The morning after the attack brought a strong sun that dissipated the night mist and illuminated the Mocambo of the Armadillo with a golden, hopeful light. Through the concrete streets, the inhabitants weren't whispering apprehensively, but talking in animated voices, their easy smiles and broad gestures telling the same story: for the first time, they had faced danger and emerged victorious, without a single casualty.

  "Did you see the Minister?" commented one woman, carrying a basket of laundry on her hip. "The earth wall came out of nowhere! It was as if the very ground rose up to protect us."

  "And Quixotina, moving like a whirlwind!" added another, while hanging clothes on a line. "That monster, with all its forms, was no match for them."

  The feeling of optimism was palpable. While other Mocambos throughout the Quilombo reported scares and damages, the Mocambo of the Armadillo was becoming an example. The magical spyglasses provided by the Popess had proven their worth, giving the crucial alert that allowed for an organized defense. The respect for the religious leader, which was already great for her compassion and equal treatment of all the faithful, regardless of their skin color, now bordered on veneration.

  In the bars and restaurants of Carlos's Mocambo, busy even at that morning hour, the buzz was different. Between sips of strong coffee and pieces of cassava cake, the most repeated names were those of Carlos and Tassi.

  "It was Carlos who secured the funding, who brought real progress," argued an older man, tapping his finger on the table for emphasis. "Without that money, we wouldn't have the spyglasses, nor the trained guards."

  "Yes, yes, but it was Tassi who got her hands dirty, or rather, in the earth!" retorted a young man. "Who built the tower? Who created the wooden sword in the moment of danger? She didn't plan from afar, she fought here, with us!"

  While the community buzzed with debate, Carlos himself was far from sharing in that euphoria. In his home, he watched the movement through the window, his face marked by a worry that the shadows under his eyes accentuated. Victory tasted bitter to him. Every compliment sounded like an even greater expectation on his shoulders.

  They celebrate a battle, he thought, rubbing his tired eyes. But I need to win the war. And wars aren't won with courage alone, but with tools. And chemistry.

  His thoughts, however, flew beyond the laboratory. Even though the weapons factory wasn't ready yet, it's only a matter of time. He could almost hear the rhythmic sound of the future machines. Nia is finalizing the machine tools, like the milling machine.

  That's what will change everything – a machine that can produce parts for more steam engines. It's like planting a metal seed that grows and bears fruits of steel. A brief smile touched his lips. And the ones who will operate this new industrial heart will be the very best assistants from the workshop, the ones who stood out the most. Lucas, with his precise hands... Mara, who never misreads a measurement... Soon, very soon, we will have enough steam engines not just for the weapons factory, but for the ammunition one, and for any other sector that needs it.

  His mind traveled through these possibilities. He imagined the paper factory, with its heavy stampers for beating pulp being moved by steam, producing sheets in a fraction of the time. He saw mills for wheat, cassava, corn, with their stones turning incessantly, freeing human hands for other work. The flour would be cheaper, more accessible...

  But it was a more mundane thought that made his face twitch slightly with discomfort. I also wish people would stop fetching water from wells. Even in the apartment the water tank requires someone to do that work manually, filling bucket by bucket. It's a waste of time and energy. He looked out the window, seeing a young woman carrying a heavy bucket on her head, water dripping onto her clothes. But with a steam pump, I can change that. Iron pipes, water running to the houses... The contrast was almost comical. Even in my own home, with all my plans, I still have to ask for water to be brought in a bucket. The most basic convenience is still a luxury.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  He then remembered the ceramic toilet bowl, installed in his bathroom, a strange and marvelous object to everyone else. The good thing is I can always use my house as a prototype for these technologies, he thought, with a hint of resigned pride. First it was the cement, testing the mixtures before building the house. Then, the toilet and the flush, which nobody really understood what they were for. Now... now maybe it's time for the water pump. A luxury that will become a necessity.

  He left the window and, instead of heading to his desk, walked out the door. His destination that morning would not be the town hall, but the chemistry laboratory. He needed to see the fruit of his efforts with his own eyes.

  The laboratory, a robust concrete structure that smelled of lime and new products, was a world apart. Inside, the air was heavy and acrid, a mixture of metallic vapors and acidic odors that burned the nostrils slightly and left a bitter taste in the back of the throat. Rows of lead tanks, cold and impassive to the touch, glimmered under the faint light entering from the upper openings. The sound was one of a soft, constant bubbling, coming from glass flasks where dark, steaming liquids circulated in an endless cycle.

  His assistant, a young man with contagious enthusiasm, greeted him with a wide smile, his fingers stained by a dark substance.

  "Chief! Finally! Look at the level in this tank," he said, leading Carlos to one of the large lead containers and tapping it with his knuckles, producing a dull sound. "Nearly pure sulfuric acid. Enough for us to start industrial-scale production. The lead chamber process is finally working!"

  Carlos observed the containers, a deep weariness in his movements. This success was the end of weeks of sleepless nights and frustration.

  "Who would have thought, right?" the assistant continued, animated, following Carlos through the room while gesturing to illustrate his words. "We spent weeks trying to produce nitric acid in quantity. We knew the theory: you take the saltpeter, heat it with sulfuric acid and distill the vapor. But the production was one drop at a time! One flask a day wouldn't supply even a fireworks factory, let alone the weapons one."

  He stopped in front of a more complex glass apparatus, where a reddish-brown gas bubbled through a liquid.

  "The missing piece was nitrogen dioxide," explained the young man, with the gleam of discovery in his eyes. "And to produce that in quantity, guess what? We needed... more sulfuric acid to oxidize the nitrogen from the air! It was a cycle. A chemical puzzle. We needed the acid to, in the end, produce more of the same acid. We kept going in circles until you had the idea to use the process itself to feed itself."

  He laughed, relieved, as if telling the inside joke of a secret club. Carlos stopped before the main tank, placing his hand on the cold metal surface, feeling the slight vibration of the reactive contents.

  "Yes. An almost vicious cycle," he murmured, more to himself. "An autocatalytic process. The nitrogen dioxide we produce accelerates the very reaction that creates it. If I had access to industrial chemistry books... perhaps we would have figured this out weeks ago. The time we lost... time we don't have."

  The assistant's face turned serious, catching the gravity in the Chief's voice. He picked up a glass jar containing a clear, oily liquid and handed it to Carlos.

  "But we did it, Chief. That's what matters, right? Here it is. Fuming nitric acid, of the best quality. Now... with the scale of production, the lab will need more people. It's going to become a factory. Where do I fit into all this?"

  There was a mixture of apprehension and ambition in his voice. Carlos took the jar, observing how the liquid fumed slightly upon contact with the air. That was the smell of progress, acidic and dangerous.

  "You will be in charge of daily operations," said Carlos, carefully returning the jar. "Who else understands the details, the dangers, and the critical points of this process, besides me, but you? We need to use this nitric acid to nitrate the cellulose from cotton, to produce nitrocellulose as quickly as possible. The weapons factory isn't fully ready yet, but we can already start supplying the cannons and manufacturing grenades." He paused, studying the young man. "And, of course, your responsibilities and your salary will be proportional to the position. You will be the chemical supervisor."

  The assistant's smile returned, wider and grateful.

  "Thank you, Chief! You can count on me. I'll supervise the first batch of nitrocellulose personally."

  Carlos nodded and left, leaving behind the acidic smell of progress and the sound of knowledge being transformed into power. The weariness pulled him down, but his work was not yet complete. He went straight home and, without even taking off his boots, fell onto the bed, succumbing to a heavy, immediate sleep. His mind, exhausted from the sleepless night spent studying schematics for weapons and machines out of fear of another attack, finally found rest.

  Hours later, in the advanced afternoon, Carlos woke with a clearer mind. The sleep had washed away some of the fatigue, but not the urgency. He got up, washed his face with cold water from a basin, and, taking a folder full of sketches and notes that smelled of ink and paper, went out to find Tassi. His sleepless night of worry had, at least, yielded one productive idea. It was time to put it into practice.