MBGSP - Chpt 71 - 74 (plus anouncement)

Happy Monday, goblin fans! This is coming a few days earlier than expected. But there's a good reason for that. Before enjoying these advance chapters, there's a quick announcement.

You guys are awesome.

Ok, so that's not really the announcement. The story has only been out a couple months, but Patreon subscribers have stepped up to support the future of the story in a real way and I really appreciate it. Even though publishers have reached out and I'm close to hammering out a deal for 3 books in the MBGSP saga that will further secure the future of the story, I don't want to think your guys contributions will be forgotten.

(That's still not the announcement. This is:)

That's why, as of this week, I'm upping the number of advanced chapters from 8 to 12, so everyone on the Patreon will be 3 weeks ahead of the public updates. The second update will come a little later this week once I've had a chance to review and revise the later chapters a bit more. Hopefully the bonus chapters will help a bit to scratch that goblin itch with the break in updates I'll be taking after the end of book 1 hits Royal Road.

With that said, enjoy the chapters!

Chapter 71 – Infernal Engines

Armstrong and his scrappers tried to stay between me and the humans, in much the same way the paladins tried to stay between him and Taquoho. Mostly this resulted in the two  groups of bodyguards bumping and jostling through the village as I took Taquoho and a few of the other Ifrit to the north side where the igni and engineers worked in tandem.

“I’m not as far along as I’d hoped we would be when you returned,” I admitted. “Getting the iron from the swamp turned out to be more… challenging than I’d anticipated and the javeline making their move threw an extra monkey wrench into things. We were forced to focus on making weapons both to defend ourselves and make progress in the swamp. But now, we’re back in development mode. Without the javeline causing trouble for local goblin tribes, I can focus on unifying and feeding them to transition them into working on the space program.”

“A clever use of bio-lightning, to be sure,” said Taquoho, eying one of the tesla wasp spears being tested by two goblins on an unfortunate (or perhaps kinky) third member.

I debated telling the Ifrit about King Ringo being the source of the know-how on the wasp larvae, but decided that wasn’t my story to tell. “Huntsville ended up being a veritable treasure trove of resources. It’ll be a launch pad that extends our reach to encompass the other bluffs and wrangle more livestock. Mostly thanks to this,” I tapped the steel springs at my legs.

“Do the Ifrit use much steel? Or do you stick to brass?”

“We are familiar with steel, though we find it ill-suited to our purposes so we seldom trade for it. Copper and zinc are much more plentiful in near The City and brass is more malleable at lower temperatures. Our true forms adhere to zinc especially well, which makes brass ideal for our vessels.”

Taquoho lifted one of his vessel’s forelegs, waving it about as if to demonstrate. Several other Ifrit vessels of varying sizes scuttled about, investigating the smithing area. The igni stopped work to watch them, eyeing the little clockwork bodies as they stoked their forges with hammers close to hand incase the little spirits got a little too curious.

I approached Promo at his workstation, and he quickly made a show of shuffling papers around, but it wasn’t hard to tell that the whole charade was an effort to hide a piece of paper with little boxes on it. I sighed. Those canoneer comics were spreading.

“Boss! Good to see yeh, and yer, um, friends.” he caught sight of the humans and patted around behind him on the table until his fingers wrapped the familiar handle of his own hammer. “Big jobs, ain’t they?”

“Taquoho, this is Prometheus, the boss of my smiths.”

Taquoho performed a bow, spreading his forelegs. “Prometheus. I am humbled to meet you.”

“Call me Promo,” he said.

Taquoho tilted up toward me. “Familiar brevity!” he whispered.

One of the noblins squawked as an Ifrit vacated its vessel and flowed into one of the forge impellers, stoking the flame and nearly singing the ignis’ fur. Good thing they were resistant to heat damage. Others examined ceramic receives for unfinished rifles. I saw one gun cock itself and the hammer drop. Thankfully it hadn’t been loaded.

“I’d have your people be careful around those,” I said. “And refrain from possessing any of the ammunition. I wouldn’t want someone to set off a rockette by accident and get separated.” I considered for a moment as I pictured one of the fire spirits leaping into a basket of rockettes. “I have to ask, do Ifrit produce heat?”

“No more than you, yourself do,” said Taquoho. “The subtle fire of our beings consumes the magic substrate that infuses all things. It is an elegant way take sustenance. Unlike our paladin friends, and yourself, who must crudely masticate nutrients and cycle them through an excretory system.”

I wasn’t sure if I ought be offended that the Ifrit was appalled at the concept of digestion. I shrugged. “Goblin scat actually has quite a few applications, I’ve found. Like flying balloons, rocket fuel, and blasting powder.” I scratched the top of my head. “I had hoped you brought canvas along so that I could start working on an airship or some wind power. I guess that project will have to wait.”

One of the Ifrit near Promo’s workstation flared blue, and then a shade of light pink.

Taquoho straightened and observed, shifting his own hue from a pale blue to a shade of orange, violet, and then back to blue. He turned to me (though I couldn’t tell his vessel’s front from its back if you held an RPP to my head).

“Basha Delton Rathraha Ithius Fayad wishes to know, what is the purpose of the angular shaft with the rounded triangular plate?”

“Ah,” I said, moving over to inspect it. “Promo, you should have told me it was ready,” I said.

“Din’ want to be rude, King,” said Prometheus. “Do yeh like it?”

I picked up the rotor for the prototype engine with the small offset shaft that would make up the core of the engine. It was… surprisingly accurate, for goblin work. I glanced down at the desk, where Luther’s first canon build manual for the Church of the Right Angle showed the ordained dimensions for the prototype rotor.

I turned to the Ifrit who had asked the colorful question. “This, erm,” I thought hard for a moment. “Baderaithifa,”

The Ifrit in question, and several others, flared at the mention of its shortened name. I didn’t understand, as I’d made a mental note to make sure I caught all the first syllables. Taquoho waved his forelegs frantically. “Please do not shorten Basha Delton Rathraha Ithius Fayad’s name! You are not yet familiar enough with them, nor are several others in our company. This is offensive to their union.”

“Oh,” I said. “Isn’t that your custom?”

“It is my custom,” said Taquoho, “Based on this union’s dealings with outsiders and their needs for brevity.”

 I bowed. “My apologies.”

The Ifrit seemed placated for the moment, so I continued. “This is the next step in our technological progression: an internal combustion engine.” I looked at the rotor. “Well, technically this is just part of the engine. My chief engineer, Sally, has the outer shell. It still needs work, but we’ll be firing up the first prototype here in the next couple days once I’m convinced it won’t explode.”

“Your desire for caution is laudable,” said Taquoho. “May we see the ceramic kilns? And this prototype engine powered by internal flames?”

“Of course,” I said. I slung the rotor over my shoulder. “Promo, I’m taking this with me.”

“Give the engineers my best,” said the noblin chief.

I waved and led the party to the northeast corner, past the air traffic control tower and the landing strip. The strip had been cleared, with all the aicraft returned to Canaveral with enough goblins to fend off the lizards. We passed the paper press next, where fresh sheets were being pressed under flat stones and cut into sheets. Javier stood waiting nearby with the tribe’s only pair of metal shears, waiting to cut it.

“You have developed a paper process?” asked Taquoho.

“We have,” I said. “We’re not exactly hurting for timber, so the cast-offs can be pulped and pressed.” I pulled a fresh sheet off the stack. “I imagine you don’t get enough trees in the desert to make paper on the regular. If it’s something you’d be interested in trading for, we already have plans to set up another cask.”

Taquoho waved his leg dismissively. “The Ifrit keep no written records. Paper is for rich newcomers to fan themselves in the late summer.”

Hmm… “I bet I could give you a reason to want paper,” I said. “Give me two days.”

We moved on to the ceramics work spaces. Sally was overseeing one of the kilns firing being fired up, with a pair of noblins stoking the charcoal flames beneath the blower. I waved to her, and she caught side of the rotor in my hand and begin to chitter.

“You want to see how this fits in the outer case?” I asked.

She jumped up and down. I held out the triangular rotor. My chief engineer snatched it out of my hands and ran to compare it to the crank case. By divine providence, the two looked compatible.

“I’ll be damned,” I said, looking at the canoneer drawings on the bench nearby. I suppose divine providence wasn’t too far off. The new noblin variants were doing what I couldn’t: establishing and maintaining manufacturing standards. The would-be religious nuts might end up being more useful that I’d thought after all. “My new friends, you’re looking at the first prototype engine case and rotor. All it’s missing now is some spark plugs.

Taquoho approached the engine. A small lid on a reservoir concealed within his vessel slid open, and the formless fire slipped from the tiny spider-bot into my prototype engine.

“Fascinating!” his voice echoed from inside. “You say this will produce angular torque?”

“For the gliders, boats, tools, and other purposes.” I pressed my hands against one side of the case. “Hold the case together!” I called out. A few of the goblins dropped what they were working on and ran over, putting their weight into the two ceramic pieces to help me hold them together with the rotor in place. I knocked on the ceramic. “Taquoho, see if you can spin that rotor. It should have very little clearance

The metal scratched as it began to rotate, but it didn’t take long for it to slow again. Taquoho slid out of and exhaust port in the crank case and back into his walking vessel.

“I’m afraid it’s too heavy,” he said. “As I said, steel is difficult for us to move. Perhaps if it were zinc.”

I shook my head. “With the abuse this thing is going to take, I don’t think zinc is going to cut it. That’s alright. We have a liquid fuel we’re going to try.” I turned to Sally. “Seal it up. The Ifrit brought bolts to lock everything down. By tomorrow night, we should be ready for the first test-fire.

One of the other Ifrits flashed and chirped a series of musical notes.

Taquoho stretched his limbs out. “Behern Galt Muya pays you a compliment, and reminds me that it is time for our prayer. I look forward to seeing more of your artifice and beginning to incorporate your ceramic parts.” he sighed. “Would that I could look upon The City from one of your gliders, but alas the creatures in the deep desert would be quick to attack anything with wings.”

“The Ifrit observe a deity?”

Taquoho raised his leg in warning. “You should not ask about it. It is taboo for many unions to discuss it with anyone from outside The City.”

I nodded. “See no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil,”

“Just so,” said Taquoho. “Wise words. But it is missing the most crucial command of all.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Practice no evil.”

“Ah,” I said, running a hand through my fur. “I’ll have to consider adopting that one.”

Chapter 72  - Trinkets

<Your tribe has decreased to 246 members>

<Your tribe has increased to 268 members>

<Your tribe is consuming more food than it produces by a deficit of 11 chooms per day.>

<Goblin Technology Unlocked: Fire-wrought pulpers>

<Goblin Technology Unlocked: Flaming crane>

<Goblin Technology Unlocked: Forge spirits>

<Goblin Technology Unlocked…>

The next day I was awoken by frantic squawking and another hail of notifications. I brushed them aside and raced out to see that Ifrit had taken over one of the cranes and pulleys and were working the mechanisms. Others had settled into the gearing for the drop hammers, and yet another was roasting in the test balloon over the scat pile. Others were spinning augers, pottery wheels, or stoking forge bellows. The whole village looked to be possessed by pale blue sprites.

I relaxed. Armstrong ran up, rifle at the ready, fur matted from where he’d been sleeping. Becoming my body-guard had given him the benefit of being able to sleep and wake when I did, instead of being beholden to the typical hobgoblin hours. I waved him down. “It’s alright, Armstrong.”

Some of the tribe didn’t think so, but mostly they were amazed at tools suddenly moving by themselves. Most of them hadn’t been onboard the heavy glider when Taquoho took over controls from Eileen. I had to imagine she was sitting smug watching other goblins have their devices coopted.

The small spider bot I recognized as belonging to Taquoho scurried up. “I apologize for this,” he said. “My kin can be quite incorrigible.”

“It’s alright. I was hoping this would happen,” I said, laughing. “I wanted your Ifrit to integrate into the tribe, feel at home, and learn how to work with my tribe to get the most out of our engineering.” I watched a pair of goblins getting pulled along by the paper-pulper jig lines.

Taquoho worried the ground with his front two legs. “I suppose with your leave, it’s alright,” he said. Then he flared a moment, which I had to assume was the Ifrit version of clearing his throat. “We have unpacked much of the trade brought for you.”

“Lead the way!” I said.

Armstrong whistled for a few more bodyguards as we trotted to the Ifrit/human quarter of the bluff. Buzz had erected a few buildings that looked more accommodating to the human proportions, though it seemed like the paladins weren’t quite ready to trust my chief builder’s efforts just yet. They’d erected their own tent pavilions and cooking stations. It also seemed that not all my goblins held onto their innate fear of humans, because at least two cuddle puddles had made their way into the tents, settling onto the sleeping humans for warmth. The paladins seemed at a loss for how to deal with them.

A few Ifrit were present, as well. Some of them had abandoned their vessels for the light wraps Taquoho had used last time—the equivalent of using a pair of camp sandals after a long hike in boots, I suppose. I spotted at least one human thumbing through what looked like a blue-tinted paper brochure with hand-drawn art along side a pair of Ifrit in their light gauze getups and narrowed my eyes. Friggen canoneers.

The strange walking wagons had been unloaded. I spotted stacks of brass piping, crates of threaded bolts and associated tools (clearly meant to fit on Ifrit vessel connections), two brass casks, three barrels of coal, rods of copper, brass, and zinc, various rings and gears, their own versions of bearings. I also spotted spools of copper wiring, springs, more lodestones, and a variety of powder compounds I couldn’t identify at a glance. And some stacked canvas—which I realized had been the canvas covering the supplies on the wagons. Ironically, the simply canvas covers used to weatherproof and secure the cargo were perhaps the most important thing the Ifrit had brought.

I went and lifted the canvas, testing the weight and thickness. It was light and had a little bit of give, perfect for our needs. Then I moved on and took a look at the metal fixtures. There were a variety of arms, ball joints, sockets, connectors, hinges, flanges, brackets, and a lot of what would amount to cast-off in most workshops but was a goldmine here. Plenty of pipe-sections and joints filled one barrel, and I was sure I’d be able to find a use for them.

“Our friend Rufus is acquiring more sailcloth and other items from the coast for you, but I hope this offering demonstrates our good faith and interest in incorporating ceramics into our culture.”

It was the richest treasure trove I’d seen since coming to Rava. All the scraping and scrapping we’d had to do for a little metal, some sulfur, and some magnets and these guys had dumped a crate of it into my lap. I could have jumped for joy. I could have wept. And yet… something about their phrasing bothered me. Incorporating ceramics into our culture. Nothing about friendship, or alliance, or a relationship to tribe Apollo. Despite their presence here, they weren’t here for a goblin king or his enterprising tribe. They were here to further their own material sciences.

“Taquoho, you honor me,” I said.

The Ifrit vessel bowed. “The honor is mine, King Apollo.”

I whistled for the goblins in the human tents, and they came to wakefulness like a slow tide, if the water were furry and groaned and scratched its butt.

“Let’s go! We’ve got goods to distribute.” I pointed at the piles. My goblins’ ears perked up when they realized it was their king giving instructions. “Canvas to Javier, metals to Promo. Nuts, bolts, cogs, and springs to Sally. Nails and piping to Buzz. Let’s go, go, go!”

The goblins gained their energy back and swooped in on the goods like a pack of ravenous vultures. I’m surprised half the goods didn’t get destroyed before they made it out of eyesight. I watched them go.

“Quite industrious creatures. I never imagined…” said Taquoho.

“Well, they take after their king, I suppose.” I turned and faced the Ifrit. “The seals on the engine won’t be strong enough today so I’ve got some free time for an old idea I toyed around with for a design contest once. Why don’t you come find me after the eclipse. Until then, your people can get with Sally or Promo with designs for any ceramic parts you want.”

“As you say, King Apollo,” said Taquoho, bowing. He waved a foreleg goodbye

I trotted off, trying not to let my shock and glee show. The treasure he’d just dropped at my feet, all for a few chooms of crude industrial ceramics. And for the first time in what felt like weeks, the Sword of Damocles that was the javeline wasn’t hoving inches above the back of my neck. Though how long had I been here? The moon on Rava was tidally locked, so I had no way of knowing whether a month had passed without counting individual days, and the thought hadn’t even occurred to me while flitting from one crisis to another. Did Rava even observe a custom of discrete months? Never mind that.

Today, I had time to tinker. I looked up at the skyline of the village and the self-moving artifice that scraped the rooftops. knew why the Ifrit had chosen the cranes, the drop hammers, and the balloons. Their squat walkers were stuck close to the earth. They wanted a better view.

Well, I had the means to give them one they’d never want to give up.

Chapter 73 - Coaxial Motivation

They say idle hands are the devils playthings, so I put mine to work in the engineering quarter on the northeast side of the village. I’d confiscated more of the noblin comics this morning—ones that appeared to depict me designing a divine rocket to smite the javeline—a very different sequence of events than I remembered.

The nice thing about paper is that it’s light, even if it’s not very strong. But I didn’t need it to be.

The brass parts from the Ifrit had included several globular and cylindrical vessels I had to imagine were originally designed to hold Ifrit. Looking close, every piece of metal had been inlaid with geometric patterns or designs, all of it possessing some form of radial symmetry. That must have been what passed for fashion among the fire elementals. I selected a light bottle, and then took some copper rings, a handful of brass gears and rods, and went to work.

Drones had been the new hotness back on Earth. Devices with four or eight motors dominated college robotics labs and flying fields—and with good reason. They were cheap, had easily replaceable parts, and lithium batteries came in all shapes and sizes. But what they weren’t, was efficient. Aerodynamically, they were about as wasteful as a design could get—four motors, four small props working double-time to make up for a lack of surface area and wingtip vortices, and no swashplate like a helicopter for directional control meant motors had to accelerate or decelerate to change pitch or heading.

A swashplate is what makes a helicopter a helicopter—IE: an abomination unto aviation, unlike a much more more reasonable fixed wing aircraft. In a nutshell, the swashplate converts stationary control inputs into outputs on a rotating plane. It’s a way to have the helicopter blades pitch up when they’re at the back of the aircraft for more lift and flatten out by the time they get to the front of the aircraft. That simple transition tilts the whole thing forward, and the helicopter is able to accelerate.

Granted, there’s a whole lot more advanced physics involved, like gyroscopic procession, blade flap, and yada yada boring helicopter stuff. Yawn. But the basic principle is, mechanically, not all that complex. A few push-pull rods, a pair of matched discs that move up and down, and some bearings to make it all smooth. I’d often wondered what you could accomplish with having a main rotor without a helicopter attached. You’d need a pretty advanced autopilot to be able to stabilize it.

Or, alternatively, a pilot able to intimately feel and understand the aircraft itself.

I went to work sketching designs and laying out parts. Then I started to tinker. The rings formed a central hub, from which the brass bottle hung. Above that, push-pull rods connected to a stationary plate, and a spinning plate above connected to a short rotor mast.

The Ifrit had given me all the brass tubing I needed, and a four-way connector made the base of the rotor head. Gearing let me create an assembly and bearings let me mount it with almost zero friction in the whole system. I had the frame nearly done and started folding paper over the rotor blade sections.

<Your tribe has decreased to 264 members>

I looked up as the sun passed behind Raphina’s closed eye. The daily eclipse, already. I blinked and looked around. An audience of both goblins and Ifrit had gathered, watching me work with interest. Even one of the canoneers madly scribbled something on a bit of paper. The only one not interested was Armstrong, who dozed in the corner, finding my inventions about as interesting as white bread when they didn’t go boom.

The Ifrit were here for ceramics. I had no illusions about that. Taquoho might personally have a passing curiosity as someone who found newcomers and their trinkets a novelty, but the other Ifrit weren’t interested in Apollo, goblin king and inventor. I had to give them something they couldn’t ignore. Clay and kilns would only take this relationship so far.

Taquoho was in a group of several larger Ifrit vessels, likely discussing what it was I was building—and I doubt it went missed that I was using primarily parts they had brought. It meant I was designing a device they could almost reproduce. But human know-how and goblin tech insanity was the missing puzzle piece. The Ifrit refused to speak to any goblins, choosing (or capable only) of communication through a mediator who I was beginning to realize did not actually have much pull within the greater Ifrit social structure by the way he bowed and supplicated to several of the others. Time to elevate his standing.

“Taquoho, I’ve got a gift for you,” I said.

Several of the Ifrit around the fiery translator flared various shades. The little spiderbot vessel skittered forward. “You should refrain from interrupting conversations between unions. Many among my kin find such things offensive.”

“So you don’t want what I’ve got to give you?”

tippy taps. “I did not say that, King Apollo! I only wish to help you navigate the complex social norms of my culture so that you don’t unintentionally offer insult. I’m very curious to see the artifice you’ve wrought. But…”

One of the larger proxies strode forward. It had master-work geometric patterns inlaid on the bronze parts, along with detailed jewel inlays at intervals that represented, as best I could tell, the fibonacci sequence. It flared a series of colors.

“Haut Voclai Behen Mira Do is the ranking member of the delegation, here. Gifts should be offered to his union, and he may distribute them among the Ifrit if he sees fit to do so.”

I looked at the gaudy vessel. Clearly any gifts offered to the ‘ranking member’ would stay squarely in his… claws? Spikes? Never mind. He didn’t even know what it was, and yet he’d take it away from Taquoho just to swing his weight around.

The Ifrit in question stepped forward, ready to receive the gift.

Wasn’t happening. “Ah. Well, please inform Mr. Haut Voclai Behen Mira Do that this isn’t a gift for the Ifrit delegation. It’s a gift for my friend, Taquoho, with whom I share familiar brevity. I find attempts to diminish that distinction crude and reductive.”

“King Apollo!”

So be it. I continued. “Now, Taquoho, where I come from it’s considered rude to keep a host waiting when they offer a ride to their guest.”

“A ride?” asked Taquoho? He inched closer. “This is some sort of new vessel? The legs don’t look to be articulate.”

“They don’t need to be. It doesn’t walk. Take it for a spin.”

The lid on the reservoir in Taquoho’s vessel slid open, and a small cyclone of flames streamed from one vessel to another. The pale blue fire tucked itself into the brass bottle build into my newest device, and then spread over the assembly above.

“Zinc paddles and reciprocators. Married plates on bearings moving on three axis. This part… freely rotating. This is like the device you were testing when last I arrived. Yet… it is designed for one of my kind.”

“Is this one too heavy for you?”

By way of answer, the blades began to spin. I’d designed a stacked set of coaxial, counter-rotating blades to eliminate the counter-torque problem. Without an engine to speak of, the only noise it made on the smooth greased bearings was the air being displaced. Taquoho raised the swashplate a hair and the individual blades took an angle. The vessel tipped to one side, but the Ifrit caught it and tilted the rotor the opposite way until it leveled out. Then it raised the pitch higher and slowly lifted into the air off only the power of the Ifrit itself.

<Goblin Technology Unlocked: Fire fliers>

<Goblin Technology Unlocked: Pulpy props>

<Goblin Technology Unlocked: Brassy bodies>

<Goblin Component Technology Unlocked: Push-pull ‘ems>

<Goblin Component Technology Unlocked: Coaxial spin ‘ems>

<Goblin Component Technology Unlocked: Swashy bucklers>

The device was so light that the blades didn’t really need to move incredibly fast to leave the ground. The paper-covered wings offered very little durability for harsh aerodynamic conditions or crashes but were very efficient in their thrust-to-weight ratios at small scale, which was something a device like this needed.

Taquoho lifted himself above head level, and then clear of the structures. He got the hang of it quickly, thanks to his innate feeling for devices Ifrit possessed. I’ve been told that hovering is the hardest part of flying a helicopter, sometimes taking a week or more for a new pilot to manage. But Taquoho acted like he was born in the cockpit when he drifted around in a lazy circle, seeing the village from the air.

He dropped back down, arresting his fall with a quick pull of pitch on his rotors, which scattered a half-dozen sheets of paper from my workbench that a few of the Ifrit were quick to chase after. Probably hoping to glimpse the designs for this new flying vessel. Good luck with that, since those sheets were just the leftover comics that I’d used to paper the rotor blades.

Taquoho didn’t land, but instead hovered just out of reach. “King Apollo, I thank you for this gift and opportunity. I’m sure other members of the delegation would also appreciate gifts such as these, if such is your inclination.”

Unsurprisingly, Haughty Vocal Bear Mirror Do, or whatever his name actually was, stepped forward. He spoke in a voice, much more scratchy and crackling than Taquoho’s, and clearly less practiced in conversing with non-Ifrit.

“Give gift vessel.”

I looked across at the Ifrit. “If other members of the delegation are interested in receiving such gifts, then I suggest they consider forming friendships with other goblins capable of offering them,” I replied, offering a grin. “This was, after all, a gesture of just that. Friendship.”

With no ulterior motive whatsoever.

Chapter 74 - Turned Over

Once Taquoho descended low enough to actually translate my words, I’m sure it wasn’t lost on the Ifrit that, if they wanted similar treatment, they would have to learn to communicate with words, befriend goblins, and earn their favor. After all, every hobgoblin and noblin understood the fundamentals of flight thanks to the quasi-gestalt nature of the Goblin Tech Tree.

With one swoop, I’d turned them from obstacles to goals in their own right and given more Ifrit a reason to leave their xenophobia at the door. Sustained flight is a powerful motivator. Sure, an Ifrit could copy the design, and probably even improve on it. But I’m betting it would lack that Goblin Tech Tree special sauce that greased the applied sciences on Rava. Gliders and coaxial Ifrit vessels were, for the moment, a monopoly of Tribe Apollo. And soon, we’d have another.

I checked on the engine seals for our first rotary engine and found that they had cured enough for a test, and that the single rotor design with pinion gear translating torque properly to the eccentric shaft, which serves a similar function to the cam shaft in a piston-driven engine. Normally an engine would have multiple rotors applying energy to the eccentric shaft (called so because it’s got offset lobes to make up for the way the rotors spin unevenly in the housing). But iron was short around here, so our first engine would only have one rotor, fed by a bladder of oil from the bog springs.

There’s a lot of advantages to rotary engines that made them ideal for material-starved goblins. They could be built small and light, they had only a handful of moving parts, and they could burn the gnarliest, filthiest crud-laden bunker fuel mixes. I pegged the bog oil at somewhere between the next best thing to crude oil and kerosene, which meant a rotary engine should gobble it up and come back for seconds.

If they’re so great, why aren’t they more popular, you might ask.

Well, just like my first roommate in undergrad, they’re weird and a bit gross. It’s tough to get their output clean enough to pass emissions standards without reducing the output below a useful level or making the engine prohibitively expensive. Luckily, I’d not yet encountered Rava’s version of the EPA. It was time to get our rotary on.

I watched Sally get the engine bolted to the test block with brass bolts the Ifrit had supplied, while two wranglers came up with the custom spark plugs held at arms length as they cracked and popped. What they really were, was small ceramic jars with a pair of tesla wasps inside, ornery and sparking. The bog had supplied everything we really needed to create an engine. Ringo didn’t know the goldmine upon which he sat. He had been using the slick-sheen to oil to grease down his hair when I’d met him. He was lucky he hadn’t gone up like a chimney when I pulled my escape.

The engineers took the plugs from the wranglers and fitted them to the side of the engine casing. The pops and snaps grew muted. With the business end of the tesla plugs pointed toward something inert, Sally herself brought up the bladder of fuel. And, fun fact, it was an actual bladder from some poor creature. I fitted it to the valve on the fuel intake and gave a little squirt to make sure the flow was good.

“Promo!” I called. The burly noblin trundled up with a leather band that he wrapped around the shaft of the motor. Our throttle was just a simple brass wrench the Ifrit had given us, connected to another valve. I pulled on it to open it up.

“Ready, boss,” said Promo.

“Pull it!”

The noblin chief yanked on the leather band, spinning the shaft, and with it, the rotor.

Pop.

A tiny puff of smoke came out the exhaust port and the engine went still.

Prometheus leaned down and looked at it. “What went wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said, practically giddy. “It turned over first try!”

I flipped the fuel valve choke to on and had Promo repeat the process until it popped again to clear the fuel left in the system. Then I gave it slightly less fuel.

I learned a lot about small engines when I’d gotten my motorcycle—a hunk-of-junk old Triumph that had been neglected by the first owner. It wasn’t a rotary engine, of course, but most of the principles were the same. The hardest part is getting the fuel-air mix right. Too much fuel meant not enough air. I needed to lean the mixture.

Unless you want to give it to me based on theory, I suggested. It did turn over, after all.

<Practical applications only.>

Stingy system. I gave the nod to Promo, who took the belt again. This time, when he yanked it, nothing happened.

I frowned. “Hmm. Armstrong?”

“Yeah boss?” my bodyguard asked.

“Help him out, put those muscles to use.”

Armstrong flexed his arms and cracked his knuckles, strutting over to the eccentric shaft and taking the belt. Despite noblins being bigger, hobgoblins were still stronger. It seemed like noblins were more suited to cerebral pursuits while hobgoblins tended to be more physically skilled variants. He let out a grunt and yanked on it, and I heard the wood of the stump strain under the mounting bolts.

Pop, pop.

Closer. But we needed more torque on the shaft. At the flying field I’d seen more than a few old timers hand-start their planes, be it via strap, hand-held starter, or just grabbing the tip and whipping the thing down. Seen a few broken fingers, too.

I had a second belt brought up, and this time Promo and Armstrong stood on opposite sides of the engine and yanked at the same time. Unfortunately, I’d been fiddling with the engine and didn’t realize they’d wrapped in opposed directions, so all that happened was they both slipped and bonked their skulls on the shaft.

Once the two knuckleheads got that issue sorted out, and I doublechecked to make sure they were spinning the rotor in the right direction, I had them try again.

Pop pop pop POP POP pop pop… pop.

I moved the throttle, trying to give it enough fuel, but it still just didn’t have the initial gusto with only goblin muscle. I could tie a longer band around it and have a few goblins take a swan dive off the bluff, but we weren’t going to be able to rely on blue fuzzy counterweights every time we wanted to crank an engine up to idle. A decent chunk of the crowd started to disperse, interest waning. But Taquoho hovered nearby in his new ultralight helicopter vessel. He’d been flying around in it almost since I’d given it to him, with only brief breaks to rest. He’d been a right menace with the thing, flying all around the bluff.

“I’m not sure what the issue is from out here. Would you like me to investigate from within?” he asked.

I cocked my head. “Would that be alright? I don’t want to put you at any risk.”

By way of answer, Taquoho touched down and slid from one device to the other, infusing the rotary engine with a pale blue flame. We went through the startup procedure again, getting a handful of pops.

“I’m afraid I’m not an expert at this manner of artifice,” said Taquoho. His voice came out the exhaust port. “But it seems that the angular piece is struggling to gain enough speed from the expansion of hot gasses to sufficiently sustain the cycle.”

“Yeah,” I sighed. “That’s what I figured.”

Armstrong and Promo were huffing and puffing after their multiple attempts. Even with two strong variants working together, it was looking like just like with the early attempts at a pedal-powered glider, goblin muscle just wasn’t up to the task. Even Armstrong was probably only matched in strength to maybe a 12-year old boy, and he was the strongest goblin in the entire tribe. And when I was 12, I’d had a hell of a time trying to pull-start our push mower. This this rotary getup wasn’t nearly as well refined as a gas mower engine. I kicked the stump in frustration. What I wouldn’t give for a battery-powered starter. But turning our raw materials into a battery and brushed motor was, if anything, a more time-consuming task than just figuring out the solution.

Taquoho streamed out from the exhaust port and back into his little aircraft, as though worried one of his kin might steal it if he left it idle too long. The blades began to spin, and after a moment to gain momentum, he was off the ground again. I watched him climb into the air. At least something had worked today.

I had worried that the static friction of his rotors would be too much to overcome. I’d considered co-opting an old mid-1900’s design from before they really got helicopters figured out and most people thought auto-gyros were the future of rotary aviation. There’d been one design in my history of aviation class that was really ridiculous. Instead of power from a central hub, the static friction had been overcome by…

Huh…

It had been overcome by rockets.