NaNoWriMo 2017: Reach-1/2
REACH-1
INT. OUTSKIRTS OF MEDIEVAL FARMING VILLAGE - NIGHT
A man in a dark cloak and very little other shape creeps through the shadows on the edge of town.
A town guard patrols down the middle of the mud rut that serves as the main drag. The guard flicks his gaze hither and yon and looks completely unconcerned.
A second guard emerges from the one cross lane from behind the blacksmith's.
GUARD #1
Quiet night.
GUARD #2
Not quiet enough.
GUARD #1
Macgreggor?
GUARD #2
Oh, so you've done the walk up by the farms?
Guard #1 laughs and slaps #2 on the arm before he, too, begins to chuckle. #2's eyes are haunted while he does.
GUARD #1
Yeah, old Macgreggor is something. I don't know what he loves more, his pigs or his daughters.
GUARD #2
I would worry more he can't tell 'em apart!
GUARD #1
I'd worry more I can't tell 'em apart! I'm supposed to be with Suzie next Tuesday.
GUARD #2
The daughter?
GUARD #1
I hope!
!#2 slaps #1 on the shoulder reassuringly and they pass on.
The man in the shadows pulls back as Guard #2 passes within a few feet, then creeps back out to watch both guards moving casually away from him.
A man in a dark cloak and very little other shape creeps through the shadows on the edge of town.
A town guard patrols down the middle of the mud rut that serves as the main drag. The guard flicks his gaze hither and yon and looks completely unconcerned.
A second guard emerges from the one cross lane from behind the blacksmith's.
GUARD #1
Quiet night.
GUARD #2
Not quiet enough.
GUARD #1
Macgreggor?
GUARD #2
Oh, so you've done the walk up by the farms?
Guard #1 laughs and slaps #2 on the arm before he, too, begins to chuckle. #2's eyes are haunted while he does.
GUARD #1
Yeah, old Macgreggor is something. I don't know what he loves more, his pigs or his daughters.
GUARD #2
I would worry more he can't tell 'em apart!
GUARD #1
I'd worry more I can't tell 'em apart! I'm supposed to be with Suzie next Tuesday.
GUARD #2
The daughter?
GUARD #1
I hope!
!#2 slaps #1 on the shoulder reassuringly and they pass on.
The man in the shadows pulls back as Guard #2 passes within a few feet, then creeps back out to watch both guards moving casually away from him.
INT. BLACKSMITH'S HOUSE - MOMENTS LATER
It's clearly not a prosperous village. The blacksmith's house is more of a shack attached to the back of the forge. Still, meticulously clean, with pieces of tin and silver to speak of some whitesmithing skills; delicate little pieces of filigree and air. A pair of well-used and possibly useless hammers lay on a table as if for autopsy.
The cloaked man looks through the window. The smith himself lays on a rude cot, a man huge at the shoulder and arm but a little weedy below the hip. The sleep must be as rough as his features, with a groaned turn and a night-grimace.
Two soft clicks and the window slides upwards with barely a creak. Cloak slides over the sill and eases the window back into place in a continuous motion.
The smith still lies restless.
A few steps and the cloak puts his hand over the smith's mouth.
He stops tossing.
Slowly opens one eye.
CLOAK
Have you seen the widow's son?
SMITH
I've crafted the yellow sign and walked with Hiram. The widow's son can fuck himself.
The man in the cloak grins broadly and sweeps his hood back. Strikingly handsome, blonde, albeit pale bordering on ashen.
SMITH
Lukas.
LUKAS
(grinning)
Brother Widom.
SMITH
You mean Bill Smith, blacksmith.
The big man sits up, rubbing hands over his face vigorously. For all he's a healthy specimen, he looks exhausted, haunted, mahogany skin pale in a different way from Lukas'.
SMITH
Brother Wisdom is at least a decade dead. He died in Mittlesborough.
Lukas sits down on a stool by the white-smithing desk as Smith drags himself to his feet.
He shambles over to a stove, creaks open the door, and begins loading it with short blocks of hardwood.
LUKAS
Brother Wisdom was one of the finest artisans of the Masons. He was responsible for designing things the likes of which have never been seen for three thousand years.
Smith blows on tinder and makes it glow red hot before tucking it into the stove. The fires start to crackle as he stares at them.
SMITH
The way I remember it is some old crazy bastard got himself perished when a six tonne stone crashed down where he was directing the winches.
LUKAS
The way I remember it was you shoving six men bodily out of the way when the block slid loose down the ramp --
SMITH
-- and got pressed like a bug by a child?
Lukas shrugs.
LUKAS
Maybe yes, maybe no.
Smith pulls out two delicate tin mugs, all strange curls and geometry. They go on top of the stone stove. Water goes in. Some powdered bits.
SMITH
I feel pretty comfortable saying that a six tonne stone will trump any man that gets in its way.
LUKAS
That might matter if we knew any men.
Lukas takes off the cloak, spreads it, and lays it facing the stove over another chair. Smith rolls one of the mugs around, swirling the contents over the heat.
A thin line is etched around Lukas' neck -- a vine-like tattoo. The leaves might also be circuit traceries.
SMITH
We know men. We've been men forever and we're surrounded by men. Unless you're more into old Macgreggor's thing.
LUKAS
I heard the guards on the way in. Fucking the pigs or his daughters?
Smith sniffs at the contents of one mug before drinking deep from it. He offers the other to Lukas.
SMITH
Like there's a difference.
(ritually)
Light under cover.
LUKAS
(ritually)
Light within shadow.
They drink a few moments in silence.
LUKAS
We need Brother Wisdom.
SMITH
"We?"
LUKAS
We. The Brothethood. Your brothers. The Masonic Order. Hell, even the Mi-Go.
Smith snorts and the light reflects a faint metallic ring around his throat much like Lukas'.
SMITH
Brother Wisdom don't need you. Bill Smith certainly doesn't need you. I'm happy here. It's quiet. One of Macgreggor's daughters even fancies me a little.
They stare at each other a moment and then burst out into quiet laughter.
SMITH
I am so goddamned bored.
Lukas can't resist prowling around the room. He paces without intensity.
LUKAS
It's hard to compete with pigs and night mist.
SMITH
Three-thousand years of pigs and night mist. The first couple were quite nice -- pigs, I mean. The night mist plays havoc with my sinuses.
Lukas pauses just a moment to shoot a look at Smith.
LUKAS
Why are you here? Just -- why? You were one of the greatest architects of the Brotherhood! And then an accident --
SMITH
-- that killed me --
LUKAS
-- that killed you, yes -- sent you running for the hills?
Smith takes his mug and sits on the cot, rolling it between his palms. As it turns, colors which weren't there before play along its lines.
SMITH
We've all died. Dying is nothing. Some pain and then they fix us. It wasn't the dying.
LUKAS
Nor a woman?
Smith grins, brief white against the dark.
SMITH
Nor a woman. Plenty of those, too. More before than after, frankly.
Smith holds the mug up high between the two of them.
SMITH
Look at this. It's a piece of wonder. No mortal craftsman in the world could have made this. It borders of the four-dimensional without being more than it appears, just a tin mug. Just seeing it could make weak men go mad.
LUKAS
You left it sitting on your shelf.
SMITH
How do you think I know?
Lukas stops a moment and boggles.
LUKAS
You just -- drove some men mad with your fine drink-ware?
SMITH
To be fair, they broke into my place first, much like you did. But with less style.
Lukas sketches a bow before beginning to pace again. His hands clench and release rhythmically, unconsciously.
LUKAS
Seems rather more callous than I remember Brother Wisdom!
Smith slams the mug down on his table.
SMITH
I am not Brother Wisdom! I told you--
LUKAS
Shhhh! Keep it down.
Smith seethes, clenches his fists. Finds a calm moment and holds it.
SMITH
Brother Wisdom is dead. He died erecting a Gate in Mittlesborough, three-thousand years ago and a world away. He's dead instead of six innocent men who had no idea what was coming for them.
LUKAS
(softly)
They know now.
Smith visibly freezes.
SMITH
What?
LUKAS
They know. They know everything. Or their families do. Their villages do. Their whole region knows. If they're not dead. They're probably dead, though.
Smith stands and takes a step toward the still-pacing Lukas who slows and turns to face him.
SMITH
That's -- exceedingly unlikely. They had every protection. They had ten Gates and a hundred Pillars of Heaven. They had everything --
LUKAS
Except Brother Wisdom.
SMITH
I'm just one man, Lukas! Just one! Not even a good one, just one of billions.
Lukas sags back against the wall as Smith moves toward him.
LUKAS
One of about three hundred, now. Total. Anywhere.
SMITH
What? That's not... It's possible. But how?
It's Lukas' turn to sag, energy draining out of his body into the wall, into the stool, world dragging him down toward it.
LUKAS
Everything's possible with enough power. And the Echoes, they have power. They have all the power we could conjure to give them.
SMITH
The Echoes.
LUKAS
(annoyed)
Yes, you fucking parrot, the Echoes. Echo echo echo. The fucking Echoes.
Ten-thousand years of benevolent rule from the shadows broken by some assholes in metal suits who spend their whole lives drugged to the gills.
Smith shades his eyes underneath a hand.
SMITH
And the Brotherhood?
LUKAS
Like I said, three hundred. Maybe less. The Mi-Go have most in hiding and there's always been a diaspora, like you, but mostly dead and gone. Thousands of worlds gone to -- whatever it is you call what the Echoes do.
Smith sinks further back as does Lukas, drawing apart into separate emptiness.
LUKAS
The Brotherhood needs Brother Wisdom, the finest architect of his Age. A man who built to last. Who crafted things of joy and beauty and eternity.
SMITH
And what of Brother Smoke? Does the Brotherhood need him, too?
Lukas looks up with a start.
LUKAS
What makes you think they didn't send me?
SMITH
You're here. The Brotherhood would have called me in, whether I would or not. They don't ask, they demand. They control.
LUKAS
They don't control anything anymore. Not even me.
Smith sighs. Leans forward and clasps forearms with an obviously relieved Lukas.
He looks outside through the window at the silent village. In the far distance on the edge of town a guard with a lantern stands on a rooftop.
SMITH
First, we build an extradimensional Gateway.
LUKAS
Then we round up a few more Brothers.
SMITH
Then we find what's left of the Brotherhood.
LUKAS
Then we murder every last Echo in space-time.
Smith gives a deep frown.
SMITH
Don't be ridiculous. Then we subvert their government and entire way of being from the inside and underneath. I hate to waste good material.
Lukas stands by the window, leaning against the frame.
LUKAS
Shouldn't take longer than five-hundred years to get started, right?
SMITH
Less if we start right now.
Smith comes up to stand by Lukas at the window, looking hard at the guard with the light on the roofline. A second joins him. Two lanters cast only a little light in the village.
LUKAS
I don't know. Might want to stop by Macgreggor's farm first.
It's clearly not a prosperous village. The blacksmith's house is more of a shack attached to the back of the forge. Still, meticulously clean, with pieces of tin and silver to speak of some whitesmithing skills; delicate little pieces of filigree and air. A pair of well-used and possibly useless hammers lay on a table as if for autopsy.
The cloaked man looks through the window. The smith himself lays on a rude cot, a man huge at the shoulder and arm but a little weedy below the hip. The sleep must be as rough as his features, with a groaned turn and a night-grimace.
Two soft clicks and the window slides upwards with barely a creak. Cloak slides over the sill and eases the window back into place in a continuous motion.
The smith still lies restless.
A few steps and the cloak puts his hand over the smith's mouth.
He stops tossing.
Slowly opens one eye.
CLOAK
Have you seen the widow's son?
SMITH
I've crafted the yellow sign and walked with Hiram. The widow's son can fuck himself.
The man in the cloak grins broadly and sweeps his hood back. Strikingly handsome, blonde, albeit pale bordering on ashen.
SMITH
Lukas.
LUKAS
(grinning)
Brother Widom.
SMITH
You mean Bill Smith, blacksmith.
The big man sits up, rubbing hands over his face vigorously. For all he's a healthy specimen, he looks exhausted, haunted, mahogany skin pale in a different way from Lukas'.
SMITH
Brother Wisdom is at least a decade dead. He died in Mittlesborough.
Lukas sits down on a stool by the white-smithing desk as Smith drags himself to his feet.
He shambles over to a stove, creaks open the door, and begins loading it with short blocks of hardwood.
LUKAS
Brother Wisdom was one of the finest artisans of the Masons. He was responsible for designing things the likes of which have never been seen for three thousand years.
Smith blows on tinder and makes it glow red hot before tucking it into the stove. The fires start to crackle as he stares at them.
SMITH
The way I remember it is some old crazy bastard got himself perished when a six tonne stone crashed down where he was directing the winches.
LUKAS
The way I remember it was you shoving six men bodily out of the way when the block slid loose down the ramp --
SMITH
-- and got pressed like a bug by a child?
Lukas shrugs.
LUKAS
Maybe yes, maybe no.
Smith pulls out two delicate tin mugs, all strange curls and geometry. They go on top of the stone stove. Water goes in. Some powdered bits.
SMITH
I feel pretty comfortable saying that a six tonne stone will trump any man that gets in its way.
LUKAS
That might matter if we knew any men.
Lukas takes off the cloak, spreads it, and lays it facing the stove over another chair. Smith rolls one of the mugs around, swirling the contents over the heat.
A thin line is etched around Lukas' neck -- a vine-like tattoo. The leaves might also be circuit traceries.
SMITH
We know men. We've been men forever and we're surrounded by men. Unless you're more into old Macgreggor's thing.
LUKAS
I heard the guards on the way in. Fucking the pigs or his daughters?
Smith sniffs at the contents of one mug before drinking deep from it. He offers the other to Lukas.
SMITH
Like there's a difference.
(ritually)
Light under cover.
LUKAS
(ritually)
Light within shadow.
They drink a few moments in silence.
LUKAS
We need Brother Wisdom.
SMITH
"We?"
LUKAS
We. The Brothethood. Your brothers. The Masonic Order. Hell, even the Mi-Go.
Smith snorts and the light reflects a faint metallic ring around his throat much like Lukas'.
SMITH
Brother Wisdom don't need you. Bill Smith certainly doesn't need you. I'm happy here. It's quiet. One of Macgreggor's daughters even fancies me a little.
They stare at each other a moment and then burst out into quiet laughter.
SMITH
I am so goddamned bored.
Lukas can't resist prowling around the room. He paces without intensity.
LUKAS
It's hard to compete with pigs and night mist.
SMITH
Three-thousand years of pigs and night mist. The first couple were quite nice -- pigs, I mean. The night mist plays havoc with my sinuses.
Lukas pauses just a moment to shoot a look at Smith.
LUKAS
Why are you here? Just -- why? You were one of the greatest architects of the Brotherhood! And then an accident --
SMITH
-- that killed me --
LUKAS
-- that killed you, yes -- sent you running for the hills?
Smith takes his mug and sits on the cot, rolling it between his palms. As it turns, colors which weren't there before play along its lines.
SMITH
We've all died. Dying is nothing. Some pain and then they fix us. It wasn't the dying.
LUKAS
Nor a woman?
Smith grins, brief white against the dark.
SMITH
Nor a woman. Plenty of those, too. More before than after, frankly.
Smith holds the mug up high between the two of them.
SMITH
Look at this. It's a piece of wonder. No mortal craftsman in the world could have made this. It borders of the four-dimensional without being more than it appears, just a tin mug. Just seeing it could make weak men go mad.
LUKAS
You left it sitting on your shelf.
SMITH
How do you think I know?
Lukas stops a moment and boggles.
LUKAS
You just -- drove some men mad with your fine drink-ware?
SMITH
To be fair, they broke into my place first, much like you did. But with less style.
Lukas sketches a bow before beginning to pace again. His hands clench and release rhythmically, unconsciously.
LUKAS
Seems rather more callous than I remember Brother Wisdom!
Smith slams the mug down on his table.
SMITH
I am not Brother Wisdom! I told you--
LUKAS
Shhhh! Keep it down.
Smith seethes, clenches his fists. Finds a calm moment and holds it.
SMITH
Brother Wisdom is dead. He died erecting a Gate in Mittlesborough, three-thousand years ago and a world away. He's dead instead of six innocent men who had no idea what was coming for them.
LUKAS
(softly)
They know now.
Smith visibly freezes.
SMITH
What?
LUKAS
They know. They know everything. Or their families do. Their villages do. Their whole region knows. If they're not dead. They're probably dead, though.
Smith stands and takes a step toward the still-pacing Lukas who slows and turns to face him.
SMITH
That's -- exceedingly unlikely. They had every protection. They had ten Gates and a hundred Pillars of Heaven. They had everything --
LUKAS
Except Brother Wisdom.
SMITH
I'm just one man, Lukas! Just one! Not even a good one, just one of billions.
Lukas sags back against the wall as Smith moves toward him.
LUKAS
One of about three hundred, now. Total. Anywhere.
SMITH
What? That's not... It's possible. But how?
It's Lukas' turn to sag, energy draining out of his body into the wall, into the stool, world dragging him down toward it.
LUKAS
Everything's possible with enough power. And the Echoes, they have power. They have all the power we could conjure to give them.
SMITH
The Echoes.
LUKAS
(annoyed)
Yes, you fucking parrot, the Echoes. Echo echo echo. The fucking Echoes.
Ten-thousand years of benevolent rule from the shadows broken by some assholes in metal suits who spend their whole lives drugged to the gills.
Smith shades his eyes underneath a hand.
SMITH
And the Brotherhood?
LUKAS
Like I said, three hundred. Maybe less. The Mi-Go have most in hiding and there's always been a diaspora, like you, but mostly dead and gone. Thousands of worlds gone to -- whatever it is you call what the Echoes do.
Smith sinks further back as does Lukas, drawing apart into separate emptiness.
LUKAS
The Brotherhood needs Brother Wisdom, the finest architect of his Age. A man who built to last. Who crafted things of joy and beauty and eternity.
SMITH
And what of Brother Smoke? Does the Brotherhood need him, too?
Lukas looks up with a start.
LUKAS
What makes you think they didn't send me?
SMITH
You're here. The Brotherhood would have called me in, whether I would or not. They don't ask, they demand. They control.
LUKAS
They don't control anything anymore. Not even me.
Smith sighs. Leans forward and clasps forearms with an obviously relieved Lukas.
He looks outside through the window at the silent village. In the far distance on the edge of town a guard with a lantern stands on a rooftop.
SMITH
First, we build an extradimensional Gateway.
LUKAS
Then we round up a few more Brothers.
SMITH
Then we find what's left of the Brotherhood.
LUKAS
Then we murder every last Echo in space-time.
Smith gives a deep frown.
SMITH
Don't be ridiculous. Then we subvert their government and entire way of being from the inside and underneath. I hate to waste good material.
Lukas stands by the window, leaning against the frame.
LUKAS
Shouldn't take longer than five-hundred years to get started, right?
SMITH
Less if we start right now.
Smith comes up to stand by Lukas at the window, looking hard at the guard with the light on the roofline. A second joins him. Two lanters cast only a little light in the village.
LUKAS
I don't know. Might want to stop by Macgreggor's farm first.
REACH-2
EXT. MEDIEVAL-ISH VILLAGE OUTSKIRTS - SUNRISE
Sunlight creeps across the fields outside of town with a kind of delicate hesitance. Perhaps it's the spindly constructions of rope and wood which allow the travel of huge bins pushed by arriving farmhands, one man to a bin, they're balanced so well and resist so weakly. The network of transport tackles stretch out to the farm s proper and the wooden silos that sport red wooden slats like the barns. Self-satisfied oinks come from that direction.
Closer to the village itself, the paths between fields become much clearer as the light takes them, not just dirt ruts but closely tiled cobble roads. A group of soldiers are already there, laying more tiles to widen the way, softly calling rhythmic orders to hasten the process. A line of farmers sitting on carts full of goods continue into the village to marketplaces that have been open for long hours before sun-up.
The village! No more rude shacks and thatch. Good, solid stone buildings with wooden facades bring an air of true solidity. Rough glass windows glitter in the rising sun. There are a scattering of two, even three story shops. Borders stretch much farther than the old village did.
Sunlight creeps across the fields outside of town with a kind of delicate hesitance. Perhaps it's the spindly constructions of rope and wood which allow the travel of huge bins pushed by arriving farmhands, one man to a bin, they're balanced so well and resist so weakly. The network of transport tackles stretch out to the farm s proper and the wooden silos that sport red wooden slats like the barns. Self-satisfied oinks come from that direction.
Closer to the village itself, the paths between fields become much clearer as the light takes them, not just dirt ruts but closely tiled cobble roads. A group of soldiers are already there, laying more tiles to widen the way, softly calling rhythmic orders to hasten the process. A line of farmers sitting on carts full of goods continue into the village to marketplaces that have been open for long hours before sun-up.
The village! No more rude shacks and thatch. Good, solid stone buildings with wooden facades bring an air of true solidity. Rough glass windows glitter in the rising sun. There are a scattering of two, even three story shops. Borders stretch much farther than the old village did.
EXT. WISDOM FOUNDRY THIRD-FLOOR BALCONY
Lukas and Smith lean on the rail of the third-floor balcony overlooking the village below. People stride about their morning business, clothes neat and only a little worn. The wall-sconces which light almost every inch flicker and die in a most familliar, electrical way.
LUKAS
Maybe wiring the village for power was a step too far.
SMITH
You're the one that said we needed to bring the populace around to a useful level of understanding. Safer nights are better for studying.
Lukas considers Smith. Physically unaged since last we saw him, now he wears heavier protective leathers and sports a metal face-mask tilted up and back to ride behind his head like a halo. He's still burly, bulky even, but his satisfied smile when he looks at the village is unmistakable.
Lukas looks very different. No more a skulking Ranger, now he wears the robes of an aristocrat and educator. The colours still echo his former self: green and brown and just a hint of wood in bracelets and amulet.
LUKAS
That's what they tell me. I never particularly cared for study.
Smith turns to him, glances pointedly up and down, then laughs aloud.
SMITH
You picked a fine place in this new order then!
A shrug replies.
LUKAS
Someone needed to hold the reigns. The Brotherhood is prone to a certain malleability. That might not even be enough.
Smith considers the marketplace that he can look almost directly into. Haggling is constant and several of the merchants are clearly foreign, buying goods and even services to take their long way home.
SMITH
I wish we had a port.
LUKAS
We could have had a port, but you just had to stay in the place you'd settled. Sentimentalist crap.
SMITH
Smile when you call me a sentimentalist, brother.
Lukas breaks into a wide grin.
LUKAS
Believe me, I did.
Smith muses as he stares outward.
SMITH
(to himself)
Tools to build the tools.
LUKAS
Hmmm?
Smith pointedly turns his back on the railing, looking back past Lukas.
SMITH
It was one of the tenets of the Order I served with the Brotherhood. "Build tools to build the tools to build the tools you need to build with." Hardly pithy, but it was drilled into us, year over year.
Lukas snorts and pounds Smith's solid shoulder with a delicate fist.
LUKAS
We got "Be seen only by those who know where not to look." I believe a third of the first batch after me burned out going mad just trying to pin that one down.
He turns as well to survey the vast open space behind him.
Lukas and Smith lean on the rail of the third-floor balcony overlooking the village below. People stride about their morning business, clothes neat and only a little worn. The wall-sconces which light almost every inch flicker and die in a most familliar, electrical way.
LUKAS
Maybe wiring the village for power was a step too far.
SMITH
You're the one that said we needed to bring the populace around to a useful level of understanding. Safer nights are better for studying.
Lukas considers Smith. Physically unaged since last we saw him, now he wears heavier protective leathers and sports a metal face-mask tilted up and back to ride behind his head like a halo. He's still burly, bulky even, but his satisfied smile when he looks at the village is unmistakable.
Lukas looks very different. No more a skulking Ranger, now he wears the robes of an aristocrat and educator. The colours still echo his former self: green and brown and just a hint of wood in bracelets and amulet.
LUKAS
That's what they tell me. I never particularly cared for study.
Smith turns to him, glances pointedly up and down, then laughs aloud.
SMITH
You picked a fine place in this new order then!
A shrug replies.
LUKAS
Someone needed to hold the reigns. The Brotherhood is prone to a certain malleability. That might not even be enough.
Smith considers the marketplace that he can look almost directly into. Haggling is constant and several of the merchants are clearly foreign, buying goods and even services to take their long way home.
SMITH
I wish we had a port.
LUKAS
We could have had a port, but you just had to stay in the place you'd settled. Sentimentalist crap.
SMITH
Smile when you call me a sentimentalist, brother.
Lukas breaks into a wide grin.
LUKAS
Believe me, I did.
Smith muses as he stares outward.
SMITH
(to himself)
Tools to build the tools.
LUKAS
Hmmm?
Smith pointedly turns his back on the railing, looking back past Lukas.
SMITH
It was one of the tenets of the Order I served with the Brotherhood. "Build tools to build the tools to build the tools you need to build with." Hardly pithy, but it was drilled into us, year over year.
Lukas snorts and pounds Smith's solid shoulder with a delicate fist.
LUKAS
We got "Be seen only by those who know where not to look." I believe a third of the first batch after me burned out going mad just trying to pin that one down.
He turns as well to survey the vast open space behind him.
INT. WISDOM FOUNDRY CENTRAL SHAFT - CONTINUOUS
Easily four blocks in footprint, the shaft of the Wisdom Foundry runs from the open third-floor roof-framework down to at least three stories below street level. Within is a network of winches, infrastructure panels, cat-walks, piping large and small carrying heat and water, steam and clean air. At every level are forges, worktables, ad hoc room spaces walled off with movable silks, and a thousand different kinds of noise which blend together into a shapeless, formless presence of the Forge.
Hundreds are already at work and it's obvious that as many as a thousand more might work right within this space itself. Men, women, children, each pursuing tasks alone or in groups. Glass is smelted, poured, spread flat or pulled into fibres. Metal is hammered by the machine-fists of huge presses. Five women work together on operating a vast loom, shoving shuttles back and forth, laughing as if it were the greatest game. Far, far below, red glows rise with great reluctance, molten and lazy.
SMITH
And who would look here, Magister Smoke? What Masons would raise a great pile of stone and wood and crude iron, then stand atop it and congratulate themselves?
Lukas laughs.
LUKAS
Brother Wisdom and Brother Smoke, it would seem. And only a hundred years to make it so and reshape a community to do it, too! They must be brilliant men.
Smoke leans on the inside railing now.
SMITH
(shouting)
You men! Douglass, Mikel, Sue! Ware that pour! Make sure the crucible is heated first or it'll shatter!
Easily four blocks in footprint, the shaft of the Wisdom Foundry runs from the open third-floor roof-framework down to at least three stories below street level. Within is a network of winches, infrastructure panels, cat-walks, piping large and small carrying heat and water, steam and clean air. At every level are forges, worktables, ad hoc room spaces walled off with movable silks, and a thousand different kinds of noise which blend together into a shapeless, formless presence of the Forge.
Hundreds are already at work and it's obvious that as many as a thousand more might work right within this space itself. Men, women, children, each pursuing tasks alone or in groups. Glass is smelted, poured, spread flat or pulled into fibres. Metal is hammered by the machine-fists of huge presses. Five women work together on operating a vast loom, shoving shuttles back and forth, laughing as if it were the greatest game. Far, far below, red glows rise with great reluctance, molten and lazy.
SMITH
And who would look here, Magister Smoke? What Masons would raise a great pile of stone and wood and crude iron, then stand atop it and congratulate themselves?
Lukas laughs.
LUKAS
Brother Wisdom and Brother Smoke, it would seem. And only a hundred years to make it so and reshape a community to do it, too! They must be brilliant men.
Smoke leans on the inside railing now.
SMITH
(shouting)
You men! Douglass, Mikel, Sue! Ware that pour! Make sure the crucible is heated first or it'll shatter!
INT. WISDOM FOUNDRY WHITESMITHING PRESS - CONTINUOUS
A handfull of men across and below Smith raise a hand in thanks.
MIKEL
(shouting)
We've got it, Overseer! Sue was here early steaming the base!
Smith raises a thumb in acknowledgement as the men laugh and return the gesture.
Mikel and Sue are young men, Sue blonde and pale, Mikel dark in skin and hair. Both are dressed in light leather smocks, linen shirts and pants, thick boots and heavy gloves tucked into a loop for easy access.
SUE
I swear, it's like he doesn't even remember he taught us and our fathers the art of ironmongery.
MIKEL
I don't think there's a thing that man has forgotten, Sue. Probably to his detriment.
Douglass, hold the crucible a moment, we'll give the flow just another minute.
Douglass, a slight barely-more-than-a-boy gives a thumbs-up and steadies a stone container easily five-thousand pounds with a gloved hand. The network of crossed chains above it amplify any external motion, damping swings.
DOUGLASS
I think we're ready, Mikel!
Another thumbs-up is the response before Mikel and Sue lever open the top of nothing less than something that looks like a sarcophagus. The outlines of a thousand odd forms lie within, bits of clockwork, gears by the hundred, a multitude of machinery. A trench leads along the spiderweb of bits.
Slowly Douglass tilts the crucible and molten brass drips from the spout into the filling trench of the part bed. Steam spurts pop up along the outside as the brass cools on touch then gets reheated.
Once filled, Douglass raises the crucible back up and into a more secure place in a wall-niche. It drops back into the deeps of the Foundry.
Sue and Mikel watch the brass finally fill the end of the traces before levering the top back onto the table of molds, cranking a few cranks around the side and stepping back.
MIKEL
Okay, it's at pressure and temp. That'll cool all day. Next job?
SUE
The board says they'll need some help in the ironworks, maybe, and there's a class on decentralized control management --
DOUGLASS
That's for me! I'll catch you boys later.
Handshakes all 'round and Douglass swings his smock off on the run.
Mikel and Sue watch him go ruefully.
SUE
Think he'll ask her today?
MIKEL
Amanda?
(speculatively)
It's Thursday, right?
SUE
Thursday, yes. Still morning.
Mikel sighs.
MIKEL
Probably not. We've been laying this bet for a solid year now. No matter who is in favour, he never does it.
SUE
Well, I feel lucky! Fifteen dinaroos!
MIKEL
Fifteen!? You are feeling spicy. It would be impolite to let you keep your money.
(turning after Douglass)
Good luck, young man! Be strong! Today's the day you join the Brotherhood of Men!
SUE
Think he'll make it?
MIKEL
It'd take a miracle.
Both of them wave after the now-sprinting Douglass.
Above, Lukas and Smith watch the little drama with grins and no small amount of ruefull head-shaking.
A handfull of men across and below Smith raise a hand in thanks.
MIKEL
(shouting)
We've got it, Overseer! Sue was here early steaming the base!
Smith raises a thumb in acknowledgement as the men laugh and return the gesture.
Mikel and Sue are young men, Sue blonde and pale, Mikel dark in skin and hair. Both are dressed in light leather smocks, linen shirts and pants, thick boots and heavy gloves tucked into a loop for easy access.
SUE
I swear, it's like he doesn't even remember he taught us and our fathers the art of ironmongery.
MIKEL
I don't think there's a thing that man has forgotten, Sue. Probably to his detriment.
Douglass, hold the crucible a moment, we'll give the flow just another minute.
Douglass, a slight barely-more-than-a-boy gives a thumbs-up and steadies a stone container easily five-thousand pounds with a gloved hand. The network of crossed chains above it amplify any external motion, damping swings.
DOUGLASS
I think we're ready, Mikel!
Another thumbs-up is the response before Mikel and Sue lever open the top of nothing less than something that looks like a sarcophagus. The outlines of a thousand odd forms lie within, bits of clockwork, gears by the hundred, a multitude of machinery. A trench leads along the spiderweb of bits.
Slowly Douglass tilts the crucible and molten brass drips from the spout into the filling trench of the part bed. Steam spurts pop up along the outside as the brass cools on touch then gets reheated.
Once filled, Douglass raises the crucible back up and into a more secure place in a wall-niche. It drops back into the deeps of the Foundry.
Sue and Mikel watch the brass finally fill the end of the traces before levering the top back onto the table of molds, cranking a few cranks around the side and stepping back.
MIKEL
Okay, it's at pressure and temp. That'll cool all day. Next job?
SUE
The board says they'll need some help in the ironworks, maybe, and there's a class on decentralized control management --
DOUGLASS
That's for me! I'll catch you boys later.
Handshakes all 'round and Douglass swings his smock off on the run.
Mikel and Sue watch him go ruefully.
SUE
Think he'll ask her today?
MIKEL
Amanda?
(speculatively)
It's Thursday, right?
SUE
Thursday, yes. Still morning.
Mikel sighs.
MIKEL
Probably not. We've been laying this bet for a solid year now. No matter who is in favour, he never does it.
SUE
Well, I feel lucky! Fifteen dinaroos!
MIKEL
Fifteen!? You are feeling spicy. It would be impolite to let you keep your money.
(turning after Douglass)
Good luck, young man! Be strong! Today's the day you join the Brotherhood of Men!
SUE
Think he'll make it?
MIKEL
It'd take a miracle.
Both of them wave after the now-sprinting Douglass.
Above, Lukas and Smith watch the little drama with grins and no small amount of ruefull head-shaking.
INT. WISDOM FOUNDRY CENTRAL SHAFT - CONTINUOUS
SMITH
Were we ever that young?
LUKAS
Us? Never. We were born old ten-thousand years ago and have only turned better and more charming since!
They walk to an elevator tucked behind a fire-proof tapestry.
SMITH
Were we ever that young?
LUKAS
Us? Never. We were born old ten-thousand years ago and have only turned better and more charming since!
They walk to an elevator tucked behind a fire-proof tapestry.
INT. WISDOM FOUNDRY ADMINISTRATION ELEVATOR - CONTINUOUS
An iron box made of interwoven strands of hardened iron. A console on the wall is no array of buttons but a dozen levers with markings in red, black, and white along the sides.
LUKAS
(muttering)
I hate this thing.
Smith laughs.
SMITH
A hundred years, thousand of trips in it, and you hate this thing.
Smith works the levers with a light and expert hand and, rather than just dropping, the box lowers then begins to swing onto a railing spiralling out to the wider edge of the next floor down. It shifts to cancel intertia.
Lukas white-knuckle holds an interior rail.
LUKAS
Give me a simple staircase any day. You and your weird hobbies.
The car slides into an enclosed wall opening and continues. Lukas' death-grip subsides.
An iron box made of interwoven strands of hardened iron. A console on the wall is no array of buttons but a dozen levers with markings in red, black, and white along the sides.
LUKAS
(muttering)
I hate this thing.
Smith laughs.
SMITH
A hundred years, thousand of trips in it, and you hate this thing.
Smith works the levers with a light and expert hand and, rather than just dropping, the box lowers then begins to swing onto a railing spiralling out to the wider edge of the next floor down. It shifts to cancel intertia.
Lukas white-knuckle holds an interior rail.
LUKAS
Give me a simple staircase any day. You and your weird hobbies.
The car slides into an enclosed wall opening and continues. Lukas' death-grip subsides.
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