Waiting for the arrival of Commander Julius Axton twisted and cramped my gut.
I stood in the dark, vaulted lobby as two of the young apprentices gripped the handles of the great locks on the heavy metal door. Making ready. The workshop of my employer, Master Engineer and Metalsmith, Robert Isham stored the finest—and most expensive—suits in the Empire. He took no risks with his stock.
I rubbed my palms against my hips, masking the action with a hard tug at my waistcoat. Mr Isham couldn’t see my nerves. I was his devil—first amongst his journeymen—and he was showing great trust in letting me perform the final fit for Commander Axton.
But he’d yank me away if he saw my shakes and throw me back into little more than tramp-work. Running and fetching for senior apprentices and no doubt a harsh cut to my pay for the privilege. A final fitting required a steady hand and in allowing me to fit Axton’s suit, Mr Isham was presenting me as worthy of him and his work. But remaining calm and steady around the commander was something that escaped me. Always had.
I drew in a breath, pulling in the sour, workshop air. No, nothing would spoil the first private moment I would have with the man. Not even my own nerves.
In the past, I’d watched the initial construction of Axton’s suit, half-hidden behind a thick screen. The alcove was cramped, with its beaten metal wall and a slow moving fan turning and cleaning the air of smoke, ash and the stink of hot metal. My job was to shovel coke into the machine that drove the soldering iron, to keeping the heat even. An apprentice’s job, but I volunteered for this work. The commander drew me against all sense. I couldn’t fight it. I didn’t want to.
My master worked in the fitting room beyond and I’d catch only sly glimpses of him and his elusive client. He’d hammer and cut, Axton braced to stillness against the needle-thin, white-hot tip of the iron that formed the bespoke metal suit around his body.
As a journeyman, I’d finished suits for lesser officers. But this was Commander Julius Axton. Leader of the elite 1st Lunar Expeditionary Force. A man who’d strode across the surface of the moon. I was all too aware of how privileged I was. And now my wait was soon to be over.
The boy at the metal grilled window waved his hand, breaking into my reverie. The air changed, growing thick with nerves and anticipation. I lifted my chin, unclenching my jaw. Perhaps it was only my own uneasy thoughts painting the tension. With a sharp nod from me, the apprentices worked at the oiled bolts. “The clank’s steppin’ down from his carriage.”
Clank. The common word used for men such as the commander. One I never allowed. “He’s a fortnight man. A soldier, an officer. He has a name and rank. Use it.”
The boy gave a quick nod. “Open up,”—a quick nervous glance at me—“Commander Axton is right there.”