by Chris Hechtl
Ryans nodded thoughtfully. At least the dies could be melted down and recast he thought with a pang. “Ah. Well, that sucks. Okay, so we're going to have to add it to our wish list. Hopefully we can get it from somewhere or someone.”
“Yup.”
“What about chromium?” Ryans asked suspiciously.
Roshenko snorted. “We've got plenty of that,” the geologist replied with a smile. “It's used in a lot of stuff so we... meaning the Imperium...” he waved. “Anyway they have stockpiles of it. They had a huge shipment last year. Since they have to use primitive coal furnaces and leaching beds to smelt it, they have a glut of chromium and nickel.”
“That's good to know,” Ryans nodded. “Why so much?”
“It makes their armor shiny,” Max said snorting. “Also used in stainless steel which is important. Some genius figured that out a century or two ago and it's been used ever since. Also Damascus steel, which is a very good thing.”
“Should've known,” Ryans sighed. “Have they used it anywhere else?”
“The artists do. It's used in pigments. Tanners use chromium sulphate for tanning too. They get the sulfates from the same source of sulfur for the sulfuric acid. Apparently not many people like camping out near a volcano, so the yellow stuff costs a pretty dinar.” He'd heard the story from the chemist girls about Tau's father.
“Ah,” Ryans nodded. “Well, I'm glad we've got a lot. I take it you're improving the smelting?” he asked. Fred the geologist raised his hand.
“That's why I'm back this week. I did what I could to sort out the copper and iron mines. It's going to be slow going there though; the mine managers are pretty set in their ways. Native canaries to test for bad air and all. I did make some leeway when I did a demo of gunpowder though,” he grinned as the others chuckled.
“I came in on the latest truck convoy. I'm due out in a day or so. Max here borrowed me to look at the smelting while I'm in town,” Roshenko said and then shrugged. “So much for a hot meal and a decent bed.”
“And?” Ryans asked, ignoring the last dig.
“And it's a right mess. But we're working on it. I'm working with Max and a local metallurgist to make an electric furnace. Power is a problem though. The electric arc uses a lot of power.” He grimaced as he ran a hand over his thinning scalp. “A hell of a lot. That's going to be a major issue when we change things over.”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” Max sighed. He'd finally got the first hydroelectric system up, and even a couple of wind turbines but they were a drop in the bucket. The five systems he currently had up could barely keep up with one of the factories.
“What about the electrodes?” Scooter asked. Max shrugged it off.
“Graphite, not a problem there, I'm skimming what we need off the pencil and other production lines. We've got tones of surplus stockpiled.”
“Pencils?” Ryans asked surprised.
Max scowled. “Told you, pens are out for now.”
“Ah,” Ryans nodded. “Okay. Well, whatever works,” he smiled. “How much tungsten do we have left?” he asked.
“Under half a ton,” the geologist answered. “Closer to about three hundred kilos if it's further refined.”
Ryans nodded. “Works with me. Got to go with what we have.”
“Better believe it,” Max sighed tiredly.
“Wait, you mentioned Damascus steel?” Ryans turned to the geologist who smiled.
“It only took him a couple of minutes,” he said snorting to Max. Max chuckled as Ryans gave them a dirty look. He took a swig of beer then sat back.
“It seems there is a source of water steel, that's ah, iron with trace elements of vandadium and molybdenum. It's called taconite,” the geologist said then took his own sip of beer. He set the stein down after a moment and picked up a pretzel.
“And this is good...?” Ryans asked. Max snorted.
“Alloy metals like vandadium and molybdenum are used to make steel stronger and more heat resistant. Also more resistant to rust.”
Ryans wrinkled his nose. “I thought that was what the chromium was for?” Ryans asked.
“Oh it is, but they don't use electroplating. Or at least they didn't till we came around,” Max replied picking up some pretzels of his own. He fumbled one and caught it in a meaty hand against his chest. “Glad someone finally got the recipe right. Sourdough is good,” he muttered.
Damascus or Damascene steel...” The geologist turned a look to Max then back to Ryans. “It was a super steel in feudal times. The Japs used it to make their katanas. We spotted the first use here while you were um... rescuing... um...” his eyes went heavenward. Ryans nodded.
“Ah. Okay, yeah, I remember something about that now.”
“Right well, there are different ways to get the alloys into the steel. In this culture they can use the clay pot method, or they can use the mechanical method. Apparently some Asians crossed over sometime in the past and one was a sword smith. That's why some of their swords are katanas instead of cutlasses or roman short swords.”
“Ah.”
“It's cool, they use the clay crucible method by the way,” Max said giving the geologist a look then turning back to Ryans. “They fold and fold the ingots hundreds of times then wrap that hard outer layer around softer steel. Then heat treat it. The softer core makes the sword springy and flexible, while the harder outer sheath keeps a keen edge.” He held up a scarred thumb.
“Ah. Okay. Good safety tip, keep out of reach of one,” Ryans deadpanned.
“Damn straight. Sucker will go through you like a hot knife through butter boss,” Max said nodding.
<==={}------------>
Art’ur seethed as the weather stormed above. His great plan of attack had been thwarted at the first crack of thunder. His men hadn't balked but the animals had. His forces had faltered as it began to rain, mired in the muck. He'd called off the attack as his men bogged down, unhappy about letting so many fall to the enemy’s arrows.
Apparently Emroy still had vast caches of arrows to loose so many in one encounter. Or the old Dominus had decided to use them up to kill as many of the enemy as he could. Either way it mattered little, the attacks had broken and horns called for a general retreat.
It burned, burned like a hot coal, his humiliation. His eyes glittered as he listened to the driving rain. Uuôden had tried to warn him as they prepared for war that it was about to rain but he had discounted it. Again he felt ashamed that the old man had been right. Right and he'd been wrong. It burned, oh how it burned!
“Get the men sorted out into some semblance of order. Wedst! Someone find me Wedst!” he bellowed. He had an idea, one to use the Imperium's own tactics against the Duke. The way things were going he wasn't sure it would work but something had to be done.
Duke Rojer stared out over the army camp from the tower window. Since the King's death more and more men had flocked to the banner of the Queen and the gaijin. It looked like his sister-in-law's reign was assured. At least until after this war.
“Do you have to go?” Serena asked. He stood there, hands out as his servants worked around him.
He turned back to her as his steward buckled his armor on him. “Of course. What kind of silly question is that?” he asked. She looked at him, eyes flashing. “It is war. My place...”
“I didn't mean that,” she said testily. “I meant now,” she said indicating the training below. “Does it have to be now? I was planning on getting you fitted for a new outfit!”
Rojer smiled. His wife was ever the artist when it came to keeping them in the latest fashions and accessories. She was brilliant in that, in subtly gathering the eyes of others to them to make them stand out. Hence his wearing red robes to the court. It spoke of the ancient times while standing out against the other courtiers. Its simplicity made him look approachable yet stately. Now she wanted to adapt to the new gaijin ways.
“I do know that the trends in fashion are to copy the latest fad or in this case the gaijin bu
t I do have my duties to uphold dearest,” he said with just a slight hint of reproof in his voice.
“I know,” she pouted. He smiled to her. “But you'll make it up to me?” she asked with a slight upward lilt in her voice.
“Oh? How so?” he asked with a small smile as his arms dropped. The armor was tight, which was why he was having another fitting. It seemed the leather had shrunk. That had to be it. His paunch couldn't have gotten bigger since he'd worn it two summers ago. He shook himself, feeling the familiar weight of the armor and the jingle of metal on metal as plates touched each other. He'd have to find a way to get some of the gaijin armor he thought absently to himself.
Serena frowned, waiting patiently for him to go through his tests. Men, she thought with a hint of exasperation in her mental track. Always the boys wanting to go off and play soldier, never aware of the very real possibility of getting killed. Why if he died... what would happen to her? To their children? There was a very real possibility of his getting hurt or killed, not just on the battlefield but here in jousting and training. Several knights and footmen had been killed in preparing for war. Earl Pettigrew’s son had been injured in a fall. He'd begged off speaking with them to attend to his son.
She looked away, thinking. No, that wasn't the only reason, she thought, lips pursed in a tight line. Pettigrew was distancing himself from them, from any plans. He was very unsettled by the turn of events with Muchinson. Cassiopeia was watching over him. Should he turn on them she'd poison the fat old fool in his sleep.
Serena sighed softly. She loved the capital, loved the attention, the court, the intrigue. Returning to the duchy was such a dull affair; there was no life there, only dull dreary work. Their children were there of course, but they had their nannies to attend to their needs, she need not sully herself with such matters. When Rojer rolled his shoulders and posed a few times she cleared her throat.
“Yes my dear? Oh, sorry,” he said smiling politely.
“Never mind,” she said shrugging it off. “I'll make sure the steward gives you the bill,” she said.
He snorted. He came over and took her into his arms and kissed her briefly. “I'll see you tonight?” he asked with just a slight hint of anticipation in his voice.
She blushed. That was another downside of men and their war. “Lah, my good sir, You wouldn't deflower a maiden would you?”
“Maiden is it?” he rumbled a laugh, holding her. “Maiden,” he said, eyes twinkling at her. She smiled up at him. He smiled back. “I believe that term went out the window long ago my dear.”
“And what would you call me?” she asked, hands on her hips.
He hugged her tighter, “why wife and lover my dear. Let there be no other.”
“Better not,” she growled, hands going around his waist once more. He chuckled softly as she pulled his head down for a kiss.
<==={}------------>
Ryans tried not to wince as the two sides clashed on the field. The farmer who had owned the field was none too pleased at losing it this year or at least for the foreseeable future. Fortunately the bag of coins he had been paid had been enough to sweeten him to a grudging respect. At least the rain was holding off here so far, instead choosing to dump itself onto the battlefield. From the reports he'd got from Perry it was a good thing, it had stopped Art’ur's full out attack on the castle. The muck and mud would take days to dry, days of precious time for them to finish preparing. It was almost time. Almost.
“It's weird, seeing all the different armors,” Ryans said watching the two groups. This was their largest training exercise to date, two cohorts of five hundred men and women on each side.
Most of the platoons were a hodge podge of armors. The regulars, veterans, and mercs wore roman centurion style armor, or boiled leather. A few of the knights working out on the jousting run wore similar armors.
This was the main army he told himself, the body of the Imperium army. Hopefully they would be able to hold off the Duluth if they got under the guns and closed into melee range.
“For me it's the shields,” Max said watching the two groups clash. Ryans grunted. Max pointed to a few of the knights. “See they got them figure eight ones, with the scoops on the sides so they can lay them across their legs or some such.”
Ryans nodded. It was a form of Greek shield he thought. “Right.”
“Insane. Riding a six legged dinosaur right out of a damn cheap novel...” Max shook his head. “Least the articulation on some of them are up to spec. I'd hate to be in one of those sweat boxes though.” He pointed to a group of pike men looking a lot like old Swiss royal guards. Each had a four meter long pole arm. They each had a massive shiny breast plate covering garish colored thick outfits colored like a Terran clown.
Some of the men were drinking water by the bucket full. Ryans shook his head. He couldn't blame them in this heat. “Gotta do something about that,” he muttered. He looked over to a knot of lords under a gaily covered awning. “Though some could do with losing the weight,” he growled watching Duke Rojer talking with the fat Dominus Pettigrew as a servant fanned them.
Max grunted. “Yeah think? They won’t make it to the battlefield like that. Hell one good charge and they'll keel over and pole vault over the enemy,” Max growled.
“We're trying to get things organized, trying to get them sorted out, but it's slow going,” Ryans admitted. He'd had a hand in the army plans for some time. General Pendragon's insistence on using the old armor and forms was a problem. The veterans formed up easily, they knew what to do and blew the rust off handily. But the old ways were not what was going to win this battle.
“Yeah well, better step it up,” Max said sighing as he got up. He winced as a group of riflemen fired. Some of the men were looking over that way. A few had curled lips. They weren't happy about the new weapons. Some were jealous; some doubted their effectiveness even after they'd seen them in demonstrations.
“Stupid, they ain't got a clue that they're outclassed and out gunned. That armor's just a bright shiny target,” Max said shaking his head. Which was true, Ryans thought. Many of the knights had left their outer identifying tunics off in the sweltering heat.
“We're getting a lot of resistance to change. I'll see if we can do another demonstration for the newly arrived knights and lords. Get someone to set up a couple of armors again and fire a couple of rounds off with them watching.”
Max turned and smiled. “Good idea.” He waved a meaty hand and walked off.
“That Max?” Perry's voice said from behind him. He turned nodded and then turned back to the battlefield.
“Ah yup.”
“What's his beef?” Perry asked. He took a deep sniff. “God I love the smell of cordite in the morning.”
“It's mid afternoon,” Ryans said snorting. “Besides it's gunpowder.” He turned. “Well, mostly gunpowder,” he said. Two thirds of the riflemen had flintlock muskets. The other third had Springfields. They had yet to do an artillery test. He was looking forward to seeing how well the mortars would perform.
According to Max each mortar could be fired a total of ten times. That was it, ten. It sucked. After that they'd have to either swap the tube or the base plate. If they could get more tungsten then the firing rate would go up.
Perry looked up to the sky, shading his hand then down to his watch and snorted. “So it is.” He shook his head. “You still didn't...”
Ryans shook his head. “He's just jawing about the armors. We're getting a lot of resistance from some of the aligned groups about changing to more modern weapons. But you know that.”
“Yeah,” Perry snorted. “I'm the one that told you remember?” He waved his hand to a group of men kneeling as boys strapped bronze armor on them. One had a fancy breast plate, leather skirt, and a pair of grieves. He was actually looking forward to the artillery barrage later in the evening. That should loosen a few people up.
“What the hell do they think this is the Punic wars? God give me a break. It's like the
y aren't thinking.” He shook his head. “They're stuck in the past.”
“Yeah,” Ryans grunted, watching another group of what looked like Indians smashing gourds with war clubs. “Diverse group, I'll give them that.”
“Gah. It's like herding cats!” Perry said, throwing his hands up. They came down to slap his thighs. “I tried to talk to one group; they said it's tradition that they wear crap like that. Tradition, what's good enough for my father and grandfather... god!” He shook his head.
Ryans smiled slightly. “Yup. Max is getting the same thing. Those that didn't take care of their father's armor want replacements. Or parts for them. And here we are trying to modernize them. Or at least get them up to the eighteenth century,” Ryans replied. He lifted the binoculars from his chest and looked out.
“Nineteenth, early twentieth if I can help it. We're working on more 1903 Springfield rifles for the main arms right now,” Max said coming back. “I've got the muskets phasing out and just about all the artisans working on them now. Right now only the snipers have them.”
“Oh. Damn. Good,” Ryans nodded. Max wandered off again, cussing at something or someone.
“Bitch to make. Max said he got a rifle bench and a copying lathe out of your database files. Took him a week to get a prototype up and running,” Perry said.
“Copying lathe?” Ryans asked, turning to Perry. He'd heard about it but wasn't sure why it was needed. No wait, to bore out the barrel? But wasn't that a rifling bench?
Perry smirked. “I saw it. It's belt driven. One side has the master the other has the copy. It's got an armature with a pointer on one end, and a cutting head on the copy side. The pointer traces the master as it spins and the cutting head shaves it down to match. He's still working the kinks out for one that can do ten at a time though.”
“Sounds good,” Ryans nodded.
“Yeah, but we're still stuck with this bunch for this battle. I gotta admit the bowman aren't half bad, even if they aren't up to our standards,” Perry said. He indicated the rows of men hunkered behind wooden shields. Every few minutes they would rise to pepper a designated target with arrows. Ryans grunted.
