PREVIOUSLY.
[In the hallway of the present, my hand brushed against the cold wall. It took a few breaths to return from the testing grounds to the silent corridor of the Military Research Office. The clinking of metal ceased abruptly, as if the hammer of memory and the real one had decided to rest at the same moment.
Before me, the director's office door waited. I squared my shoulders; I had learned, through blows and fractures, that every advancement in this building came at a price. Now, with open wars and Europeans watching from across the Dawn Ocean, the cost of every decision would be even higher.
I reached for the handle, letting the echo of the furnaces and the first failed cannon settle in the depths of my mind, where I kept all the lessons I could not afford to forget.]
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Year 12 of the SuaChie Calendar, Ninth Month.
Central City (Tunja, Colombia), South-Central Region.
Military Research Office, Explorer Division Headquarters.
I forced myself to breathe slowly before touching the handle.
The image of the first cracked cannon was still too fresh in my mind, as if the metal were still cooling before me. It took only a moment's closing of my eyes for another memory to superimpose itself: not the lateral crack I had inspected with restrained fury, but the explosion that followed, when we tried to wring more than the bronze could give.
(Year 5 of the SuaChie Calendar, Continuing the previous memory)
In that test, the thunder did not come from the mouth of the cannon, but from its base.
The tube held for a few heartbeats, and then the rear bloomed open like a flower of shattered metal. The flash was brutal; a dense smoke, laden with black powder and incandescent shards, swirled around the frame. The wooden structure supporting it ignited in several places, small tongues of fire licking the beams as the researchers retreated in chaotic fashion.
"Back!" Chuta had shouted then, even before checking if anyone was injured. "No one approach until the fire dies."
His heart hammered against his chest, but his voice remained steady. When the smoke began to dissipate and the crackling of wood subsided into a plaintive groan, he moved forward with the researchers toward the mangled body of the cannon. The tube, blackened at the base, showed an irregular rupture, metal teeth bent outward as if something had tried to escape by force.
"It's not just the mold," one of the researchers murmured, crouching to observe. "Look at how it split… it looks like glass."
Chuta passed his hand a few centimeters from the surface, analyzing the fracture.
"Too brittle," he conceded. "The bronze is yielding in the worst possible way. We will have to test different compositions, and not a few."
That day, instead of a single error, they saw several. The explosion at the base spoke of poorly distributed pressure; the shape of the crack, of a metal that did not absorb tension well.
Without pausing for laments, Chuta ordered a series of trials that held no glory: small ingots with varying proportions of copper and tin, bars subjected to measured blows, pieces bent to their limit, and rigorous notes on which combination held, which creaked, and which splintered.
In the following months, the testing ground was littered with fragments of discarded bronze. The founders grumbled under their breath whenever they were asked for yet another variant of the mix, but discipline prevailed.
Resistance tests—impacts, tensions, sudden temperature changes—became routine. Gradually, experience ceased to be borrowed theory from another world and became the Sovereign Knowledge of the Suaza Kingdom.
When they finally found an alloy that bore the pressure better without cracking like dry clay, they redesigned the cannon. The first model had been a tube of gleaming bronze, almost ostentatious in its excess of material.
The new one, by contrast, featured discreet reinforcements at specific points, a more rational thickness, and a duller color—a result of the blend and the treatment. The total volume had been reduced; they no longer needed a grotesque mass of metal to compensate for their ignorance. The assembly, once clumsy and laborious, became less cruel to the artisans.
"It is less impressive to the eye," commented one of the founders, examining the finished piece.
"The impression lies not in its appearance, but in that it does the same with less," Chuta replied. "Or more, with less risk."
Before the "final test" under the open sky, they conducted controlled trials in the laboratory: small charges, measurement of deformations, verifying that the reinforcement in the chamber functioned as intended. None of this held the epic quality many would expect from the "first reliable cannon of the Suaza Kingdom," but these were the steps that separated curiosity from catastrophe.
On the day appointed for the great test, the firing range was prepared with a precision that would have made the Department of Innovation smile. The cannon, mounted on a reinforced wooden carriage, aimed at a set of stone and timber targets at the far end.
The researchers who had accompanied the process for months lined up around the weapon with a mixture of pride and exhaustion. Unlike the first time, no one insisted on standing too far back; the confidence in their own work was visible in the way they approached.
Only Chuta maintained a greater distance. By then he was nearly six years old, but his body still reacted poorly to nearby thunderclaps. He knew he could endure it, that he had endured worse, but he saw no heroism in standing close merely for appearance's sake.
"I will be further back," he announced, pointing to a mark on the ground. "I can see well from there, and I shall hear too much regardless."
The researchers nodded. After several minutes of checks—measured charge, projectile position, securing the carriage, inspecting the fuse—silence claimed the field. The wind toyed with the hems of their tunics, kicking up small clouds of dust.
"Begin!" Chuta shouted from his position, raising his arm.
A researcher stepped forward, lit the fuse, and retreated at a quick pace. The crackling sizzle worked its way toward the chamber, a serpent of fire advancing too slowly for the nerves and too fast for analysis. Chuta remembered that wait with absolute clarity: every inch of cord consumed, every breath shortening around him.
Then, the world contracted into a single blow of sound.
The thunder erupted with a force his body was not prepared to cushion. He felt the impact as a pressure tightening his chest and stomach simultaneously; the air seemed to thicken, his ribs vibrated.
A sharp ringing immediately filled his ears, blurring all other noise. He took a false step, the ground tilting half a palm beneath him, and had to steady himself with a hand on his knee.
In the distance, he saw the cloud of smoke erupt from the cannon's mouth and, seconds later, the column of dust kicked up by the projectile's impact on the target. Even without hearing clearly, he recognized by the shape of the movement that the rock had been pierced and the wood splintered.
The researchers and some soldiers of the Explorer Division, positioned closer, reacted similarly: hunched shoulders, hands instinctively raised to ears, the occasional stunned blink. But after the initial shock, their faces transformed. The expression of fright turned into a mixture of disbelief and jubilation.
"It held!" someone exclaimed, their voice still distorted by the ringing in their eardrums.
"The chamber is intact," added another, already moving closer to inspect. "No cracks."
Chuta did not remember all the exact words spoken that day, but he did remember the sensation: a clean, almost childlike joy that pierced through the accumulated fatigue.
The director of the military research office, then a somewhat younger man but already possessing an analytical gaze, had even allowed himself an unusual gesture: a clenched fist raised briefly to the air before regaining his composure.
…
In the present, when I finally opened the office door, I recognized that same glint in the eyes of the man rising from behind the desk. Time had left more wrinkles on his face, but the expression upon seeing me was that of someone who expected good news as much as he desired to give it.
"Young Chuta, what a joy to see you…," the director said, smiling truly. "I thought you would take your time coming. After all, in the last report, I already previewed what we would be doing for the coming year."
I allowed myself to return that warmth. Cuhuca had been there since my first steps, when the military research office was more of a gamble than a consolidated structure. He had shared with me the failed tests, the excessive furnaces, the nights of rough calculations.
"It is good to see you too, Cuhuca," I replied, approaching the chair in front of the desk. "I wouldn't miss a meeting with you for anything in the world. However, …" I made a brief grimace, almost a crooked smile, "I am a bit distracted these days, so I apologize in advance."
Cuhuca let out a short laugh, devoid of any irreverence.
"Do not worry about that, Young Chuta. It is not the first time it has happened to you," he said, in a tone that blended respect and familiarity. "I shall begin my report with the improvements to the ships and their armaments."
The word "ships" acted upon me like a switch.
As Cuhuca began to arrange his tablets, my mind slipped, almost without permission, toward another set of memories: the long road we had traveled to go from river canoes to the Tequendama II, those beasts of timber and sail capable of crossing the Dawn Ocean and the Sunset Ocean.
It was not a linear memory; for me, it was a mosaic of shipyards, storms, and strategic decisions.
I forced myself back to the present, focusing my gaze on the director's face. If I had learned anything from Laboratory 15 to this moment, it was that every advancement—a cannon that did not break, a ship that did not sink—came with a new layer of responsibility.
I settled into the chair before him, feeling the wood creak under my weight with a familiar sound, like that of an old ship that still holds. The director's casual mention of "improvements to the ships" had been enough to ignite my spark.
My mind, trained to break down complex processes, slid without resistance toward previous years, back when it had all begun with a decision that, in hindsight, seemed like the first brick of an oceanic empire.
(Year 2 of the SuaChie Calendar, another memory)
The chosen lake was tranquil, its dark waters dappled with reflections of the mid-morning sun, connected to a navigable river that wound through hills covered in dense vegetation.
But before a single plank touched the water, Chuta had ordered the construction of what he would call a "sawmill," though it was actually a rudimentary workshop at the edge of the clearing. The air there was filled with the pungent scent of fresh sap, damp bark, and hot metal whenever the hardened bronze saws bit into the wood.
He had personally selected the volcanic stones for sharpening them—black, porous, fine-grained stones that did not wear down the bronze too quickly—and supervised the first cuts.
The logs, dragged from the nearby forest by ropes and rollers, were transformed into straight planks under saws manned by teams of four. The screech was constant, accompanied by the rhythmic strike of wedges opening the natural cracks in the wood, and the dust floated in fine clouds that clung to sweaty skin.
The blueprints Chuta carried etched in his memory were basic designs for coastal vessels, drastically simplified for the current limitations of his people: without deep keels that required high-quality iron, without complex rigging that demanded fine hemp ropes.
He adapted everything: carved wooden joints to replace non-existent nails, cast bronze dowels for critical fastenings, improvised sealants of resin boiled with crushed bark fibers and volcanic ash to caulk the seams.
The "shipyard" was little more than a cleared space by the lake, surrounded by stacks of planks piled in order: the longest for the bottom, the medium for the sides, the short for benches and reinforcements. The ground was marked with tensioned ropes and stakes, outlining the silhouette of the hull like a wooden ghost waiting to come to life.
It was there that Chewa first appeared, a brawny fisherman with hands like gnarled roots and a budding beard flecked with wood chips. He owned a few battered canoes that he rented to transport nets or grain downriver, and his practical gaze evaluated the timber as quickly as a priest evaluated an altar.
"This plank for the bottom, does it fit in like this?" he asked, holding a long piece with the joint already carved, testing it against the initial frame.
Chuta stepped closer, running his small fingers over the seam.
"Correct, but check the angle," he said, adjusting it slightly. "If there is a gap here, the water will find it in the first swell. Tighten it until it creaks a bit."
The priest acting as foreman shouted from the other end of the clearing, his raspy voice cutting through the noise of hammering and sawing:
"Frames straight first! The floor timbers go parallel or we take them out and carve new ones! Do not waste bronze on mistakes!"
The workers responded with affirmative grunts and muffled curses, sweat tracing furrows in the dust on their faces.
The atmosphere was one of intense labor: hammers ringing in sequence—a blow to fit, a blow to secure the bronze dowel, a blow to test stability; the smell of resin heating in the sun; the occasional splash of planks being tested in makeshift puddles.
The hull frame took shape first, a skeletal structure of curved frames joined by long floor timbers; then came the bottom planks, fitted with precision to form a watertight plane, followed by the sides that rose in a gentle curve.
The interior finishings—transverse benches, longitudinal reinforcements—were added with thinner slats, secured with red-hot cast dowels that sizzled as they cooled.
Finally, the sealant: a thick, almost black paste, cooked in clay pots over controlled fires. The workers applied it with flat wooden spatulas, pressing into every joint until it oozed like tree blood. The mast—a straight log, peeled and polished—was erected in the center, secured with tensioned shrouds; the sail, of tightly woven cotton, was furled on the upper yard.
The launching came at sunset, with the lake dyed orange.
The boat slid from the packed earth ramp with a deep splash that sent up white foam and concentric ripples. Chewa and three other fishermen climbed aboard, new oars in hand—longer than the traditional ones, with wide blades and balanced handles.
The first stroke of the oars was revealing: the boat cut through the water with fluidity, without the clumsy wobble of the canoes. It was not just speed; it was stability, the capacity to carry double nets or sacks of grain without sinking the bow.
Chuta saw understanding light up Chewa's face as they turned in a wide arc, the water splashing against the gunwales.
"We could carry twice as much," the fisherman murmured, testing an oar with more force. "Full nets, whole grain, without exhausting ourselves halfway down the river."
"To the river now," Chuta ordered, pointing toward the mouth. "Sail up."
The nearby river, of moderate but fickle current in some stretches, usually demanded relentless rowing to advance against it. With the sail hoisted—the taut fabric creaking as it caught the wind—and the rudimentary rudder—a long blade fixed to the sternpost with leather straps—a breath from the northeast was enough for the boat to take on a life of its own.
They no longer needed to row; only to guide, correcting the drift with subtle pressures on the rudder. Chewa looked at the swelling fabric with palpable curiosity, fingers tense on the gunwale, eyes squinting as he calculated invisible angles.
"This… changes the loads we can move," he said, his voice low but intense. "But we must learn to read the wind first."
(Year 4 of the SuaChie Calendar, continuing in the same memory)
A little over two years later, Chuta led Chewa to the true leap: the first proper shipyard, at the mouth of the Suaza River, where the current widened toward the open sea.
He had standardized everything to minimize errors: hardened clay molds for straight keels, wooden templates for identical frames, fixed sequences etched into tablets nailed to posts.
Step 1: Base keel; Step 2: Floor timbers spaced at 1.2 meters.
Iron tools were beginning to filter in from the first experimental furnaces, making cleaner cuts and more precise drills.
The smell there in the shipyard was different: boiling pitch, green wood sawn in mass, smoke from fires to cure the planks. That moment coincided almost exactly with the first tests of the bronze cannon; the ships, however, progressed faster, thanks to standardization and a different kind of difficulty.
Chewa gazed at the blueprints spread across a long table, illuminated by torches flickering in the river breeze. The lines were more complex: deep hulls for stability in swells, double masts for larger sails, watertight compartments in the hold.
"Young Chuta, is this real?" he asked, running a trembling finger along the outline of the main hull. "Can we truly create this… beast?"
"Of course," Chuta replied, with a spark of emotion he rarely let show. "And if you think this is a beast, I can only imagine your face when I show you the plans for a ship even larger… The Tequendama."
"Larger?" Chewa raised his eyebrows, impressed but not skeptical.
"Yes! But also, more complex to manufacture…," Chuta lowered his voice to a thoughtful murmur, looking toward the river shimmering under the crescent moon. "These will help us cross the great lakes."
He paused; eyes fixed on the horizon. "But they will also help us protect ourselves."
…
In the present, Cuhuca's voice brought him back, pointing to a specific line on the blueprint of the Tequendama II spread across the desk.
"Young Chuta? The reinforcements in the holds to bear the Juracán… I have proposed double floor timbers in this section."
Chuta blinked, focusing his eyes on the stroke.
The phantom ringing of the first naval thunder still resonated in his ears, mingled with the splashing of the lake and the creaking of the first sails. Chewa, that curious fisherman, was now the leader of the Suaza Chamber of Commerce, and the current bridge designated by me to deal with the Europeans.
Those rough planks had evolved into galleons that crossed oceans. The road had been long; from manual sawmills to dry docks, from bronze to iron, from lakes to open seas, but solid as the joinery that still defined every Suaza hull.
He nodded slowly, tracing the proposed reinforcement with his finger.
"Well thought," he said. "But add an intermediate floor timber here. Remember the first Tequendama that split open during the Isthmus trials… Pressure does not forgive."
Cuhuca took note, a smile of recognition on his lips. Chuta leaned back slightly, letting the memory settle.
Every naval advancement had been a lesson: wood yielded, the wind betrayed, the sea punished. But since that lake, the Suaza Kingdom had learned to answer back for the first time.
.
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
Yes, as you just noticed, two chapters in a row (not literally, but sort of).
First, I hope you're all doing well...
About the chapter:
This is a continuation of the previous one, or at least it's more flashbacks related to technology.
They're just to reinforce the "base" or the period it took for technological development.
Besides, if a Chinese guy could produce AK-47s in two years in a Chinese historical novel, why couldn't Chuta have ships and cannons in eight? Hahaha
The only problem I have now is that technological progress for a potential pre-industrial era is more complicated than developing crude cannons or ships.
Because for that, you need steel, and in large quantities.
While Chuta (or I) could try to improve a blast furnace and obtain steel, the truth is, it's not that easy.
Not to mention that so far the mineral resources used have been those on the surface, or at least the most accessible. But the next step requires real mines, with all the work and complications that entails.
That's why in these last 40 chapters there's been little to no talk of development, and it's also why these reports given (nothing was actually said, only I know about it) by Ubatas and Cuhuca don't talk about progress, but rather about propagation.
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Read my other novels.
#The Walking Dead: Vision of the Future (Chapter 91) (ON HOLD)
#The Walking Dead: Emily's Metamorphosis (Chapter 34) (ON HOLD)
#The Walking Dead: Patient 0 - Lyra File (Chapter 14) (ON HOLD)
You can find them on my profile.]