Chapter 8 - Chapter 8: The Factory Gambit

The Dubois factory thrummed with the relentless pulse of machinery, the air heavy with the sharp scent of molten steel and the low hum of workers' voices. Julien stood on the factory floor, his blueprint spread across a workbench, its edges curling under the weight of oilstained air. The semi-automatic rifle design—sleek, gas-operated, a marvel decades ahead of its time— stared back at him, a promise and a gamble. Three weeks remained of his onemonth deadline to deliver a prototype, and the workers' wary glances reminded him how thin his margin for error was. The tobacco-scented shadow from yesterday, the cryptic note still tucked in his pocket, lingered like a storm cloud. Someone was watching, and Julien's past life taught him that enemies struck when you least expected. Paul Renault, the foreman, had given him a corner of the workshop and three men— Jacques, the skeptical wiry worker; Léon, a quiet giant with deft hands; and Marcel, a young apprentice eager to prove himself. They hovered around the workbench, their aprons streaked with grease, eyeing the blueprint with a mix of curiosity and doubt. Julien adjusted his stance, channeling the confidence of the soldier he'd been, not the boy they saw. "Alright, men," Julien began, his voice cutting through the clatter of nearby hammers. "This rifle will change everything. Ten rounds, no reloading, lighter than the Lebel, and it won't jam in the mud. We build this right, and France will thank us. You ready to make history?" Jacques crossed his arms, his weathered face creased with suspicion. "Sounds like a fairy tale, Monsieur Julien. The army's happy with what they've got. Why risk our jobs for this?" Julien leaned forward, his hazel eyes locking onto Jacques'. "Because the army's wrong. I've seen what's coming—" He caught himself, the memory of trenches and blood flashing too vividly. "I mean, I've studied the trends. Germany's building better weapons. If we don't act, France will pay the price. This rifle's our chance to lead, not follow." Léon grunted, peering at the blueprint. "Complicated. This gas thing—how's it work? And where do we get the steel? Tractors don't need this precision." Julien tapped the schematic, his voice steady, drawing on Patrick Arnaud's knowledge. "The gas system cycles the bolt automatically—less work for the soldier, more shots in a fight. As for steel, we'll use what we've got, but I've got specs for a lighter alloy. Marcel, you're on measurements; Léon, you handle forging; Jacques, you're quality control. We start small— one prototype. If it works, we scale up." Marcel's eyes lit up, his youthful enthusiasm a stark contrast to Jacques' scowl. "I'm in, Monsieur! This looks like something from a Jules Verne novel." Jacques snorted but unfolded his arms. "Fine. But if this fails, it's your head, not ours." Julien grinned, clapping Jacques' shoulder. "Fair enough. Let's get to it." The next hours blurred into a frenzy of work. Julien guided the men, his hands steady as he adjusted tools and checked measurements, Arnaud's expertise blending seamlessly with his own engineering instincts. The workshop buzzed with the screech of metal and the hiss of cooling steel, the rifle's barrel taking shape under Léon's hammer. But Julien's eyes kept darting to the shadows, catching every worker's glance, every stray movement. The tobacco-scented stranger from yesterday hadn't reappeared, but the threat felt closer with every passing minute. As noon approached, Élise slipped into the workshop, her presence like a spark in the grim air. She wore a practical apron over her dress, her hair tied back, and carried a basket of bread and cheese. "Thought you geniuses might need fuel," she said, setting the basket down with a flourish. "How's the world-changing going?" Julien wiped sweat from his brow, managing a smile. "Slowly, little fox. But we're getting there. Keep those eyes sharp, yeah? Anyone sniffing around who shouldn't be?" Élise's grin faded, her voice dropping. "Not yet, but I checked the stables again. Another cigarette butt, same brand as before. Someone's careless—or wants us to know they're here." Julien's stomach twisted. "Stay close to the house today," he said, keeping his tone light to avoid alarming the workers. "And don't eat all the cheese." She stuck out her tongue but nodded, her eyes scanning the room before she left. Julien turned back to the workbench, his mind racing. The note, the cigarettes—someone was testing him, probing for weaknesses. He needed to finish the prototype before they struck. By late afternoon, the barrel was rough but promising, and Marcel's precise cuts had the magazine housing taking shape. Jacques, grudgingly impressed, muttered, "Might actually work, this thing." Julien allowed himself a flicker of hope, but it was cut short by a commotion at the factory's entrance. A worker burst in, breathless. "Monsieur Julien! Your father's here—and he's brought someone. Looks important." Julien's heart sank. Henri rarely visited the factory, and never with company. He wiped his hands, tucking the blueprint under a cloth, and stepped outside. Henri stood by the entrance, his face stern, beside a man in a crisp suit, his mustache waxed to sharp points. Victor Moreau, a rival arms dealer, known for his ties to the Ministry of War and a reputation for crushing upstarts. His smile was all teeth, his eyes cold as they met Julien's. "Julien," Henri said, his voice tight. "Monsieur Moreau heard about your… project. He's here to see what's worth disrupting my factory for." Moreau stepped forward, his voice smooth but laced with mockery. "A boy playing gunsmith? Charming. Show me this rifle of yours, Dubois, or are you all talk?" Julien's blood boiled, his past life's failures screaming at him to strike back. But he forced a grin, his voice dripping with charm. "Monsieur Moreau, you're early. The rifle's not ready for show yet, but when it is, you'll eat your words. Care to wager on it?" Moreau's laugh was sharp, but his eyes narrowed. "Bold words, boy. I'll be watching." As Henri led Moreau away, Julien's grin faded. Moreau's presence wasn't random—he smelled opportunity, or blood. And with a spy already circling, Julien's gambit was riskier than ever. He glanced at the workshop, where his men worked on, unaware of the storm brewing. He had to move