Chapter 79 - Sequential Distribution

Armstrong nudged me as we walked out of the motorpool. “There’s always the…”

“No,” I said.

Armstrong groaned. “Aww, boss, I ain’t had nothing but bird bones and pulp-slurp for three days. I can’t believe yer savin’ all that good lizard meat for them scrawly nobbers.”

“Those scrawly nobblers need food for their mission,” I said. I walked to the northwest side of the village where the platform extended over the edge of the cliff. “Besides, the longer their mission, the less they’re here making those awful comics about me and Chuck.”

Armstrong guffawed. “Haw! You seen that one wot with’ him and you and the big fish, yet?”

“A long, long, mission,” I grounded out between clenched teeth.

“It’s histry, boss! It’s important.”

As cool as the bikes, trikes, and buggies were, this part of the bluff had been dedicated to the new pride and joy of Village Apollo: a powered wood and canvas airship. It would be kept aloft with canvas envelopes filled with air heated by burning scat, and we’d tested it with 12 goblins. On the back, it had two gas engines with paper-covered props. Two heavy slingers on each side and an armory of rifles would protect it from night haunts. Soon it would be loaded with food and crew and sent northeast, to scout bluffs and see if any goblins were left after the javeline raids.

I would have liked to hop on and join the expedition. But I’d already needed to be taught too many times that a goblin king’s place is surrounded by his people. I’d go to the savannah and the badlands, instead, with Neil and Chuck and Armstrong all able to watch out for me along with as many other goblins as the rigs could carry and still move. And I wouldn’t be climbing any signal balloons by my lonesome this time, either. If I’d learned one thing from King Ringo, it was that a goblin king doesn’t fly solo.

I approached the first prototype airship (Well, air boat, really), already floating against its restraints as some of Eileen’s pilots carefully managed the scat burners under the envelope. What would have taken a thousand lizard skins was being done with canvas the Ifrit had been using to cover their wagons. It really struck me again just how starved we were for ordinary composite materials like textiles. At the back of the ship, the first engine was being fitted with its propeller shaft. The airship was getting the lightest engines we had—lighter even than the ones going on the two-wheeled bikes. It still had to be able to fly, which meant every ounce counted.

Why couldn’t the canoneers have at least been regular goblins? I watched as my portly noblin chief, Luther, argued with the engineers. I came close enough to catch the tail end of the conversation—which involved Luther shouting, while the nonverbal engineer chittering away and making rude gestures.

“What’s the problem?” I asked.

“Ah, King Apollo,” said Luther, turning my way and making the circle sign over his head. Despite their argument, the engineer made it too. And yes, if you’re wondering, the irony of the Church of the Right Angle’s holy sign being a circle was not lost on me. “I’m trying to make sure there is space allotted for icons of your highness.”

“Icons?” I said.

Luther gestured behind him, where two more of his canoneers worked at what appeared to be a clay statue of, erm, epic proportions. I approached it, looking up at the crown. “Is that supposed to be me?” I asked.

“It’s how the tribe sees you!” said one of the canoneers.

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“It’s got more muscles than the Masters of the Universe.”

Stop helping!

I ran my hands through the fur on my head. At least it was a statue of just me. This was probably the kind of thing someone like King Ringo would go mad over, the narcisist. “Obviously you can’t take it with you. It probably weighs as much as both of you combined. And talk about a waste of clay. How many engine cases do you think we could make with that much ceramic?”

“Oh, that’s the best part,” said one of the noblins, spinning the whole thing around to reveal a cavity in the backside. “It is an engine case!”

I stared. That explained the hole in the front side where the, erm, shaft would protrude. And the exhaust outlet? Well, I’ll leave that up to your imagination. I covered my face.

“Absolutely not. Take the comics. Take the tools. Leave this…monstrosity. Break it down, use it to make shovels, and then bury any ideas like it.”

Luther tapped a hand against his chin. “His majesty, King Apollo, has decreed that his image be destroyed that the common goblin might know the spade. There’s probably a metaphor in there.”

“I can assure you, there’s not,” I said. I turned to one of the igni working on the platform. “How soon til she’s ready to fly?”

He glanced up at the ship straining against its anchors. “Uh…”

“How long until she’s ready to make the voyage,” I corrected.

The ignis brightened. “Oh! That’s easy! Soon as the glue on the prop dries.”

“Perfect.” I turned and clapped Luther on the shoulders. “I’m counting on your boys to hit every goblin village from here to the mountains, Luther.

“Your will, highness,” said Luther, bowing deep.

I turned my attention to the goblins crawling on top of the envelope, stitching patches over leaks. Armstrong came up beside me.

“It really is an important mission,” I said.

“I know ye want to be on it,” said Armstrong, patting my shoulder.

System, tell me about the Big-mouthed skill again.

They’d certainly spread their antics through Village Apollo like wildfire. Even the Ifrit were getting in on the comic book action. If they could act as emissaries to persuade other goblins to come join the tribe, that could go a long way toward unifying all the goblins in the area. Maybe even let me assimilate new variants. Feeding them once they got here was my problem to solve in the interim. But so long as the canoneers didn’t put a foot wrong and get themselves Captain Cooked… well, even if they did…

The only thing that worried me was the possibility of running into another society with a goblin king. I had thought I was an isolated case until I met Ringo. Rufus and Taquoho had said they were extremely rare, but maybe there was another one hiding up on one of those distant bluffs. If there was, and he was hostile, I had to hope his tribe wasn’t bigger than mine. And if it was bigger than mine, I had to hope they had no way of getting to this forest.

It was a literal application of the Dark Forest theory. I suppose it didn’t help that we kept lighting it up with rockets.

I looked up at the sky and tugged on the anchor rope.

“Alright. We’ve got enough daylight for a test run to Canaveral and back. But I want clifford support on the ground and two gliders in the air.”

“Yer goin on this test run, then?” said Armstrong.

I nodded. “With you and a half-dozen other scrappers.”

Armstrong tried counting to twelve on his fingers, and failing that included two toes and then worked backwards until he only had six. He nodded decisively. “More’n a handful is enough. Ok, boss. I’ll round up the lads.”

“Grab Eileen while you’re at it. She’s piloting this shindig.”

“Truly momentous,” said Luther.

I stabbed a finger at him. “You’re coming too. Gotta make sure the blimp can even lift your fat arse.”

“As you say, my king,” he said, deflating. Clearly he didn't share the smaller version's love of heights.

It took a few minutes to get the crew assembled and climbing aboard. Besides Armstrong, we had Eileen as captain, an ignis for engineer, 2 of the canoneers, maybe 8 other goblins as crewmates, and the half-dozen scrapper bodyguards. I could hear the barks from below the bluff as Chuck took off toward the hotsprings. The gliders would launch to monitor as well. Each of the crewmembers also had a personal glider to help get them as close to home as possible if we had to bail out. Not taking any chances—or at least trying to mitigate the risk of the chances I was taking.

That’s all aviation is, really. It’s an inherently risky business, and if I was going to stay on the ground just to be completely safe, I may as well have not been reincarnated at all. But the key to aviation safety is acknowledging those risks, not avoiding them. You spot them, you plot them, and then you come up with mitigations to make sure that whatever happens, you have a plan B, C, D, and enough backups that scrappers need to start using toes to track them.

And if all goes well, one of those plans keeps you safe when the scat hits the fan.