It was dark when the last muzzle flash coming from the Presidential Mansion’s courtyard could be seen. The shot was taken from the carbine by the president. Crystal Miner had let him use the carbine when the first rays of the sun had begun to disappear; and it had not seemed like the president had noticed, or had cared, about the loose sight.
When the plates had been obliterated, and when the pieces of sheet metal had been riddled with so many holes that not even Crystal Miner could conceive of how they still managed to hold together, they had turned their attention to the leaves and the bark of the hedge. The two of them laughed simultaneously when they saw the wood splinter in all directions and when one of them managed to blow one of the large leafs clean from its stem. Amazingly, in all the cacophony and the ceaseless sound of exploding gunpowder and moving levers, nopony had been hurt by any capriciously put round, for the president had made his views on the boundaries of the range clear when he had stopped Crystal Miner from turning around and taking aim at a pigeon that had been startled when a bullet had ripped through the folds of its tree.
Shortly after Princess Luna had left, Vice Director Ripples had laid her back down on the grass and shut her eyes. Her initial attempts at repose had been ruined by the laughter, the cheers, and the shots regarding whatever wager the president had had with Crystal Miner; but, eventually, she had found herself able to fall asleep—even the loudest of sounds fade into the background if they are maintained consistently and for a sufficient length of time.
Enforcer had managed to go after Princess Luna, and nopony had realized his absence.
“Well, Ms. Vice Director?” June Ripples heard a voice right above her head.
She opened her eyes, and when she saw two figures standing above her—one short silhouette that would have been invisible in the darkness had it not been for the fact that she saw it supporting the outline of a rifle against the dim clouds desperately struggling to retain the last of the light of day, and a taller, slenderer silhouette that had the shape of a creature of nightmares, serpentine and malformed, looking at her with eyes a faint yellow, through pupils that were a blood red—she sprang to her feet, dusted her coat off; and quickly fondled the chain of her pince-nez, dangling helplessly around her legs, until she had once again firmly settled them on her nose. “Yes, Mr. President?” she said.
“We are out of ammunition, thus concluding our demonstration. You’ve been here watching the entire thing. I presume that Mr. Miner has already showed you the drawings and explained how everything works, so you are now ready to pass judgment. Have you come to a decision?”
“Yes,” she responded immediately. And despite the fact that Crystal Miner heard none of those haughty and dogmatic tones that she had used earlier, it did not make him any less angry when he heard her say: “From a purely technical standpoint, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed by the rifle; however, the mechanical beauty of the design of the weapon is not necessarily directly proportional to its efficacy on the battlefield, and I see a lot of problems with it. For one thing, though the cartridge is certainly revolutionary, after watching you fumble them clumsily into the breech, I do not believe that loading this is any easier than loading the Trottingham.”
She heard a groan of exasperation in the semidarkness from the shorter figure, and she heard Crystal Miner saying: “Do I even need to begin to explain how much less dexterity, both magical and manual, loading my rifle takes compared to—”
“I am still talking, Mr. Miner; please don’t interrupt me. As I was saying, the inventor used the firing rate as one of the rifle’s selling points, but I believe it to be one of its drawbacks. I’ve been watching you load and fire, and I estimate that the rifle’s rate of fire is close to twenty rounds per minute; compare this rate to the Trottingham’s three per minute; account for the fact that the cartridge is brass, as opposed to paper; and you’ll see that firing this rifle for an hour is noticeably more expensive than firing the Trottingham. Now, I cannot put a price on the life of a single soldier of the Union Army, and if buying this rifle and its ammunition meant that I could save a single life, I would buy it now without hesitation; but because of the Trottingham’s three rounds per minute, a soldier is forced to take more care with his shots, and I fear if he was armed with this, that care would be thrown to the wind if this rifle is truly easier to reload, as you say—which I don’t believe it to be.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Crystal Miner. “First of all, you don’t even—”
“Oh, shut up!” said the president in a voice and with a spontaneity that caused Crystal Miner to jump back and the vice director to flinch. “Carry on, Ms. Vice Director.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. In addition, even though I, personally, am impressed by the technical nature of your rifle, as I said before, this new design raises problems that do not exist with the muzzle-loaders. The Trottingham, aside from the small hammer and trigger system, has absolutely no moving parts, while this ‘repeating rifle,’ by its very nature, has many. It is very rare for a Trottingham to jam. Even if your rifle did not jam once during this demonstration, today was a very dry, sunny day, and I suspect that there will be at least one more rainy and muddy battle in the days ahead of the Union Army, and I fear the repeating rifle will not be able to endure—unlike the Trottingham, which has demonstrated, time and time again, its reliability. And it is for these reasons that I’ve said that the government of the Union will not, at this time, purchase the Miner Repeating Rifle.”
She could hear the president humming thoughtfully to himself. “Is that all?” he said.
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Instantly, they heard: “May I respond?”
“Certainly,” said the president.
Crystal Miner took an angry breath. “Now, look here, you—” Suddenly, he stopped himself. They could hear him taking a step back, and they heard a deep breath preceded by a profound silence. “Look,” he said, at length, “I’m aware that my rifle has flaws; I’m not debating that. My rifle is not perfect by any stretch of the word. While it is true that it has drawbacks that are nonexistent with the Trottingham, the inverse is also true: The cartridges I’ve made are waterproof, unlike the paper ones. I imagine a soldier has dropped his cartridge box into a puddle on more than one occasion, ruining many of his shots. It’s true that my rifle has many moving parts; in fact, at one point, I had considered making the action of the lever also cock the hammer, but I had decided against it and made the cocking of the hammer a separate manual action, because I was afraid that you would say exactly as you said earlier. It still has a lot of moving parts; but, I assure you, I have done the calculations, and I have run stress tests—and I am confident that the rifle can stand up to a lot more than you believe. As I’ve said, there are drawbacks this has over the Trottingham, but it also has a lot of strengths over it as well—and I believe, very firmly, that the strengths overshadow those of the drawbacks. But, regardless, I . . . I accept and understand your decision.” He pinned his ears, bowed his head in deference, and walked over to his rucksack. He began to slowly pack up the assorted parts and scraps that were lying around it.
He turned and saw the president approach the vice director, and he knew they were talking about something, but they were too far away and their voices too quiet that he couldn’t hear them:
“Ms. Vice Director,” said the president, “answer me this one question: do you believe, truly believe, everything you just said?”
“Not only that, but more”—she leaned closer to him and dropped her voice to a whisper—“I failed to mention that we have a good relationship and discount with Stallion’s Arms, and I don’t want to ruin that.”
“Understandable,” he said, “but do you believe the rifle is meritless?”
“I do not believe it’s meritless; I believe that there is no place right now for it in the Union Army. That may change, in the future. But, as of now, almost all of our regiments are deployed, and the ones that remain cannot easily be retrained, nor would they accept eagerly such retraining.”
“Really? You mean to tell me that there is not a single individual that can be trained with the Miner? No recent graduates of basic training who could be issued the rifle for the sake of an army experiment?”
“None, as of the moment.”
“Why do I find that hard to believe?”
“It’s the truth, Mr. President.”
The president nodded. Then, turning to the darkness, he yelled: “Enforcer! Go up to my office and fetch the recruitment statistics for the Union Army!”
“Wait, wait!” exclaimed the vice director. “Now that I think about it, there’s one division about to graduate—three regiments, the One Hundredth, the one Hundred and First, and the One Hundred and Second Canterlot Volunteer Infantry Regiments.”
“How many strong?”
“Exactly thirteen thousand.”
“And could they not be issued the Miner Repeating Rifle?”
There was a silence, and the president could hear saliva sloshing around in the vice director’s mouth. “Well . . . Mr. President, you see—”
“I’m not asking for an army-wide adoption. I just want to conduct a test, an experiment. Is this possible?”
There was another silence as the vice director shifted the weight on her feet. “I . . . I suppose there wouldn’t be that much harm in that.”
“So, then, will you sign the approval for thirteen thousand Miner Rifles and fifty-eight million of its cartridges?”
“It’s not just me who has to approve,” she said. “General Sherbert technically has some say as to what is adopted and what is—”
“General Sherbert will do whatever I tell her to do,” the president snapped.
The vice director took a step back. “Yes . . . yes, of course, Mr. President. I’ll . . . I’ll contact you when the order is drawn up.” She curtseyed brusquely and walked—ran—toward the front gate of the Presidential Mansion.
Crystal Miner saw the hurried departure of the vice director and saw the president walking toward him. He stood up, pulled the grass out of his fur, and waited to receive him.
“Mr. President,” Crystal Miner began, “I’ve been thinking: it really was a stretch to expect my rifle to instantly be made standard-issue.”
“That it was,” he replied.
Crystal Miner pulled the barrel off the carbine, removed the magazine spring, and slid them both into a pocket on the rucksack. “Do you mind if I ask what she said to you?”
“This is what’s going to happen,” said the president, “an infantry division just graduated, and they will be outfitted with your rifle.”
Crystal Miner felt his muscles turn to ice, his horn burn with magma, and his packing instantly stopped. “Wha . . . what? How . . . how many is that?”
“Three regiments, thirteen thousand soldiers, who will need fifty eight million cartridges to start with. What’s the price on a single rifle and cartridge?”
“Why . . . why, I was intending to charge fifty-six grams of gold for the rifle and fifty eight milligrams per round, so if you want thirteen thousand rifles and fifty eight million cartridges, that’s . . .”
“It’s a little over four tons of gold.”
Crystal Miner turned so white that his pallor could be seen in the semidarkness. “Oh . . . I . . . I can’t believe—wait! No, I still have to rent factories, buy materials, hire workers; but, even after that, I still have—”
“But I forgot to mention that this deal was conditional.”
Crystal Miner blinked. “What condition is that?”
“It’s a very simple condition,” said the president. “I’m going to ask you a question, and how you answer it depends on whether the deal is made. If the government of the Union is going to purchase your rifle, then there is only one possible answer you can give: the truth.”
Crystal Miner took a deep breath, perked up his ears, and held his head straight. “And what is your question, Mr. President?”
The president stepped closer; and his voice dropped its loud, carefree tone and took on one so solemn and quiet that Crystal Miner had to lean his ear toward him to hear it. “You came into my office,” said the president, “and you said how you were outraged that your rifle wasn’t bought, when all you wanted to do was to serve your country. You then went on about your profession, for which you gave explanations that were not so consonant with what you said earlier. My question to you is this: is your intent purely and honestly to do nothing but serve the Union? For whom did you make the rifle and why?”
Crystal Miner opened his mouth and was about to say something when the president interjected: “Take a moment to think about it. I’m only going to give you the chance to answer once. And remember: your answer must be the truth.”
Crystal Miner stepped back and his eyes began to dart in circles—the exact same way they moved when he was writing down equations. In his mind’s eye, he could see the drawings he spent years perfecting. He remembered spending years chasing down the appropriate parts, talking to the right ponies, and finally finding the factory where he could assemble the first model. He remembered, as soon as the metal had cooled, the first time he slid the last part into the assembled product; and he was, once again, filled with that feeling of achievement. Then he remembered himself walking into the Department of Magic and Defense holding that rifle for which he felt the same love as if it were his child—and then he remembered watching it being twirled disrespectfully in the air by the vice director. And, at that moment, he winced as he felt the pain of his chin against the sidewalk outside the building.
He looked at the president. “Mr. President, I did not make the rifle for the Union. I lied when I said I could not stand by and watch the soldiers of the Union die because they didn’t have my rifle; that was my last concern when the rifle was refused. I made the rifle for myself, and only for myself. I wanted to watch a professional operate the rifle I had created and use it to place a shot that would not have been possible with another firearm; I wanted to watch him use something I created as naturally as he used a limb of his body. I wanted him to know who created it and why I felt the things I felt when I did so. When my rifle was rejected, I thought I was going to die from pain, for I couldn’t stand the thought that I would never see my rifle used the way I wanted it to be used. I did not work on this for five years in the service of any master; I am the master. I built the rifle with the intent of achieving my pleasure alone, and I regret that I tried to hide that by cowering under the pretense of a mindless social duty.”
Crystal Miner cringed, waiting for the president’s answer. Out of the slit of his eye, he could see the president bob his head slightly in comprehension. “Wait a few business days,” he heard the president say after an agonizing ten seconds, fiercely cutting the thick silence like a bullet. “You’ll receive a telegram with the order.
“Now,” the president quickly said, before Crystal Miner had enough time to react, “four tons sounds like a lot; but, after everything, like you said, you’ll find you’ll have a lot less than you’d like. Still, with what’s left over, you’ll have enough to start your own company. In addition, you’ll be authorized to deal directly with regiments of the Union Army; this means that you or your associates will be permitted to conduct trade with individual soldiers and company commanders. Any soldier that wants to buy your rifle and ammunition directly will be permitted to.”
Crystal Miner stepped forward. “Thank you, Mr. President,” he said, holding out a hoof.
The president grabbed it with his paw and shook it firmly. Suddenly, he did not seem to Crystal Miner so tall, so threatening, as he had been earlier—and as he still appeared to everypony else. He seemed that he was eager to listen, to understand, and trying to find something to admire. “Look, Mr. Miner—may I call thee ‘Crystal’?”
Crystal Miner laughed. “Yes, yes of course you may.”
“On a very personal level, Crystal, I want to say that I’m touched—not just by thy rifle—but thee in thyself. It’s been too long since I’ve seen such a mind pursue relentlessly what it wants, regardless of those who would say that it’s wrong. That passion is something that this world is devoid of, and when I see it now in thee, it reminds me that there is still something good in the world, and it helps me temporarily forget a great deal of . . . of some ideas that I’ve been trying to ignore, but which relentlessly keep coming back to me. I haven’t been able to fight these things for a long time, and I’ve had no choice but to let them overwhelm me. And while I’m certain they’re going win before long, my encounter with thee will certainly help what’s going to happen next easier; and when it happens, I will be thinking about this day, about thee, about the potential that could have been.”
“When what happens?” said Crystal Miner, with a sudden rising of tone, indicative of fear. “Mr. President, what are you talking about?”
“Never mind that. I’m saying that, until that happens, I will be the most fervid advocate of thee and thy rifle. I’m going to press for this for the Union Army as hard as I can. May I borrow the rifle just for a few weeks? I want to show it to the general of the Union Army. I promise thee, Crystal, that I’ll represent it as accurately to the best of my ability and in the same manner, same speech, and same thoroughness as thee.”
“Mr. President,” said Crystal Miner, “I want to you to have it, as a gift from me to you. It would be an honor to have the first Miner Repeating Rifle ever made, fired by the president himself, on display in the Presidential Mansion.”
“It goes against my morality to take something without compensation,” said the president. “But it’s also against my morality to refuse a present. I’ll take thy rifle, and I’ll consider it payment for the marble tile in my office that thou brokest.”
Crystal Miner blushed. “Oh . . . oh, that’s right. Sorry about that. I get worked up easily.”
“No matter. However, I do feel bad about using so much of thine ammunition. Along with the advance payment for the order—which is intended to be used by thee for obtaining the necessary factors of production to fill this order for the government of the Union—I will include a payment for the ammunition we’ve used.”
“Thank you, sir,” breathed Crystal Miner, slipping the rucksack over his shoulders. “Thank you.”
“No, thank thee. I’m more indebted to thee; thou broughtest a form of beauty to me—and not entirely by means of thy rifle—that I thought to be entirely gone in this world. I will not be able to make thee understand, but I feel that even if I were to replace every single weapon in the Union Army with a Miner Repeating Rifle, it wouldn’t repay the debt I feel owe thee. If there’s any way I can be of service to thee in the future, perhaps for a recommendation, a favor, an award, let me know immediately, and I will do what I can for thee immediately. Dost thou needest anything? A recommendation—a title?”
Crystal Miner’s eyes lit up. “‘Colleague of the Union’?” he answered, with a charmingly inquiring tone.
“Don’t push thy luck,” said the president, with ironic derision. “But that’s not a bad train of thought: Thou art definitely deserving of some moniker of recognition. I will give thee a title—a very personal title.”
“Not ‘Colleague of the Union’?”
“No. The title I want to give thee is much more personal, something of a significance that none will recognize or appreciate—save me, and possibly thee, depending on how observant thou art.”
“Sir, I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Well, I’ve only told one other this, strange as it is: I don’t think of others by their birth names. When I need to recall somepony, or when I see a face, the first thing that’s presented in my mind is a word or two, something I use as the placeholder for every single one of their describing features. The vice director, for example, is associated in my mind with the word ‘gray.’ When I think of the word ‘gray,’ I think of a tall auburn unicorn, pretentious, officious, with a pince-nez, the vice director of the Department, and she likes to be called ‘June Ripples.’ With the word ‘gray,’ I think of her birth name the same way I would think about the color of her fur. Understand?”
Crystal Miner grimaced skeptically. “‘Gray’? Why ‘gray’?”
“Why ‘gray,’ or why not her name, period? Thy guess is as good as mine.”
Crystal Miner smiled and nodded in the same manner as one would do when encountering a toothless beggar on the street who is asking for change. “Yes, Mr. President . . . I . . . I understand, I . . . suppose—but what does this have to do with me?”
“There’s something I’d like think of thee as; but this name, unlike most others that I give, requires the consent of the pony in question first.”
The president stood to his full height, the posture he normally used to intimidate others—but he gave none of his typical signs of hostility or censure; and Crystal Miner understood through something that he could not describe, through an unspoken feeling that seemed to dominate his consciousness, that the words that the president was going to say next deserved the utmost respect in themselves, in addition to the absolute integrity required by the recipient of them. “Do I have thy permission,” said the president said, at length, “to think of thee not as Crystal Miner, but as Aureax Ferri?”
Crystal Miner extended a hoof in incredulity. “‘Aureax Ferri?’” he repeated. “What does that mean?”
The president suddenly slouched again and stepped back. “Oh . . .” he stammered, “it means . . . it means—nothing. Nothing at all. Just a silly categorization system I have in my head. Pay it no mind.”
Crystal Miner shrugged. “If you say so, sir.”
The president was silent for a few seconds, as if he expected Crystal Miner to say something. “Well?” he finally said at length.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Do I have thy permission or not?”
“My permission for . . .” Crystal Miner scratched his head with a forehoof. “Oh, right. Sure, I don’t see why not.”
The president clasped his claw and paw together in delight. “Oh, thank thee!”
“You’re . . . welcome?” Crystal Miner said, slowly backpedaling toward the gate to the street—more importantly, away from the president.
“Leave thy rucksack and the carbine here,” said the president, before Crystal Miner had even managed to move a foot away. “I’ll have them delivered to thy residence. If thou continue to walk down the street while brandishing a fully loaded rifle, ponies will begin to get the wrong idea—few are as understanding as I am. Thou needst to exercise more prudence in the future.”
“I will, Mr. President,” replied Crystal Miner, dropping his backpack. “Thank you, again. I hope that this is not our last business dealing, and I look forward to our next one, whenever that may be.” Crystal Miner bowed.
The president said nothing, but he nodded in a gesture of farewell.
Crystal Miner took off at a steady trot toward the front gate. Every ten steps, he turned back to see the silhouette of the president still watching him, never moving from the stance in which Crystal Miner had left him. Eventually, the president’s outlined blurred with the surrounding hedges. At twenty yards, only the glowing yellow eyes with the red pupils, which seemed to have a light of their own, left any indication of the draconequus’s presence.
At fifty yards, Crystal Miner turned for the last time, and when he squinted, he could just barely make out the ever so faint red glow. He took one slow step back and saw the light blink out of existence, fading into the surrounding night and disappearing into the void—like the dying flicker of a coastline lighthouse whose beacon is shrouded by a fog and rendered useless by the oncoming storm, despite the intensity with which the light shines, and despite the despondent attempts of the keeper in his lost struggle to guide his ships safely home.
Crystal Miner sighed pensively and shook his head. Turning back toward the gate, he resumed his trot, and the memory of that strange creature and the foreboding notions that it had instantiated in his head were pushed out by the ego, now free to dominate his thoughts once again. “‘Crystal’s Contraptions Corporation,’” he said to himself. “No, no, ‘Miner’s Arms Manufacturing Company.’ Wait, perhaps I won’t want to be in arms forever. ‘Miner’s Machines’—no, no! ‘Miner’s Machinations.’ Yes, yes, that’s right. ‘Miner’s Machinations.’ It’s perfect.”
As he approached the tall, gilded gate, he laughed to himself. “Yes, ‘Miner’s Machinations.’ I am Crystal Miner, P. Eng., CEO of Miner’s Machinations Limited. I am the mover of metal, inventor of the Miner Repeating Rifle—why, yes, it is the standard-issue small arm of the Union Army! It was the rifle that crushed that rebellion all those years back. I am its inventor. Tolerance, Stallion, Galloping, Ranchard—and now Miner. That’s me. I am the driver of iron.”
He walked through the front gate and stopped on the sidewalk in front of it. There was not a soul in sight. He closed his eyes and let the cold night wind blow against his face, carrying away the heat built up from the past five years.
He looked at his watch; it was nine-thirty. He looked down the road and thought that if he hurried, he would be able to make it. He turned east and broke into a gallop, in the direction of the intellectual property office.
Crystal Miner raced through the deserted streets. In the light of the oil street lamps, his eyes twinkled with the anticipation of the future. The iron ring shone back in the solemn acceptance of a challenge.