- Chapter 087 -

  Puddle

  The smell of the living room was a jarring conflict of extremes. Underneath the familiar, comforting aroma of brewing tea, was the sharp, metallic tang of the brass prototypes laid out on the table, then overpowering those was the chemical scent of high-grade healing salve.

  Mark sat at the head of the table, his cane resting against his knee. He watched Dawn. She was seated in the plush armchair by the window, her usual energy drained away to a rigid, pale stillness. Her left sleeve had been cut away, replaced by a thick bandaging that went from shoulder to elbow. The dressing was fresh, but a seep of red was already blooming in the center.

  "Stop staring," Dawn murmured as she shifted, her face going grey for a second before the color returned. "It’s mending. The infirmary did their job. It’s just..."

  "It looks angry," Mark pointed out the obvious.

  "I'm sitting down," she countered.

  She had refused to stay in bed, insisting that a house full of expensive prototypes and political targets needed a guard, even a seated one. Mark hadn't argued. He knew the look in her eyes, it was the stubborn refusal of a professional to be sidelined by a 'minor' workplace injury. Even if that injury looked like a beast from the high peaks had tried to de-bone her arm.

  A knock at the door interrupted the medical argument. They were punctual. Three days after the meeting in the tomb, Petra Novak had set everything in motion, she ran a tight schedule.

  Mark nodded to Carl, dressed in a clean apron and looking surprisingly presentable, moved to the door.

  He pulled it open to reveal a delegation.

  Standing on the step was a man who looked nothing like Eric Chambers. Where Eric had been tailored arrogance and sneers, this man was rumpled efficiency. He wore the blue of the Masons, but the tunic was cut for work, pockets filled with a few tools and measuring tape. He was flanked by four others, two men, two women, holding heavy leather cases.

  "Good morning," their leader announced. His voice was brisk, almost Irish to Mark's ears. "The name is Jeremy McDougal. New Administrator for the Enceladus branch."

  He stepped inside, wiping his feet on the mat with a deliberate care that Eric would have considered beneath him.

  "And these," Jeremy continued, gesturing to his team, "are our senior operators for the Titan and Mimas expansions. Here for the data load."

  Carl stepped forward, taking charge of the meet-and-greet with a newfound confidence. He shook Jeremy's hand, his grip firm. "Carl. Lead Artisan on the project. Table’s cleared, units are prepped."

  Jeremy nodded, his eyes scanning the room. He registered the brass devices lined up like soldiers on the dining table, then looked at Dawn in the chair, noting the bandage and the dagger ready in her good hand. Finally, he looked at Mark.

  He walked over to the table but didn't sit. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back.

  "Before we begin," Jeremy said, his gaze direct. "I believe in full disclosure. Unlike my predecessor, I do not consider information to be a weapon."

  He tapped his chest.

  "I myself, possess a Heart of Community, and a Heart of Memory."

  Mark went still. It was a more unsettling combination than Eric had possessed. The combination that allowed for manipulation, for the subtle smoothing over of lies.

  Jeremy saw the reaction and didn't flinch. "I am aware of the... friction caused by Administrator Chambers. Rest his soul." The blessing was perfunctory, a social requirement. "I reviewed his personal logs when I took over the office. The extent of his... overreach was alarming. To use the gifts of connection for personal gain is a corruption of the Masons' code."

  He leaned forward slightly, his expression earnest.

  "I tell you this so you know what I am. Transparency is important to me, Mr. Shilling. I find it prevents misunderstandings and regret later."

  Mark studied him. It was a good opening. Disarming. By admitting to the very weapons that had been used against Mark previously, Jeremy was attempting to neutralize the threat they posed. It was smart management, but not a reason to be completely unguarded.

  "The transparency is appreciated," Mark said. "Seeing a diverse response is a credit to your guild."

  Mark gestured to the table.

  "The hardware is ready. Twenty units, as requested. Calibrated and sealed."

  Carl moved around the table, picking up one of the brass discs. "We've set the anti-tamper triggers to a standard tolerance," he explained to the operators, slipping into the role of technical lead. "They are designed to survive drops and knocks. Don't try to pry the casing. And for the love of the Founder, don't let a magnetic resonance field get within three feet of the core, or you'll have a pocket full of sand."

  The operators nodded, opening their leather cases to reveal padded slots ready for transport.

  "We have the schematics for the Titan Grand Hall renovation," one of the operators said, pulling out a heavy crystal shard. "And the new deep-shaft mine designs for Mimas."

  "Good," Mark said. "Let's begin the transfer."

  "What you're seeing here is Version One," Mark said, watching Carl prep the transfer rig. He kept his voice low, a confidential aside to the Administrator. "The prototype Mistress Novak saw was... raw. A proof of concept. These units have upgraded focal arrays. The resolution on the projection is sharper, the color depth is stable. No more ghostly edges on the structural beams."

  Jeremy nodded, watching the process with a keen eye. "If they perform as advertised," he said, "this will strip weeks off the planning phase for the Titan renovation. No more arguments over interpretation of a 2D drawing. We can show the client the pillar before we quarry the stone."

  He glanced at Mark.

  "Time will tell if the efficiency gains justify the initial outlay. It is a significant investment."

  "It is," Mark agreed. "But I suspect you'll find the return on investment compounds quickly. Once your foremen get used to having the site in their pocket, they won't want to go back to paper without a fight."

  At the other end of the table, Carl was wrestling with a bulky apparatus made of iron and copper wire. It looked like a vice grip mated with a crystal ball.

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  "We need a name for these things," Carl grumbled, slotting one of the brass discs into the cradle. "'Projector' is too simple. 'Portable Dimensional Schematics' Viewer takes too long to say." He tightened a clamp. "Right. First Titan operator. Step up."

  One of the men stepped forward, holding the heavy crystal shard containing the Grand Hall plans.

  "Place the crystal in the receptacle," Carl instructed, pointing to a padded cup on the rig. "And place your hand on the copper plate. This isn't just memory transfer, it's an imprint. The device pulls the data from the crystal, but it needs your mental focus to interpret it."

  He looked at the operator, his expression stern.

  "Detail matters. If you visualize a wall, the device records a grey slab. If you visualize the grain of the granite and the stress load of the arch... the device records that. Boredom in, expensive and useless crap out. Understand?"

  The operator nodded, looking slightly intimidated. He placed the crystal and laid his hand on the plate.

  Carl tapped a ruby set into the base of the rig. The transfer began. A hum filled the room, rising in pitch as the copper wires glowed with a faint, blue heat. It took ten seconds.

  "Done," Carl said, popping the brass unit out of the cradle. He handed it to the operator. "Please verify what you are expecting."

  The operator popped the latch. The water swirled up, forming a complex, towering structure of arches and pillars. He rotated the image, zooming in on a specific keystone.

  "Incredible," the operator whispered. "I can even see the mason's mark."

  The Mimas team stepped up next. Their transfer was just as smooth. When they activated their unit, a labyrinthine map of deep mine shafts hovered in the air, color-coded by depth and air quality.

  "This..." the Mimas operator breathed, turning the projection to look at a ventilation shaft. "We can trace the airflow before we dig. We can spot the choke points." He looked at Jeremy, his eyes wide. "Sir, this changes the safety expectations entirely."

  Jeremy watched them, a satisfied nod settling on his features. "It seems," he said to Mark, "that our investment may indeed be beneficial."

  "It's a Puddle," Dawn announced from her armchair, the surprise on the faces of the operators made Mark consider if she was playing with her not-invisibility trick.

  The hum of the transfer rig cut out as Carl finished a cycle. The room fell silent. The operators looked up from their cases, blinking in confusion. Mark paused, his mug halfway to his mouth. He looked at the huntress. She was leaning back, her good arm resting on the armrest, looking like a queen holding court in a recovery ward.

  "Excuse me?"

  The question came from one of the Mimas operators, a young man with dust in his hair and the eager, nervous energy of a junior staffer on his first site visit. He stepped forward, clutching his leather case. "I'm sorry, miss... huntress. What did you say?"

  "Paul," the operator added hastily, realizing he hadn't introduced himself.

  Dawn offered him a smile. It wasn't the sharp, predatory grin she saved for Carl, but something warmer. "Nice to meet a good working man, Paul." She gestured with her chin toward the brass device in his hand. "I'm talking about the projector. It's a Puddle."

  Paul looked at the device, then back at her. "A... puddle?"

  "Open the lid," Dawn instructed. "Don't press the button. Just open it."

  Paul hesitated, glancing at Jeremy for permission. The Administrator gave a curt nod. Paul flicked the latch. The brass cover clicked open, revealing the polished obsidian disc and the small reservoir of water that Carl’s condenser had pulled from the air. It sat there, a flat, still pool of liquid, trembling slightly with the movement of his hand.

  "See?" Dawn said, pointing. "It's wet. It sits there waiting for you to step in. It's a puddle."

  Paul stared at the water. A slow smile spread across his face. "It... well. She's not wrong."

  "She is absolutely wrong!" Carl barked. He slammed a clamp down on the next unit, his face flushing with indignation. He glared at Dawn over the top of the transfer rig. "This is a high-fidelity topographical visualization unit! It is a masterpiece of miniaturized runic architecture! We are not calling it a 'Puddle'!"

  "Too late," Mark murmured, recognizing the instant a branding strategy went viral.

  Jeremy McDougal stepped closer to Paul, looking down into the brass casing. He watched the water ripple. He looked at the rugged, industrial design of the shell.

  "A Puddle in the pocket," Jeremy mused, rolling the phrase around. He looked up, his eyes bright with the realization of a marketing hook he hadn't had to pay for. "It sounds... harmless. Simple. 'Check the Puddle.' 'Map it in the Puddle.'"

  He nodded, a decisive movement.

  "I like it. It strips away the complexity and makes it a tool. The miners will love it."

  Carl groaned, putting his head in his hands. "I hate every single one of you."

  "Market research is rarely kind to the engineer's ego, Carl," Mark noted, suppressing a smile. "But 'The Puddle' sticks. We'll update the invoice descriptions."

  The low hum of the transfer rig provided a rhythmic backdrop to the room, but Mark’s attention drifted from the technical process to a developing interpersonal dynamic near the window.

  Paul, the young operator from Mimas, had lingered after his task was complete. He stood near Dawn’s armchair, his hands fidgeting with the strap of his leather case. His gaze kept flicking to the heavy bandage on her arm.

  "That looks... substantial," Paul ventured, his voice low. "Industrial accident?"

  Dawn looked at him, her expression unreadable for a moment before a slow smile touched her lips. "Not exactly," she said. "Workplace hazard."

  She nodded toward the window, in the general direction of the town center.

  "The Millstone has a special on the menu this week," she said casually. "Fresh steaks. Striped Bear."

  Paul’s eyes widened. Apparently knowing the ecology of the high peaks. "Striped Bear? Those are huge. Low Jade tier. You don't see those brought down often."

  Dawn tapped the bandage on her arm with a single finger.

  "It was."

  She leaned back, the leather of her chair creaking. "The kitchen owes me for the carcass. I imagine the steaks are decent." She looked Paul up and down, assessing him. "Pick me up at six. They owe me a meal, and I hate eating alone."

  Paul blinked, the invitation almost making the young man stagger back. He opened his mouth, closed it, then nodded enthusiastically. "Six. Right. Absolutely."

  "Focus!" Carl roared from the table.

  Mark turned his head. The transfer rig was whining, the copper coils glowing a bright, angry orange. Inside the cradle, the active Puddle unit wasn't projecting a diagram of a ventilation shaft or a structural support.

  Hovering in the air above the brass disc was a perfect, liquid rendition of Dawn, sitting in her armchair, looking dangerous and bored.

  Paul went scarlet. The other operators looked away, suppressing grins.

  "You were supposed to be visualizing the mine," Carl snarled, his hand slamming down on the reset rune. The water-Dawn collapsed into a splash of formless liquid. "Not Dawn! Do you want the miners… No! I’m not even going to suggest it!"

  He yanked the crystal out and held it across for Paul to take back. "Again. And keep your mind on the rock, boy."

  Mark shook his head, a small, private amusement settling in his chest. It was unprofessional, inefficient, and entirely human. Dawn was making a connection. After the isolation of the last few weeks, seeing her engage with others, even if it involved dead bears and with a very distracted operator, it was good to see.

  He turned his attention back to the business at hand. The last unit was packed away, the latches on the leather cases clicking shut. Jeremy McDougal stepped forward. He signaled to one of his staff, who hefted a heavy, iron-bound lockbox onto the dining table.

  It hit the wood with a solid, satisfying thud.

  "Three thousand, four hundred gold," Jeremy stated. "As agreed. Please count it if you wish."

  "I trust the weight," Mark said. "And the reputation of the new administration."

  Jeremy nodded, accepting the professional courtesy. "We will need support," he added. "The content being static. Construction is dynamic. In two months, I want one of your team to join us in Titan. We’ll need updates to the content, and we need to discuss the licensing for the transfer technology."

  "Two months," Mark agreed. "Sounds like a plan. We'll be there."

  The Masons filed out, Paul casting one last, terrified and hopeful glance at Dawn before hurrying after his colleagues. The door closed, leaving the house quiet again.

  Mark looked at the lockbox. It was real and incredibly substantial capital. He looked at Carl, who was already dismantling the transfer rig, and Dawn, who was checking her reflection in the window.

  The project was funded, the prototypes delivered and even his team was... stable, almost.

  "Right," Mark said, reaching for his cane. "Meeting adjourned. Carl, put the kettle on. Tomorrow I think we need to see if Hemlock has some victory tea."