My Big Goblin Space Program

Chapter 13 - Sticky-Springy Stilts

For my part, I went to work on a different project. One a little closer to home. There were plenty of tools around. Goblins left to their own devices seemed to love tinkering and crafting things now that I’d introduced technology to the tribe. I picked up a selection of small knives, a saw, and an augur. From the wood pile, I grabbed two promising-looking pole-ends that were roughly the same size.

Next, I retrieved the stone-sloth claws from the bone pile, as well as some leftover gut string the goblins had made from its intestines. I tested the claw against the ground, seeing how pliant it was, and how it had connected to the knuckle with a knobby tab.

I went to work using the knife as a chisel to hollow out two depressions in each of the pole-ends until they were about a hand’s span deep. Then, I flipped them over and drilled two holes on the underside with the augur, which was more complicated to use than I thought it would be. Once I had that, I checked the size against the claws, and started making small adjustments with a knife.

Damn. I looked up. It was barely mid-morning. The rest of the goblins were going about their business. It must have been one of the hunting party members. My heart thudded in my chest while I waited for a string of tribe-size messages to come in. After a few more minutes passed without additional notifications, I went back to work. I had to get in the mindset that I was going to lose tribesmen no matter what I did.

I’d figured the system was just being cold and callused when it warned me not to get attached. But Tribe Apollo might as well have had a revolving door. Goblins could die and be replaced with new, fully-grown goblins daily. Most of them would never even have names. Was there even any such thing as an old goblin?

I got the long, curved sloth claws fitted into the slots I’d carved for them, then went to work smoothing the interior of the cups and packing them with down that I’d collected from the bird’s nest, and some fur clumps from the bone pit. I cut a long, thin wedge out on the front and back, then gouged circular grooves near the top.

Around mid-day, the sun dipped behind the moon, and I took off the sticky-stilts and tried the fit of my new prosthetics. On earth, I’d had a sleeve go over my residual lower legs, and they’d laser-scanned my residuals to print me a perfect fit for the prosthetics. Here, I was just eyeballing it.

The hunting party returned as well, climbing over the edge of the bluff with a couple carcasses in tow. At least one was a mangled clifford that was definitely hit with a popper, but they also had a few fat birds and one small mammal that might have been something close to a beaver. And, sure enough, they had one less member. I wondered if it was the clifford, the beaver, or the bomb-fruit that had done it. Half of them set to skinning the kills, while the others worked at getting a fire going using Buzz’ fire carousel method.

I went back to my work. The left one fit decently enough, but the right was too tight. I took the padding out and shaved the sidewall down a bit more, then re-packed it and pulled it on. Better. Finally, I took the gut and used some of it to secure the claws in their notches, and the rest to wrap around the grooves and tighten both sockets around my legs.

I hoisted my new feet into the air and twisted them around, looking at the angle. These were certainly heavier than my old running blades. But the flat, wide claws of the stone-sloth had a remarkably similar profile and not all that dissimilar flex profile.

Those ones hadn’t been me. I guess it was time to take a look at what Sally’s team had accomplished. I pushed myself unsteadily on my feet and tested the strength and balance of the sloth-claw prosthetics. They had a bit more give than I was used to with this design, but they were worlds better than teetering around on poles tied to my lower legs.

I took a tentative jump in place and was surprised when the spring-back flipped me ass over teakettle right into the bone pile. The other goblins started to take notice and stopped to watch and point. A few even laughed. Can’t say I blame them.

Not to be deterred (every great scientist and engineer was laughed at in their time), I got back to my new feet again and took a few tentative steps. It was almost like walking on a trampoline, or maybe those old bouncy shoes that looked like death hazards.

I got the hang of it pretty quick (so quick I had to wonder if that was a feature of the Goblin Tech Tree) and picked up speed around the village.

The goblins were still laughing, but now I think they did so out of excitement and amazement. Several of them chased after me, hooting and hopping. This time, they had trouble keeping up with me. No longer would I be a burden if we had to beat feet.

What was more, I could run, again. Not hobble, not waddle, not crawl, but run. Not fast, or I’d lose control, but still. The two years of rehab after my accident were the most excruciating time of my life not because I was in constant pain from surgeries and recovery. But because I didn’t know if I’d ever walk again. Running, rowing, biking. Anything that let me move fast made me feel alive. I had refused to give up. Refused to let myself be bound to a chair. Slowly, I’d gotten my life back. And I hadn’t realized it, but my new goblin life hadn’t been complete until I had that feeling once again. I didn’t know if I’d be able to go through that again.

This, more than anything else, convinced me that I could figure it out. I could survive here, build my tribe, master the goblin technology tree, and reach the giant moon, Raphina. Sure, there were a lot of steps along the way. But like I said, I like to move fast.