![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Ha, I actually wrote a silly little story about these coal vulture creatures that have invaded my brain! Now get out, please, and leave room for important things like research and D&D preparation.
I freely admit much of this was triggered by The Scar, with the Remade human/steam-engine hybrids being forced to constantly scavenge for fuel. But mostly it just came out of some impromptu brainstorming after I used the term 'coal vulture' in some extended silliness. Inventing the lifecycle of this mechanical form of life was just too much fun to stop, at that point.
(Oh, and on further investigation I think the phylum should properly be Novus. But probably not for the reasons you think.)
A coal vulture lay dormant, its firebox and boiler quite cold. The rays of the sun rising above it were caught by a pair of carefully mounted lenses. The larger lens, held a few meters away on a frame, focused the growing light somewhat diffusely onto the creature's boiler. As the light slowly precessed across the surface there was no response, beyond the occasional creak of expanding metal, until it hit the smaller lens. This further concentrated the light onto a bundle of kindling in the firebox which soon began to smolder and then burn brightly.
With the help of the solar concentrator, the coal vulture had enough steam pressure to start moving within another quarter of an hour. The first thing it did was restoke its fire from a hoard of fuel. It then immediately launched off the side of its roost. The wide alloy wings clicked into place as it settled into a comfortable, low-energy glide over the sprawling city. The vulture kept its dampers mostly closed to reduce fuel usage, the extra boiler pressure no longer needed. By now the city was already well awake, bustling with creatures less strictly diurnal. The punched Jacquard disk containing its programming spun rapidly back and forth as the bird slowly scanned the scene below it. This early in the summer it was mostly concerned with the never-ending hunt for fuel, but it wouldn't ignore a particularly nice piece of scrap metal. Preparation for mating season was always a close second in priority.
Far below, a dust-covered workman was shoveling coal into a delivery chute. The wagon it was being unloaded from was covered to prevent theft, but several pieces had fallen to the ground. Instantly locked onto this potential target, the vulture circled closer, watching the man closely. He seemed very attentive, and not likely to welcome the scavenger's attention. A brief blast of steam spun a random number generator -- and the bird retracted its wings as it dove at the prey. Simultaneously its dampers flew wide open, admitting an ever strengthening draft as the bird dropped faster and faster.
Flaring its wings just before it hit the ground, the vulture landed with a muffled clank behind the workman. He was already turning for another scoop of coal as it started grabbing for the pieces scattered around his feet. His first kick was poorly aimed, and a quick hop allowed the scavenger to continue shoving the fuel into its firebox. With an angry yell, the man switched to swinging his shovel. The bird's disk spun, comparing the remaining coal with the likelihood of being hit and the cost of continuing to dodge strikes. Grabbing one last chunk in a claw, it leaped into the air and drew upon the head of steam built during its descent to flap its powerful wings, slowly regaining altitude. The exhaust steam was routed through the firebox's short chimney to increase the draft during this laborious process. Below the workman shook his shovel as the bird chuffed away, its governor spinning brightly in the sunlight.
Not all of the day was so fraught, however. There was no competition for the water needed to top off its boiler, though the bird kept close watch for predators who might try to knock it into the canal for an easy thermal-stress kill. Later it drafted behind one of the freight trains constantly moving in and out of the city. Not only were wayward pieces of fuel often found along the tracks, but the stoking crews of these hungry devices often adopted the vultures as unofficial mascots, and would toss them the occasional piece of coal. One of the crews today was of this inclination, and the bird deftly caught several pieces as it flew alongside, even grabbing one chunk directly out of a stoker's outstretched hand. In another few generations this ability would be spread far enough in the vulture memepool to be commonplace, reducing the reward from startled humans, but for now it worked just fine.
It had been a decent day, with several kilograms of high quality anthracite left over to add to the vulture's cache. As evening approached, it decided to spend some of this surplus by revisiting an abandoned engine it had noticed earlier in the day. It was partially hidden under an old shack, and had not yet been stripped of useful parts by urban scavengers. The bird spent a very costly hour drilling out rivets using its rotary beak, working to remove a brass control lever. It had just enough time afterwards to roughly turn the hard-won handle down into the blank for a dihedral adjustment cam. This left the part sufficiently lightened to be carried aloft. Work on it could continue some other day back at the roost, using free solar energy instead of precious fuel. The cam would eventually become part of the new fledging built by the bird in the fall, constructed as finely as possible to help attract a mate. The very last components to be made would be a pair of Jacquard disks, the two mating vultures taking turns drilling out the instruction phrases, before they were installed in the heads of their offspring.
The scavenging routines spun to a new sector during its last slow glide, this time looking for appropriate kindling in the growing gloom. Grabbing the old nest of a much smaller, biological avian, it built up a full head of steam one last time for the climb back to its aerie. There it quickly emptied the clinker and ash from its cooling firebox. This was replaced with the fuel and tinder for the next day's awakening. Using the last breath of steam from its boiler, it carefully positioned laid down with its ignition lens pointing to the east, in line with the larger preheat lens. Content, the bird's programming disk spun down and it was still. Tomorrow would bring another mad fight for fuel and scrap. Life, as always, would go on.
I freely admit much of this was triggered by The Scar, with the Remade human/steam-engine hybrids being forced to constantly scavenge for fuel. But mostly it just came out of some impromptu brainstorming after I used the term 'coal vulture' in some extended silliness. Inventing the lifecycle of this mechanical form of life was just too much fun to stop, at that point.
(Oh, and on further investigation I think the phylum should properly be Novus. But probably not for the reasons you think.)
A coal vulture lay dormant, its firebox and boiler quite cold. The rays of the sun rising above it were caught by a pair of carefully mounted lenses. The larger lens, held a few meters away on a frame, focused the growing light somewhat diffusely onto the creature's boiler. As the light slowly precessed across the surface there was no response, beyond the occasional creak of expanding metal, until it hit the smaller lens. This further concentrated the light onto a bundle of kindling in the firebox which soon began to smolder and then burn brightly.
With the help of the solar concentrator, the coal vulture had enough steam pressure to start moving within another quarter of an hour. The first thing it did was restoke its fire from a hoard of fuel. It then immediately launched off the side of its roost. The wide alloy wings clicked into place as it settled into a comfortable, low-energy glide over the sprawling city. The vulture kept its dampers mostly closed to reduce fuel usage, the extra boiler pressure no longer needed. By now the city was already well awake, bustling with creatures less strictly diurnal. The punched Jacquard disk containing its programming spun rapidly back and forth as the bird slowly scanned the scene below it. This early in the summer it was mostly concerned with the never-ending hunt for fuel, but it wouldn't ignore a particularly nice piece of scrap metal. Preparation for mating season was always a close second in priority.
Far below, a dust-covered workman was shoveling coal into a delivery chute. The wagon it was being unloaded from was covered to prevent theft, but several pieces had fallen to the ground. Instantly locked onto this potential target, the vulture circled closer, watching the man closely. He seemed very attentive, and not likely to welcome the scavenger's attention. A brief blast of steam spun a random number generator -- and the bird retracted its wings as it dove at the prey. Simultaneously its dampers flew wide open, admitting an ever strengthening draft as the bird dropped faster and faster.
Flaring its wings just before it hit the ground, the vulture landed with a muffled clank behind the workman. He was already turning for another scoop of coal as it started grabbing for the pieces scattered around his feet. His first kick was poorly aimed, and a quick hop allowed the scavenger to continue shoving the fuel into its firebox. With an angry yell, the man switched to swinging his shovel. The bird's disk spun, comparing the remaining coal with the likelihood of being hit and the cost of continuing to dodge strikes. Grabbing one last chunk in a claw, it leaped into the air and drew upon the head of steam built during its descent to flap its powerful wings, slowly regaining altitude. The exhaust steam was routed through the firebox's short chimney to increase the draft during this laborious process. Below the workman shook his shovel as the bird chuffed away, its governor spinning brightly in the sunlight.
Not all of the day was so fraught, however. There was no competition for the water needed to top off its boiler, though the bird kept close watch for predators who might try to knock it into the canal for an easy thermal-stress kill. Later it drafted behind one of the freight trains constantly moving in and out of the city. Not only were wayward pieces of fuel often found along the tracks, but the stoking crews of these hungry devices often adopted the vultures as unofficial mascots, and would toss them the occasional piece of coal. One of the crews today was of this inclination, and the bird deftly caught several pieces as it flew alongside, even grabbing one chunk directly out of a stoker's outstretched hand. In another few generations this ability would be spread far enough in the vulture memepool to be commonplace, reducing the reward from startled humans, but for now it worked just fine.
It had been a decent day, with several kilograms of high quality anthracite left over to add to the vulture's cache. As evening approached, it decided to spend some of this surplus by revisiting an abandoned engine it had noticed earlier in the day. It was partially hidden under an old shack, and had not yet been stripped of useful parts by urban scavengers. The bird spent a very costly hour drilling out rivets using its rotary beak, working to remove a brass control lever. It had just enough time afterwards to roughly turn the hard-won handle down into the blank for a dihedral adjustment cam. This left the part sufficiently lightened to be carried aloft. Work on it could continue some other day back at the roost, using free solar energy instead of precious fuel. The cam would eventually become part of the new fledging built by the bird in the fall, constructed as finely as possible to help attract a mate. The very last components to be made would be a pair of Jacquard disks, the two mating vultures taking turns drilling out the instruction phrases, before they were installed in the heads of their offspring.
The scavenging routines spun to a new sector during its last slow glide, this time looking for appropriate kindling in the growing gloom. Grabbing the old nest of a much smaller, biological avian, it built up a full head of steam one last time for the climb back to its aerie. There it quickly emptied the clinker and ash from its cooling firebox. This was replaced with the fuel and tinder for the next day's awakening. Using the last breath of steam from its boiler, it carefully positioned laid down with its ignition lens pointing to the east, in line with the larger preheat lens. Content, the bird's programming disk spun down and it was still. Tomorrow would bring another mad fight for fuel and scrap. Life, as always, would go on.
no subject
Over the course of Arisia, all this has finally come together into a story treatment for what might be described (depending on at what point and with what characters we pick up the story) as a mashup of "Oliver Twist" and "Wargames". I'll post about this more extensively in my own journal, but I'd also really like to discuss it with you in some depth, because (a) it's your fault, (b) I think you'll be really intrigued by it, and (c) I could use some help...
I'll spill everything soon, but here's a hint: Rather than dying of cancer at a young age, Ada Lovelace grows up to be the Alan Turing of the Franco-Prussian War...
no subject
no subject
no subject