Master Hilltop's hand trembled as it hovered inches from the shimmering, translucent barrier of the anti-radioactive dome. To the Halflings, it looked like a wall of solidified light, a magical ward protecting a metal tomb. They had no concept of isotopes or subatomic decay; they only saw a wonder.
CRACK-THOOM.
The nearest W800 Worker Automaton surged forward with a speed that defied its sleek bulk. A jagged arc of blue electricity erupted from its chassis, striking the moss just inches from Hilltop's feet as a warning shot. The discharge threw the elder backward, his hair standing on end as the sharp scent of ozone filled the clearing. The machine didn't hiss or rattle; it simply returned to its sentinel stance, its red optical sensor pulsing with a cold, rhythmic light.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a voice rang out, steady and impossibly calm.
The Halflings scrambled back, their eyes darting toward the massive laboratory-ship. A figure emerged from the shadow of the hull—Alex Peterson. He looked no older than twenty, a youth in his physical prime, yet he carried himself with the weary authority of a man who had seen worlds end.
Alex stopped ten paces away, crossing his arms over his chest. Thanks to the video feed his scanbots had provided, he already knew these "small humans" spoke his language. He looked at them with the clinical observation of a scientist.
"What are you doing here?" Alex asked, his gaze shifting from the fallen Hilltop to the shimmering dome. "I chose this southern wilderness for its isolation. I did not expect guests so soon."
The village elders huddled together, trembling. "We... we thought the star had fallen," one managed to stammer. "We thought the metal men were spirits."
"There are no spirits here," Alex replied, his youthful face hardening. "Only engineering. That dome is there to stop a lethal pollution from leaking into your woods. It keeps the radioactive isotopes from poisoning your water and your soil. It is an invisible rot that eats the life from your bones."
He stepped closer, pointing directly at the glowing mine entrance inside the dome. "If you cross that barrier, the air itself will unmake you. You won't feel it at first, but within days, your hair will fall out, your skin will slough off, and you will be nothing more than a corpse rotting from the inside out. My machines are programmed to keep you alive by keeping you away."
The Halflings stared at him in stunned silence. They had seen the soot-choked "wonders" of the Industrial Council, but this young man spoke of invisible, bone-eating poisons with the cold certainty of a master. To them, he wasn't just a traveler; he was the keeper of a silent, silver death.
******
Master Hilltop slowly scrambled to his feet, his hands shaking as he brushed the dirt from his tunic. The terror of the "invisible rot" was still fresh in his mind, but the sight of the beautiful, silent machines standing guard over the valley stirred a different emotion: hope.
"Forgive us, Master," Hilltop stammered, bowing his head deeply. "We meant no disrespect to your... equipment. We have never seen such wonders in all the southern lands. Tell us, are you a Technologist? One of those masters of gears and logic from the great cities of the North?"
Alex uncrossed his arms, his youthful face softening only slightly into a look of clinical reflection. He had never heard the word "Technologist" used as a title before, but he understood the root of the language.
"If by 'Technologist' you mean someone who understands the fundamental laws of the universe and applies them to create tools for survival, then yes," Alex replied. "Though I have no knowledge of the 'masters' or the cities you speak of. My science is my own."
The Halfling elders exchanged frantic, hopeful glances. One of the women stepped forward, her voice thick with desperation. "Master, our village... our fields are dying. For years, the soil has turned to dust and the crops wither before they can sprout. The Mages of Cumbria say the land is cursed beyond their spells, and the Technologist travelers from the north say there is no way to fix it. But your metal men... they hunt, they fish, they build. Could your logic save us from hunger?"
Alex looked at the small people, his mind calculating the caloric requirements and the chemical composition of the local topsoil. He had come to this world to start over; perhaps saving a village was the first step in getting the "math" right this time.
"Wait here," Alex commanded. "If I am to restore your fields, I will need more than a scanbot."
He turned and disappeared back into the yawning shadow of the laboratory-ship. For a long moment, the Halflings stood in the shadow of the W800s, who remained as still as statues. Then, a low, smooth hum began to vibrate through the ground—a sound unlike any horse-drawn cart or wooden carriage they had ever known.
From the ship's primary cargo bay, a Carrier Vehicle rolled out. The Halflings gasped, several falling to their knees in shock. In the world of Arcanum, the only great machines they had ever heard of were the soot-belching Steam Trains of the United Kingdom or the groaning Zeppelins that drifted through the clouds. To them, technology meant smoke, grease, and the roar of burning coal.
This vehicle was a nightmare of beauty. It moved on high-traction, silent wheels and possessed a chassis of the same seamless, dark alloy as the automatons. There were no animals straining at a yoke, no puffing chimneys, and no smell of burning coal. It glided over the uneven forest floor as if the earth itself were welcoming its weight.
Alex sat in the pressurized cabin, his hands resting on a sleek control yoke. He brought the massive machine to a halt just feet from the trembling group.
"Lead the way," Alex said through an external speaker. "This vehicle carries the necessary chemical compounds and instruments to treat the soil. Show me these dying fields. If the soil is broken, science will fix it."