Atlantis: Chapter One:The Catapult - full
Correspondent:: mithril@iafrica.com (Grantland)
Date: Thu, 13 Jan 2005 09:07:18 GMT
--------
>target-zone pits near the end of the run.
Ninety-four missiles remained,
Chapter l, page l
The thing was *huge* - much bigger than it had looked from the
ground. Janus stretched his head back to take in the massive iron
counterweight tanks hanging some thirty feet above his head; stark
black silhouettes against the bright-blue early morning sky. Suddenly
conscious that the parapet had no railing, he reeled slightly, and
felt his shoulder gripped by a giant hand.
"Steady on, son. It's a long long way down." The voice was gruff
yet friendly. It was Alaric, the catapult-master, come, as Janus was,
to view the gigantic machine at rest, before the bustling crew arrived
for the morning's exercise.
On the tower, Alaric was master number five out of thirty, an
honourable position just missing the lofty top level above him. Janus
had been introduced to him the week before, when his excellent
examination results had secured so honourable an apprenticeship in
this, the second tier.
There were those who compared the second tier of catapults
favourably with the prime tier above. The tanks filled more quickly
with the greater water pressure, and gave a higher rate of fire, while
still being elevated enough for good range. The advantage was not
passed on to the third and other tiers, since they used the water
exhausted by those above them, rather than having it piped direct from
the elevated central tank.
Alaric would have none of it, though. Number five was number five,
and today would be his chance to move up, if only, Gods willing, his
tool remained reliable and his crew steadfast. He had sought to ease
his nervousness with an unnecessary early inspection of the machine,
and now was happy to take the boy along with him, both to guage the
lad's mettle, and to show off the weapon of war in which he took such
an inordinate pride.
"You've learned the theory from books. Now see how it works in
practice." Still grasping the lad's shoulder, he strode with him to
the very edge of the parapet, and pointed out a long, tapering
triangle on the fields far below. "That," he said, "is our sector -
Sector Five. See how the ground is marked to delineate it? The
sector is divided into zones, which of course are not marked. The
farmers give enough trouble over having their work interrupted by the
sector markings, as it is."
Janus was feeling queasy at standing so close to the unprotected
edge, but he swallowed manfully.
"Of course. For the practice - can't take over all those fields
just for a practice.. Uh... That uh horse down there - there, by the
big haystack. That's ..uh. zone fifteen, isn't it?"
"Or fourteen, sometimes, if the wind is hard in our teeth. If the
wind blows hard enough from behind us, it could even be sixteen;
though truth told, I've never seen it so."
He stepped back a pace, aware of the boy's uneasiness. He himself
had not liked the height at first, but had gotten over it with a
little practice. One could get used to anything.
"Come on lad. Let's see what you can tell me about my darling
machine. Where, do you suppose, are the ranging springs?"
Confident again, Janus turned round to the towering spars at the
centre of the cupola. Droning a little, he recited an earlier lesson
he had memorized.
"The ranging springs supplement the counterweights and avoid the
need for repeated measuring of the water requirement for a changing
zone. The tanks are simply filled on every firing, thus greatly
speeding firing rates. They also allow the empty counterweight tanks
to be sufficiently lighter than the mainbeam that rearming is
automatic once the water is exhausted at the bottom of the cycle..."
Alaric chuckled softly. "And what cycle is that?"
"The firing cycle.." Janus stated confidently, expecting to see
immediate recognition and acknowledgement in the older man's face.
Instead he saw a puzzled bewilderment, and began to babble.
"When the thing has fired the darts.. you know .. when the mainbeam
is up and the counterweights down.. when it's finished firing .."
The master remained silent and stood patiently listening.
"It's uh .. it's the firing cycle. It starts with the counterweights
at vertical up and the mainbeam vertical down and .. and it finishes
the other way round .. .. Oh and the tanks are full at the top and
empty on the bottom .. or is it empty on top..?. uh no full. Yes it
starts when the tanks are full on top.."
Alaric listened with an air of gruff amusement.
"What about the whip-arm? Is the whip-arm locked or free? Where is
the whip-arm at which phase in the cycle?"
Janus took a deep breath. He knew all this stuff. This guy was
just trying to rattle him.
"Locked" he said firmly. "Locked against the mainbeam until the
moment of firing. Release is automatic on firing.. Locked at the
beginning, unlocked throughout the rest until it falls back into lock
again at the end .. I mean the bottom .. no wait ..yes the bottom
again..when the counterweights are vertical down but not yet empty,
the whip-arm is gravity-locked.. at the bottom, with the mainbeam up
.but before the tanks are empty.."
"All right Janus. Good. Now show me the springs."
***
The sun was now rising high in the sky, and it was hot out on the
exposed edge of the cupola where the new apprentice had been ordered
to sit and observe while the important business of the day was being
conducted. Some practices did not count toward a crew's ranking, and
he might have been tolerated as a clumsy new hand at one of these.
Today, however, was a Prime Grading - an important twice-yearly affair
in which each and every catapult and crew competed for a worthless but
honourable blue ribbon, and the opportunity to advance up the rankings
to a higher, more prestigious position on the tower. To do this, a
crew must have previously beaten a higher crew on several occasions,
after which a direct challenge was issued, and the winner on the Prime
Grading day either remained in place or was ousted by the victorious
upstart.
Today one of the challengers was catapult number 5, and Alaric had
promised a barrel of fine wine to each and every member of his crew
should they succeed in winning the coveted fourth position on the
tower.
Janus was still breathing heavily. He had thought himself fit, but
the obligatory three-hundred yard climb that had been so easy this
morning had been infinitely more tiring with a heavy waterskin on his
back. - not just the weight, but the jeers and yells of the other
similarly burdened soldiers behind him urging him on and allowing no
rest.
Stupid stupid stupid. He had entirely forgotten about the water
requirement, and had felt like an shirker and an idiot when Alaric had
mentioned it. Of course every tier needed to be primed with a reserve
of water, as there was always loss and wastage as water passed down
from tier to tier until it was drained of its energy at bottom and
ready to be pumped back up to the top. Oxen drove the pumps -
actually just long ropes with attached waterskins hung from a pulley -
and they worked hard enough for the men to make a substantial
contribution. On their downward leg, the men helped even more when
they descended holding on to the lighter, unburdened pump section,
hand on rope, feet on the knotted tops of the empty waterskins. There
were even hooks on which to hang the dead or wounded.
That thought consoled him a little. He had done double duty - well,
one-and-half... He frowned suddenly. He was a boy without armour -
they were men .. was one-and-a-half enough? But the lower tiers
didn't have to travel as far. But that gave them less honour..
Perhaps...
He was shaken out of his reverie by a metallic blare of massed
trumpets, and the thunder of armoured feet on the wooden gantries of
the tower.
The games were about to begin!
***
Janus stood spellbound as the enemy procession spilled out over the
shimmering green plain beneath him. The huge red flags and the
serried war-carts were immediately discernible, and here and there he
could make out a tiny individual horseman with a raised mail fist or a
brandished hammer as the warrior shouted out his snarling defiance at
the ramparts and parapets far above.
For the most part though, it was just a snaking ominous black-and
-red presence, the hideous colours and loathesome serpentine
manoevering of the eternal enemy. When the men around him
spontaneously errupted into jeers and howls of hatred and aggression,
he was seized with the same passion, and when the men suddenly,
unexpectedly ceased, his thin voice sounded weird and high and echoing
like a woman's scream as he wailed out his venomous soulfeel at the
hated foe below.
There were a few snickers; and a quickly stifled guffaw or two. It
was time for the catapult to be dipped in salute to the friends and
the relatives that today were playing the role of "the enemy".
Of course this was just an exercise - an exercise! Of course the
yells and the shouts had been pure ritual, just like the trumpets and
the catapult salute. Ayeeeeeeeeee!! He looked at his feet with his
eyes tight shut and blanked his mind like a catatonic; repeating over
and over a meaningless mantra which could not keep the leering
monsters of horror and of shame from nudging him knowingly with
crafty, insinuating, bony elbows and smirking snickering winking
redrimmed palsied eyes gloating leering around the edge of his flimsy,
useless barrier. He desperately wanted never to have been born. He
had lost great face.
Meanwhile behind him the firing of one of the springs on a minimum
setting had gracefully bobbed the empty counterweights downward in a
strikingly feminine curtsey of salute from the catapult. When he
opened his eyes the enemy column had already saluted, wheeled around,
and was already partially out of sight as it proceded to sequentially
acknowledge the other teams at the other side of the tower.
The catapult crew was ready and waiting. An enemy target could
appear at any time. Janus forced himself to turn around so that he
could observe the loading and firing procedure as was his duty. He
was here to learn.
A youth not much older than him at the ammunition racks caught his
eye deliberately. The youth pulled the most bizarre face, teeth
bared, clearly miming a high-pitched squeal: "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee"
He flopped a wrist, and then put both hands to his throat in a woman's
gesture of horror: " Eeeeeeeeeeeeee".
Janus' blood boiled. He forgot his shame in an instant and stared
ferociously at the filthy cretin ten yards from him. His fists balled
and his heart pounded and all he wanted to do was to smash and to
crush and destroy that hideous caricature in front of him...
"Janus. Loki will show you the ammunition-loading procedure.
Remember your discipline!" Alaric's strong voice had the ring of
command. He had caught the interplay even though Janus would have
sworn that his captain had been looking away, toward the target area
below. He stepped foreward, never breaking eye contact with his enemy
for a moment.
"Yes SIR!"
The other youth broke eye-contact first, disguising his weakness by
winking and smirking at some of his cronies in the crew. Janus felt a
measure of satisfaction at the victory, and crafted his attitude
accordingly.
"You Loki? I am Janus, of the Orange Hand. Show me the procedure!"
The other youth was clearly discomforted, and assumed a air of
extreme irony, like sarcastic schoolteacher. He reached into the
magazine and produced a dart some four foot in length. The rear of
the dart was of wood, and the youth proffered it so that Janus could
see the hole at the end, and the reinforcement of tightly bound-and
-glued bowstring.
"This is a standard war-dart, used by heavy crossbow and ballistic
catapult. No flights, for low drag and ease of handling. The rear
half is of wood, bored for one foot to increase lightness..."
"I know all this. This we learn at school.."
The youth ignored him.
"Bored for lightness, reinforced with gut at the base where the
firing forces are greatest. The front section is of moulded cement
and the tip is of steel. Cement is used for weight, cheapness, and
for ease of manufacture. Total weight is four point five pounds. We
discharge one hundred of these with each firing..."
"This catapult, you mean. The smaller one's..."
The youth ignored him again, and continued in an even more
disdainful tone. "..to a range of some fifteen hundred feet,
depending on the wind."
"And the altitude of the catapult, and the spring-loading.
Ground-based systems have nowhere near..."
"Of course THIS catapult, you stupid moron!" Loki hissed. "I am
telling you about THIS catapult, not the one on the moon, got it,
idiot?"
Janus glowered and balled his fists again. Loki continued as if
oblivious.
"One hundred of these darts in a balsa base-rack constitute one
catapult round, total weight five hun.."
Just then a trumpet sounded, ear-splittingly close, and the crew
burst into a frenzy of activity. A target had appeared.
Loki whirled away about his duties, and Janus was free to step
toward the parapet and look out over the sun-leached green landscape
that reached out, seemingly forever, in front of him. There! A tiny
black dot, still well out of range. Yes, there was the red flag
denoting a live target, not a white for someone else's target
manoevering into position.
A thud, and a hiss of projectiles told him that other catapults were
already in action, but he saw no darts in the air. A different target
or targets, obviously; out of sight and much closer. The one he could
see was well out of range even for the prime tier above, although they
would be the first to engage it. How unfair to have to compete with a
higher tier with a longer range, on an equal basis. That was how the
system worked, though. He supposed it made for a measure of stability
in the hierarchy. ...Long range shot, probably fleeting..
An extreme long-range fleeting shot was difficult, but it was far less
pressure than a close target that appeared from around the tower, and
disappeared just as quickly behind it. There was plenty of time to
squint his eyes and try to make it out. As it came slowly closer he
could see the single rider urging on the hapless bull that was to be
sacrificed to the WarGod..
He heard a sound and turned to see Alaric the captain standing
beside him. The man's face was flushed with exitement under his
beard, although his expression was deliberately phlegmatic.
"Rare for a direct frontal attack so early in the exercise - the
bull always gets killed in a frontal attack, whereas the fleeting shot
often survives for several engagements."
Janus grunted aknowledgement, and then remembered himself quickly.
"Yes Sir, can't kill all the targets immediately, or use more bulls.
Even with the feast tonight, there's only so much beef that can be
eaten at one.."
"Oh don't worry, there's plenty of targets. This is how they get
the salted rations for troops on expedition.. 'stuff keeps for years.
No, it's good to have the crews failing for awhile. Reminds them why
pratice is so important. They get complacent from the high hit-rates
of the stationary practices. This keeps 'em on their toes."
Janus nodded, chastened. The captain reached out, pointing.
"Probably going to be a zone 20, from left to right... there by the
turnpike ... to over there.. the edge of that second rice-paddy. Out
of our range, with his wind ... or maybe not, with a lightened
warload. But of course that's not allowed at this practice..."
"It's not fair.." Janus started, but Alaric had already turned on
his heel. The target had signalled by dipping it's flag. The bull
had been linked to the rope that would guide its trajectory, and was
about to be stampeded into range of the tower.
***
Alaric had been wrong about the zone choice of the rangemaster.
Clearly that person - or someone else - was well aware of the
competition for the prime tier. The bull came charging straight
toward the tower. It would reach zone nineteen - maybe even eighteen,
before the stretched ropeguide veered, and turned it back toward
safety again.
There was a heavy thump from above, and a marvellously tight black
cloud sailed like a squall over Janus' head, climbing higher and
higher, and spreading a little, as the darts arced down. There - a
winger, and another, and another. Wingers were the darts that went
off line, or lost their stability and tumbled. There were always a
few, particularly for the less experienced crews. If the catapult was
badly set up, sometimes most, or even all of the darts would be
wingers, and the guilty crew would be taunted for days with *awk*
*awk* chicken noises and flapping arms. Even slovenly crews did their
utmost to avoid such a humiliation. Wingers, Alaric had thought to
himself on many an occcasion, were a good and necessary thing. Such a
heresy, of course, could never be aired in public.
Now the flying darts were at their high apogee; now the cloud had
disappeared, the darts too distant and dispersed to be visible in
their hurtling downward progress. A puff of dust well before the
charging beast; another; and then a whole pocket of tiny dustclouds
through which charged the oncoming target, apparently unscathed.
Number four had fired too soon.
Janus turned around quickly. The catapult above was still
reloading, and the target was hoving into range. Theirs would be the
next shot. Even as he turned, he heard a barked command...
***
Alaric had left it very late. He could have fired just seconds
after number 4. The range differential, after all, was only 48 point
6 feet (on average) - mere seconds to a charging bull. .
The number 4 captain had made an error of judgement. He had gambled
on a quick, intimidating blow, by way of demonstrating immediately the
advantages of his superior range. The man fancied himself something
of a psychologist, and was well aware of the importance his adversary
Alaric placed in range. He had fired at absolute maximum range, and
had come very close to succeeding.
The best cycle-time of number 4 was some twenty-eight measured
counts. Alaric had at least that much time before his competitor
could fire again. He let the bull come on.. and on.. and on. No
need for even minor traverse corrections - it was coming straight on.
With such a long-range shot, there was a good chance of a miss.
Best to see first whether the target was downed, before firing. If
honour was at stake, why fire at all if the enemy darts scored victory
while your own were still in the air?
Alaric was not one of those who collected scarecrow-points - points
for hitting a target felled by somebody else with a shot that had
already been launched - although there were plenty that did.
Sometimes it made sense to assume that the competition would score,
and aim at the point where the target was expected to fall. Not
Alaric! No truck would he have with the dubious honour of victory at
the price of scoring null hits on a dead carcass.
He had chosen a point of aim at which his crew had rehearsed many
times - the boundary between ploughed field and grass at fourteen
twenty feet. At the very last moment, on impulse, he made a minor
correction to one of the springs, and gave the "Way" order as he
pulled the lever to fire.
***
There were three counterweight tanks, the single large foreward and
the two smaller aft. The foreward tank was simply mounted on the butt
of the mainbeam, like that of many basic ground machines, although it
extended far further. On this tower design, however, it was just
weighty enough to somewhat more than counterbalance the mainbeam and
its attached balsa whip-arm and warload. Much of the impetus came
from the geared aft tanks, and the springs. The design was more
complex, and hence prone to breakdown, but it was needed to keep the
centre of gravity as close to the tower as possible when firing
outward, thus minimizing the torque placed on the cantelevers that
held the cupola out and away from the tower body.
On the massive rotating axle piercing the mainbeam were set two
giant steel cogs, each meshing with a counterpart on the
aft-counterweight axle below. Set wide on this lower axle were the
two aft counterweight pylons, one to each side of the mainbeam above.
Between the two tanks at the ends of these pylons was a gap just wide
enough for the passage of the mainbeam as it hurtled upward through
and between them as they fell.
Simple, yet effective. The real complexity of the machine lay in
the rotation of the whip-arm. Janus was not sure whether he really
understood exactly how this worked.
There was a *sproing* from the initiator-springs that pushed the
vertical fore and aft counterweights away from each other, and looking
like an ever-widening Y, they began to fall. *KA-CHUNG!!* went the
ranging springs as they simultaneously smote their baseplates at the
end of their stroke. The counterweight pylons were now just above the
horizontal, and moving down incredibly fast.
Janus was watching for the hitherto invisible working end of the
mainbeam, which he had not yet properly seen. It had started pointing
directly down, some fifty feet below him. When it appeared, it was
moving upward at awesome speed, and the rotating whip-arm was a blur.
A deep *BOOM* as the counterweights slammed into the heavy ropes
that pulled on the whip-arm pulley at the end of the mainbeam, giving
a massive final impetus to a whip-arm already moving at fantastic
speed... almost immediately after, a sharp *ca-rack!* as the hurtling
whip-arm was arrested at full stretch by the pulley lock on the end of
the now-stationary mainbeam. The catapult had fired.
Janus turned immediately around, leaving the crew to feverishly
prepare for the next round behind him. Of the crew, only Alaric the
captain shared with the green apprentice the privelege of observing
the fall of the shot.
At first he saw nothing but sky.. then.. There! Still quite low in
in its trajectory, the same tight black cloud .. climbing...climbing.
One two .. three .. . six wingers altogether. Not good.
The range was closer, and the thick darts could be individually
discerned as they spread out before angling down to the ground far,
far below.
*THUMP!* Number 4 fired again, a second black cloud persuing the
first. Janus wondered whether the other captain had gambled on his
opponent missing and gone for kill points; or whether he was firing at
the same mark as themselves, hoping to land as many of his own darts
as possible within the kill-circle for scarecrow points.
Janus hurled a glance at the charging target. It was still coming
on, maddened by the cruelly burning pitch beneath its tail. It would
run like that until it dropped, or until it was jerked to a stop by
the guide-rope and pacified by the handlers now safely waiting in the
target-zone pits near the end of the run.