Chapter 10 - Chapter 10: The Demonstration

The Dubois factory's courtyard was a makeshift stage under the midday sun, its cobblestones worn smooth by decades of workers' boots and the air sharp with the scent of coal dust and fresh-cut grass from the nearby fields. Julien stood beside a wooden table, his prototype rifle— gleaming steel and polished wood—resting like a knight's sword before a duel. The semi­automatic Dubois Mark I, cobbled together in just over two weeks, was a marvel of Patrick Arnaud's future knowledge fused with Julien's engineering grit. Its sleek barrel and compact magazine promised speed and precision, but today, it had to prove itself against Victor Moreau's sneering doubt and the Ministry official's scrutiny. A small crowd gathered: factory workers, curious and skeptical; Antoine, his tailored coat a stark contrast to the grease-stained aprons; Élise, hovering at the edge with a mischievous glint in her eye; and Henri, his face a mask of reluctant hope. At the center stood Moreau, his waxed mustache twitching with a predator's smile, and beside him, a wiry man in a Ministry uniform, Monsieur Dupont, whose pinched face and clipboard screamed bureaucracy. The tobacco scent Julien had come to dread was absent, but the weight of the threatening note—Keep your secrets close, Dubois, or they'll bury you—pressed against his chest. Moreau stepped forward, his voice dripping with condescension. "So, this is your toy, Dubois? A boy's dream to outshine the Lebel? I've sold thousands of rifles to the army, and they trust my work. What makes you think this… contraption will impress anyone?" Julien's blood simmered, but he flashed a grin, channeling the charm of his playboy past and the cunning of a soldier who'd faced worse than insults. "Monsieur Moreau, the Lebel's a fine rifle— for a museum. My Mark I fires ten rounds without reloading, weighs two pounds less, and costs half as much to make. Care to see it in action, or are you afraid it'll outshoot your antiques?" The crowd murmured, workers chuckling at the jab. Moreau's eyes narrowed, but Dupont raised a hand, his voice nasal and impatient. "Enough posturing. Show us, Monsieur Dubois, or we're wasting time." Julien nodded, picking up the rifle with a practiced ease that hid his racing heart. He'd tested it twice in secret, its recoil sharp but manageable, its aim true. But this was no private trial—this was a face-slapping moment, a chance to humiliate a rival and win the Ministry's eye. He gestured to a row of targets—wooden planks set fifty yards away, painted with crude bullseyes. "Antoine," Julien called, tossing his friend a second rifle, a Lebel borrowed from the estate's armory. "You're my second. Fire five rounds at the target, standard pace. Let's show Monsieur Moreau what he's up against." Antoine caught the Lebel, his grin boyish but his eyes sharp. "You sure you want me stealing your thunder, Julien?" He stepped to the firing line, the crowd parting like a sea. Julien winked, keeping the mood light. "Just don't miss, poet." He turned to the crowd, his voice carrying over the rustle of anticipation. "The Lebel's what France trusts now. Watch how it compares." Antoine fired, each shot deliberate, the Lebel's bolt-action clunking as he reloaded. Five shots in twenty seconds, three hitting the target's center, two grazing the edge. The crowd clapped politely, but Julien saw Moreau's smirk widen, sensing an easy victory. Julien stepped up, the Mark I light in his hands, its balance perfect. He remembered the trenches—soldiers fumbling with heavy rifles, dying for seconds lost. This was for them. For Antoine. For France. He raised the rifle, his past life's training steadying his aim, and fired. The gas-operated mechanism cycled smoothly, each shot a crisp crack that echoed across the courtyard. Ten rounds in eight seconds, nine hitting dead center, one clipping the bullseye's edge. The crowd erupted, workers cheering, Élise whooping louder than anyone. Antoine clapped, his laugh rich. "Mon Dieu, Julien, you've made a monster!" Henri's stern face softened, a flicker of pride breaking through. Moreau's smile vanished, his face pale as chalk. Dupont scribbled furiously on his clipboard, his eyes wide. "Impressive," he said, his tone grudging. "But reliability? Durability? One test proves nothing." "Then order a hundred," Julien said, his voice bold but measured. "Test them in the field. You'll see they're better than anything Moreau's peddling." He locked eyes with the arms dealer, his grin sharp. "Unless you want to try it yourself, Monsieur? I'd hate for you to miss the future." Moreau's jaw clenched, but he forced a laugh. "Bold words, boy. But the Ministry doesn't bet on untested toys. Enjoy your moment—it won't last." He turned to Dupont, muttering something Julien couldn't catch, and the two strode toward the factory gate. As the crowd dispersed, workers slapping Julien's back, Élise darted to his side, her whisper urgent. "I saw someone in the crowd—back row, cap low. Slipped away when you fired. Smelled like that damn tobacco again." Julien's gut twisted. The spy was here, watching, reporting. To Moreau? Someone else? He handed the rifle to Antoine, his voice low. "Keep this safe. And stay sharp tonight—no wandering." Antoine nodded, his playful air gone. "You're scaring me, Julien. What's going on?" "Later," Julien said, his eyes on the gate where Moreau and Dupont had vanished. He'd humiliated a rival today, but the victory felt fragile. Moreau wouldn't stop, and the spy was still out there. As he turned back to the rifle, its steel warm from the sun, he felt a new weight settle. The demonstration was just the beginning—now the real fight started.