she watched it turn

She took up a mortar and pedestal, carefully grinding the saltpetre into a powder. Time went by, her eyes looking at the locked door of the forge, the dwindling heat of the furnace gradually dying. Once the saltpetre was a powder she decanted it into its own separate mortar. The dust was brushed out, and the process was repeated again. The sulphur came next, and once grounded was added to the powdered saltpetre. The charcoal was last, and once broken down into a powder only a half a teaspoon was taken from it and added. Dragging the concoction closer, she looked upon what she had achieved.

Saltpetre holds the lion’s share, making up seventy-five percent. Charcoal takes up fifteen percent, Sulphur ten. When mixed together, moisten for safety.

She carefully filled a small cup with water, and added a few drops into it. Enough to moisten it. The pedestal was reapplied, the contents grinded together. Wrist working it all in, it gradually formed up into clumps. A few more drops of water were added, the texture became thicker to work with. It was only when she managed to get the content into a clump the size of her thumb that she stopped. Flexing her hands, she located a tray and laid a sheet of paper across it, before pulling a sieve above it. She spent the rest of her time carefully passing the lump of gunpowder through to the paper below, forming into smaller grains and pellets.

Tray put to one side while the contents dried, she took the scratched off match powder. Some of it was separated and poured onto a clean tray, fingers rubbing at her chin. What she knew about the match heads was that they were the ones that could strike on any surface. The question was however, was the material flexible in its properties? Could something, for example, strike across its surface to light it when in this form.

Scraping it into a mound, she found one of her files. A broad grain, but enough to start with. She propped the flat of a knife on the opposite side of it, keeping it in place. Dragging the file across, she watched the pieces spark, fizzle and quickly burn out. She took up some of the powder in her fingers, letting it collect there before rubbing her thumb firmly against it.

Gale hissed when the pressure caused a tiny spark. Her hand immediately jolted into the remaining water, cooling and revealing the angry pink mark that was left between the two surfaces. She placed some more of the powder on the tray, carefully piling it together before picking up the hammer. A few testing motions of aim, she brought the hammer up before bringing it racing down.

A clang of noise, the tray dented beneath the hammer blow. She did not see anything at first, withdrawing the hammer to look upon the flat of it. A few flakes were left on it, her eyes narrowing as she brushed it off with her fingers and inspected the lightly burned residue that remained. Her gaze moved to the drying gunpowder and then to the powder that remained.

Okay. Ignites when struck hard and fast enough. But how am I going to use it?

[Gale]

Saunders' Forge | late evening

22 ROALIS 2718

On one of the more quiet days Gale started work on her personal project slightly earlier. The steel had been cleaned off, before spending the better part of a few hours being pickled in acid. Once done the individual pieces were rinsed and dried. From there they were coated in a flux, primarily displaying as a paint and left to dry. It was only now that she was ready to move onto the next stage.

Disassembled, the smelter stood on her left while the quenching trough stood full and ready on her right. It was between the tongs that Gale held the frame of the firearm. Goggles covered her face, a heavy leather apron and long gloves covering her form. It was within the smelter that a flux had turned molten – a primarily zinc concoction designed to create a protective layer for the steel. She lowered it in, listening to the bubbling hiss as the steel frame made contact with the metal bath. Counting out loud, she reached a hundred before removing the tongs and the frame.

Quickly, she twisted at the waist and submerged it in the trough. Steam hissed from the surface, rapidly cooling it before it was withdrawn. It found itself in the brick kiln to cool the rest of the way. The other pieces met a similar fate, piling up in pieces within as they cooled. If there was anything she wanted to be certain of, it was that any firearm she made would not surrender to the elements quickly. She lifted her goggles, looking to the thin sheet of copper that she had acquired. Steel had proven to be too hard for her current line of thought, so she moved onto others; iron had proven equally so and far too heavy. She did not want to think about gold and silver – expensive as they were – they were too soft for what she needed. Copper however was something plentiful and could be manipulated and could be acquired without too many questions.

Or any for that matter, it was a material of her trade.

She made her way over to it, collecting one of the pieces of thin stray piping on the way before settling down at one of her clearer work stations. The issue with the match heads was that while they ignited with a firm strike of the hammer, keeping them in place to be used prior to that was difficult – more so with the worry that a hard jerk or bit of friction could potentially cause it to ignite. A troublesome situation when carrying around a shot. It meant she had to find another way of carrying it.

Earlier she had experimented with the use of paper, creating small hard balls surrounded by a thin sheet. A satisfying crack of noise was the result – far from anything loud and explosive mind – and for a while she was satisfied. At least until the same product ignited when it rolled from the side of the workbench and onto the floor of the Forge. It was something to remember, but she knew she could do better.

She stared by clipping out a square of the copper sheeting. It was thin, barely a millimeter thick – the same sort she would have used for creating strips of copper plating on her more ornate pieces. She measured it up against the pipe, ensuring the edges overlapped. Content she promptly placed the pipe vertically in a vice; taking up her smaller tools she carefully hammered the sheet into the top of the pipe, bending it and warping it to create a tiny cup. It was bigger than what she actually wanted, but making something smaller would come later.

She measured it up then, cutting out another square of copper and overlaying it over cup. There she measured out the circle made before smoothing it into shape. By the end she had a small disc that could drop snuggly into the cup. Before that however, she bent the last of the cup metal down and around, fitting it to create a lip that would rest around the mouth of the pipe. With it comfortably sitting in place, she withdrew it and began to pack it with the matchhead powder. She worked with caution, gradually pressing it in to create a tight wodge of shreds. From there she placed the copper disk over the top, pinching the sides in to lock it in place.

She paused at that moment, checking that the doors were definitely closed. No one could look in. No one would know. A testing tug ensured they were locked in place.

At this point the pipe was rotated to be horizontal. A large board was slid so it sat opposite one end, while the other had the cap pressed into it. From there she fitted a small amount of gunpowder down the tube, packing it in before slipping in the small shot. She intended it to be lacking the power that a normal shot would carry, the ball having enough strength to shunt into board. She stared, paused, then moved around to her mold pit. Lifting the lid she filled a large sack with sand, before shifting the heavy weight to begin the board. An insurance of just in case the shot went wild.

Taking up a long shafted hammer, she gently aimed up the flat against the copper cap. A small tap, she eased the arm back to practice the motion. It was then she moved the hammer, several firm heavy beats of the head against the desk surface. A loud, continuous noise that would rattle through the room. She continued this for a minute, keeping the steady rhythm, before she quickly withdrew it and struck the back of the cap.

It was first a definite crack before a deep boom rumbled up the pipe. There was a splinter of wood, hand jerking away in reflex, the shot shooting out and forward. It puffed at her, the faint wisps of smoke drifting from the end, her form momentarily paused before she banged the hammer – considerably more weakly – back against the work surface. All the while, she looked at the wooden board, the iron shot imbedded in its surface and the faint residue of powder that clung to it.

She licked her lips, noticing then that her hairs had stood on end, that her pulse had quickened; heart hammering within her ribcage. She looked to the cap then, still in place if not a little more dented in by the hammer. Outside a dog was barking, a mere distant echo of noise that seeped into her senses.

“Well,” she breathed finally as she forced her mind into some idea of understanding, “Fuck me.”

[Gale]

Saunders' Forge | late evening

34 ROALIS 2718

“Yes officer, I will, right away.” She nodded dumbly to the Seventen. He inspected her with seeming distain, eyes probing for some form of answer. Something she was not saying. She had no choice but to avert her gaze, shoulders hunching in and forcing a more submissive look. It was all procedure by their books. She just had to present herself as if she had nothing to hide, “Any of the patrols. Understood.”

Ever since her experiment with the copper caps the Galdori had been poking around. Seemingly tipped off by a member of the population, it was hard to establish if it was due to her activities or something entirely unrelated. She had caught wind of it when she saw them patrol past her forge, the various inquiries to the locals – herself included – to the seemingly strange disturbance. When pressed she answered with her usual script; she was a metal smith, she was working in her forge that evening, it was noisy, no nothing seemed amiss.

It was a forewarning of what was to come and one she was not blind to. The saltpeter and sulphur were hidden first; sealed in their own containers, she buried them inside one of her many sandbags before they in turn were thrown into the base of the sand pit. Stacked in alongside many others, she mingled them in and covered them with more and more of these sand bags. It was only when it was full that she put the heavy metal lid over the top. The charcoal was considerably less of an issue, something that could be left out without too much forethought; though the already made powder and the match heads had to be thrown into the fires of the forge to burn.

The parts of the firearm were much more interesting. To begin with she disassembled it; the barrel was thrown into a draw of pipe offcuts, the springs in with other springs. The trigger pieces were put alongside a different project, the broken parts of a mechanical loom that needed replacing. The frame was mingled alongside a bunch of offcuts, which in turn were put next to an ingot mould and left in obvious view. Which left her with the cylinder. At a loss as to what to do with it, she placed it in the kiln alongside several other cooling pieces.

From then she returned to business as usual. Orders were picked up; objects and pieces were sent out. Whenever one of the Seventen came around she was attentive, answering their questions and inviting them in while she worked. She let them see her workspace, let them see exactly what was going on and allowing their mind to fill in the gaps. When the search was made she let them, the various draws and units opened and looked under, her upstairs living space invaded. Compliant until the end, once a section of space was cleared they allowed her to get back to work. She flooded her thoughts with it, all but tuning them out until they were done.

“Good day, Sir,” she finished, watching the officers go on their way. Her gaze followed after them, before she returned to her work. Just because they were gone however, did not mean she was about to leap back into her personal project. She would let the eyes become bored of watching, a few days of cooling before she struck out once more. It was a game of patience, one she had learned from a young age. Smithing was all about it, rushing things lead to mistakes. She could not afford any, not now at least.

So the Cadet waited and bided her time.

[Gale]

Saunders' Forge | late evening

43 ROALIS 2718

It was evening once more, the area clear as far as she was concerned. Word on the street became apparent that some rebellious lowlife had been arrested – shouting too loudly about things and getting themselves into trouble. It was enough to satisfy the snooping Seventen and sent them on their way. A relief in some regards, for it allowed her to get back to her project.

Rifling was always a fiddly process, requiring concentration and focus. Her chosen piece of pipe was clamped in again, the drill bit replaced with a piece of wooden doweling. From the side of it four tiny blades poked out. Leaning out, she measured the inside – and upon adjusting the doweling so the blade tips held a tiny diameter she began. Rotating the drill around with one hand she began to lower it with another, a slowly and cautiously. Thin wisps of metal peeled from the inside, curling up as she pressed in deeper. The inside left a twist, rotating down and around until she reached the bottom. She removed the doweling then, blowing clear the inside, before she lured the blades out that little bit more. Lining up she repeated the process, slowly following the same lines down the barrel. In time the scratches became grooves, thick lines which separated the clear patches of land.

Another puff down the length found her satisfied. She knew she would have to apply another protective coat to it now – much like the other pieces. She inspected the outside, counting the thread rings that covered the back half inch of it. The frame was taken up then, the side opposite the trigger featuring two new particular additions. The first was a smaller hole in which the cartridge axel would sit on, the second was a broader, thicker ring of metal with its own threading within. Twisting the barrel, it slotted snuggly in place and gave the starting form of the firearm.

The Gunsmith yawned, and begun to assemble the piece at last. The trigger was the next to be put into place, carefully screwed into the frame of the grip before being attached to the mainframe. The hammer carried the same flat head as her larger pieces, and pulling it back produced a satisfying click. A squeeze of the trigger sent it forward with force; enough she hoped. In front of it however, and reaching down where her exposed thumb joint and knuckle would be however was a sturdy, heavy disk. She dubbed it a breach shield, something that would prevent a spray of gunpowder and explosive material across her hand – or at least absorb the worst of it.

Her attention moved to the trigger then. Gently squeezing it in, she locked it in place with a piece of heavy wire. With the innards exposed she looped a tiny pawl up into the frame before tightening it against the trigger. Moving to the hammer she cocked it back, taking the same pawl so it pushed clockwise. She eased, firstly by letting the wire go and easing the trigger out, before dry firing the device. Another click, she watched the piece move around and halt; it was looking to grab onto something, anything. A second pawl was put into place up at the back of the frame, a small hook of metal that searched to lodge into something. She affixed it, keeping it in place even as the hammer was pulled back. The second relied on the trigger, that when it was pulled the first pawl pushed, the second withdrew enough before returning to lock the cylinder in place.

She sighed, letting the tense air escape before she focused on the next step. The cylinder. Polished and shaped, she studied the ratchet she had welded into the end with the indents, before putting it into place. Down the middle of it she slid the small metal bar – a screw really – through the first loop, the center of the cylinder and finally into the back of the breach shield. Reloading it would be an annoyance, she could see that now – to put in a percussion cap into one of the chambers would require her to unscrew the cylinder every time.

On the flipside, if she needed to fire off six shots in quick succession then something had clearly gone wrong.

Screwing it into the back of the frame, she finger tightened it at the front most screw head. Pinching, twisting, she rotated the cylinder so the pawl caught in the ratchet. Slowly squeezing the trigger caused the lower pawl to rise and push the barrel one, the back one lifting out of the groove. It pushed around, before she released it. The pieces withdrew back into their indentations. Finger away from the trigger, she gave the cylinder a twist and found it refusing to give more than a couple of millimeters either way.

To the back now, she pulled the hammer back and effectively cocked it. Squinting down the narrow gap, she tilted the firearm down through the chamber and to the end of the barrel. Turning, she pointed it towards one of the lanterns, catching a glimmer of light down the length of it. Withdrawing she held the firearm away from her and squeezed the trigger.

The hammer came forwards; as the click sounded the barrel moved, the mechanisms pushing it round. As she eased out the squeeze, the cylinder came to rest once more. Her arm tensed around the uncomfortable handle frame, and lowering it down she allowed herself to relax.

Taking up a block of wood she outlined the shape of the frame, before cutting it out. Gradually the squared shape was chipped away, a constant check and fit going on as she worked it. Pressing, checking, ensuring it did not interfere with the rest of the device; she disassembled most of it before using blunt force to get it into place. The sanding came next, hands rotating around the single piece, tightening and squeezing in the metal so it would not give. Blowing the growing sawdust aside, she rebuilt it and returned it to its full form.

Fingers flexed, her hands finding better comfort now that the exposed metal was no longer digging into her palm. All it needed now was to be polished, the wood lacquered for protection. Looking down the barrel she took in the final measurements of the piece.

The firearm was at a total of twelve inches, with six and a half of it being barrel. The remaining five and half inches made up the various frame, mechanisms and handle. Barrel diameter would allow for a nine millimetre shot. It weighed in, by her reckoning, at two and a half pounds; she would need to get hold of an accurate scale for a clearer result. She brushed away a few flecks of saw dust. Loading it would involve unscrewing it; a priming cap was first put into the back of the cylinder, before gunpowder was pressed down the other end. A pointed shot was then pushed in, compressing it and locking it all in place until fired.

In theory at least.

She would have to think of a better way to load ammunition. But that was a task for another time.

Now the hardest task was upon her.

A name.

She held it in both of her hands then, fingers wrapping around the handle. What did she want to do with it? What did she want to achieve? Sate her curiosity, for one – but there was more to it than that. She licked her lips.

She was a law breaker. She was a revolutionary. Set to bring equality. To tear down the establishment so something new could take its place. A badly set bone that needed to be broken before it could heal properly. To fight for a future, her future, the future of children. To redeem themselves and bring about a new age. No longer to be down trodden, they would be liberated.

Her lip curled, the mind filling with a single word.

Liberator.

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