Heretical Fishing

Chapter 35: Insufficient Power

Sergeant Snips, best friend and protector of Fischer, huffed on the shore as she glared at where the otter had disappeared, daring it to show its face once more. The otter seemed different, and Snips suspected the creature had experienced some sort of awakening, just as she had. It was, as some might find surprising, not at all incongruous to Sergeant Snips’s expectations.

She has eaten of my master’s food—it was a matter of time.

What she hadn’t expected, however, was for the otter to still demonstrate such juvenile behavior after gaining the information awakening brought along with it.

Maybe the otter isn’t as intelligent as I . . .

That is also to be expected—a mere otter could never be as intelligent as I, chosen of Fischer.

She walked back toward the campfire, intent on resuming her watch; the sea water would be boiled and reduced to perfection.

I will do as my master has requested—I’ll endeavor to forgive the otter its shortcomings, various as they may be.

“G’day, Duncan!” I called as I strode into the smithy. “Is Fergus about?”

“Back here, Fischer!” the head smith called, walking from behind the forge. “How did you go with Brad and Greg?”

“It went better than expected, mate! Check it out!” I held up the reel, and Fergus came over, accepting it from my extended hands.

“Damn, how did you get it so fast?”

“Little bit of hard work on Brad, Greg, and my part, mate!”

Fergus raised an eyebrow at me as he handed the reel to Duncan. “Something tells me that’s an understatement . . . but I’ll take your word for it.”

“Hephaestus’s girthy legs, I’ve never seen ironbark refined so smoothly . . .” Duncan said, his eyes squinting as he rotated the reel.

“So, what do you two reckon—could you help me out with the metal parts I requested?”

Fergus crossed his muscular arms. “I have some good news and bad news on that front, Fischer. We could make the bearing you asked for, but I think for your purposes, we might be better off waiting for the merchant, Marcus, to come. I recommended you make the internal hole that size for a reason, and it’ll likely last longer if you have a pre-prepared bearing set in it.”

My hopes dropped momentarily, but I cast the disappointment aside. “Damn. I was stoked to fish with it today or tomorrow, but it’s all good. When is Marcus set to come to Tropica?”

“He’ll be here on Sunday.”

One of my eyebrows shot up. They have Sunday? I really need to work out these weekdays . . .

“Right. Sunday. What day is it tomorrow, again? I’ve been so busy lately I’ve lost track.”

“It’s Winday tomorrow, so you’ll only have to wait three days—Marcus should have that coffee machine with him then, too.”

Winday? So I have Winday, Sunday, and Fielday so far. God, I hope there are seven days—that’ll make things so much easier.

I smiled as Duncan passed the reel back to me. “Well, thanks anyway! I couldn’t have made the reel in the first place without your recommendation. Waiting a few days won’t kill me.”

“You’re welcome, Fischer . . . seeing as you’re here, though, I don’t suppose you feel like working the bellows for an hour?”

Fergus gave me a sheepish smile. “I wouldn’t usually ask, but we’re running a little behind after we changed the plans on your—”

“Mate! Say no more! I could use the exercise!” I strode past the counter and toward the forge. “Let’s get this training montage started!”

“This, er, what?”

I laughed, unable to keep it in. Why is it so fun saying things the locals don’t understand?

“Forget it. Let’s begin.”

Fergus wiped the sweat from his forehead as he watched Fischer leave after only a half hour working the bellows.

“Is he getting even stronger?” Duncan asked from beside him, also watching the friendly yet strange man depart.

Fergus grunted in agreement. “I almost ran out of energy trying to keep up with him. If he went any faster, the damned forge itself might melt.”

Duncan scoffed. “The bellows would break before then, but I take your point—he’d be terrifying if he wasn’t so . . .” he trailed off, gesturing for a word that wouldn’t come.

“Goofy?” Fergus asked with a smile.

Duncan laughed. “Yeah, goofy.”

Joel, the leader of the prestigious Cult of Carcinization, sat in the meditative pose of his desired form. A heavy knocking came at the door, and frustration blossomed, shattering his calm.

I was just getting lost in the trance . . .

He stood, his elbows and knees complaining at the return to his inferior, two-legged posture.

Walking awkwardly over to the door, his eyebrow twitched as the knocking came again.

Hold your damn crabs—I’m coming.

Joel opened the door, a considerable amount of effort going toward keeping his features calm. The man standing on the other side of the door washed away his annoyance.

“G’day, Joel! How are ya, mate?”

“Oh—Fischer! I’m well, I’m well! Come on in!” He stepped aside, ushering the potential recruit inside the cult headquarters.

Fischer stepped inside, looking around the mostly empty room.

“You here alone today, Joel?”

“I am. Unfortunately, our cult doesn’t have the funding of some other organizations—we have to work our fields to sustain ourselves.”

“Your fields? You all share a farm?”

Joel nodded. “That’s right. We pooled our resources to buy the headquarters and requisite farmland before relocating here.”

“I’d assumed you were all funded by, I don’t know, followers or something?”

Fischer trailed off, rubbing his chin in thought before continuing.

“So, are you guys the only branch of the Cult of Carcinization, then?”

“Not at all!” Joel puffed his chest out in pride. “There are four branches, five if you include the main temple we originated from on the outskirts of the capital. Each branch starts there, then when the members gather enough funds, they relocate to a coastal town—where better to await carcinization, after all?”

“Huh. Neat. So there are three other headquarters on different coasts? Are they close?”

“There’s one a few days south, but the other two are on the west coast. We communicate via merchants and travelers, but so far, none have made any breakthroughs.”

“Well, I find it admirable you all work and make your own way while still following your beliefs. At least you get to escape the farming. That’s something.”

Joel laughed. “No, it’s not like that. It’s my turn for meditation, but I’ll be heading out soon to take over Jess in the fields.”

Fischer raised both eyebrows. “Even more admirable—I respect that, Joel.”

Joel felt his pride swell even more, but tried not to let it show.

“We do our best to not be like some of the other cults. There are a lot—and I mean a lot—of really shady practices with some of them.”

Joel smiled, letting some of the pride show. “Our followers are real believers, and I’m truly proud of each of them and their commitment.”

Fischer didn’t respond, simply looking around the room as he seemed to consider.

“Well,” Joel said, “listen to me prattling on. What can I do for you, Fischer? I don’t suppose you came to inquire about joining? We’re always looking for more members . . .”

Fischer gave a kind smile. “I think I’m still a little busy at the moment to give your cult the devotion needed, but I’ll keep it in mind, mate. I did come to ask about your meditation, though! You said it was Fielday, right? I’ve lost track of time—what day is it again?”

Joel tried not to project his disappointment at the refusal. At least he wasn’t directly opposed to it—maybe we can win him over with time.

“That’s right, we do it every Fielday. It’s Crafday today, so it’ll be another five days until the next group meditation.”

Fischer smiled at the mention of the next meditation, causing Joel’s stomach to flutter with excitement.

He’s that excited for the next meditation . . . ? Oh, I’ll recruit you yet, Fischer . . .

I let out a small chuckle after departing the headquarters of the Cult of Carcinization.

Thank God there are seven days of the week here, too. That makes things simpler.

I let out a sigh before smiling at the afternoon sun.

So we’ve got Crafday, then Winday, an unknown day, Sunday, another unknown day, Fielday, and finally, another unknown day.

I cocked my head.

Weird damn names, though . . . other than Sunday, of course!

I walked back toward my property, delighting in the smell of salt on the air and the warmth of the sun on my exposed skin.

Barry swung his hoe down with reckless abandon, a wild smile plastered across his visage. The energy of Fischer’s food still coursed through his veins, fueling his single-handed assault on the field.

“Go Dad!” his son Paul yelled from the side.

Barry grinned in delight at his son’s excitement, glancing to see how far the young lad had gotten in the neighboring field. He was only a quarter of the way through a single lane, a respectable distance for his son, given how much time he’d been working it. Compared to Barry and his awakened body, however, it was night and day; Barry’s own field was almost complete, most of the soil already tilled and aerated.

Out of habit, he went to wipe sweat from his brow, but there was none. The day was hot, the weather not yet turned from the reliable heat of summer, and yet, he’d not perspired a single drop.

He shook his head, laughing at himself.

I can get used to this . . .

A sensation came forth unbidden, drawing him in.

[Error: Insufficient power. Superfluous systems offline.]

The message filled him with excitement, and the ever-present grin he’d had since eating what Fischer called a ‘shovelnose ray’ spread even further across his face. It was the third message he’d received, all of them stating the exact same thing.

I wonder what the System is trying to communicate . . . ?

He began hoeing again. The familiar movement—now boosted by a previously unknown strength—filled his mind and body with ease.

Something related to farming? I know there were farming cultivators in the distant past . . . will it help my crops—

A sharp crack rang out, and he paused, staring down at the wooden shaft in his hand. He’d broken his trusty tool; the handle snapped off a handspan from the metal head.

“Woah, Dad!” Paul yelled. “You went so fast you broke it!”

Barry looked between the two pieces of his favored tool, and a laugh rushed forth. “Your old man is getting strong, lad!” Barry called across the fields. “You’ll have to put in the work if you want to catch up to me!”

Paul nodded, a serious demeanor wiping away his excitement, and he resumed tilling the sandy soil.

Barry threw the handle aside, bent down to pick up the head of the hoe, and continued his work, one hand swinging down again and again, easily parting and shifting the earth beneath him.

The improvements to his body were still fresh enough to be alien, so he couldn’t help but marvel at the way he could simply force the iron head of his broken tool all the way into the ground with a single hand.

My entire life, I’ve needed to use my whole body in an overhand swing . . .

Hunched over, he worked his way down the last of the field, the sandy soil tilled and ready for planting in his wake. Thoughts of his future plans came through as he lost himself in the labor, and he milled over the decisions he’d settled on. Excited as he may be, Barry knew the importance of proper consideration and planning; he would sit with his thoughts for a few days, letting them grow and mature like sugarcane beneath the summer sun.

One thing is certain—I’ll need to rely on her, no matter what path I take . . .

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