The Hammer Chronicles: Persistence

‘Are you sure you know where you’re going?’ asked Eris, beginning to look slightly annoyed.

‘I told you, maybe!’ I exclaimed, scrutinizing the ancient, weather-beaten sign. Enough of the letters had been blasted off by - well, who knows what THIS continent got hit by in the various apocalypses – that I couldn’t quite make out the name of the town.

‘Are you even sure this place you’re looking for is real?’

‘I told you,’ I said again, my own annoyance levels rising to match those of Eris, ‘maybe!’

‘So let me get this straight,’ said Eris.

‘Oh, like you’ve ever wanted anything to be straight,’ I snarked.

Eris ignored me. ‘We are currently poking around every shit town in the ruins of what used to be rural Australia, looking for a town that might not exist, and in turn for a relic that might not exist -’

‘Hey, the relic does exist, I’ve seen it with my own eyes!’ I exclaimed.

‘ – anymore,’ Eris finished testily. ‘Might not exist anymore. And even if it does exist, might not do what you think it does.’

‘Look, I talked it over with Discordia, and it thinks – ’

‘They.’

‘What?’

‘What they think,’ said Eris, sounding more hurt than annoyed.

‘Fine, they,’ I said, deciding that it wasn’t worth it to debate AGI sentience at the time. ‘They think that this plan might work.’

‘Did I mention that I think this plan stinks?’ asked Eris. I chuckled, and they scowled. ‘I didn’t mean – whatever. Is this the town you want or not?’

I squinted a bit more deeply and felt the sign, seeing if I could feel where the letters used to be. And…

‘Yeah. I think this is it. Bungadell.’

‘I thought you said this place was made up?’

‘It was.’

Eris spread their hands in a frustrated gesture. ‘Then why are we looking at it? How is a fictional town sitting right here before us?’

‘I said it was,’ I said with a wry grin. ‘But, if enough people believe in a place just a little…’

 Eris rolled their eyes. ‘How is it that you, oh mighty Dan of science, who’s too fucking good for magic, get magic this well?’

I looked at them and bit back the immediate sardonic response; it was a fair question. ‘Look,’ I said. ‘I didn’t believe in magic when we were in the past, because… well, the evidence was against it. I never ruled it out entirely – I’m not one of those atheists, who “knows for a fact” there isn’t anything beyond the realm of perceptible reality, because to know that sort of thing for a fact is tantamount to faith. So, I left a non-zero probability that magic was real… and then when we came to the future and saw it, the rational thing to do was update my probabilities.’

‘Doesn’t answer my question. How is it that you’ve gotten this deep into it this fast?’

‘I’m a man of science, Eris!’

‘You’re an economist,’ they spat, saying the word as though it were the deepest curse they knew.

‘Which is a kind of science,’ I said. ‘Point is… well, look, there’s a reason they called it the Spirit Science Research Institute, right? It was possible to study this stuff using the scientific method, and the Institute tried. Hell, so did the Order, a little. They just… never took it to heart the way the Institute did.’

Eris looked surprised. ‘Is it me, or are you speaking with admiration about the fucking Amoralists?’

‘I’m saying, they took studying magic as a rigorous, scientific practice, and that’s probably part of why it works now. Obviously it isn’t fucking worth it, the atrocities they committed…’

‘I was gonna say,’ said Eris, looking oddly serious.

‘My point is,’ I said again, ‘that once it became clear that this stuff was real, it was my duty as a scientist -’ I cut off Eris’ snarky remark with a raised finger, ‘- to understand it. So I’ve been spending time with the Grotto Discordia, really trying to get to the heart of it, and it turns out that what makes it tick is belief. Magic, in this world, works because enough people believe that it works. It always kind of did work… but it’s more powerful the more Will there is behind it. Once you understand that, it’s just a matter of figuring out what counts as belief and what doesn’t.’

‘And so,’ said Eris, ‘this is why we are in a fictional-but-somehow-not-fictional-anymore town in bumfuck Australia, looking for a Vegemite jar they used to keep at a folk festival you used to go to, which purports to contain a fart with enough raw wind-power to bring down a massive stone wall?’

‘Precisely,’ I said. ‘Now let’s get into the town and take a look.’

---

SEVERAL DAYS EARLIER

Well.

Carlton wasn’t kidding.

I really had no idea exactly how Holmes had put the whammy on me. I remembered watching Carlton laying the smackdown on Cain and Frederickson, and then…

Well, and then Holmes and Styles standing victorious.

All told, the 2326 incarnation of CWF had not been a good run for our family unit. It was true that Caledonia had claimed the inaugural World title… only to unceremoniously lose it one week later to Gordy King. I had fought the leader of the Amoralists to a first-blood tie… and now had lost two tag title matches in a row. Carlton – oh god, did I just think of fucking Carlton as family? – was doing slightly better, but he had been right alongside me when we lost to Styles and Holmes.

Still.

It might not have quite the epic stakes of fighting for the World Championship or doing battle with the Hellbitch herself… but God knew Cain and Frederickson needed taking down. The Amoralists were powerful primarily because people believed them to be powerful; the more of them we could take down, the more that power would be weakened, and in one of those wibbly-wobbly-timey-wimey... things… the easier it would be to take down the whole fucking lot of them.

When we got in the carriage to return back to the Academy after our loss, Cali didn’t say anything; she didn’t need to. One gentle, reassuring pat on the arm told me everything I needed to know about how she was feeling, and my resolution to move past our latest loss was set. Holmes and Styles didn’t matter – well, they did in the sense that they were fast rising in the power-rankings of the Amoralists – but they weren’t our focus this week. We were going to take down Cain and Frederickson.

Well, that and…

‘To retake the Fortress,’ said Urquhart, ‘several obstacles remain before us. First, we must bring down the great wall surrounding the City. Mr. Highlander, I believe that you had some suggestions on that front?’

I then did something I basically never do, but, well… he was being snotty. ‘Doctor Highlander,’ I said, ‘and yes.’

The smug bastard didn’t miss a beat. ‘“Mister” differentiates you from your wife, who is also Dr. Highlander. Your suggestions, please, Mr. Highlander?’

I sighed. ‘Okay, so, this is going to sound ridiculous…’

I explained my theory – there had been a poem, written in the 20^th century, about a man named MacArthur who shattered an impenetrable dam wall with the sheer force of his almighty flatulence, saving the town of Bungadell from drought. This, in turn, formed part of the ethos of the Australian folk movement; eventually, an empty (well-sealed) Vegemite jar, purporting to contain MacArthur’s Fart, was offered to the winner of the annual Poetry Debate at the National Folk Festival.

I had no idea if the jar still existed (though it had as recently as 2026), but Discordia and I reasoned that, if it did… it was quite possible that enough suspended disbelief in both the jar containing the legendary Fart and the Fart being powerful enough to bring down a dam wall… might actually render the damn thing capable of doing so.

So Eris and I had traveled to my home city of Canberra to search the festival grounds. Our search, aided by a local instance of Discordia, had turned up nothing. It had turned out that the Jar had been missing since the 2125 Debate: that had been the year they finally allowed AI participants, and the inaugural robot had fallen victim to the Paradox of Monotonicity, reasoning that more was better – and so it just ended up continuing to churn out verses until its internal servers burnt out.

They’d declared the debate a draw.

At any rate, in the confusion of the six-day brawl that followed, the Jar had vanished. As to where… none of the few remaining denizens of what once had been the Session Bar could tell us in between reels. All we had been able to find was one scribbled note reading ‘we sent it off to Bungadell and we don’t know where that are’.

And so Eris and I went searching for the lost (fictional) town of Bungadell – and now, much to Eris’ annoyance, we seemed to have found it. It was empty, of course – who even knew when it had materialized into existence, but chances are that by then the only sheep were electric ones being dreamt of by androids, so pastoral towns were a thing of the distant past.

‘So let me ask you something,’ said Eris as we made our way into the town from the outskirts. ‘Is this really the most efficient way of bringing down a wall?’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘I mean,’ said Eris, ‘that… y’know, dynamite exists. Hell, give me and Discordia a few days, we can probably whip up a pretty decent deconstruction ritual. Why go this way?’

‘The wall around London is made of more than just brick – or whatever the fuck it is they made it of,’ I said. ‘It’s designed to withstand conventional magic – there’s a reason we’re not just flying in with E.R.I.S.. Trust me, I’ve spent a lot of time talking with Discordia about this – ’

‘Discordia’s my personal deity, go back and train your own if you want one so badly!’

‘I might now that I know it’ll lead somewhere other than more efficient porn retrieval!’ I snapped. Eris stuck their tongue out at me.  ‘Anyway. Discordia agreed that the Wall couldn’t be brought down by any of the ways you mentioned. And…’ I hesitated.

‘What?’

I sighed. ‘Look. We’re on this grand crusade to save the future, and… other than successfully fighting AnHellica to a draw, what exactly have I done to help? I’ve won one match since getting here, and that was against the fucking Andersons. And it’s not even like I’ve been particularly valuable as support – who knows if I could have stopped Carlton from screwing over Cali, but I could have fucking tried! I could have been there, I could have – ’ I took a deep breath. ‘I need to do something.’

‘Aren’t you doing that by fighting Cain and Frederickson?’

I stepped into one of the shacks and was momentarily excited to see a Vegemite jar, only to be immediately disappointed that it contained actual Vegemite. ‘Yeah, but… look, I ended Cain’s career once, and look how far that got us.’

‘Remind me which Highlander that was?’

‘New Highlander. Really, he was the last time I did anything remotely cool.’ Not that I’d ever say that to that asshole’s face. ‘Since then, Cali’s kind of been the main character.’

‘… of your collective story, right?’

‘What else would I mean?’

‘Well, you know, I had that dream that time…’

‘I keep telling you, we’re not fictional!’

‘Sounds like something a fictional character would say,’ muttered Eris. ‘And besides, we’re in a fictional town!’

‘As for Frederickson…’ I continued, ‘in all these years, in all my incarnations, I never actually fought the guy. Closest I got was the time I beat Jaiden Rishel in a Bloodbath match…’

‘How is that even remotely close to fighting Frederickson?’ exclaimed Eris.

‘Iunno. Just a gut feeling. But no – I’ve never gone against Frederickson, and neither has Cali. We were… very briefly active at the same time, but I was still a newbie duking it out with the likes of Chris Xtreme and Ryan Storm.’

‘Who?’

‘Exactly.’

We entered a broken-down building that looked like it might once have been a pub. Any doubt to that effect was put to rest at the sight of a surprisingly sturdy bar, along with a bottle of Jagermeister that somehow hadn’t been drunk or stolen in the intervening centuries. And near it…

‘The Fart!’ I exclaimed. Eris rolled their eyes. But the Fart it undoubtedly was – a well-sealed Vegemite jar. I leapt over the bar, grabbed at the jar, and…

… it didn’t move.

‘What the – ’

‘It will not move,’ said a baleful voice behind us. We both spun to see a vaguely translucent old man with an epically long beard. I might have described him as ‘wizard-like’ if he hadn’t been holding an accordion and wearing a T-shirt that said “Folkies Do It In A-Major!”.

‘What do you mean, it won’t -’ I began.

‘Daniel Maynard Highlander,’ he said, and the sudden chill down the back of my spine at my full name made me think that my first guess of “wizard” may not have been so far off. ‘You know the rules. You know that the Fart cannot simply be taken. It must be won.’

‘Wait, your middle name is Maynard?’ said Eris, chucking.

‘My dad was a Keynesian!’ I snapped. ‘And as for winning it – how?’

I knew the answer before he gave it. Really I knew the answer before I asked it.

‘As ever it has been won,’ said the wizard-folkie-man. ‘As tradition demands. In a duel… of verse.’

Oh for fuck’s sake. ‘C’mon man, I’ve never been good at poetry!’

 He scoffed. ‘And everyone who ever entered that contest was Banjo Patterson reborn? Just give it a go.’

‘I was always more a Henry Lawson man, myself…’ I muttered.

‘There ya go, you can name at least one poet, you’ll be fine!’ He cleared his throat imperiously. 'All right. I hereby declare the 2326 National Folk Festival Poetry Debate open.’

‘Wait, hang on, who am I debating?’ I asked.

‘Me.’

‘That seems… distinctly unfair!’

‘Just give it a go!’

‘Wait, and don’t you need three people a side for the deba-’ Eris elbowed me about 1.5 times as hard as was really necessary to block my slip.

‘One a side,’ he said haughtily, ‘will do. And now, to the topic… “Should We Ever Let AI Poets Compete In This Debate Again”? You will take… Con.’

Crap. This guy’s had… God knows how many centuries to prepare, and the battle-poems used to be ten minutes long! How am I gonna…

The folkie-wizard cleared his throat. ‘Ahem…’

To use AI is fine,

And that is my line.

He looked expectantly at me. I looked back and I’m pretty sure my mouth was hanging open. ‘Is… is that it?’

‘Look, mate,’ he said, looking slightly annoyed, ‘I’ve been waiting to get rid of this fucking jar for a hundred and twelve years! I can’t go on to Fiddler’s Green unless someone else beats me in this fuckin’ poetry contest, so please just come up with a limerick so our audience can judge you the winner and I can go have a bloody Guinness with my friends!’

‘Wait, they have Guinness in the afterlife?’

‘They’d bloody better! Now, your turn.’

Alright. Extemporaneous poem. I can do this.

…Ah, fuck, I am SO bad at poetry!

Where’s Sahn when you need him?

‘Alright,’ I said, ‘give me a minute…’

If a human competes with a bot,

A creative endeavor it’s not.

If we outsource our writing,

In literary “fighting”,

Then what is the point? Not a lot!

.

..

…

Well, I’d like to see you do any better on the spot!

‘Alright audience,’ said the folkie. ‘Time for you to judge our winner, make some noise!’

Eris looked… huh, actually kind of embarrassed. ‘Really?’ they said.

‘It’s how it’s always been done,’ said the folkie adamantly.

‘Ugh… uh, fine, go Dan, et cetera…’

‘And there you have it!’ exclaimed the folkie. ‘Give it up for the winner of the one hundred and seventy-fourth Poetry Debate Champion – Dan Highlander!’

I held the Jar aloft triumphantly, mugging for a nonexistent crowd. Eris raised their eyebrows at me. ‘What?’ I said. ‘It’s tradition!’

‘Fuckin’ folkies…’ muttered Eris.

‘And now, if you’ll excuse me…’ And the ghost-folkie-wizard popped out of existence.

I collected the Jar. ‘Well. Let’s get back to the rendezvous. They’ll be preparing for the attack.’

===

‘You look entirely too happy,’ said Cali when we arrived back. ‘You – oh dear God your stupid plan actually worked. You actually found it.’

‘Well, half of my plan worked,’ I said, ignoring the “stupid”. ‘As for the second half… is everyone ready?’

I looked around. Cali had rallied a surprising number of fighters from the Academy, and Carlton was leading a large contingency of Albionites who were more than happy to give the Amoralists of London a good seeing-to – though whether that was more due to the ‘Amoralist’ thing or the ‘London’ thing, I didn’t know.

Probably better not to ask.

I also saw Urquhart emerging from the woods, having executed… whatever his part of the plan was. I thought I caught a glint of something orange in his eye, but when I looked back a second later, it was gone; must have been a trick of the light.

‘Brace yourselves,’ I said. Our contingent pulled out a set of very thick handkerchiefs. I turned to the immense wall before us, behind of which stood the Amoralist stronghold that once was Inner London. I drew MacArthur’s Fart from my pack…

… and I cracked the lid.

A deafening, lion-like roar sounded, as a mighty blast emanated from the jar. Thunder rolled overhead, wind howled, and the very sky overhead darkened. The earth shook beneath us, and a fissure opened up before us, streaking towards the mighty wall. I wrenched off the rest of the lid, and the roar crescendoed to a level beyond any sound any of us had ever heard. A massive wave of force shot forward – and the wall shattered like a pinata.

Silence (and smell) lingered for a few minutes. Cali broke it. ‘Oh god, you’re going to be fucking insufferable about this…’

TO BE CONTINUED!