Out of the Forge

Marek frowned as he ran his fingers back and forth over a rough spot on the cylindrical hilt in his hands. He grabbed the requisition form and sighed. His frown deepened as he searched for the name of the technician assigned to the order. He muttered a mouthful of curses as he got up from his desk, hilt still in hand, and made his way over to one of scores of workstations in the smallish Citadel weapons Forge.

“If you’re here about the Phantasm Mk. 2 from last night, I don’t wanna hear it. That hilt was defective out of the press and we don’t have any others on standby.” Bogden didn’t even turn to acknowledge Marek. He had another hilt on his desk, its maintenance panel wide open as he did a repair on the crystal matrix in the base of the hilt.

“It’s for a Master. It’s not some Initiate’s graduation hilt.”

Bogden shrugged. “Maybe you can go back in time and tell the press that. This is for a master, too. We tell them over and over to maintain the seals but do they? No. Then they storm in here and Tyera is all apologies. ‘I’m terribly sorry you fried your hilt through your own stupidity. Don’t worry, Bogden doesn’t have a thousand orders to fulfill or another hundred repairs to get to. He’ll drop whatever he’s doing right now and have it fixed for you before you finish your tea.’ I’d like to see her repair a matrix in under an hour. And then comes my good friend Marek. ‘Bogden, there's a two micrometer square rough spot on a hilt for some nobody librarian. Oh, it’s a manufacturing defect and not something you did? Well, be a good little smith and fix it anyway because it’s for a Master.’ Master this, Master that. I’m a Master Smith with twenty three years bench time but nobody makes any special considerations for ol’ Bogden, do they?”

Marek suppressed a sigh. “And I’ve been working in quality assurance and distribution for twelve of those years. How many times have we had this argument?”

“Math’s not too hard on that one. I’d say you come over here about twice a day to bother me with tedious nonsense. Twice a day, six days a week–because you can’t be bothered to be in here for a seventh–for twelve years … I’d say we’re right under five hundred. BUT, sometimes you show up a third time, so let’s just call it an even five.”

“Let’s say that number is correct-”

‘Yes, let’s say true things are true.”

“In those five hundred conversations, how many times did you end up just doing what I needed you to do at the end?”

“Four-hundred-ninety-three.”

“And the other seven?”

“In those cases, unfortunately, the wielders … returned to the Shroud before we could get their hilts back to them.”

“Unfortunate indeed, but it occurs to me … if you’ve ended up just going along with what I want every time–barring the death of a hilt’s owner–why do we have to debate every single case? Wouldn’t it be quicker to just take the hilt back and do the repair? I won’t even care if you pawn it off on some journeyman or apprentice as long as it comes back to the Distro Shop in good working order and ready for approval.”

Bogden threw his head back and laughed. “People never understand each other. That’s why I like machines more. Circuits make sense.”

Marek prepared for another of Bogden’s great disquisitions.

“For twelve years we’ve been working side by side. We talk every day–that you bother to show up–and you still have no idea why we always do this when you come over here. I think there’s a great deal to be said about that. It’s the culture that’s gotten away from us, when you get right down to it.”

“I couldn’t agree more. In the spirit of getting right down to it, why don’t you just tell me what you’re getting at so I can learn my lesson from the wizened sage and get back to my desk. I have about a hundred more hilts to inspect today.” If the day kept up like this he would be staying late, again, but the work would be finished on schedule–before, if at all possible, and he thought it was.

The buzzer clipped to Marek’s chest pulsed and beeped out a bright little melody.

“That’ll be Tyera.” Marek turned to go, hilt still in hand, wondering if he might not just toss it on some apprentice’s desk on his way to the Grandmaster’s office and let the chips fall where they may. Before he could step away from Bogden’s desk, a powerful hand gripped him firmly by the wrist.

“Might be in there a while.” Bodgen said, as he took the hilt from Marek. “May not have time to find someone else to dump this off on after you get done with her.” He sighed and shook his head in mock exasperation. “You owe me. Again. This time I expect something really good, since you’re a good ten favors in the hole.”

Marek only nodded and smiled in reply. He made his way quickly to the far corner of the shop and up two flights of stairs to Tyera’s office, where he knocked and waited, puzzling over what it was she wanted this time. She’d never been overbearing as the Grandmaster of their Forge, and she certainly didn’t micro-manage the people under her, but she did make a lot of promises to a plethora of important people–in and out of their Citadel–and she generally expected her subordinates to find ways to fulfill those promises, even when they bordered on the miraculous. He’d fulfilled several such promises on her behalf. All of them that she’d given him, in fact. That’d led to the unfortunate situation of him being tasked with more and more impossible things to do on behalf of the Grandmaster. Part of him didn’t mind the prestige of being something of a right hand man to Tyera, but the rest of him–which was the chief part–minded very much the increasingly frequent distractions to his main work; work he enjoyed.

A click and hiss let him know that Tyeara had opened the door for him with the switch under her desk–one of the favors Bogden had performed for her before Marek’s time in the Forge. He stepped forward into her office as the door slid smoothly in the wall and then took a seat as it closed behind him.

“Thank you for coming so quickly. I know things are a bit hectic since the Council decided to sync all the Citadel graduations for the quadrant.”

“All hilts should be distributed before deadline.” He knew that wasn’t what she wanted. If she wanted to know how things were proceeding, she could check a hundred different charts and graphs showing everything from overall Forge production and distribution to the average time it took a specific apprentice technician to install a crystal matrix in a newly Forged hilt.

“You’ve done very well in your time here, Marek. Have you ever thought about putting your skills to work outside the Forge you apprenticed in before you graduated the academy?”

“I think about it every time there’s a graduation–synced for the whole quadrant, or not–but who would replace me in the Distro Shop? Gamede and Polk are excellent supervisors, but … I would be reluctant to have them go out on the floor and trifle with the smiths. Especially some of the Masters.”

“You’re worried Bogden will run them right out of the Forge?” Tyera replied, an amused smile playing on her lips.

“I’m worried Tippet or Castleon might run them out of the Forge. The worst Bogden will do to either of them is talk them nearly to death for an hour and send them back to the shop forlorn. Which, in my opinion, is a rite of passage for anyone who has to deal with Bogden while he’s in the mood to talk.”

“When is he not?”

“So, you understand exactly what I mean.”

Tyeara and Marek laughed together.

“Besides,” Marek continued. “I don’t know of anyone in the Distro Shop that I would trust with your special assignments. Again, they’re all good checkers, some of them might even be excellent someday soon, but I don’t have anyone with more than four years experience, and no one who understands the politics of the Forge well enough to know who they can push and who to steer clear of. We all stay shut up in our own little world. I think I’m about the only one of us that any of the technicians recognize and it’s probably better to keep it that way.”

“That may all be, but, if you had to choose.”

“You know I hate hypotheticals.”

“Suit yourself. Let’s take it out of the realm of the hypothetical. Who are you recommending to replace you? Effective immediately.”

Marek laughed aloud but stopped when he noticed Tyeara wasn’t laughing.

“You’re serious?”

“I wish I wasn’t, but I am. You said Gamede and Polk are your two best. Was that just generous talk because you thought this was purely hypothetical, or did you mean it?”

Marek thought for a few seconds. Not about whether they were his two best. He knew that. He was surprised she hadn’t learned by now that he wasn’t one for what she called generous talk. He said what he meant and meant the things he said. Sure, he could joke. He wasn’t devoid of humor and sarcasm, but he obviously hadn’t been joking or sarcastic when he told her what he thought of his subordinates. Instead, he was trying to figure out something he could say or do to avoid the rest of the unpleasantness he was about to experience. If he wasn’t mistaken he was being reassigned. There wasn’t anything he–or any of his underlings, for that matter–had done that he imagined would justify such an action without even talking to him beforehand. That meant it probably wasn’t coming from Tyeara, and may not even be in her power. He wondered if she was as bothered by his removal as he was. Of course not. People never cared about your career or its prospects as long as theirs remained promising.

“It would’ve been nice to have my transfer discussed with me. Even if just out of courtesy.”

“What do you think we’re doing now?”

Marek smiled bitterly at that. He wanted to lash out at the Grandmaster, but he knew that wouldn’t be any more fair to her than what was being done to him.

“It should be Gamede, but he probably won’t accept it. If he refuses, give it to Polk. Whether he’s ‘in charge’ or not, Gamede will do whatever he can to make sure things run smoothly and stay on schedule and Polk is thorough, if not always as time conscious as I’d like her to be.”

“I’ll keep all of that in mind, thank you.”

“Of course. I suppose this is the part where you tell me where I’m being sent, if not what I did to be banished from this Citadel.”

“Oh please. Being sent? Banished? You could’ve been a Grief or Disappointment Auron with all your melodrama, Marek. Are they sure your Aura is really Vigilance?”

“I ask myself that every day.” Marek sighed. “Can you please just tell me where I’m going? What I might be expected to do when I arrive would be nice info to have, as well, if you have it to give.”

“As much as I’d love to, Gondo didn’t bother telling me. I imagine he knew I would blab to you before you got to his office and he wouldn’t be able to do the honors himself. You know how he loves to give out what he thinks is good news.”

“And you don’t think it’s good news? Even though you don’t know what it is?”

“To me, nothing that takes you out of my Forge is good news. But I’m just a lowly Grandmaster, what can I do in the face of the Overseer?”

Marek stood and extended his hand over the desk between them. Tyera shook his hand warmly and they said a few more niceties to each other before he left her office and made his way to the Overseer for further explanation.

###

Marek could hear Gondo’s smile when he clapped him on the back and ushered him into his cramped office. Marek was sure he must have another one that wasn’t so much like a broom closet. Once they were settled into seats so close their knees touched, Gondo grabbed onto one of his hands and started speaking almost at a whisper.

“I bet you didn’t think this day would come so soon, eh?” He was almost giggling. Marek started to wonder if he was in bed with a high fever. That’s what today must be. A hallucination. A fever dream.

“Ah, yes, I’m … delighted by whatever opportunity to serve the Order awaits me. Although, if I’m being honest, I would very much like to stay in the Forge here, if that’s in any way an option.”

“Bah!” Gondo let go of Marek’s hand and leaned back so that their knees almost stopped touching. “Waste of your time and talents. Not to mention you can’t stay under Tyera as a Grandmaster. Just not possible, I’m afraid.”

Grandmaster. The word set off alarm bells in Marek’s skull. He was nowhere near old or experienced enough for that title. He’d known Grandmasters that had seemed to be buffoons, but he never thought he’d be one of them. He’d simply turn it down. Could he? The only way to know was to try.

“I’m honored, Overseer, truly honored, but I’m afraid I must point out my lack of qualifications.” Marek was about to go on when something struck him. Was he being sent away from the Forge? Or was Tyeara? That would be even worse. “Under no circumstances should I be put in charge of the Forge.”

“Oh? Do go on, Marek.”

“Tyera is an excellent Grandmaster Smith. I only have two years of bench time outside the Distro Shop that I currently run. I’m no slouch, but it’d be insane to replace her.”

Gondo grabbed onto his hands and squeezed hard. “Quite insane!” He laughed almost right in Marek’s face. “I’ll make sure to tell her that you said that, or you can yourself, if you want, though the trip from the Codexys to the Forge is a bit of a walk, if I remember correctly. Haven’t done it myself in years. It’s hard enough just to get out of the central spire once you get to the top of it, if you know what I mean.”

So, not being banished from the Citadel. Something worse.

“I’m sorry, did you say Codexys?”

“Of course. You're the new head of Clerical Quality. The scribes have really gotten lax lately and we need someone to tighten things up over there. Evonyx requested you by name and Tyeara said she had full confidence in your abilities when we asked her about it.”

The rest of the conversation was a blur. Something about being fitted for Grandmaster’s robes and heading over to the Codexys immediately to have his biometric data entered into the system.

Next thing he knew, he was there. His palms were scanned and hair and blood samples were taken as he sat in a daze in their small infirmary. Retina scans took longer and a special tech had to come recalibrate the machine for him, but that was fine. The longer this took the longer he was safe from really having to enter the Codexys proper. Maybe this was all a fever dream. Maybe he would wake up soon and have a good laugh with Bogden about this in the Forge. He finally came out of his mental fog when he was meeting with the Curator.

“I know this must come as something of a shock to you. If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t request your immediate transfer. I would’ve been happy to let you finish out whatever you were working on in the Forge before you made the transition.”

“Thank you, Curator. Truth be told, I don’t exactly know why I’m here. To be a Grandmaster over other librarians seems rather strange when I’m just starting out in the field.”

“Just over scribes, if that makes you feel any better. Though, if you knew anything about what that meant it probably wouldn’t. I don’t need you to be a Master Librarian. I just need someone thorough who can check through transcriptions and ensure their accuracy. Tyeara said you’re nothing if not thorough.”

He tried a dozen times to explain that this was a terrible idea but the Curator was having none of it and rebuffed him with empty reassurances at every turn until he surrendered and agreed to report to his new post in the morning.

He met Bogden at the smith’s favorite pub after. He knew the man would enjoy the bitter irony of the whole situation and might even consider the tale some payback for the debt of favors between them.

Bogden was delighted by the mad twist of his friend’s fate and clapped him on the back before shouting. “Another round for my friend, the Citadel’s first blind librarian!”