Thursday, September 1, 2016

History of Flight: Unpowered Flight

If you had to guess where would you say the first lighter-than-air craft was invented?

If you said China, you're either-well versed in history or you know how to game a short-answer test. Because, let's be honest here, the Chinese have invented 90% of everything. If you're ever on Jeopardy and the hint starts with, "The first place to invent…" Don't even read the rest of the question. Just buzz in and say, "What is China?"
 

First in Flight

Kongming Sky Lanterns
CC Takeaway via Wikimedia Commons
First documented in the 3rd century CE, the sky lantern is a hot-air balloon with an envelope made of paper and a fire slung underneath. Its invention is usually credited to Zhuge Liang, a military strategist of the Three Kingdoms period, and to this day is also called by his courtesy name, Kongming. Originally used as a psychological weapon to spook the hell out of enemy troops,[1]  Kongming lanterns were later used for military signaling, and by civilians during Mid-Autumn and Spring Festivals,[2] to create a festive river of light rising thousands of feet into the air.

Europe would not replicate this technology until 1709, when Bartolomeu de Gusmão flew a paper balloon of the same basic design as the Kongming lantern to a height of 12 feet[3] . De Gusmão is thus regarded, by several sources I discovered while researching this article, as the man who proved that hot air can buoy up a lighter-than-air craft. Yeah, nice try. You've proven that hot air can buoy up more than just balloons.

And while we're on the subject, do you know where the first heavier-than-air craft was invented? Yeah, that was China, too. That aircraft is the kite, invented in China in the sixth century CE, if not earlier[4] . Like the sky lantern, the kite was not just a plaything, but an instrument of war. They could be used by city garrisons to send signals to friendly forces during sieges, or by military units who were cut off and unable to communicate their predicament by any other means[5] . They could be flown over enemy walls, and the length of the string used to calculate the distance that sappers should dig to, in order to undermine the defenses[6] . They were even used in psyops operations. Propaganda messages were written directly onto the paper of the kites, which were flown up and over enemy lines, then dropped by cutting the strings[7] . In civilian use, kites were employed in an aerial form of long-line fishing, in which a line and hook could be suspended from the kite, well away from the shadow of the boat[8] .

But surely the first human being to fly was Orville Wright? Or, if not him, then Jean-François Pilâtre de Rozier, the first man to ascend in a tethered hot air balloon in 1783?

Go Fly a Kite - Yuan Huangtou EditionSo, do you remember what I said earlier about buzzing in quickly if you're ever on Jeopardy? Yeah. The first documented human being to achieve flight was Yuan Huangtou, the son of a deposed Chinese emperor, in the 6th century CE. It wasn't as auspicious an event as you might be imagining, however. Guinness wasn't there, for one thing, and Yuan Huangtou was a prisoner of Gao Yang, a man who combined the traits of a scientific tinkerer with those of a true psychopath. Yuan Huangtou and other prisoners were tied to kites and thrown off the Tower of the Golden Phoenix in Ye. Alone among these unwilling pioneers of aeronautics, his kite actually flew, traveling a distance of two and a half kilometers before landing safely[9] . Compare this to Orville Wright's famous flight, which covered a paltry 37 meters, though of course Orville's flight had the distinction of being both powered and voluntary.

There are even stories of Lu Ban inventing a kite capable of lifting a man into the air as early as the 5th century BCE, for surveillance or as a platform for archery[10] . Historians usually regard these stories as exaggerations of Lu Ban's achievements, if not outright apocrypha, but the idea isn't as absurd as it may seem. 19th century inventors, Samuel Franklin Cody most famous among them, revisited the concept by building war kites that could lift not just one but several observers up to altitudes of thousands of feet, for as long as the wind remained steady. Many of these kites were made from nothing more than hemp, silk, cotton, and bamboo—all materials that were available in China in the 5th century. Which is to say, it's unlikely but not inconceivable that Lu Ban beat Cody to the punch by two and a half millennia.
 

Europe Discovers Finally Figures Out Flight

But whoever may have first invented the manned kite, credit for the first manned balloon goes to the Montgolfier brothers, Joseph and Etienne, of France. The Montgolfiers were paper manufacturers, because it just keep coming back to paper, doesn't it? Say, who was it that invented paper, again? I don't know, probably some white dude, right?

ANYWAY. The Montgolfiers got their start in the business of flight by experimenting with paper balloons and various buoyant substances. They first tried steam, but found that steam and a paper balloon don't go together super well. Then, learning of Henry Cavendish's experiments with hydrogen—then called "inflammable air"—they tried to fill their paper balloons with that. It didn't work, the hydrogen leaking out too quickly to provide buoyancy, but at least they didn't blow themselves up[11], so let's file that under "blessing in disguise."

Their breakthrough came in 1782, when Joseph noticed flecks of ash rising up a chimney. Believing that the smoke from the fire was permeated with a heretofore unknown type of buoyant gas, he named it Montgolfier Gas[12] . Personally, I would have gone with "De Gusmão, No Wait I Meant Zhuge Liang or, Oh I Don't Know, Maybe About Three Hundred Million Chinese People With Sky Lanterns Gas," but I guess that wasn't catchy enough. By any other name, however, the brothers had a solid foundation on which to build ever-larger hot air balloons. In tests conducted in 1782 and 1783, they lofted unmanned paper balloons of up to 20,000 cubic feet, reaching estimated heights of over a mile.[13] 

In a classic case of snobbery being the mother of invention, the French Academy was pissed that a couple of paper mongers had beaten them to a lighter-than-air balloon, and so commissioned Jacques Charles to duplicate the Montgolfier brothers' creation. Charles was confident of success, though it turned out he didn't have a clue how the brothers' balloon operated. He planned to buoy his own balloon with Cavendish's inflammable air, and lucky for him, paper was not a politically acceptable envelope material. Instead, he outsourced the job to brothers Marie-Noel and Anne-Jean Robert, who had developed a means of coating silk with rubber to make a tough material that retained hydrogen gas for long enough to loft a balloon.

It worked, and the test balloon ascended three thousand feet above Paris before drifting away and coming to a landing in the village of Gonesse. There, believing it had come from the devil, the villagers attacked the balloon with pitchforks, flails, and at least one firearm, before tying it to a horse and dragging it across the countryside[14] .
Montgolfier Balloon Being Assaulted by Peasants in Gonesse
From Astra Castra: Experiments and Adventures in the Atmosphere

So, do I even need to point out that there are no recorded cases of Chinese villagers committing aggravated assault against a Kongming lantern? No? Okay then, let's move on.

The aerial competition between the Montgolfiers and Jacques Charles was now on. The Montgolfiers came back strong, lofting living passengers aboard a flying machine for the first time in European history in September of 1783. Those passengers were a sheep, a duck, and a rooster. In the presence of King Louis, they were sent up in a wicker basket slung under a balloon decorated with the royal arms. The animals came down intact from an estimated height about 1,700 feet, confirming that life could survive at the lofty altitude of… well, a smallish hill. Seriously though, some scientists doubted that[15] .
 

First Manned Flight (Subcategory: Voluntary)

With those naysayers out of the way, the race was on to take a person into the air. Again, the Montgolfiers were first in Europe. That is, they were the first to build a balloon that could do it. They weren't the first to go up in it—are you crazy? They sent some snot-nosed kid up ahead of them, and so Jean-François Pilâtre de Rozier made the first tethered flight, less than a month after the concept was proven on a sheep[16] .
Montgolfier Hot Air Balloon Tethered Flight

Another month saw another breakthrough from the Montgolfiers: sending not just one but two poor bastards up in a balloon, and cutting the cord. It was Rozier again, joined this time by Marquis François-Laurent d'Arlandes. The Marquis was a last minute substitution, by order of the king. Louis had actually wanted condemned criminals to be the first to make an untethered flight, but Rozier wasn't hearing it. He talked to the Marquis, who talked Louis out of robbing Rozier of his glory. Louis agreed, with one condition: that the Marquis accompany him. Because even kings have a sense of humor.

The aeronauts rode on a wicker balcony surrounding a brazier on the underside of the balloon. They carried a supply of straw, which they were supposed to steadily feed onto the fire, though the Marquis was distracted by the sights passing below and had to be continually reminded of his task. He was also somewhat distracted when the balloon caught fire. No bigs, though. He spotted it in time and put it out with a wet sponge. If he hadn't been quite so on the ball, they would have come down in a flaming wreck onto the rooftops of Paris.[17]  As it was, they crossed the Seine and came down safely on the opposite side of the city.

Late but not to be outdone, the Robert brothers replicated the feat ten days later, sending Nicolas-Louis Robert—the elder brother—and Jacques Charles up in a hydrogen balloon. With no need for a brazier, their balloon featured a boat-shaped gondola, beating the Montgolfiers on style by a wide margin. They also beat them on duration, staying up two hours where the first untethered flight of the Montgolfier balloon—depending as it did on a continuous supply of fuel to stay aloft—only lasted half an hour.

Ebullient at the achievement, Charles stayed aboard after they'd landed. Once the elder Robert disemballooned, he signaled the ground crew to let go and went back into the air. Which was rather poor judgement on his part, since he hadn't considered the reduction in ballast from his departing co-pilot. He shot up to 10,000 feet so quickly that he saw the sunset twice in one day: once from the ground and again from aloft, having risen to an altitude where it hadn't yet gone down. As cool as this may sound, I wouldn't try it at home. Charles certainly didn't recommend it. He described an excruciating pain in one ear, and vented hydrogen to bring himself back down[18] . After that little misadventure, he never flew again[19] .
 

The Sky Conquered

At the beginning of 1782, the lighter-than-air balloon was a festive tradition and niche tool of military signalling, so unknown in Europe that Joseph Montgolfier thought he'd discovered hot air and tried to name it after himself. By the end of 1782, a human being had gone to 10,000 feet and returned safely to Earth.

The years to come would see even greater feats. In 1784, the balloonist Jean-Pierre Blanchard flew a distance of 70 miles. In 1785, he crossed the English Channel[20] . The age of the aeronaut had arrived, opening up a literal new dimension in human endeavors. The question, "Will Man ever fly?" had been resoundingly answered.

The only question that remained was, "So, uh, how do we use this to kill each other?"

We'll see how it was answered in the next article.


For further reading, check out the references listed below. I also recommend Ken Liu's phenomenal The Grace of Kings, which incorporates many of the above inventions into an epic fantasy setting.


 [1]Yinke Deng, Ancient Chinese Inventions, 131-132

 [2]https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sky_lantern

 [3]Anderson, Flight and Motion, 120

 [4]Needhan, Volume 4, Part 2, 577.

 [5]Needhan, Volume 4, Part 2, 577.

 [6]Needhan, Volume 4, Part 2, 577

 [7]Needhan, Volume 4, Part 2, 577.

 [8]Needhan, Volume 4, Part 2, 576.

 [9]Needhan, Volume 4, Part 2, 588-589

 [10]Needhan, Volume 4, Part 2, 573.

 [11]Payne, Lighter than Air, 1-2

 [12]https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Montgolfier_brothers#Early_experiments

 [13]Collier, The Airship, 16

 [14]Payne, Lighter than Air, 3

 [15]Payne, Lighter than Air, 4.

 [16]Payne, Lighter than Air, 4.

 [17]Payne, Lighter than Air, 6-7.

 [18]Collier, The Airship, 20

 [19]Payne, Lighter Than Air, 10

 [20]Collier, The Airship, 20

Wednesday, August 3, 2016

Review: Dreamrush by Garrett Calcaterra

Dreamrush is a collection of short stories, so I'll review them each individually.

The Knight's Dog

The description says this is often compared to Game of Thrones, and it's easy to see why. As soon as you're juxtaposing a knight bleeding out with a mastiff's pendulous scrotum, you know your fantasy has gone beyond pretty elves and manichean battles between good and evil. But don't think that, just because you've read G.R.R. Martin, this story won't hold any twists and surprises for you. The Knights Dog is a solid, grounded, gritty piece of short fiction, and a great opener for this collection.

Page Fault

My favorite of the collection. "Page Fault" is the dual narrative of a far-flung apocalyptic future where a tiny nucleus of survivors ekes out a pitiful existence, defending banks of ancient computers which store the digitized personalities of the bulk of humanity, allowing them to live on in simulated realities. But the glorious digital immortality promised to the digitized survivors comes with unsurprising caveats and conditions. For one, the primary simulated world was designed to run on the same rules as ours, including a stratified society of haves and have-nots. Worse, it seems that some of the haves have figured out how to rewrite the rules for their own benefit. Worse still, in the outside world, the barbarians are at the gate, and the lives of millions are on the line. If this sounds like I'm gushing, it's because I am. This is such an inventive, well-written, and fun story. Crossing genres in new and interesting ways, it combines Mad Max with Snow Crash, then throws in a dash of Al Capone and World of Warcraft. I love it!

Deus ex Aurum

Grounded in the actual history of the California gold rush, "Deus ex Aurum" tells an alt-history story of James Marshall. In reality, Marshall was among the party who first discovered gold, but was bum-rushed by prospectors and never reaped the rewards of his discovery. In this story, we see what might have happened if Marshall sought compensation by way of the supernatural. I liked this story overall, but I think it failed in one important aspect: the attempt to explore the forgotten cultures of the gold rush. While the portrayals of Chinese-American and Nisenan characters were mostly informed and respectful, I was disappointed right off the bat by a wizened-magical-Chinese-man stereotype. Things got a lot better from there, but the story is still fundamentally focused on a white guy. There's a parallel narrative from the perspective of Marshall's Nisenan friend, Meesham, but even his narrative is still centered on Marshall. This is still a good story, but it would have been a great story if it ditched the stereotype character, and if it had more and stronger parallel narratives that really belonged to Nisenan, Chinese-American, and Mexican-American characters.

Gold Comes Out

This is a fun one! Set in the same alternate, gaslamp reality as "Deus Ex Aurum", "Gold Comes Out" follows pirate captain Jardine, who's still plying the waters and seeking his fortunes long after the age of piracy has come to an end. Without spoiling things too much, by the mid-19th century, being a pirate is neither safe nor easy. When Jardine enters the world of the gold rush, he begins plotting the greatest individual act of piracy ever imagined. You just can't go wrong with an enjoyable adventure/heist story set against an interesting, well-imagined backdrop.

Wulfram

I haven't read the Dreamwielder books, which this is a prequel to, but I plan to now. A tale of loyalty and betrayal, "Wulfram" follows the eponymous character as he seeks out the last heir of a kingdom in upheaval. Wulfram is a fascinating character. He was magically twisted into a living weapon during some previous war, and is now striving to rediscover the nurturing side he lost, as he tries to protect this child king. I believe he's one of the villains of the Dreamwielder series, but he appears here as a tortured soul, caught between worlds. This is a great short, and I can't wait to read the books.

Overall

Wonderful short fiction. Grab this collection if you like gaslamp fantasy, genre bending, gritty fantasy, or if you just want some bite-sized stories that you can read start-to-finish before bed. As of this writing, the collection is priced at $8 for a paperback or $4 digital, which for 124 pages of solid fiction is quite reasonable. Highly recommended!

Wednesday, July 27, 2016

Review: Ninefox Gambit by Yoon Ha Lee


Ninefox Gambit is amazing. I love the characters, in all their scheming glory. I love the immersive world building, the no-hand-holding style of dropping the reader into a truly alien setting where the very rules of reality are altered by changes to the calendar. I love the smooth prose, the little moments that give characters life, the awkward exchanges, the unusual hobbies, the triumphs and the sudden plunge into cold water of reversed fortunes. I love the density of themes: shared belief, loyalty, games, hobbies, mathematics. Yes, I loved the math. And I say this as someone who has always hated math.

Most of all, I love that nothing is a mere gimmick. The techno-magic system is original, fleshed out, and interesting. You rarely see that. There's a lot of pulp out there that manages one of the three, and good stuff that manages two, but nailing all three is rare. And this approach to deep, fresh ideas flows through every aspect of the book. Every little detail is weird and wonderful, and the implications of every detail are thoroughly explored. Nothing is window dressing here. Nothing is a gimmick.

This is essential reading for anyone who likes military sf. And I mean essential. It's an entirely new take on the genre, and you simply can't say you understand that genre if you haven't read it. In fact, if you haven't read it, I don't even want to be around you. Apart from how one-sided our conversation will be, as I gush on and on about this book while you stand mute, I'm a little worried that your unenlightened presence might destabilize the space around you. So read it.

Yours in Calendrical Heresy,
Robyn

Saturday, December 20, 2014

Themes

Just went to see Birdman with my relatives. It's based on Raymond Carver's What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, a short story about trying to make your relatives understand the themes of the movie Birdman on the drive home from the theater.

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Ill-Advised Nuclear Testing, Part 3

So now we’ve nuked the surface, we’ve nuked the ocean depths, and we’ve even nuked outer space. And Alexander wept, for there were no more worlds to nuke. What’s a superpower to do?

Well, just make bigger nukes, obviously.

Enter, the H-bomb. The hydrogen or thermonuclear bomb is a much fancier lad than the a-bomb that preceded it. The A-bomb is purely a fission device, in which heavy elements are split, releasing colossal amounts of energy. But you can also fuse lighter elements to release energy. The problem is, it’s hard to compress and heat lighter elements enough to ignite fusion. Re-enter the A-bomb, which can provide more than enough heat and compression to ignite a fusion reaction. And then re-enter the A-bomb again, because we’re going to surround the fusion stage of the weapon with a massive amount of unenriched uranium, called the tamper. Unenriched uranium is stable under normal conditions, which is why we can cram so much of it into our thermonuclear device in the first place. But when exposed to the fusion reaction, unenriched uranium completely loses its shit. It kicks off a second round of fission, which in most thermonuclear devices provides the majority of the megaton-range yield.


It’s also much dirtier. While only increasing the yield by three- or four-fold, it multiplies the radioactive byproducts of the bomb by a thousand times. Behind closed doors, the military fucking loved that part, because a single bomb could effectively bring strategic targets to ruin even if strategic assets within those targets survived the initial blast and fireball. Oh and, by strategic targets, I mean cities, factories, and ports. And by strategic assets, I mean the people who live and work in them.

In public, the tone was very different. The official line in the U.S. was that radiation release did not scale with the increasing yield of nuclear weapons. Which, I guess, is technically true. It didn’t scale, because in the H-bomb, radiation growth exceeded yield by several orders of magnitude.

Which brings us back to Bikini Atoll, where we started this wild and wonderful journey. It was early 1954, about a year and a half after the first ever detonation of a thermonuclear device in the Ivy Mike test. The problem with the Ivy Mike H-bomb, however, was that it was literally the size of a building and thus completely impractical for military use. The Castle Bravo test sought to rectify that by detonating a thermonuclear bomb weighing about ten tons. That’s still pretty heavy, but it’s getting into the deliverable range.

The Castle Bravo bomb was expected to yield a blast in the 4 to 8 megaton range, but the designers made a critical error. They assumed that most of the mixture of fusion fuel in the second stage would prove functionally inert, unable to contribute to the nuclear reaction within the millisecond timeframe of the detonation sequence. This was due to the fact that they had never actually tested the fuel's response to high-energy particles, like those released by the first stage. If someone had stopped and said, “You know, maybe instead of assuming the mix will work a particular way, we should put it in a nuclear accelerator and actually test that shit,” then things might have gone differently.

But who has time for that? We’ve got stuff to nuke. Snap to it!

That very same “fuck it, let’s just light it off and see what happens” attitude was also operative on the day of the test, when it was decided they would go ahead with the detonation despite prevailing winds that were veering from north to east, where they could carry fallout over populated islands. The deciding factor, apparently, was that they’d done a lot of work setting up observation instruments around the blast site, and would have to do it all over again if the test was delayed.

Who needs that kind of hassle? Just blow the damn nuke already.

Which they did. And it was a fucking disaster.


Or a stunning success, depending on your perspective. Like, if you were an insane person, as seemed to be the case for many of our military and civilian leaders at the time, you’d call it a big win, because the yield was a full fifteen megatons. At the time, that made it the largest nuclear detonation in history, leaving a crater over a mile wide and 250 feet deep. The fireball was four miles wide and the resultant mushroom cloud seven miles wide. America, fuck yeah.

Even better, it spread a cloud of radiation over five thousand square miles of ocean. I mean, you can neutralize a lot hell of a lot of strategic assets that way.


The test was so successful that indigenous strategic assets had to be evacuated from islands which were rendered uninhabitable by fallout. Five strategic assets on the Japanese fishing boat Daigo Fukuryu Maru were exposed, resulting in the death of one of those strategic assets. Radioactive contamination from the test was carried by wind and ocean currents all around the Pacific Rim, from the west coast of America to Japan and Australia.

So, it was a rousing success, unless you happen to be afflicted by sanity.

Speaking of sanity and the lack thereof, you know what nuclear weapons would be great for? The construction business.


From that nugget of an idea came 1961’s Operation Plowshare, a proof-of-concept plan to demonstrate the myriad peaceful applications of multi-kiloton nuclear devices. The goal of Plowshare was to develop a toolbox of nuclear earth moving techniques—whose concepts ranged from merely frightening to utter, batshit insanity—and then hand them over to the private sector. Because, really, what damage can the private sector possibly do with nukes that the government hasn’t already?

Techniques developed by Plowshare were to be used to excavate rock and to fracture fossil fuel deposits for collection of their now-radioactive natural gas. If that sounds familiar, it’s basically just frakking, except instead of fracturing the rock with water, you use a nuclear warhead. What could be less controversial?


Similar methods were proposed for leached copper recovery and steam generation. And hey, wouldn’t nuclear devices make strip mining that much more wonderful?

If you’re already floored by this nuclear hubris, you may want to take a moment, because it gets worse from there. A Plowshare subproject codenamed Carryall planned to use twenty-two nuclear bombs to cut through the Bristol Mountains in California. Then a highway and rail line could be constructed across them. Complete, I imagine, with signs instructing motorists to please keep their windows rolled up.


And if you did happen to ride the crazy train through Carryall mountain pass, the next stop would be a nuclear-blasted sea-level link connecting the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, to be called the “Pan-Atomic Canal.”


Once those ships transit Central America, though, they’ll need a harbor to dock at. And won’t it be easier to find that harbor if it glows in the dark? Enter project Chariot, which would chain several nuclear bombs to blow open an artificial harbor.


Now that you’ve docked your cargo ship, though, you have to get your goods out to the people. You’d like to use a river barge, but the only river nearby doesn’t connect to the river you need to send your product up. Well shit, man, with nuclear bombs we can make rivers into whatever shape we want. Project Tombigee/Tennessee River would have done just that, combining the aforementioned little rivers into one big river.


But, you ask, what if blowing up all those rivers creates a water shortage? Well, my friend, nuclear bombs have you covered there, too. Plowshare proposed to use nuclear bombs to connect two aquifers for easier water access. In another proposal, Plowshare would create a rubble chimney above porous rock, which would allow rainwater to seep through the rubble and collect in an artificial aquifer. Think of it as a value-add proposition, because your drinking water would be suffused with expensive radioisotopes.


Thankfully, someone finally came to their sense and cancelled the program in 1977, before it could do any major harm. But for the decade and a half in between, someone thought all of this was a good idea.

If I may come back to the present day for a moment before I wrap this up, I’m reminded of a bit of common wisdom that’s become popular over the last decade: "we have to keep nuclear weapons out of the wrong hands." On its face, the statement is indisputable, more a truism than a proposition, but something about it has always bothered me. It wasn’t until I was doing research for this series of articles that I finally realized what it was.

The problem is that it rests upon an unfounded, unspoken premise: that there’s such a thing as the right hands.

I leave you now with a song.


Monday, November 24, 2014

Reminder...

The final (for now) installment of Ill-Advised Nuclear Testing will be going up on Wednesday as normal, but after that it'll be light blogging for the foreseeable future.

So make sure you hold that article close and read the shit out of it.