The Plains of Pluto
Copyright© 2025 by Lumpy
Chapter 12
Factorium
Hortensius hurried onto the shooting range they had set up behind one of the factories on the west side of town. He’d scheduled this test two days ago, but a sudden emergency with the ship test platform had required him to make a quick run to Devnum.
How foolish he’d been when he’d thought the telegraph lines going up meant less back-and-forth travel for him. Yes, it was partially his fault, as he liked to keep his hands in all of the projects and the new ship design may be the most complex thing they’d worked on yet, but it was exhausting to shuttle back and forth so many times each week.
Worse, this trip had been made all that much more stressful when the Empress had heard he was in the city and required him to stop by the palace so she could make sure he knew how important it was to her that the new rifles were ready now. He’d known that, of course, but apparently, new things were happening and she wanted to light a fire under his posterior to get him moving.
“Master Hortensius, we should be ready to begin,” the range officer, Rufus, reported as soon as he’d arrived, gesturing to where a soldier stood holding one of the new rifles.
Although he’d seen the weapon many times, it still struck him as odd after so many years with their current standard-issue weapon. The lever on the bottom and much shorter length made it look almost toy-like compared to the long, graceful lines of the old rifle.
“Once we complete these tests, I want the production lines to start setting up so we can begin scaling. We need these shipping out within a few weeks,” he said to one of his assistants, who nodded as he passed by heading to the soldier.
“They’ve shown you what to do?” he asked.
“Yes. Work the lever fully back and then forward until it locks in place to load a new round.”
“Yes. Watch out for this feed port here. It will shoot the previous casing out to make room for the next one. The casing will be hot, so don’t put your hand in the way of it or have it pointed at your face when you work the lever.”
“I understand.”
“Good man,” Hortensius said and stepped back, looking to the range officer. “You may begin when ready.”
The praetorian they had selected for the test shouldered the weapon, aligning the rear sight with the front blade. He took several slow breaths, calming himself as he steadied the weapon, pointing it at the paper target affixed to a hay bale downrange.
“Fire when ready,” Rufus commanded.
The rifle cracked, a sharper, higher-pitched sound than what Hortensius was used to with the old rifle. Hortensius reached out and was handed a brass spyglass by an assistant, allowing him to see downrange. There was a clear hole in the paper. About two finger spans left of the center of the target.
Hortensius said, handing the spyglass back and clapping his hands together. “Excellent! Just excellent. We’ll need to make a series of shots to be sure, but it seems the accuracy is still very good, even with the shorter barrel. Please fire again.”
There had been some contention among his men during the development of the rifle, with many thinking the shorter barrel would decrease the accuracy over time, in spite of the Consul’s notes.
Hortensius, for one, had not doubted it.
The praetorian made a small adjustment to the rear sight and then worked the lever, the action sliding smoothly as it ejected the spent casing and chambered the next round. The man, who’d been serious so far, actually smiled as he did so.
Hortensius wasn’t surprised. If he’d seen combat, then he would know firsthand how needing a few seconds to reload versus thirty seconds at best would be a game changer.
The man raised the rifle and fired again. This one hit even closer to the center. A single finger width away. A few more, and he would be satisfied with the accuracy of the weapon, which was the main point of the test.
They could repeatedly try the lever, pressure test the barrel, the feed mechanism, and nearly every other part of the rifle in the factory, but only actually having the weapon fired by an expert would tell them if it was accurate or not.
“One more,” he ordered.
The soldier nodded and began to pull the lever back. Instead of going all the way back, sending the spent casing flying out of the rifle, there was a metallic snap sound, with the lever short of being fully opened. The soldier tried working the lever back and forth, but it remained stuck, unable to be pulled all the way back.
“The cartridge is jammed, sir. I can’t extract it.”
Hortensius’s earlier elation evaporated. He’d expected a lot of things, but their tests on the lever had been thorough, and they hadn’t encountered jamming problems. Hurrying forward, he took the rifle from the man and examined the partially open action. The brass cartridge had somehow twisted sideways, wedging itself between the carrier block and chamber wall.
“Take a break over there. We’ll call you when we’re ready,” Hortensius told the gathered soldiers and range master before turning to his aides. “Disassemble this rifle immediately. I want every component laid out and inspected thoroughly.”
As the testing team carefully took apart the rifle, Hortensius paced back and forth, watching over their shoulders. They had spent the most time with the weapon, so they were, of course, the right choice to disassemble it. But familiarity sometimes bred a kind of blindness. An inability, or maybe even unwillingness, to see problems in a person’s own work.
So, he remained vigilant as they worked. Still, even knowing that, he was concerned. The Consul’s instructions had been clear, and he’d been so certain they had ironed out all the kinks in the design.
When they finished, he looked over the table where each component of the rifle had been carefully arranged.
“Check the firing pin first. Look for any signs of burrs or misalignment. Then, move on to the extractor and ejector. I want every measurement compared against the specifications.”
For the next hour, Hortensius watched as his team meticulously inspected each component. They used calipers to verify the length, width, and thickness of each part. They ran their fingers along edges to feel for imperfections and held parts up to the light to check for hairline cracks.
And with each part they examined, they found everything was as it should be. Nothing out of specs or broken. Nothing bowed, bent, or twisted. Everything seemed to be in order, yet the rifle had still jammed.
“Maybe the problem was in assembly. Let’s reassemble it, but I want you to do it slowly. I want every step double-checked against these drawings and confirmed to be accurate and not out of alignment before we move on to the next one.”
The team worked methodically, cleaning each part thoroughly and applying oils as needed before putting the rifle back together. Hortensius supervised closely, watching to make sure every component was seated properly and aligned correctly.
When they finished, it looked the same as it had before they disassembled it. He was somewhat bothered by the fact that they hadn’t found any reason for the jamming. He had hoped that it had been simply assembled wrong, and putting it back together fixed the issue, but he knew that was wishful thinking.
Something like this was going to be more than just an assembly error.
Once the rifle was ready, Hortensius waved the range officer and praetorian back, handing the soldier the rifle.
“Please try again,” he said.
The soldier stepped into the firing position and looked back to him for confirmation. When Hortensius gave him a nod, the man worked the lever, pulling in a round, lifted the rifle, and took aim.
Crack! The first shot rang out cleanly.
“Work the lever and fire again,” Hortensius said when the man lowered the weapon.
He chambered another round and fired again without issue.
“Perhaps it was just a temporary misalignment,” Hortensius said back to his aides. “Once more, if you please.”
The soldier nodded and worked the lever again. As if to purposefully prove Hortensius wrong, the familiar metallic scraping noise sounded again when he attempted to chamber a new round, with the lever refusing to close.
“Pluto take it all,” Hortensius muttered. “Clear the round out and try again.”
Over the next half hour, the man continued to test the weapon. Maddeningly, the results of the stubborn repetition were wildly inconsistent. Sometimes, the weapon would fire three or four rounds flawlessly before jamming. Other times, it would jam on the second shot.
“This makes no sense,” he said when he finally called a halt to the attempts. “Why is it so inconsistent? If it were a simple mechanical flaw, we’d see the same problem every time.”
He turned to his lead engineer. “I want you to make some modifications. Increase the tension on the extractor spring slightly. And let’s take a closer look at the feeding mechanism. There might be a minor misalignment we’re missing.”
They had checked that the last time they disassembled the rifle, and everything matched the Consul’s notes, but none of his men were going to argue with him. They simply nodded and set to work, not only increasing tension on the extractor spring but also taking a fine file to the ejector, smoothing out any potential rough spots that might be causing the cartridges to snag.
“Alright, let’s try again,” Hortensius said once the modifications were complete.
The testing process began anew. Initially, there seemed to be some improvement with a longer span of time between jams, once managing eight rounds in succession before jamming.
“Ha! I think we’ve cracked it,” Hortensius exclaimed, allowing himself a moment of optimism. “If it keeps on like this, we’ll know we’re on the right track.”
His elation was short-lived. The very next round jammed. And the one after that. And the one after that. The longer they fired, the clearer it became that there was no consistent pattern to when the weapon would fail.
“This doesn’t make any sense,” Hortensius muttered.
Hours passed as they assembled and reassembled the rifle. His team had gone through countless iterations of modifications and testing, but the core problem remained. Sometimes, the rifle would fire flawlessly for several rounds, other times, it would jam almost immediately.
As Hortensius stared at the disassembled rifle as his men worked, a new thought struck him.
“What if it’s not the rifle at all?”
“My lord?” One of the engineers asked.
“Bring me samples from different batches of ammunition. I want to compare them.”
When Rufus returned with several boxes of cartridges, Hortensius immediately set about examining them. He measured the dimensions of cartridges from different batches, weighed them, and even cut a few open to inspect the powder inside.
“Look here,” he said, holding up two cartridges side by side. “The crimping on these is ever so slightly different.”
“Our tests showed variations like that had little effect on its being fired,” an engineer said.
“I know. Still, I want you to go get a handful of rounds from different batches. I want to keep careful track of which rounds from which batch are being fired.”
His men followed his orders, and in fifteen minutes, they began a new series of tests, this time carefully tracking which batch of ammunition was being used in the rifle. As the results came in, a pattern began to emerge.
“It’s the cartridges,” Hortensius announced, both relieved and frustrated. “The percentage of jams is consistent within each batch of ammunition but varies between batches. While that probably means the rifle mechanism is sound, we will have to redo these tests once we get our cartridge manufacturing process sorted out. Right now, I want you to head to the munitions line immediately. Inspect every step of the cartridge production, look for any variations in the crimping process, powder measuring, or case forming. Let’s figure out where the problem is originating.”
It was going to take them time to sort out the problem. The Empress was not going to be happy about this delay.
Maleth
It was a shame he had to stay cramped in his offices on such a beautiful day. Over the last five years, he’d served all across the Empire, from Britannia, where it seemed to rain constantly, to Germania, in the winter, as an aide to one of the commanders helping build the Germanic Alliance a legion of their own.
All of that made him appreciate his current position even more. The island of Maleth was small compared to many in the Middle Sea, but its location made it much more important than its size would indicate, sitting in the waters between Sicilia and North Africa. Much of the trade in the region passed through, or at least near, his port.
It was a coveted position, and Rolfus knew many of the officers in the legions envied him the assignment. For Rolfus, though, it was the view that made it.
He’d grown up in a small village south of Rome, on the western coast of Italia, so the views here reminded him of the views from his home. He would never regret signing up for the legions near the end of the last war and helping push the Carthaginians out of his homeland, but he regretted having to leave that place.
Still, he was a professional now, and he had a job to do. He couldn’t stare out the window all day, and his aide was waiting for him to respond.
“I don’t understand why Talticus didn’t take care of this when he had the port,” he said, finishing the thought he’d started earlier, before being distracted by the stunning view.
“He felt the expense and effort would be more than the improvement achieved by dredging the harbor would bring.”
“What you mean is he knew he was retiring, and he didn’t want to deal with it, so he left it for the next poor bastard who got this assignment. Namely me.”
The man smiled, but didn’t reply. He’d been at this port through three commanders and was much too smart to badmouth any of them.
At least not where the current commander could hear it.
“Very well, I...” Rolfus started to say and then paused as something in the harbor drew his attention. “That’s odd. We don’t often see such a large Egyptian fleet here.”