After catching his sister up on the news, Hildesman had managed to get back to his own home and sleep four whole hours. He awoke feeling exhausted, and decided that now was a good time to start on the stimulant chew. It tasted like swamp grass and goose gizzard had been boiled together, but it perked him up almost immediately. He took one of the city's shuttles to the eastern wall, and hurried to the gate by the east wall. Between travel, eating, catching his sister up, and sleeping, he had still managed to arrive an hour before his assigned time.

A Sister standing guard on the gate directed him a few hundred feet along the wall to a temporary command tent. Hildesman handed over his supply chits and received a long sheaf of steambow bolts and a single battery, along with a standard excursion kit.

"I thought that chit was for four batteries?" he asked the supply officer, before he even checked the excursion kit.

"Special dispensation," the supply officer answered, pulling a flip lens down over one eye to examine the chits again. "Due to the current crisis, all emergency contracts are permitted one classified Order battery. Charge limitation is about six times the standard batteries on the market."

Hildesman raised an eyebrow. He knew the Order kept some of their technology secret, but he hadn't realized how efficient their new batteries were. "I assume I have to return it on pain of treason against the city's welfare?"

"That's about the size of it," the man confirmed. "Though I don't know how much longer the classified status will last. Rumor is that the artificers have found something even better. That might just be market standard in two years time."

"Look forward to changing them less," Hildesman commented offhand, checking the kit over. Rations, flares, water purification, stimulant chew that looked pretty much exactly like what he was already chewing, tools. It wasn't a perfect kit but it was more than enough for someone with HIldesman's experience. He loaded all of it into his personal pack, then set the kit box near a stack of similar boxes next to the table.

The supply officer was passing an identical box to another trapper that Hildesman didn't recognize, though she bore a razor feather on either side of her sturdy leather cap. Tough gig, hunting direhawks. He wondered if she had a teammate assigned to another patrol duty somewhere. Nobody would hunt them alone.

When the woman started packing her own box of goods, Hildesman got the supply officer's attention. "Where do I report to get my route assignment?" He asked.

"Through that door," the supply officer pointed to what looked like a steel door set into the wall, "take the stairs all the way up the wall. Vice-Marshal Oliver Wascot will give you an assignment. Try not to lose that battery."

"I'll bring it back," Hildesman answered.

The door was indeed steel, and it was a sign of the incredible engineering at play that it swung open easily on its hinges, and when he closed it behind him, it barely made a noise as it tapped against the frame. The stairs turned out to be so steep that Hildesman decided right away that they were actually a ladder, but they went directly up the wall, passing two landings before ending in a trap door. Hildesman turned the latch for the door and lifted.

The smell of Tessenium fumes filled his nose. They must have some sort of engine running up here. Maybe to one of their lifts, though to his recollection those used deeper engines buried in the walls, as did the heavy steambows and gun embankments. He hauled himself through and closed the trap door behind him.

Vice-Marshal Wascot was not difficult to spot. The man was of an unremarkable height offset but a rather remarkable width. It wasn't that he was portly, nor did he have the sculptor's perfect musculature. He was just big, like he had been made out of heavier parts than normal. On his forearms and palms, his Order tattoos shone like a beacon, and Hildesman could faintly see the crackle of Tessenium energy transfer around the edges of the man's helmet.

"Sir, Woodsman Hildesman reporting for assignment," Hildesman opened when the Vice-Marshal's stony gaze turned to the trapdoor.

The Vice-Marshal took in Hildesman for an uncomfortably long few seconds, then consulted a clipboard handed to him by an aide. When he finally spoke, the man's voice had a deep resonant tone, almost musical. "Hildesman. You're old Gertrae's student, right? Sister Porriss used to hire you."

"Yes, sir. Though since the promotion Brother Thestle seems to have inherited my contract."

"You as good a shot as Gertrae?" The Vice-Marshal held the clipboard out to his aide, one slab of a finger pointing at something. The aide ran off along the wall to the South, disappearing into a bank of yellow-gold fog that probably was the source of the Tessenium fume smell.

"Nearly," Hildesman answered truthfully. "I can hit the mark just fine, but Teach will just shoot a hole through every shot I make. She's too good."

"Nearly is better than I was hoping for this assignment." Wascot's aide returned and they exchanged a few hushed words. "Alright, Mister Hildesman. You're riding gunner with Brother Davvis," Wascot pointed back toward the fog bank. "He'll drop you off about two miles west of that heretic town, hopefully out of sight. You move with him on foot to the perimeter. Do not attempt to enter the town. If you can eliminate any sentries without being revealed, do so. If you are spotted, you are to retreat. We got other teams armored up preparing an assault. Six hours, then you and Brother Davvis get back here and report. Any questions?"

"Is there anything specific you want in my reports?"

"Normal tactical information. Number of inhabitants, sentry routines, entrances and exits. If you spot any Marked, try to note what they're capable of and any distinguishing features so we can account for them."

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Hildesman nodded. Reconnaissance was a lot safer than being on the assault team, at least. He'd probably keep his skin and all his limbs to boot. After receiving a curt dismissal from the massive Vice-Marshal, Hildesman headed south along the wall. The fog obscured his vision past a couple feet in, but it seemed to be thinning already. Two silhouettes were just visible, and Hildesman went towards the tall one that looked human.

"Brother Davvis?" he asked, once he could make out the man's general shape.

The man who turned around was, to Hildesman's shock, none other than Junior Engineer Charles, who had opened the wall panel for him just that morning. The young man had swapped his formal uniform for a light chestplate and a steel cap. His pants were rugged canvas, twice-thick. Hildesman had seen similar garb on metalworkers of all stripes; shop pants. The shirt under the breastplate seemed to be of a similar material. A bandolier held a variety of complicated-looking devices, several of which looked explosive, as well as a barebones set of engineer's tools: wrench, hammer, driver. Coils of wire were clamped to either side of the chestplate.

Hildesman recovered before Brother Davvis could respond and glanced down at the other shape he had seen through the fog. Now that it was in view, he could make out what looked like an inverted canoe. Two seats were mounted on the spine of the device, protected by a shallow wall of what might have been bronze. The front seat had a staggering array of controls in front of it, most of which looked to be custom-machined. The back had a basket cover, attached to which was some sort of weapon. A gunner's seat, like on a dirigible. But there was no envelope on this device.

What it did have did not make a lot of sense to Hildesman. Four spheres, made of the same bronze-like metal as the small control basket, sat on the corners of the canoe. Two in front, two in back, side by side. The ones in front were splayed slightly wider than the ones in back. Strapped in between them on the right side of the machine was a boiler, the only part other than the gun that Hildesman felt confident about identifying successfully. Counterbalancing the boiler on the opposite side was a heavy-looking box, which was making a faint humming noise.

Near the back of the canoe, a thin line of Tessenium steam was emitting from a heavy valve turn. Following Hildesman's gaze, Brother Davvis scuttled over to the valve like a crab, tightening it with the wrench from his bandolier. When the steam stopped, he turned to Hildesman.

"You look familiar," the Junior Engineer opened.

"We met this morning. You let me and two other trappers through the North Wall," Hildesman answered. "Vice-Marshal Wascot assigned me to be your gunner. You know the mission?"

Charles nodded enthusiastically. "I wasn't sure he'd find anyone with gunnery skills from the volunteers. Thought I'd gotten this thing tuned up for no good reason."

Hildesman chose tactfully to ignore the use of the word 'volunteer' when Charles knew full well it was compulsory service. Instead, he addressed the other two problems in that sentence. "I actually don't have a lot of experience with fixed guns. And I may not use this side of the city for my main stomping grounds, but I don't think there are any rivers that will take that thing anywhere near where we're supposed to go."

"You've used a steambow before?" Charles asked.

"Yes, but--"

"Same principle. Really, I built this rig from an old model packbow. It's been boiled up a bit, so you're gonna want to let the frame take the recoil, but the trigger and sights are practically identical. And I sighted her in myself last week. True to a hundred and fifty yards."

A hundred and fifty? Even if the heavy box was full to the brim with those classified batteries, Hildesman doubted it could power a steambow with that much force. "How?" was all he managed to ask, flapping his mouth as he tried to do the calculations in his head.

"Huh?" Charles replied. "You know. I set it on a stable sighter. Got one of our best shooters to line it up, get it clamped down. Shot it, recalibrated, rinse, repeat."

"No, the range. How does it have that much range? A standard pack bow has what, fifty, sixty yards?"

"Oh," Charles said, understanding crossing his face. "I have a custom mixture in the boiler. Far more efficient than water. Gives about twice as much propulsion. As for the rest, well. The boiler is reinforced, and the engine outputs more than enough Tessenium energy."

"It does what?" Hildesman asked. Tessenium generators were dangerous, in no small part because they were generally made with at least six or seven hundred pounds of the toxic metal and were hot enough to blister from several inches away. "You have a generator engine set up on top of the wall and the Vice-Marshal is okay with it?"

"Not just on the wall," Charles said, pointing at the heavy box on the side of his machine. "It's on the skimmer. New design. Me and Brother Andrew and Sister Fardottir have been working on it. Fardottir gets the credit for the design, but I'm happy to say that I built this one personally."

Hildesman took a single deep breath, focusing on the foul aftertaste still in his mouth from the stimulant chew. "That's a skimmer?" he managed, after he had composed himself.

"Oh, yeah. I guess I should have led with that. We don't need a river, at least, right?" Brother Davvis grinned the mad grin of an engineer with a new blueprint to try out. "The engine was Fardottir's idea, but I designed those repulsor pods myself. Same lift as a full-size skimmer, when all combined. But the platform is a lot lighter, and of course our power output limit is a lot higher. It's not up to the speed of a fixed-wing but I think once we've fine tuned it a bit it'll be damn close. What do you think?"

Hildesman didn't know what to think. A lightweight skimmer piloted by a crew of two with an actual generator engine on board. It would change the was humanity viewed air travel. If this thing was as good as Charles said, even a moderately skilled pilot could outpace or outmaneuver dire hawks on the wing. Fight them in their own domain. He wondered if Airelai knew about this already. He wondered if he would be allowed to tell him.

Somewhere in the city, a clock tower began to ring. Hildesman still hadn't answered, but Charles looked towards the sound, then opened the gunner's basket and passed Hildesman a leather aviator's helmet with attached goggles. While Hildesman adjusted it, Charles slid their packs into a box mounted behind the command seats. Hildesman kept his side bolter and his black powder rifle, which fit into a hastily-attached frame inside the skimmer's platform. "I'll give you the rundown later. That's our launch cue. Get in."

With one last wistful look over the city, Hildesman climbed into the gunner's chair, allowing Brother Charles to close the basket over top of him. A few seconds later, Charles was in the pilot's seat. He turned halfway to Hildesman and said in a loud, cheerful tone, "This is gonna put your stomach in your boots. Hold on!"

Charles did something complicated at the controls and Hildesman felt the world drop away from him. He'd seen skimmers take off before. They were cumbersome things, nearly as slow as dirigibles. This contraption that Charles and his friends had put together was not. In the blink of an eye, the wall was fifty, then a hundred yards below them. As the craft leveled out, too far away for Hildesman to see more than the rough outline of human figures on the wall below, Charles guided it out over the forest, moving with a speed that made Hildesman's eyes water until he remembered to pull the goggles over his face.

They flew east, far faster than any craft should have been able to, and nearly completely silent. For the first time in a long time, Hildesman wondered if he was feeling what a direbeast feels when it hunts. Untouchable and dangerous.

Until the trapper comes calling.