Michael Tinker Pearce's Blog, page 2

Mercy Sakes Alive, it Looks Like We Got us a Space Drive!

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EM Drive. Cannae Drive. Resonant-Cavity thrusters. Feed them microwaves and they produce thrust- without expelling exhaust. They’ve been called impossible. They aren’t- NASA’s first published paper of their results has passed peer-review. This means that other scientists have rigorously examined their experimental methodology and determined that they have produced valid results. Simply put it works. QED it is not impossible.


 


They have also been called a ‘reactionless thruster.’ They aren’t. If there were no reaction there would be no thrust. The fact that we don’t know what that reaction is doesn’t matter; we know there is a reaction because it works.


 


It has been said to violate the laws of physics. It doesn’t. If it violated the laws of physics it wouldn’t work. It’s just using laws of physics we are not yet familiar with or it is using known laws of physics in a novel way.


 


Of course they produce very, very tiny amounts of thrust. But in the last 7-8 years they have gone from producing micronewtons of thrust to millinewtons of thrust. Doesn’t sound like much, does it?
It is, though- that means performance has improved by an order of magnitude. That is a lot. Especially given that this is a brand-new technology that we don’t even understand yet. To some extent the thrust is scalable with input- give it more power, get more thrust.


I’m not a scientist, so I’m not going to get into the theories or post links to the papers. You can Google those easily enough. What I am going to talk about is the ramifications of the technology. To understand this we need to talk about spaceflight. Specifically interplanetary travel.

To get virtually anywhere interesting in the solar system takes fuel. To get there in a reasonable amount time takes a lot of fuel, and of course moving that fuel takes what? More fuel. Assuming that you are not suicidal you will need still more fuel to stop at your destination, then come home again. This means you need fuel to move the fuel to get there, stop, turn around and come back then stop again. That’s a lot of fuel. Using a chemical rocket to get to the nearest star system in mere 900 years would require a mass of fuel larger than the combined mass of everything in the universe. Going to Mars is a lot more reasonable, of course. Especially if you are not in a hurry.  With a reasonable amount of fuel you can get there in less than a year and still have enough to get home again… if you are willing to spend most of a year-and-a-half on Mars waiting for the planet to get relatively close to earth again

This is what makes the EM drive special. No fuel. Just deploy some solar-power arrays and away you go. Or carry a nuclear reactor if you can convince anyone to let you boost one into orbit. Yes, the nuclear material is fuel, but it lasts a long time for what you get from it. Mind you, you’ll still need fuel to lift off and land, but that amount is trivial compared to what you would need for the journey with a conventional rocket.

The thing about the EM drive is that while it produces relatively little thrust it produces it for a long, long time. That adds up to speed, and faster than you might think. Say you manage to get your EM drive to boost you at 1/100 of a gravity. After an hour you are only going 1152 mph. Seems kind slow. But if you accelerate at .01 G for ten days you will be going 276,480 mph. Thats somewhere around ten times faster than any human has gone before. Suddenly Mars doesn’t seem so awfully far away after all…

Of course it’s early days yet. The technology is in it’s infancy; sooner or later someone is going to figure out what is going on and how to capitalize on that to increase the efficiency. It is entirely possible that eventually these systems might produce a lot more than 1/100G. But even if they don’t, if they can even get .01G of  boost it opens the whole solar system to manned exploration and even colonization.

Yeah, I’m pretty danged excited about that.

In ‘Rage of Angels’ we encounter aliens with a fully developed version of this drive, and they use it to fly everything from fighter drones to lifting city-block size harvesters into orbit. Yeah, the tech may never get that far. Or it might. Early days, after all. Very, very exciting early days. Who knows what the next seven years will bring?

The Aftermath of Apocalypse

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Now that Lord of the North is finally wrapping up (finally!) it’s time to return our attention to the rage of Angels sequels.

So, the Marabunta have taken their crippled mothership and retreated into the deep solar system to lick their wounds, and they leave behind a shattered world and society. On much of the planet civilization has been crippled or collapsed entirely. The United States and their few remaining allies face the daunting task of not merely preparing for the alien’s return, but to pursue them into the Black. If that weren’t enough they also need to re-establish civil order within our borders, rebuild our industrial capability and begin to re-terraform the earth.

Cover reveal and ‘Lord of the North’ nearing the home stretch!

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After a remarkably long time and several false starts the sequel to ‘Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman’ is nearing completion. Editing of parts 1-3 is done, we have the cover art and Part 4 is nearing completion. I’m writing about 1500 words a day of new content in between making a living and having a life and things are coming to a head.

To whet your appetite here’s a sample of the first chapter-

Chapter One

“Some men are born to greatness, others have greatness thrust upon them. Still others have no better sense than to make themselves so useful they are dragged to it, kicking and screaming the whole way.”

From the Diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

SHUNK! The red and black tattooed head spun through the air and landed in the mud with a splash. More muck sprayed from the pony’s hooves as it stopped, then wheeled around in its own length and launched itself back at the row of enemy infantry.

“Hold!” bellowed the trainer standing nearby. Engvyr sat back in the saddle to signal his mount to halt, raising the broad-bladed saber to rest spine-down on his shoulder. He blinked to clear the sweat from his eyes as he guided his pony towards the trainer at a walk.

“What is it this time?” he asked irritably, “I thought that was a good cut!”

The tall afmaeltinn man, Gedric Ullfson, nodded and said, “Aye, it was as near-perfect as a man could hope for. That’s why we’re stopping now.”

Engvyr’s breath was coming in frosty puffs as he panted from the exertions of the morning’s training. His shoulder ached from swinging the long saber again and again. He thought he had felt every ache and pain that it was possible for riding to inspire, but this morning’s training had been an education on that score. Despite the mid-winter cold he was sweating under the thick padded jacket and the unaccustomed weight of armor. He, his mount, and practically everything else in sight was speckled with mud. He glanced at the row of slaughtered ‘Baasgarta’ dummies with satisfaction.

Gedric gestured to the group of a half-dozen mounted dwarves standing nearby and shouted, “Right, ya sawed off runts! That’s how ya do it. Yer lordship here almost gives me hope for you lot. We’re done fer today. Clean yer sorry asses up, and if I see so much as a spec a’ mud on your armor or gear tomorrow you’ll probably live to regret it!”

“Sawed-off runts?” Engvyr inquired with a grin as he removed his helmet and shook his sweat-soaked hair. Gedric turned away from the departing trainees and returned his grin. He was near tall enough to look Engvyr in the eye even though the dwarf was mounted.

The man nodded. “Keepin’ them hating on me stops ’em from takin’ out their aches and pains on each other, and gives ’em a feeling of solidarity.”

Engvyr shrugged and said, “You’re the professional here so I’ll not take issue. Just mind you keep that sort of thing in its proper place.”

Gedric really was the professional; he had served in the Taernealian Cavalry for more than twenty years. He nodded, “A ‘course, M’Lord. I’m not likely to insult the fine folks as cook m’food and wash m’clothes! Too much room fer mischief there.”

“Seriously, though,” Engvyr asked, “How are they shaping up?”

The Afmaeltinn frowned in thought before replying, “Honestly? As well as any I’ve trained, and better than some. A’course these boys come from the Rangers or Mounted Infantry, so they’re already accomplished riders and used to military discipline. When we get to them as aren’t, well, we’ll see what we see, won’t we?”

Engvyr nodded. “Indeed. Well, no rest for the wicked.”

He sketched a salute to the trainer and headed for the stables at a walk, giving his mount a chance to cool down on the way.

The dwarves of Dvargatil Baeg had never bothered with cavalry before. With their short stature and mountain-bred ponies they could not hope to go head-to-head with the humans horsemen they thought themselves most likely to fight. Instead they had focused on mounted infantry that travelled on ponies but fought afoot, and on tactics to deal with mounted assaults. The ongoing war with the Baasgarta had shown them that they might need their own cavalry after all; the goblin tribe rode to war on ulvgaed, strange carnivores that resembled a mountain goat except for their wolf-like teeth and jaws. The six dwarven trainees were to form the training cadre for dwarves units, which for the moment was to be based out of Engvyr’s estate in the Makepeace Valley.

My estate, he thought bemusedly, who could have guessed such a thing could come to pass? For a dwarf that had started life as a humble miner’s son he had come far, and in a relatively short time as dwarves reckoned such things. After serving three decades in the elite 3rd.Rifles he had spent the next twelve years as a Ranger of the Mountain Guards. After the brief, disastrous but ultimately victorious battle for the Baasgarta capitol he had been sent home with the title ‘Lord Warder of the North.’ He stopped a moment to admire his new home.

The foundation of the High Hame had been carved straight out of the bedrock of the mountainside. The Stonewrought building looked as solid as the mountain itself. Work was still in progress but the great hall, kitchens, and their personal apartments were finished enough to occupy. Temporary shops and stables had been erected in what would eventually be the walled court below the building.

It was to the stables that he headed now, dismounting and leading his pony inside. The other riders were already seeing to their own animals and he began to do the same, stripping off the barding, tack and harness, setting those aside for later. He first rubbed down the pony, and began to curry it. Most dwarves of his station would leave such work to grooms but he was not the sort to put work off on others when he could do it himself. Besides, the condition of his mount was literally life or death; he wasn’t about to leave that to another.

The beast was of a different sort than he had ridden in the army or Mountain Guard, longer of limb and body. These were actually cutting-ponies used by herdsmen in the south; a full thirteen hands, fast and agile but with good stamina. They had been brought here for just this purpose, and been waiting for him when he and his entourage returned from the war in the north.

He’d be damned if he’d let someone else care for his mount but he reluctantly allowed the grooms to see to his gear. There were but so many hours in a day and the Lord Warden of the North had other responsibilities than cavalry training. Though what exactly those are remains to be seen, he thought. So far it mostly seemed to constitute studying and signing endless requests for materials from the construction team, and finding local accommodations for people coming up from Ironhame.

The war with the Baasgarta was in abeyance for the season. Apart from scouting and the occasional small skirmish, winter in the deep mountains was not a time suited to warfare. Deeply piled snowbanks impeded movement and concealed all manner of hazards. Avalanches were a constant danger and blizzards could blow up with little warning. Trolls that normally kept to themselves could become territorial and aggressive.

Normally, travel to the Makepeace Valley was impossible in the wintertime with the High Passes closed by lethal cold. But in the past year the Hidden Ways, tunnels that passed under the mountains, had been revealed and opened to travelers to support the war effort. Engvyr found it ironic that these long-suspected tunnels had been made originally for the dwarves to flee into the deep mountains in time of need. Thank the Lord and Lady that they are equally useful in moving dwarves and material towards a war, he thought.

Having seen the pony tucked away in a snug stall he set about removing his armor. He had worn a light breastplate for decades, first in the army and then as a Ranger of the Mountain Guard, but this was a whole different thing. Blue-gray steel encased him from ankle to throat and it had to be removed in a specific order, more or less from the top down once the helmet and gauntlets had been removed. First the paldrons that protected his shoulders, then the gorget from around his throat followed by the articulated arms. The breastplate was next, then the quilted armor-cote. Lastly the tightly laced linen vest that supported the leg-armor. The feet themselves were protected mainly by the armored stirrups, which of course had remained with the pony’s tack. That done he stood a moment, stretching to ease the kinks and shivering in his sweat-soaked linen undershirt. He nodded to the apprentice who came for his armor, then he shrugged into an old grete cote. He tossed a casual wave to the other trainees and made his way up the stairs to the High Hame.

Entering the great hall he greeted the workmen that were even now putting the finishing touches on the room. A full fifty paces long and half that in width, lined with broad benches where the walls weren’t broken by the entrances to apartments, three to a side. At the far end a fire roared in the huge hearth, with kitchens to the left and the entrance to his private apartments to the right. It was there he headed now for a wash and change before the next endless round of paperwork and consultations from the workmen.

Consultations! He snorted to himself as he stripped off the soiled, sweaty clothes, as if they paid the least attention to our desires… Engvyr was a dwarf of simple tastes, and his wife Deandra felt much the same. So the foremen came to him, asked what he wanted, and then politely explained why he needed something much more grand and proceeded to build it the way they had intended to all along.

He hadn’t been there for the first stages of construction, having been at the siege of the Baasgarta capitol and the clean-up in the aftermath. He grinned as he opened the spigot to fill the bathtub. He had been told of his lady wife’s objection on first seeing the plans for the High Hame. ‘How am I ever to clean such a great barn of a place?’ she had wailed. It had not yet sunken in that as a Lady of the Realm she would have her own household to attend to such details.

Indeed, it still befuddled Engvyr from time to time. He had gone almost overnight from being a simple Ranger to being a Lord, and before he was even used to that he was named Lord Warden of the North. Aside from the Royal Stipend that accompanied the position (the amount of which had boggled their minds all over again) so far it seemed to mean paperwork and headaches.

On the other hand it also means a hot soak at the end of a morning’s training, he thought, as he gratefully lowered himself into the bath. The lavatory was toasty-warm, sharing a wall with the great hearth as it did. Hot water piped through the stones of the hearth was just the balm his abused muscles needed and he sighed with gratitude. He luxuriated in the heat for a few moments, then ducked his head under and washed quickly. As pleasant as it might be to loll about in the tub there was yet much to do.

He dressed in a linen shirt and pants and donned a light cote. Thick knotted wool socks and soft, low shoes protected his feet from the drafts that inevitably blew along the floor. Making his way to his office he looked at the pile of paperwork that had already accumulated over the last night and this morning. I swear the bloody stuff breeds in the dark, he thought crossing the office to the door that opened into the kitchens.

Poking his head in, he flagged down a cook’s assistant and requested coffee before settling at his desk and tackling the pile. He was so absorbed that he only dimly noticed when someone entered and set a tray on the corner of his desk. Warm arms encircled him over the chair-back and he smelled wildflowers as a soft cheek pressed against his.

“Deandra!” he exclaimed with pleasure as he leaned back into his wife’s embrace and planted a kiss on her cheek.

“Mmmm…” she sighed in his ear, “This job does have some perks… at least now I can hug my husband instead of his breastplate!”

Though his half elf – half Afmaeltinn wife was a full foot taller than him, he had no difficulty snaking an arm around her slender waist and sweeping her into his lap. She giggled as he kissed her then leaned against him and nuzzled his ear.

“This is no way to get your work done, love,” she whispered.

“And I care because…?”

“Because that pile will be twice as big tomorrow,” she said firmly, pushing away from him and giving him a peck on the lips as she stood, “plenty of time for that later.”

From the look she gave him he earnestly looked forward to later. He growled at her in only partly mock frustration. “If I’d known you were such a practical wench… I’d have married you anyway.”

She laughed, eyes sparkling as she dodged out of his reach and he watched regretfully as she slipped out. Besotted, he thought, not for the first time, that’s the word I’m looking for… With a sigh of regret he returned his attention to the task at hand.

He frowned over his reading, a report from the Northern front. While the offensive was stalled over the winter, scouts were pushing north and what they were finding was disturbing. Isolated farm-holds were still tenanted, but major settlements were abandoned. The assumption had been that the Baasgarta were retreating and consolidating their forces in anticipation of resuming hostilities in the spring.

Now however the scouts had found The Pit, the great central strip-mine of the Bassgarta, and it too was empty. While some of the mined material had been removed there were still massive stocks of ore and refined metals simply left behind. Where the hell are they going? He wondered. The Pit was the centerpiece of their nation, their civilization, housing tens of thousands of Brael slaves. Not to mention their guards, administrators, refinery workers and the workers that ran the great smelters and forges… All gone; they had simply picked up and left. Indications were that they had gone north and west, but he had no idea what was there, or what they were doing in that place. He had a suspicion that they were going to find out come spring, and that they would not find the answer to their liking…

OK, it’s Been Entirely Too Long.

Been a rough couple of years what with he fire, trying to get the business back on an even keel etc. Yeah that’s pretty much just excuses, so let’s move on.

Sales of ‘Rage of Angels’ really picked up with our recent promotions and continue to be strong. We very pleased, of course, but a few more reviews on Amazon wouldn’t hurt… Diaries of a Dwarven rifleman is where the real news is though. ‘Lord of the North’ is finally nearing completion. Yeah, you’ve heard this before but THIS time… well, we’re looking at final editing beginning in thirty days, with ARCs going out shortly thereafter.

In ‘Lord of the North’ the action picks up where ‘DoDR’ left off. Engvyr is settling into his new position as Lord Warder, the conquest of the north continues, Makepeace Steading is growing… but all is not well. Someone is taking the Braell, the Afmaeltinn of the coastal city-state of Tearneal is the focus of fresh troubles and ancient magics are stirring… OK, too hard to avoid spoilers. You’ll just have to wait and see…

In other news Linda is involved in at least two other novels with a different co-author and a sequel novella to ‘Rage of Angels is in the works to tide you over until book two.

Oh, and things are coming together in the shop. We’ve just installed a power supply for the milling machines and the metal lathes are both working. That means that this winter I will start on a long-delayed project- an Infantry Long Rifle, just like Engvyr’s. OK, it will definitely have a longer stock; I’m not actually a Dvaerg! There will likely be several proof-of-concept prototypes first but work will begin this winter.

Hope you all have a great weekend, and remember- if you are going to observe the eclipse make sure you have correct viewing equipment! Retinal burns are no joke.

-Tinker

‘Rage of Angels’ International Break-Out

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Last week we ran a Bookbub international promotion for our Military/Hard-Science Fiction novel ‘Rage of Angels.’ As a result the book hit #1 bestselling Hard Science/Science Fiction on Amazon in the UK, Canada and Australia! Hopefully upcoming promotions in the US will have a similar effect.

I’m proud of this book, and frankly have always thought it sort of fell by the wayside. We never promoted it previously; life got in the way. Little things like our house being severely damaged by a fire… I’m pleased as hell to see it doing well now, and am currently working on a sequel novella and the next book in the series. Better late than never, I suppose.

Linda is co-authoring a contemporary fantasy with a friend with the working title ‘City of Gray.’ Sam is a young woman with the extraordinary ability to see the past. When she moves to Seattle, however, the past she sees is a history of murder- and worse yet a modern serial killer seems intent on recreating murders from the time of the Alaskan Gold Rush! I’ve read the first four chapters, and I think it’s terrific.

The sequel to ‘Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman,’ ‘Lord of the North’ should have it’s much-belated release this autumn; cover art is in place and much of the editing is done. We just need to finish the damned thing…

After a protracted period of stasis we’re finally firmly moving forward. It’s been a difficult couple of years and health and financial issues have slowed things down but now it’s onward and upward.

Michael Tinker Pearce

Lord of the North Cover Art!

Thanks to Roberto Calas for the wonderful cover for Lord of the North!  Editing continues, and we’re hoping to release in October of this year. Finally!

Chapter One of ‘Lord of the North.’

Here for your entertainment and commentary is the first chapter of the sequel to ‘Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman.’ Please let us know what you think.

###

Chapter One

“Some men are born to greatness, others have greatness thrust upon them.  Still others have no better sense than to make themselves so useful they are dragged to it, kicking and screaming the whole way.”

From the Diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

SHUNK!  The red and black tattooed head spun through the air and landed in the mud with a splash.  More muck sprayed from the pony’s hooves as it stopped, then wheeled around in its own length and launched itself back at the row of enemy infantry.

“Hold!” bellowed the trainer standing nearby.  Engvyr sat back in the saddle to signal his mount to halt, raising the broad-bladed saber to rest spine-down on his shoulder.  He blinked to clear the sweat from his eyes as he guided his pony towards the trainer at a walk.

“What is it this time?” he asked irritably, “I thought that was a good cut!”

The tall afmaeltinn man, Gedric Ullfson, nodded and said, “Aye, it was as near-perfect as a man could hope for.  That’s why we’re stopping now.”

Engvyr’s breath was coming in frosty puffs as he panted from the exertions of the morning’s training. His shoulder ached from swinging the long saber again and again. He thought he had felt every ache and pain that it was possible for riding to inspire, but this morning’s training had been an education on that score. Despite the mid-winter cold he was sweating under the thick padded jacket and the unaccustomed weight of armor.  He, his mount, and practically everything else in sight was speckled with mud.  He glanced at the row of slaughtered ‘Baasgarta’ dummies with satisfaction.

Gedric gestured to the group of a half-dozen mounted dwarves standing nearby and shouted, “Right, ya sawed off runts!  That’s how ya do it.  Yer lordship here almost gives me hope for you lot.  We’re done fer today.  Clean yer sorry asses up, and if I see so much as a spec a’ mud on your armor or gear tomorrow you’ll probably live to regret it!”

“Sawed-off runts?” Engvyr inquired with a grin as he removed his helmet and shook his sweat-soaked hair.  Gedric turned away from the departing trainees and returned his grin.  He was near tall enough to look Engvyr in the eye even though the dwarf was mounted.

The man nodded.  “Keepin’ them hating on me stops ’em from takin’ out their aches and pains on each other, and gives ’em a feeling of solidarity.”

Engvyr shrugged and said, “You’re the professional here so I’ll not take issue.  Just mind you keep that sort of thing in its proper place.”

Gedric really was the professional; he had served in the Taernealian Cavalry for more than twenty years.  He nodded, “A ‘course, M’Lord.  I’m not likely to insult the fine folks as cook m’food and wash m’clothes! Too much room fer mischief there.”

“Seriously, though,” Engvyr asked, “How are they shaping up?”

The Afmaeltinn frowned in thought before replying, “Honestly? As well as any I’ve trained, and better than some.  A’course these boys come from the Rangers or Mounted Infantry, so they’re already accomplished riders and used to military discipline.  When we get to them as aren’t, well, we’ll see what we see, won’t we?”

Engvyr nodded.  “Indeed.  Well, no rest for the wicked.”

He sketched a salute to the trainer and headed for the stables at a walk, giving his mount a chance to cool down on the way.

The dwarves of Dvargatil Baeg had never bothered with cavalry before.  With their short stature and mountain-bred ponies they could not hope to go head-to-head with the humans horsemen they thought themselves most likely to fight.  Instead they had focused on mounted infantry that travelled on ponies but fought afoot, and on tactics to deal with mounted assaults.  The ongoing war with the Baasgarta had shown them that they might need their own cavalry after all; the goblin tribe rode to war on ulvgaed, strange carnivores that resembled a mountain goat except for their wolf-like teeth and jaws.  The six dwarven trainees were to form the training cadre for dwarves units, which for the moment was to be based out of Engvyr’s estate in the Makepeace Valley.

My estate, he thought bemusedly, who could have guessed such a thing could come to pass?  For a dwarf that had started life as a humble miner’s son he had come far, and in a relatively short time as dwarves reckoned such things. After serving three decades in the elite 3rd.Rifles he had spent the next twelve years as a Ranger of the Mountain Guards.  After the brief, disastrous but ultimately victorious battle for the Baasgarta capitol he had been sent home with the title ‘Lord Warder of the North.’ He stopped a moment to admire his new home.

The foundation of the High Hame had been carved straight out of the bedrock of the mountainside.  The Stonewrought building looked as solid as the mountain itself. Work was still in progress but the great hall, kitchens, and their personal apartments were finished enough to occupy. Temporary shops and stables had been erected in what would eventually be the walled court below the building.

It was to the stables that he headed now, dismounting and leading his pony inside.  The other riders were already seeing to their own  animals and he began to do the same, stripping off the barding, tack and harness, setting those aside for later.  He first rubbed down the pony, and began to curry it. Most dwarves of his station would leave such work to grooms but he was not the sort to put work off on others when he could do it himself.  Besides, the condition of his mount was literally life or death; he wasn’t about to leave that to another.

The beast was of a different sort than he had ridden in the army or Mountain Guard, longer of limb and body.  These were actually cutting-ponies used by herdsmen in the south; a full thirteen hands, fast and agile but with good stamina.  They had been brought here for just this purpose, and been waiting for him when he and his entourage returned from the war in the north.

He’d be damned if he’d let someone else care for his mount but he reluctantly allowed the grooms to see to his gear.  There were but so many hours in a day and the Lord Warden of the North had other responsibilities than cavalry training.  Though what exactly those are remains to be seen, he thought.  So far it mostly seemed to constitute studying and signing endless requests for materials from the construction team, and finding local accommodations for people coming up from Ironhame.

The war with the Baasgarta was in abeyance for the season.  Apart from scouting and the occasional small skirmish, winter in the deep mountains was not a time suited to warfare.  Deeply piled snowbanks impeded movement and concealed all manner of hazards.  Avalanches were a constant danger and blizzards could blow up with little warning.  Trolls that normally kept to themselves could become territorial and aggressive.

Normally, travel to the Makepeace Valley was impossible in the wintertime with the High Passes closed by lethal cold. But in the past year the Hidden Ways, tunnels that passed under the mountains, had been revealed and opened to travelers to support the war effort.  Engvyr found it ironic that these long-suspected tunnels had been made originally for the dwarves to flee into the deep mountains in time of need.  Thank the Lord and Lady that they are equally useful in moving dwarves and material towards a war, he thought.

Having seen the pony tucked away in a snug stall he set about removing his armor.  He had worn a light breastplate for decades, first in the army and then as a Ranger of the Mountain Guard, but this was a whole different thing. Blue-gray steel encased him from ankle to throat and it had to be removed in a specific order, more or less from the top down once the helmet and gauntlets had been removed.  First the paldrons that protected his shoulders, then the gorget from around his throat followed by the articulated arms.  The breastplate was next, then the quilted armor-cote.  Lastly the tightly laced linen vest that supported the leg-armor.  The feet themselves were protected mainly by the armored stirrups, which of course had remained with the pony’s tack.  That done he stood a moment, stretching to ease the kinks and shivering in his sweat-soaked linen undershirt.  He nodded to the apprentice who came for his armor, then he shrugged into an old grete cote. He tossed a casual wave to the other trainees and made his way up the stairs to the High Hame.

Entering the great hall he greeted the workmen that were even now putting the finishing touches on the room.  A full fifty paces long and half that in width, lined with broad benches where the walls weren’t broken by the entrances to apartments, three to a side.  At the far end a fire roared in the huge hearth, with kitchens to the left and the entrance to his private apartments to the right.  It was there he headed now for a wash and change before the next endless round of paperwork and consultations from the workmen.

Consultations! He snorted to himself as he stripped off the soiled, sweaty clothes, as if they paid the least attention to our desires…  Engvyr was a dwarf of simple tastes, and his wife Deandra felt much the same.  So the foremen came to him, asked what he wanted, and then politely explained why he needed something much more grand and proceeded to build it the way they had intended to all along.

He hadn’t been there for the first stages of construction, having been at the siege of the Baasgarta capitol and the clean-up in the aftermath. He grinned as he opened the spigot to fill the bathtub. He had been told of his lady wife’s objection on first seeing the plans for the High Hame.  ‘How am I ever to clean such a great barn of a place?’ she had wailed.  It had not yet sunken in that as a Lady of the Realm she would have her own household to attend to such details.

Indeed, it still befuddled Engvyr from time to time.  He had gone almost overnight from being a simple Ranger to being a Lord, and before he was even used to that he was named Lord Warden of the North.  Aside from the Royal Stipend that accompanied the position (the amount of which had boggled their minds all over again) so far it seemed to mean paperwork and headaches.

On the other hand it also means a hot soak at the end of a morning’s training, he thought, as he gratefully lowered himself into the bath.  The lavatory was toasty-warm, sharing a wall with the great hearth as it did.  Hot water piped through the stones of the hearth was just the balm his abused muscles needed and he sighed with gratitude.  He luxuriated in the heat for a few moments, then ducked his head under and washed quickly.  As pleasant as it might be to loll about in the tub there was yet much to do.

He dressed in a linen shirt and pants and donned a light cote. Thick knotted wool socks and soft, low shoes protected his feet from the drafts that inevitably blew along the floor.  Making his way to his office he looked at the pile of paperwork that had already accumulated over the last night and this morning. I swear the bloody stuff breeds in the dark, he thought crossing the office to the door that opened into the kitchens.

Poking his head in, he flagged down a cook’s assistant and requested coffee before settling at his desk and tackling the pile.  He was so absorbed that he only dimly noticed when someone entered and set a tray on the corner of his desk.  Warm arms encircled him over the chair-back and he smelled wildflowers as a soft cheek pressed against his.

“Deandra!” he exclaimed with pleasure as he leaned back into his wife’s embrace and planted a kiss on her cheek.

“Mmmm…” she sighed in his ear, “This job does have some perks… at least now I can hug my husband instead of his breastplate!”

Though his half elf – half Afmaeltinn wife was a full foot taller than him, he had no difficulty snaking an arm around her slender waist and sweeping her into his lap. She giggled as he kissed her then leaned against him and nuzzled his ear.

“This is no way to get your work done, love,” she whispered.

“And I care because…?”

“Because that pile will be twice as big tomorrow,” she said firmly, pushing away from him and giving him a peck on the lips as she stood, “plenty of time for that later.”

From the look she gave him he earnestly looked forward to later.  He growled at her in only partly mock frustration.  “If I’d known you were such a practical wench… I’d have married you anyway.”

She laughed, eyes sparkling as she dodged out of his reach and he watched regretfully as she slipped out.  Besotted, he thought, not for the first time, that’s the word I’m looking for… With a sigh of regret he returned his attention to the task at hand.

He frowned over his reading, a report from the Northern front. While the offensive was stalled over the winter, scouts were pushing north and what they were finding was disturbing. Isolated farm-holds were still tenanted, but major settlements were abandoned. The assumption had been that the Baasgarta were retreating and consolidating their forces in anticipation of resuming hostilities in the spring. Now however the scouts had found The Pit, the great central strip-mine of the Bassgarta, and it too was empty. While some of the mined material had been removed there were still massive stocks of ore and refined metals simply left behind.  Where the hell are they going? He wondered. The Pit was the centerpiece of their nation, their civilization, housing tens of thousands of Brael slaves.  Not to mention their guards,  administrators, refinery workers and the workers that ran the great smelters and forges… All gone; they had simply picked up and left. Indications were that they had gone north and west, but he had no idea what was there, or what they were doing in that place. He had a suspicion that they were going to find out come spring, and that they would not find the answer to their liking…

Hi All! Here’s what’s up.

Good Lord it’s been awhile since I posted here. Between moving back into our home in February, re-eastablishing the shop, financial turmoil attendant to those events and keeping up three other active blogs we’ve been pretty busy.

Seven months after the fire we were finally able to move back into our fully renovated home and shop- to suffer a month of contractors trooping through daily, discovering that there were still items that needed replacement that we’d forgotten etc. it has not been a fabulous time for writing; we have been doing some, but it’s been catch-as-can.

We ARE writing, just slowly and in a less-than-organized fashion. There are some landmarks on this front- Linda is writing her first novel as the ‘lead writer’ and it’s pretty cool stuff. Set in Seattle the story straddles the periods of the Klondike gold rush and today. Samantha could be accused of living in the past… because sometimes she does. After moving to Seattle in the wake of a bad break-up she finds herself a witness to random murders in old Seattle- which, alarmingly are being reproduced today. A time-twisting modern fantasy- I’m a big fan so far, and I can’t wait to see where she takes the story.

Meanwhile I have things bubbling on the stove as well. While the sequel(s) to Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman are on holiday I am working on my first ‘solo’ novel, a modern story that defies the conventions of it’s genre. ‘Iceberg’ Jordan has had the existence of vampires driven home to her in a tragic and horrifying way… but she’s not a woman that assumes the role of victim. Ever. She is not a super-hero. She does not have ‘powers,’ she is not some waif-like mythic heroin fated to fight the forces of supernatural evil. She’s a combat veteran, tough, smart, resourceful and no stranger to violence… and she’s PISSED.

We’re also working on ‘A Fury on the Deep,’ the sequel to our science-fiction novel ‘Rage of Angels.’ Mysterious alien attackers have destroyed the world, and while the survivors have driven off the Eatees they will be back- with a vengeance. But the people of Earth are not going to wait- we’re going to pursue them into the depths of the solar system and END them. America has to gear up for final war while at the same time rebuilding civilization  and re-Terraforming the earth. Rest assured, all of your old friends will be back, and a few new ones as well.

Alas due to the chaos of re-stablishing our lives, home and business we can’t offer much in the of deadlines, but we’re working on it. As our lives stabilize we’ll be writing a lot more and more regularly.

In other news Linda has launched a new career dealing with sentient self-propelled petrie dishes- she’s become a substitute Teahcer’s Aid for the Seattle School District. My shop is up and running and I am slowly working to pay the bills and regain my previous capabilities in the new shop. It’s brilliant- fully finished, insulated and secure and this time around I am religiously cleaning as I go. It’s healthier, easier and better. I actually have ‘shop slippers’ to work in these days. It’s a comfort revolution and I am thrilled.

We’ll try to keep you updated on our lives and work a little more often-

In the meantime those other blogs I mentioned? Have a look if you like:

That’s Right… I Went There! Politics, social issues, opinions and just about anything that gets my back up or amuses me. https://thatsrightiwentthere.wordpress.com

The Swordgeek  It’s all About the Swords. Except when it isn’t. My old podcasts are hosted here too. http://www.theswordgeek.com/podcast/

Tinker Talks Guns  Reviews, ramblings and thoughts about (wait for it) guns, shooting and hunting. Largely non-political, but no guarantees… https://tinkertalksguns.wordpress.com

Man Up Already

There is something terribly wrong with me… I’m not so frightened of women that I’ll deny wage inequalty. I’m not so intimidated by strong women that I feel the need to imply that they are less than women, imply that they ‘slept their way to the top’ or ascribe their strength to a genetic condition. The idea of females being equal before the law does not so fill me with terror that I refer to them as ‘Feminazis.’ I don’t expect a woman to be subservient or that my opinions, desires etc. are paramount just because there is something dangling between my legs. I am not convinced that I am the best person to make decisions about their bodies, lives and health.

Some feminists are over the top. Some are abrasive, caustic and annoying. So are some football players, rock stars, liberals, conservatives, mechanics, engineers, office workers. Because they are all people, and people are different. Some of them are nice, some of them are dicks.

I get that some women are angry. They really have been oppressed; less than a hundred years ago they weren’t even allowed to vote in national elections- or local ones in most places. After World War 2 many women that did not wish to return to their traditional roles were committed to insane asylums, drugged and even lobotomized. They were subjected to therapies that amounted to torturing them to get them to ‘act like natural women.’ To crush and defeat them.

Yeah, World War 2 was a long time ago. But in many places police had to be held legally accountable before they would take spousal abuse seriously- and most spousal abuse is directed at women by men. Not all, but most. In some places this has been shockingly recent. The best information available to me suggests that women are still, on average, paid less than men in a comparable job. Not always, but too often.

Then we have the politicians on the far right that have introduced the concept of ‘legitimate rape.’ In absolutely stunning ignorance one claimed that women can’t get pregnant from ‘real’ rape. Some have said that a baby conceived in rape was a ‘gift from God.’ I know a lot of women and I have yet to meet one that appreciates that sort of ‘generosity.’

Some of these same politicians have suggested that birth control is the equivalent of abortion. They have slut-shamed women for wanting birth control, and for wanting equality in their health insurance and health care while seeing nothing wrong with the same sources providing drugs to allow men to maintain an erection. Uh… what? They obviously have no problem with men having sex, so who are they supposed to have it with? Not other men, that’s for sure.  One particularly nasty fellow has suggested that we abolish the idea that a husband can rape his wife.

Yeah, I get why some women are pissed.

Men are angry too. They are angry that they can no longer treat women as their inferiors. They are angry that they can no longer use their position to compel their employees to have sex with them without risking a lawsuit or even criminal prosecution. They are angry because they can no longer use sexual intimidation in the work-place to keep female employees under their thumb. They are angry that they have to act like decent human beings and treat women with the same respect they accord to one another. It’s the anger of a bully whose victim has been removed from his power. I am unimpressed with their anger

In all fairness I’m a dinosaur. I grew up in an era where most women were stay-at-home moms. I grew up in a gender-biased culture and I have gender-biases. But I do try- and occasionally succeed- in not letting those biases make me stupid.

It’s the freaking twenty-first century for heaven’s sake- yet there are still men so threatened by women that they foam at the mouth at the idea that half the human race wants to be treated as well as the other half.

To those individuals I can only say, “Man up and get over it.”

The Armed Society

There is a saying that ‘An armed society is a polite society.’ This is notably, demonstrably untrue. Elizabethan England was an armed society and even a cursory glance through ‘The Elizabethan Journals’ will reveal that it was anything but polite. Modern Somalia is far from being a polite society, and America is certainly not a polite society.

OK, so not more polite- but is it safer? Yes and no. Only a vanishingly small percentage of the guns in America are ever used in a crime. Despite a rash of ‘spree killings’ and single-incident mass-shootings America experiences less violent crime per capita than it has in many decades according to law enforcement reporting- which is more comprehensive than it was at any other point in history. I do not attribute this to the presence of firearms, BTW, but it’s difficult to estimate the net effect of the presence of civilian-owned weapons. Most instances of armed self-defense do not involve injury and are never reported. Contrary to this a vastly higher percentage of the instances of criminal use of a weapon are reported (excepting rape and domestic abuse.)

For much of my adult life I possessed a carry permit and often actually carried a gun. In that time there were two instances (as a civilian) where producing a weapon ended the situation without violence.  That is the most common result of such encounters, and like most people I didn’t bother to report them.

What stands out in my mind though was an incident of armed self-defense that occurred when I was actually unarmed.  It was winter, and I was wearing a jacket partially zipped up and was generally respectable-looking. I am a large man who carries himself with confidence and I appear physically competent- exactly the sort of person that street criminals typically avoid.

I had met a friend in Pioneer Square one Friday evening and was returning to my car, which was parked under the Alaskan Way Viaduct. This area is dark and untenanted in the evening except for people like me returning to their car.  I was walking along a row of parked cars when I saw a group of five boisterous young men approaching from the opposite direction. They were dressed in hoodies and ragged jeans- typical ‘street’ attire for urban toughs. They suddenly turned and began to cross the street directly towards me and I reflexively ‘cleared my coat;’ meaning that I unzipped it and swept it back slightly as one would to prepare to draw a weapon.

The effect was electric- it was like the young men bounced off an invisible wall in mid-street and immediately turned away and went about their business. They had obviously recognized the gesture and knew what it meant; that fact alone means they almost certainly had some criminal intent. It might have been a strong-arm robbery, and armed robbery or a beat-down but we’ll never know now.

Yes, I was unarmed. But we live in an armed society, and they knew that there was a chance that I was carrying a gun. When my gesture confirmed (to them at least) that I was they were instantly deterred. Naturally I did not report this incident- I mean really, there was nothing to report. But this was an instance of effective self-defense that was only possible because a civilian might reasonably be carrying a weapon. One has to wonder how often incidents like this occur, where crime is deterred by the mere possibility that the prospective victim might be armed.

Is this an isolated incident? No.

A friend– we’ll call her Susie– does not care for firearms and will probably never own one. One evening she came home from work at dusk. The house was dim, but it was still bright outside so when she opened her front door she was silhouetted in the doorway. Down the hall she could see a man approaching her from her bedroom with a box of her stuff in his hands. Realizing that he could not see her clearly she raised both hands before her and spot-lighted him with the laser attached to her keychain (that she normally used to play with her cat) and commanded him to ‘Freeze!’ He did- these days everyone knows what a red dot means! She made him put the box down and call the police to report that he was a burglar being held at gunpoint, and would they please come get him? They did, and she was safe. Again, this was effectively armed self defense even though she had no weapon. It was only possible because it was believable to the suspect that a civilian might be armed.

Interviews with felons convicted of violent crime indicate that these criminals are far more concerned about running into an armed civilian than they are about an encounter with the police. They know the rules and conditions under which the police will generally fire. An armed civilian? In their minds all bets are off.

These are two instances where living in an armed society was a positive defense and prevented- or ended- a crime. They come from my own small circle of acquaintance; what are the odds that these events are that unusual given the very small sample group they are derived from?

An armed society is manifestly not necessarily a polite one- but America may be safer as an armed society than it might be otherwise.

Feel free to carry the discussion onto Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/michael.t.pearce.7