Michael Swanwick's Periodic Table of Science Fiction

Zinc

65.38

Brass

Tubal-cain, that industrious man, was hard at work in his smithy when the

warrior walked through the door. At this time, seven generations

descended from Adam, war hadn't been perfected yet. The earliest war,

between Cain and Abel, was thought to have been so horrific that war

would never happen again. But Seth-abel was an innovator. "What's that

you're working on?" he asked.

The metal-smith turned the object in his forge. "A plowshare."

"I don't suppose you could make me one of them, only about so long, and

straight, with a sharp edge on it?"

"Certainly I could." Tubal-cain lifted the glowing metal from the forge.

"This long enough?"

"Yes, but I want it to be slender. Like a wedge. And put a handle at one

end, with a little flange of metal above it."

Amiably, Tubal-cain put the length of brass against his anvil and with

hammer and chisel cut off the excess metal. Then he hammered it long

again, and set it back in the forge. "Strange harvest you must be

planning," he remarked conversationally.

"Aye, a crimson one." The warrior idly picked up a bar of greyish metal.

"What's this?"

"Zinc. It's what gives the brass its hardness. Copper gives it color, but

zinc gives it strength."

"It's strength that matters to me. Strength and the ability to hold an

edge. Your father taught you how to mix the metals, did he?"

"No, it's my own invention."

"You're the only one who knows how to make brass, then?"

"Me and my sons."

"So if I were to kill all three of you, there's nobody else who could

make any more brass implements?"

"Why, what a funny thought! I suppose that's true."

The warrior grinned widely. "Well, I'll be back tomorrow, then. Be sure

to have your boys here. It's been a long time since I've seen them."

He left.

Tubal-cain thought for a while. He did not like the direction of his

thoughts, but he followed them where they led. Then he put two more bars

of brass in the forge.

When the plowshares were done, he studied them carefully. They looked

dangerous. He did not think they would be of much use breaking earth. But

they might be good at other things.

The next day he called his two sons to him, and gave them each one of the

brass implements. They were both good, strong lads. "Hide in the back

room," he said. "Watch through the slit. Make no sound."

Uncertainly, his eldest son said, "What do you suspect, Father?"

"I can't put a name to it?it's too foul. Now go."

His sons did as he commanded. Tubal-cain returned to his forge, and to

his thoughts.

If he was wrong, all was well. If right, then he would die but not his

sons. They were strong and smart. They would know what to do. Two deaths

would be a terrible, shocking thing, but nothing so terrible as three. He

hoped he was wrong. He hoped that if he were right, this thing could be

stopped here and now.

The warrior entered, whistling.