Technical Difficulties

Flinders Memphis inhaled deep of the crisp, early morning air. The sun was bright on the horizon but had not yet got around to the business of actually heating things up. Its position cast long shadows of the squat, semi-cylindrical dwellings of which Brawdol was mostly comprised.

From his position atop a rise just beyond the settlement’s limits, Flinders had a fine view of the place he called home. The quaint abodes with their circular windows were interspersed at intervals with buildings of note. The brewery was one such structure and the bakery another. Both were a hive of activity even at this early hour. Trade was good, demand was high, and the gnomes had to ensure there was surplus for themselves after all.

On the south side of Brawdol, where the rivers heading east from the Taulada mountain range and south from Fancydale converged, the great mill that processed grain to feed both brewery and bakery bestrode the swift-running water. The huge wheel that powered it had once been a small, inefficient thing. Flinders’ replacement was much better, in his opinion. Oh, some folks might complain about it being an eyesore, but to Flinders aesthetics came second to functionality and the design had the latter in abundance.

Flinders’ own abode was a similar such temple to practicality. It stood out amongst the dwellings of his fellow gnomes, which competed with one another for flamboyancy. Flowers bloomed up the walls and some had been taken to installing roof gardens; tiered layers of flowerbeds in which a plethora of plants grew. Flinders wouldn’t have minded if they’d grown vegetables or herbs in them as an inventive way to save space. But vegetables and herbs were dull plants and the purpose of the beds appeared to be akin to a peacock fanning its feathers; beautiful and colourful but serving no practical function that he could see.

By comparison, the roof of Flinders’ house sported a water trough. A number of channels fed off from it and he could, via a network of sluices, divert the stored water to where he willed to turn the small water wheels mounted to the exterior of his house. These in turn would propel a series of cogs within to power his various inventions. It was a system with which he was constantly tinkering and brought him no end of joy, though the same could not be said of his neighbours.

“Can I ask a question?”

Stirring from the sight before him, Flinders turned from the view and regarded his companion; a slim gnome holding a crossbow who was peering at him short-sightedly through a pair of jam jar spectacles.

“Of course you may, Master Quarrel!” said Flinders, his booming voice as permanently jovial as his appearance promised.

“I ain’t no master,” Quarrel grumbled, “but I am wondering why our targets have multi-coloured hay sprouting from ‘em.”

Both gnomes turned in unison to regard a number of barrels arrayed some thirty gnomish strides from their position. From their open tops, clusters of hay protruded. The stalks had indeed been dyed multiple colours and some attempt appeared to have been made to arrange them into a neat mound, as if some mad stylist, for reasons only known to themselves, had sought to make them presentable.

“Realism!” Flinders exclaimed. “If we’re going to be fighting psychedelic pompadours then I thought it important that our practice targets looked the part!”

“Psychopomps!” came an exasperated voice form above.

Flinders glanced skywards. There, hovering above them, was the bulky form of his daughter’s airship, the Flying Fish. Belle herself was strapped beneath it, tampering with the mechanism of a wicked-looking bolt thrower.

Flinders elbowed Quarrel playfully and grinned. “Kids these days and their lingo, eh?”

“It’s not short for anything,” Belle retorted. “It's just psychopomps.”

Flinders looked momentarily confused, processing this new information. “So not creatures with brightly coloured hair styles?”

“No!”

Flinders met Quarrel’s eye. “Did you know this?”

Quarrel shrugged, though whether through ignorance or because he was not wishing to get involved in a minor spat between father and daughter, Flinders couldn’t tell.

“Still,” said the inventor, his usual joviality returning like the sun breaking through clouds, “they’ll serve our purpose in any case.”

He raised his eyes as muffled cursing came from above. “Is everything alright up there?”

“It would be if this bolt thrower would fire!”

Flinders frowned. “What’s wrong with it? I made the alterations myself. It should function perfectly.”

“I can get the bolt in but the reload mechanism is jammed. Just why did you change things again?”

Flinders sighed. “I merely synchronised the helical gear’s harmonic resonance with the torque-vectoring differential to prevent drivetrain oscillation,” he explained. “If I hadn’t then we would have risked premature spline failure.”

“Well it’ll stay premature if I can’t get the thing to pull back,” Belle retorted.

“What is it I always say?”

Belle sighed. “Have you tried turning it off and on again?”

Flinders beamed at a lesson well learned. “Exactly! Try disconnecting the couplings and realign before reattaching. Do you need to come down so I can sort it?”

“I’ll manage!”

“Jolly good!” Flinders called back, either failing to detect or entirely ignoring the edge to his daughter’s voice. He turned to Quarrel. “And how are the adjustments I made for you?”

Quarrel looked down at his crossbow. The original design remained, however affixed to the top was now a complex assortment of springs and wire arranged beneath a rotating lever.

“It works well enough,” he conceded, “though I seem to get my thumb trapped every time.”

He held up a bandaged digit as evidence.

“Interesting,” Flinders mused. “Would you mind showing it me in action, so to speak, so I can ascertain if any adjustments need to be made?”

Quarrel obliged. He raised the crossbow to his shoulder and sighted along the shaft. The tip wavered as he squinted along its length through the thick lenses of his glasses. Then, at a point in time that appeared absolutely random to the onlooker, given that the weapon had not yet been steadied let alone aimed, Quarrel squeezed the trigger and the bolt was released. Flinders looked on in wide-eyed amazement as, despite the initial erraticity, the flight was true and thudded into a target.

“I say, good shot!” Flinders applauded.

“The shootin’ ain’t the hard part.”

Quarrel seized the handle atop the stock and turned. Cogs shifted, springs coiled, and the string was rapidly pulled back towards the firing position, ready to receive the next bolt. Halfway along its journey, however, Quarrel let out a gasp as the mechanism ground across the tip of his thumb.

“See?” he said, as the last few turns brought the string into position, “no matter how I hold it, it always gets me.”

Flinders frowned. He peered intently at the mechanism. Then he broke out into his usual grin.

“You have a solution?”

Flinders shook his head. “No, I’m just happy that it worked.”

“Unlike some things!” came Belle’s voice from above.

“But my thumb!” Quarrel protested.

“Look at it this way,” Flinders advised, “you can reload it the normal slow way if you want or you can continue using my revolutionary mechanism. Personally, I’d always take a bit of pain in exchange for enhanced functionality.”

“So would I!” Belle shouted down. “Unfortunately I have neither!”

Flinders glanced skywards again. “Why don’t you come down and I’ll take a look at it?”

“So you can make it worse? I’ll figure it out myself. I’m a clever girl.”

Flinders shrugged. “Suit yourself!”

“What about your own weapon?” Quarrel asked, in a blatant attempt to move the conversation to more comfortable topics. “Does that work?”

Flinders hefted the device he had been holding down by his side, letting its length settle in both hands across his body. Like Quarrel’s crossbow it had a stock, however there the similarities ended. A long metal tube extended from the grip, undulating in a series of girths and textures along its length. A spyglass was affixed towards the far end and a sizeable bulbous contraption protruded from the bottom, just beyond the trigger.

“Oh, yes,” Flinders enthused, holding the weapon to him lovingly, “this works very well. I call this the Gnomish Air Rifle (TM).”

“TM?” Quarrel enquired.

“Tools of Memphis,” Flinders explained. “It shows that I made it.”

“Ah. And is it accurate?”

In response, Flinders pulled the rifle up to his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. There was a zip as something was forced down the tube with some velocity and almost instantaneously a crack of wood as the projectile thudded into one of the hay-topped barrels.

“I’d say that works well enough,” Quarrel conceded. “What’s the reload like?”

“That’s the beauty,” said Flinders, patting the weapon affectionately, “this thing is all self-contained. No reload required.”

“I’d take not having to reload right now,” grunted Belle, struggling with the mechanism, “because that would mean that I’d actually get to fire this thing.”

“Belle, why don’t you come down?” Flinders tried again. “I’ll take a look at it. Honestly, it’s no trouble.”

“You’ve already taken a look at it.”

Belle pulled on a lever and grunted with the effort.

“And look where it’s got me.”

She pulled a tool out of the belt at her waist and began furiously tightening a bolt.

“The bolt thrower was fine before you tinkered.”

She put the tool back and tried once again to wind back to its reload position the thick cable that would propel the bolt.

“And now it won’t even load!”

There was a creak, a groan, and then an almighty snap. Beneath the sound of tortured metal, Flinders decided to pretend that he hadn’t heard the choice words that his daughter had just used regarding the situation. His jovial smile remained but his eyes were full of worry as he surveyed the severed length of cable that was now hanging down from the bolt thrower, rendered useless by the catastrophe that had befallen it.

“Oh dear,” he said, then in a louder voice, “if you’ll just come down, Belle, I’ll see what I can do about that!”

But Belle was no longer listening. She gave vent to a scream of frustration and began pedalling furiously. The airship began to drift forwards, slowly at first and then picking up momentum.

“Belle, where are you going?” Flinders called after her. “You can’t give up yet! We need to practice!”

Belle gave no sign that she had heard him.

“These pompadours could be upon us at any moment! What will we do if we’re not ready?”

Again Belle did not react, though whether it was because she was ignoring him or because she hadn’t heard his call, Flinders did not know. He optimistically chose to believe the latter.

The airship was some distance from them now, silhouetted against the sun. As Flinders looked on, a small object detached itself from the underside of the craft. It plummeted towards the ground, landing amongst the targets. Rather than bouncing, as his physics-aligned brain suggested it would, the object exploded.

Bright light preceded a roar as the bomb detonated, and Flinders raised a hand to shield himself from the fragments of wood and metal. When he eventually lowered it, all that was left where the targets had stood was a patch of scorched earth and a cloud of colourful hay, floating on the breeze.

Flinders puffed out his cheeks and pushed out the air in one slow exhale. It was hard to argue with that sort of efficiency.

“That’ll do it!” he said.