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 Lynch’s Legacy
(Spineward Sectors: Middleton’s Pride, Book Six)

by

Caleb Wachter
 Copyright © 2016 by Caleb Wachter
All rights reserved.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious. All resemblance to
persons living or dead is coincidental. Respect my electronic rights because
the money you save today will be the book I can't afford to write for you
tomorrow.
 Other Books by Caleb Wachter

As of 08-06-2016
SPINEWARD SECTORS: MIDDLETON’S PRIDE
No Middle Ground
Up The Middle
Against The Middle
McKnight’s Mission (A House Divided)
Middleton’s Prejudice
Lynch’s Legacy

SPHEREWORLD NOVEL SERIES

Joined at the Hilt: Union

SPHEREWORLD NOVELLAS
Between White and Grey

SPINEWARD SECTORS: A TRACTO TALE

The Forge of Men

SEEDS OF HUMANITY: THE COBALT HERESY SERIES

Revelation
Reunion

IMPERIUM CICERNUS SERIES

Ure Infectus
Sic Semper Tyrannis
 Books by my Brother: Luke Sky Wachter
SPINEWARD SECTORS NOVEL SERIES
Admiral Who?
Admiral’s Gambit
Admiral’s Tribulation
Admiral’s Trial
Admiral’s Revenge
Admiral’s Spine
Admiral Invincible
Admiral's Challenge
Admiral’s War - Part One
Admiral’s War - Part Two

RISE OF THE WITCH GUARD NOVEL SERIES

The Blooding
The Painting
The Channeling

RISE OF THE WITCH GUARD NOVELLAS

The Boar Knife

Join www.PacificCrestPublishing.com for future beta reading and other

early access opportunities—or possibly even exclusive material!
Table of Contents

Prologue: A Matter of Priority

Chapter I: I Ain’t Your Lord
Chapter II: Captain on Deck!
Chapter III: Down in Blue Fang Country
Chapter IV: Gazing into the Abyss
Chapter V: A Brief Detour
Chapter VI: Into the Storm
Chapter VII: Some Technical Explanations
Chapter VIII: To Hear is Human, but to See…
Chapter IX: Wally’s World
Chapter X: The Long Nap
Chapter XI: Reporting In
Chapter XII: The Expanse
Chapter XIII: Project Doppelganger
Chapter XIV: A Clearer Picture
Chapter XV: Lurking in Shadows
Chapter XVI: I Made a Mistake
Chapter XVII: A Sign
Chapter XVIII: A Cryptic Warning
Chapter XIX: Pushing the Timetable
Chapter XX: A Premonition
Chapter XXI: The Big Bang(s)
Chapter XXII: Triage
Chapter XXIII: No Time to Mourn
Chapter XXIV: A Warning
Chapter XXV: Taking a Breath
Chapter XXVI: A Message From Beyond
Chapter XXVII: An Unexpected Boon
Chapter XXVIII: Final Preparations
Chapter XXIX: The Blockade
Chapter XXX: Out on The Hull
Chapter XXXI: The Welcoming Party
Chapter XXXII: Earning Your Hazard Pay
Chapter XXXIII: The Unseen Knife
Chapter XXXIV: The Conduit
Chapter XXXV: Limping across the Finish Line
Chapter XXXVI: The Next Step
Chapter XXXVII: Learning to Mourn
Chapter XXXVIII: A Fork in the Road
Chapter XXXIX: One Warrior to Another
Chapter XL: The Imperial Capitol
Chapter XLI: Angels or Demons?
Chapter XLII: The Verdict
Chapter XLIII: Back at Base
Chapter XLIV: A Game of Dominoes
Chapter XLV: The Plot Thickens
Epilogue: A Cryptic Word of Advice

Preview: Fear God and Dread Naught, by Christopher G. Nuttall

 Prologue: A Matter of Priority

Commander Lucius Minervini looked out the viewing portal on the

seemingly serene, sunless world below. His hands were clasped rigidly
behind his back as he stood there, appearing for all intents and purposes to
be a statue on the bridge of the latest-generation Special Operations Cutter,
the Constans Vigilantia, of which it was both Minervini’s sworn duty and
privilege to serve as inaugural commander.
His eyes required the benefit of the viewing portal’s light enhancing
features just to see the rocky world over which his ship had taken up
residence for the past two days. He imagined the molten magma which his
computer analysis confirmed had surged through the planet’s sundered crust
just a few short days earlier. The planet’s crust had been fractured by a
standard set of subterranean charges not unlike those which Minervini
himself had deployed on more than a few occasions as last-ditch control
measures for securing sensitive locations from the enemies of humanity.
But the magma was no longer flowing, and even if it had been it would
not have been visible even with the assistance of the viewing portal before
which he now stood. The molten rock, much like the trail of those who
perpetrated the attack against the so-called Beta Site, had cooled far too
much for any further clues to be gleaned from such a remove. Though, like
the magma had done two days earlier, Minervini’s temper seethed through
the micro-fractures in his previously polished veneer.
It cannot end like this, he thought darkly. It must not end like this!
He had reviewed the after-action reports for the disastrous event which
had taken place merely a week earlier, and had brought his sleek vessel into
orbit before any other Imperial forces had arrived. He had known that
Senator Raubach aimed to lift his House far above any station it deserved to
occupy, but never in his wildest dreams had he believed the man would be
capable of such a monumental failure as actually losing a Core Fragment of
MAN.
“Commander,” reported one of the com-techs assigned to the Constans
Vigilantia and, by extension, to Commander Minervini’s embedded
operation within the so-called Reclamation Fleet commanded by Rear
Admiral Arnold Janeski.
 “What is it?” the Commander asked over his shoulder, his eyes remaining
fixed on the surface of the dark, barren world below.
“A soft-coded message sent in the open, Commander,” the tech replied
promptly as Minervini moved to stand over him and his station. “It fails to
satisfy security requirements for such a transmission, but…” he hesitated.
“But?” the Commander repeated icily, hoping for the sake of the young
man’s career—and his psychological safety—that he had not unduly
interrupted him from his ruminations. It was so difficult to train in com-
techs on this generation of equipment, and Minervini had little desire to
indulge in petty torments which his fellow officers would call ‘enforcing
discipline’ when there was serious work to be done.
“Project Archie was clearly referenced, Commander,” the tech finished,
steeling his voice. Without a word, the Commander leaned down and
accessed the file describing the message. The file contained all connected
data, including the route the message had taken, the ident of the operative
who had made it, the timestamps for the various p2p transfers required to
bring it to him and, naturally, the message itself—which was alarmingly
brief.
Project Archie was the codename for a program which had been
authorized over a century earlier—and, it should be noted, that program had
been the brainchild of House Raubach. The program had, ostensibly,
attempted to discover the location of one of the hallowed MAN Core
Fragments. ‘Archie’ had become synonymous among the Imperial
Intelligence community with this particular Core Fragment.
That Core Fragment, just like its counterparts, was unique in all of the
universe. It was the only hope for humanity to reinstate its one, true god. It
was, put simply, humanity’s only hope to survive. Without the Data God’s
eventual revival and reinstatement at the center of all human affairs, the
primitive human species would fall asunder to tribalism—and other, even
more repugnant social forces better left to the confines of a zoo than the
galactic community—within a few short centuries. As a member of that
species, Commander Minervini felt it was his duty—no, it was his life’s
purpose—to assist in the recovery and resurrection of their data god
however he was able.
In his mind, the window for the human race to return to what it should be
was fast closing, and House Raubach might have just slammed it shut
forever with their unforgivably negligent stupidity.
 But this lead was precisely what Minervini had ordered his team to scour
the local data nets for ever since learning of the disastrous loss of the Core
Fragment.
Without asking the tech, he confirmed the itinerary of the message
himself with a quick examination of the file’s contents. The transmission
had originally been picked up by a freighter which unwittingly served as a
data gathering unit: a small transceiver which had been surreptitiously
installed nine months earlier. The name of the freighter, its crew manifest,
cargo, and present location were only a tiny fraction of the information
available to Minervini as he perused the transmission.
After being picked up by the freighter, it was forwarded to the first
available Imperial vessel. But that been three days since the freighter had
first received the transmission, which meant that he was already four days
behind. Normally such a delay would have angered him to no end, but the
truth was that this was good news; before receiving this message he had
been well over a week behind his quarry, and with that interval nearly cut in
half he now had an idea where his quarry was headed.
“The Overton Expanse,” he mused, pulling up star charts and transposing
his present position—mostly out of habit—while doing the same for the
transmission of the message he had just processed.
There really was just one possible destination that made any kind of
sense, given the available data, and it had been his intention to go there
even before receiving this particular piece of evidence. He would have
already done so if Rear Admiral Arnold Janeski had not held such
longstanding ties to House Raubach. Ostensibly, House Raubach and House
Cornwallis had been at odds for several decades; according to rumor, the
last time those Houses had been fully united in purpose had been fifty years
earlier.
But Minervini hadn’t lived a century and a half, most of which had been
spent in some variation of his current capacity, by taking the bait on such
thin rumor and innuendo. More often than not, such rumblings were nothing
more than clever attempts by the Great Houses to mislead their rivals into
exposing their secrets to their supposed ‘allies.’ And Minervini’s loyalties
were most certainly not with either of those Houses.
No, there was the distinct possibility that Arnold Janeski himself had
been involved in this travesty. But even if that was the case, the task of
bringing him to justice for his complicity would have to fall to another
member of the Imperial Intelligence Agency—Minervini had just picked up
the scent, and like any tracker he was keen to commence with the hunt.
“Helm,” he turned to his command chair on the minimalistic bridge of his
Pulsar class Cutter, which was the epitome of Imperial technology as far as
he was concerned, “enable silent running protocols.”
“Silent running engaged, Commander,” his helmsman acknowledged just
before Minervini had taken his seat. The lights on the bridge dimmed and
several status icons flanking the main viewer were replaced as the ship’s
systems shifted over to their second-most stealthy settings.
His mouth quirked, slightly at first, before his leathery lips peeled back in
a feral grin, “Take us to the hyper limit…and plot a least-time course for the
Conduit.”
He could feel the thrill of anticipation course around the small bridge,
causing shoulders to straighten and visages to sharpen as the impact of his
order sank in. “Yes, Commander,” his helmsman acknowledged a tick later
than was preferable.
His sleek craft easily pulled away from the planet, invisible to all but
active sensors as it did so, but it only took six seconds for his com-tech to
report, “The Commodore is ordering that we maintain position in the
formation, Commander.”
“Let him eat static,” Minervini said coolly, steepling his fingers before
his eyes as the least-time jump itinerary appeared on the main viewer. An
icon began to flash on the left arm in his command chair, but he ignored it
as a series of contingency plans flitted through his mind in a blur.
A moment later his com-tech said, “The Commodore is demanding that
you receive his connection, sir.”
“Is it a p2p?” Minervini asked without breaking his focus, knowing full-
well that it was not.
“Negative, Commander,” the tech replied, the barest hint of amusement
in his voice.
The Commander briefly considered a reprimand, but he and his people
had been at the beck and call of these low-brow thugs for far too long. So in
a rare display of mercy—one punctuated by the ominous delay in his reply
—he allowed the tech to go unpunished this time. “A Special Operations
vessel operating under the auspices of the Imperial Intelligence Agency
does not respond to broadcasts or unsecured hails while carrying out a Zeta
Priority package. Ignore it.”
 “Yes, Commander,” the tech replied, his ears turning a pleasant shade of
red as he took the unspoken rebuke precisely as Minervini had hoped he
would.
He and his people had been compelled to comply with Janeski’s orders,
or those of his subordinates, only because until this very moment he had
lacked actionable evidence which would permit him to pursue a task more
worthy of he and his peoples’ talents.
Within minutes, the sleek craft had successfully cleared the rogue
planet’s hyper limit. The hum of the point transfer drives was short-lived as
they surrounded the ship with strange particles—particles which permitted
the ship to briefly ignore several supposed ‘laws’ of physics, including
those governing the movement of matter across the fabric of space-time.
With a barely-perceptible flash, the Constans Vigilantia transitioned from
the hyper limit of the so-called Beta Site to a point twenty light years closer
to the Conduit, which lay on the far side of the Overton Expanse.
It would be a dangerous journey, primarily because there was zero
trillium to be found in the Expanse. The Vigilantia’s crew would therefore
be required to ‘improvise’ in acquiring a sufficient supply of the precious
material prior to undertaking his ultra-secretive mission. Otherwise,
assuming their quarry had already laid in a large enough supply of the
material, the Vigilantia would not only find itself adrift in the least
hospitable portion of this galactic arm, but the thieves who had stolen the
Core Fragment might return to the Empire before they could be intercepted.
With luck on their side, the buffoons under Janeski would eventually
piece the data together and send a detachment of their own to pursue the
vessel. But, for reasons both official and political, Minervini was
determined to reach the precious Core Fragment first.
It was time that he and his crew did what they had trained to do, what
they yearned to do, and what the far-too-fragile race of humanity demanded
them to do—and nothing in the universe could hope to stop them from
pursuing their MAN-given purpose.
Not even death.
 Chapter I: I Ain’t Your Lord

“Take a load off, Nikomedes,” the enigmatic Lynch instructed, gesturing

to the chair opposite his own as he sat himself down on the far side of the
metal desk. “Looks like we’ve got some palaverin’ to do.”
Nikomedes deliberately moved to the indicated seat before slowly
lowering himself into it. His eyes scanned the room for any warning signs
just as he always did when entering a potentially dangerous area. After
seeing the Starborn prince do battle with Senator Raubach, Nikomedes
knew it would take very little in the way of advantage for the heavily-
augmented Lynch to overcome even the mightiest warrior Tracto had to
offer.
And it took no pride or vanity on his part to know that’s precisely what
Nikomedes was: the mightiest warrior from his planet, at least among the
current generation.
He had accomplished things that he suspected would impress even the
most legendary heroes of antiquity. From his slaying of the kraken as a
stripling of a man, to earning his place as Felix’ second a few short years
later, to surviving—and indeed thriving—among the Ice Raiders of Blue
Fang Pass, he had accomplished more before the age of twenty than most
warriors could claim to have done by fifty.
And all of that was before he had been tasked with a ‘holy quest’ by the
god of his people. That quest had taken him to the so-called River of Stars,
where he had slowly, quietly, and patiently laid the groundwork for what
would have been the greatest victory ever achieved by his countrymen.
“Why’d you lie about your name?” Lynch asked, snapping Nikomedes
back to the present.
“I did not lie—“ Nikomedes began, only to be cut off by the dark-skinned
Lynch.
“Is that really how you wanna play this?” the other man asked harshly.
“Because if it is, I ain’t gonna space you; I’ve got plenty of use for brainless
thugs if that’s all you are. But before we begin this little relationship of
ours, it’s important you understand something,” he said, leaning across the
desk and fixing Nikomedes with the weighty gaze of a man who rarely
knew defeat. “Even if you think I’m as stupid as you are, you’d do well to
keep it to yourself. I haven’t survived this long by wasting my time with
thick-thewed morons who try to play word games. When that’s what’s
playin’, I change the channel—and I usually do it with prejudice. Feel me?”
Nikomedes’ eyes narrowed. Lynch had correctly deduced the nature of
his protest, and that pleased the Tracto-an. No man who could be so easily
manipulated was worth serving. This Lynch was clearly a capable warlord
in his own right, but Nikomedes still had much to learn about him.
“My apologies, Lord,” Nikomedes bowed his head fractionally, eliciting
a derisive snort from the other man.
“I ain’t your ‘Lord,’ son,” Lynch quipped. “Truth be told, I ain’t never
been one to hold peoples’ leashes. It’s too tiresome tryin’ to make people do
what they don’t really wanna do,” he made a dismissive gesture before
producing a data slate and sliding it across the desk. “I’ve always found
allies to be more useful than servants. Of course, that means I only deal
with a cut above what most would consider the ‘rank and file.’ Are you?”
Nikomedes briefly looked at the data slate, knowing this was also a test.
In the court at Argos, and even on the Omicron station in the River of Stars,
he had met with fork-tongued diplomats and negotiators who had insisted
on playing word games they had smugly thought would be lost on him. This
particular one was familiar to him: Lynch was gauging his mindset by
asking an open question. He could either respond to the query ‘are you rank
and file?’ or he could respond to the query, ‘are you a cut above the rank
and file?’
But, like any opening he saw in a contest, Nikomedes took it without
hesitation.
“What I think of myself is unimportant,” he said steadily as he folded his
long, powerful arms across his massive chest. “You are testing me, so what
you think is all that matters.”
Lynch snickered, “Well played. Guess you ain’t a moron after all…but
take a look around you, son. Tell me what you see.”
Nikomedes did not care for the familiarity of the other man’s tone or
verbiage, but he grudgingly looked around the compartment. The bulkheads
of the ship were all comprised of simple steel which was nearly identical to
what he had grown up around—at least, it was similar to the finer quality
arms and armor used by the most successful warriors. Rust streaks ran
vertically down nearly all of the beams and panels, which suggested the
vessel was old and cheaply built by Starborn standards.
 “I see old age…I see simplicity,” Nikomedes said before refocusing on
the other man, “and I see poor maintenance.”
“Simplicity is hardly ever a bad thing,” Lynch leaned back in his chair
and drummed his fingers on the desk while letting his own gaze wander
across the compartment’s bulkheads, “and when something’s as old as this
ship and, it’s true, has been neglected as badly as this ship has been then it
means it was built right in the first place—just like a winning battle plan.
Simplicity and old age are partners, Nikomedes; it’s youth that insists on
messy trysts with complication.”
Nikomedes was uncertain what Lynch meant by that, but the other man
tilted his chin toward the data slate. Nikomedes saw that it was already
activated, so he lifted it a few inches until he was able to read its contents. It
was a data file—and it was about him. It was far from comprehensive, but
the highlights of his life were nearly all there: the Trial of the Deep where
he had slain the Kraken; his time with Felix; his life at Blue Fang Pass
under the one-eyed warlord Kratos; even much of his life on the Omicron
was described in short-hand format on the data slate.
“Tell me how much of that’s off-base,” Lynch said, and when Nikomedes
looked up he had a newfound respect for the enigmatic figure sitting across
from him. “I’ll take your silence to mean it all hit the mark,” Lynch said
with a nod as Nikomedes read the last entry in the file, which described his
second defeat at the hands of Jason Montagne. “I’m gonna put my cards on
the table, Nikomedes,” the other man said as Nikomedes felt his blood
begin to boil at the thought of having twice failed to defeat Montagne, “I
need someone I can trust, and that file paints a picture of a man who’s got
more in common with me than anyone else I’ve met in this ‘verse. I think
you and me can be allies.”
Nikomedes had never responded well to flattery. It had always been
followed by an attempted knife in the back, so he gave Lynch a dark look—
which only seemed to embolden the other man as a broad grin spread across
his lips.
“See, I know what it’s like to lose a name you was born with,” Lynch
explained as he pointed at the door through which they had entered a few
minutes earlier. “And I know what it’s like to suffer total defeat after puttin’
in years of effort and planning. Like you, I don’t intend to let the past repeat
itself—and, like you, I’ve adjusted my sights after realizing I’d been aimin’
at the wrong target all along.”
 That last bit grabbed Nikomedes’ attention, but he kept his expression
neutral, “What do you mean?”
“I read your poem,” Lynch said, gesturing to the data slate where
Nikomedes saw a second file was minimized in the corner of the screen, “it
was good stuff. A bit amateurish formulaically and the verbiage wasn’t
exactly inspired, but the thrust of it spoke to me.” A quick scan confirmed
that Lynch had, indeed, read the poem which Nikomedes had penned just
before leaving Tracto forever following his second—and final—defeat at
Jason Montagne’s hands. “You realized, Nikomedes, that you’d been
hoodwinked by ideas like honor, duty and tradition. Even if it came too late
to save you from defeat, you saw the system for what it really was. That’s
why you’re here,” Lynch jabbed his finger down onto the desk, “and it’s
why you asked if I was gonna kill a Data God. You found your new target—
and it happens to be the same one I found back before your granddad was a
glimmer in his pappy’s eye.”
Nikomedes’s eyes narrowed in contemplation, “You assume much.”
“Son,” Lynch chuckled, “I’d never make an ass of myself—at least not in
public.”
“I am not your son,” Nikomedes said flatly.
“Maybe not,” Lynch shrugged, “but I’ve got a feelin’ you’re gonna take
me up on my offer.”
Nikomedes’ eyebrow arched, but in spite of his feigned curiosity he had
known since stepping into the room that Lynch had intended to make some
sort of proposal. “I must hear your offer before I choose to accept it.”
“This ain’t one of those offers,” Lynch said, his visage suddenly turning
stony as he reached down and tapped out a series of commands into the
sleek-looking link affixed to his forearm. Nikomedes’ acute hearing
detected a subtle, nearly inaudible thrum fill the room when Lynch
completed tapping out commands into the device. Such a thrum generally
accompanied a powerful suppression field—a field which would render any
recording devices useless. “This is the type of offer where you got zero
choice in the matter, so let’s not sugar coat it any more than we have to.
We’re both men and we both know what it’s like to be betrayed by
everything we once fought, bled, and even died for. My offer to you,” he
said, leaning forward and lowering his voice fractionally, “is to clue you in
so we can work together and avoid that particular outcome repeating itself.”
 More than the severity of his words, something in the other man’s voice
caused hairs to rise on the back of Nikomedes’ neck. He remained rigidly
upright in his chair for several seconds before finally leaning across the
table and matching the other man’s tone as he asked one of the simplest
questions imaginable, “Who?”
Lynch’s eyes flashed with approval, “If I knew that, I wouldn’t need you.
But don’t worry,” he added confidently, “it ain’t nothin’ I’m unprepared for.
Now here’s what I need you to do…”
 Chapter II: Captain on Deck!

“Captain on deck!” Tiberius Spalding, the ship’s Executive Officer

declared, snapping to attention as his Commanding Officer stepped through
the door which led onto the archaic vessel’s bridge.
Lieutenant Commander McKnight’s hard, blue eyes scanned the various
stations on the massive bridge in turn. Apparently satisfied that all was as it
should be—even though no more than a tenth of the stations were manned
—she made brief eye contact with Tiberius and nodded, “Thank you, XO.
Report?”
“The ship’s jump drive is in a cool-down cycle, ma’am,” Tiberius replied
promptly, having just pulled a sixteen hour shift on the bridge after
spending another eight hours in Engineering. Between the two of them, they
had continuously manned the bridge of the improbably ancient vessel for
eight days while pulling double duties in support of their still-forming
departments. “Estimated time to the next jump is three hours.”
“I thought the antimatter-driven star drive on this ship allowed for faster
jumps than that?” McKnight said, finally broaching the issue after just over
a week of letting Tiberius do his best to get a feel for the ship’s laughably
outdated systems—laughably outdated, that is, except for its prodigious star
drive.
“It allows for a few jumps in rapid succession,” he explained, shaking his
head irritably after having failed to fully nail down all of the operating
variables of the dangerous FTL system, “but the hull of this ship is crude
steel, ma’am. It’s about as permeable as wet tissue to the subatomic
particles we collect during transit; it takes the drive’s hull polarization
system a bit of time to get rid of the particles. We’ve already missed a few
jumps by several light hours, ma’am,” he said seriously, “and, best I can
tell, it’s because we were dragging too many of those things around with
us.”
McKnight nodded, “What is Engineering’s recommendation?”
Tiberius kept his expression neutral as he fought against the urge to grit
his teeth. Penelope was a great power tech, and a fine engineer in her own
right, but putting her in charge of a skeleton Engineering crew as her first
department-level command, after transferring to a ship that their eight-
times-great grandparents would have laughed at as a derelict of a bygone
era, was more than any reasonable person could be asked to deal with.
He took his CO’s meaning plainly enough: your duty is to the bridge,
Lieutenant Spalding; this ship needs its XO rested more than it needs a little
pressure relief for her Engineering department.
“The Chief Engineer recommends a minimum cool-down of four hours
between jumps after we’ve cleared the particles from the hull,” he replied
professionally, having worked up the numbers with Pen during his last shift
in Engineering, “but we should make that interval six hours until we get the
particles down to a level the engines are designed to compensate for. By our
calculations,” he winced as he realized his verbal slip, which only served to
harden his CO’s expression, “we’ll get three or four jumps in rapid
succession before the particle build-up becomes dangerous to further jumps.
The Chief and I think we should keep the hull as clean as possible to enable
quick jumps if we happen to stumble into something we can’t handle,
ma’am.”
McKnight nodded slowly, “So your best estimate is that the hull will be
back to optimal levels in another eighteen hours?”
“That’s our best bet, ma’am,” Tiberius grimaced, knowing there was no
way to pin it down until he had a better handle on the system. “But it could
be as many as thirty, depending on the particles we pick up in the next few
jumps. We still don’t have a firm handle on predicting the build-up.”
“Good work, XO,” McKnight nodded, her short-cut blond hair hugging
her scalp so tightly it failed to move the way her old ponytail had when
Tiberius had first met her. Of course, they hadn’t exactly met under optimal
circumstances, but McKnight had thankfully looked past the fact that he
and his people had been in the process of being clapped in irons on the
charge of mutiny at the time. “You’re relieved,” she said, reaching out for
the largely symbolic data slate which they had used in lieu of command
keys, “get some food and find your bunk for at least four hours of shut-eye
—consider that an order,” she added in a steely tone even before his lips
had parted to protest.
He forced himself to relax, knowing that Pen was almost certainly falling
further and further behind down in Engineering. “Thank you, ma’am,” he
said professionally, snapping off a salute which his CO returned, before
doing as he had been ordered.
 He exited the bridge, passing through the laughably flimsy door—which
relied on the rotational forces of the ship’s spinning habitat module in order
to close—and wincing as he heard what had to be a leak in the pneumatic
cylinder which temporarily pushed the door aside.
Pneumatics on a star ship, he scoffed in muted disbelief, it’s amazing the
idiots who built this rusty deathtrap didn’t kill themselves laying the keel up.
His lips twisted into a smirk when an unexpected thought flitted through his
mind as he made his way down the rust-streaked corridor en route to the
galley. In his best impersonation of the old man, he railed, “She’s not old,
ye idjit, she’s got character—somethin’ you appear to have as little of as ye
have sense rattlin’ around in that malignant waste of flesh and bone atop yer
neck!”
Looking around at the rusty walls and fatigued cross-members which
bore the brunt of the rotational forces exerted by the spinning hab module,
he shook his head piteously.
“No, ‘Captain Moonlight’,” he said scathingly, lowering his voice after
hearing the sound of approaching footfalls from what must have been
bridge crew reporting for the next shift, “some things really are just old.”
 Chapter III: Down in Blue Fang Country

“Next,” Lu Bu called crisply, dabbing the sheen of sweat on her forehead

with a rag before discarding the sopping wet cloth well outside the three
meter circle. The Tracto-an who had just submitted his application to the
ship’s Lancer force cast her a baleful look as he struggled to maintain a
somewhat proud posture while exiting the irregular circle she had drawn on
the deck an hour earlier.
But after suffering fifteen of her particularly brutal leg kicks, it was all he
could do to remain upright as he made way for the next applicant. She
snorted, clearing her nose of a half-congealed gobbet of blood—which the
previous entrant had given her courtesy of a surprisingly quick jab—as the
next applicant approached.
“Name?” she asked as he wisely stripped out of his one-piece, skin-tight
jumpsuit. She had successfully subdued three of his fellows in the previous
hour by taking advantage of the increased friction the uniforms provided—
two of them had submitted to her leg locks rather than suffer catastrophic
ligament damage, and the other had woken up in a stupor several minutes
after she had choked him unconscious with a deep head-and-arm choke.
“Glaucus,” he replied after doffing his garment and tossing it outside the
circle. Like the rest of the entrants—all but two of whom had been male—
his musculature was knotted and, if she was being honest, as near perfection
as she had seen. The length of his limbs, the breadth of his shoulders and
hips, and the thickness of his torso were in what had to be considered the
perfect proportions.
That wasn’t to say that they were all identical, but there was something
so…perfect about all of them, even those whose limbs were shorter than
average or those whose torsos were less robust. Somehow, each of them
appeared to have put on the perfect amount of muscle—and they had put it
on in all of the correct places, unlike many foolish so-called ‘body-builders’
who focused on largely useless muscle groups simply because they looked
impressive—for their frames.
“What is the purpose of your challenge?” she asked almost
disinterestedly, having asked the same question of the other twenty
applicants which had preceded him. Each of the others had offered some
version of ‘I want to take your job,’ which was precisely what she had
expected since that had been the challenge she’d issued on the first day of
tryouts. Before she inducted any of them into the Lancer corps, she had to
establish that she was that unit’s leader and that there was nothing any of
them could do to change that.
She had learned faster than most that the only way a Tracto-an would
respect you was if you put him on his knees—involuntarily, and preferably
several times over. In a way, she almost felt a kinship with these people.
That kinship was based on nothing more than their mutual desire to find
their place in the universe by defeating every challenge in front of them
until they could no longer emerge victorious.
But Glaucus’ answer surprised her, though by now she supposed it should
not have.
“I seek to prove myself worthy to become your consort,” he said, flashing
a smile with a mouth full of teeth that were perfectly symmetrical and as
dazzling as a row of mechanically polished pearls.
She sighed irritably, having received similar overtures no fewer than a
dozen times since boarding Lynch’s massive, ancient ship. But there was
something about this one which annoyed her more than most of the others
had done, and after a moment’s consideration she realized what it was: his
picture-perfect teeth.
The corner of her mouth quirked up into a smirk, noting that at least he
had the decency not to have completely disrobed prior to entering the circle
—still, the form-fitting briefs he wore left little to the imagination. “You
have seen what happened to the others who said the same,” she snickered,
recalling a particularly gratifying uppercut which had lifted her erstwhile
suitor completely off the deck—even if just an inch or two—a few days
earlier. “Are you certain that is what you seek?”
He flexed his pectoral muscles, and this gesture only served to sharpen
Lu Bu’s focus as she determined to teach this particular specimen a lesson
he would never forget. “With all my heart,” he assured her.
“Very well,” she nodded, “the terms are the same: remove me from the
circle however you are able, render me unconscious, or make me surrender.
There is no time limit,” she said, rolling her neck around and feeling the
familiar sensation of pops ripple up and down her cervical spine, “but fail
and you must walk the corridors of this ship naked for one week, and you
must serve double shifts with the engineers as they patch holes in this ship
—also naked unless working in vacuum.” She crouched slightly, her 5’10”
frame lowering just a few inches as her would-be consort did likewise. She
made a beckoning gesture with her lead, right hand, “Begin.”
He squared with her and circled left, prompting her to mirror his
movements. He was lighter on his feet than most of his fellows had been,
but his first lunge proved that he relied entirely too much on physical gifts
and not enough on finesse.
His hands clasped the air where her torso had been an instant earlier, but
she had crouched and rocked back on her left leg. His eyes tracked her the
whole way, and in an instant she reacted faster than her conscious mind
could process. She faked a leg kick, which he wisely moved to check, but
she managed to switch her weight over her hips quickly enough to launch
her right shin into the side of his head.
The blow landed flush, but she knew from experience that precious few
Tracto-ans went down from just one blow no matter how squarely it had
landed. This one was no different, and though his eyes rolled off-target
momentarily he launched his own counter kick almost quickly enough to
take her in the eyes.
But he was clearly unused to fighting a foe that was a full head shorter
than him, and she ducked the few inches necessary to avoid his counter
entirely. His groin was briefly exposed to a swift kick, but much as it pained
her to do so she refrained from taking advantage of the obvious opening.
She had other plans for this one.
Instead she ducked under his far side and barely brushed against his body
before coming to a stop on the opposite side of the circle from where she
had started.
Looking mildly annoyed, but crouching a few inches deeper than he had
at the match’s outset, Glaucus lowered his hands slightly and circled the
other way.
Almost low enough, she thought as she again mirrored his movements.
This time he launched his own set of long, sweeping leg kicks. They were
easy enough to dodge, but the circle was so small that doing so would have
brought her very nearly out of the circle. It was a clever enough ploy, but it
was also one which she had anticipated.
She took two steps back, appearing to commit to a third backpedaling
step as he launched another long, sweeping kick toward her shins. But
before taking that third step, she kicked her foot back and executed a flying
punch aimed directly at his kicking leg.
Clearly surprised by her move, Glaucus had little choice but to plant his
leg and accept her mighty, downward punch to the thigh. The wet ‘thwack’
her fist made elicited a chorus of sharp breaths to be drawn by the crowd,
and sure enough after she had used her momentum to roll to safety—once
again finding herself temporarily behind her foe—she saw his leg briefly
fail to obey its owner’s commands as he almost lost balance during his turn
to face her.
This time, his posture straightened and he literally shook his leg out. The
look of annoyance on his face was long gone, and in its place was
something more befitting a would-be Lancer. Unlike most of his cohorts he
did not snarl, growl, or otherwise attempt to intimidate her. Neither was
there even a trace of fear present in his visage.
No, the only emotion she could read from him—if it could be called an
emotion—was single-minded focus. And that was what she had endured the
past week of these tiresome ‘challenges’ and, she supposed, ‘courtships’ to
find.
“There you are,” she grunted, echoing the words of her long-departed
mentor, Walter Joneson when he had reviewed her own ‘application’ to
become a Lancer, “nice of you to show up.”
A quizzical look flashed across his face, and she decided now was the
time to do what she had been planning since before the bout’s
commencement. She launched her body forward like a missile, extending
her knee as though she meant to take him in the chin with one of her
signature moves. He was wise to the possibility of such an attack, however,
and he blocked her knee precisely as she had expected him to block: with
criss-crossed arms.
She threw her right arm down against her side, pivoting her weight that
way as hard as she could. She extended her leg and barely cleared her left
shin above Glaucus’ right arm as she used her genetically-engineered speed
and reflexes to perform what she had come to think of as a ‘flying question
mark kick.’
Her foot smacked into the side of his head, just behind the ear, with a
gratifying crack. But his reflexes were very nearly as good as her own and
he somehow managed to trap her leg after flailing up with his arm while his
body—briefly robbed of its equilibrium by her perfectly-placed kick—
sagged toward the ground.
Acting purely on instinct, she used his grip as leverage and swung her
right shin over his head in a flying roundhouse kick. Her shin buried itself
against his wrist, and strong though he was—even for a Tracto-an—the
power of her strike, combined with his lack of equilibrium, was enough to
break her left leg free of his grip hooked grip.
He regained his balance just as she got her feet under her, and as he
gathered his feet beneath himself she saw her window closing. Lunging
forward, she leapt high in the air and grasped for the back of his neck with
both hands. He realized her intention too late, however, as she put her vice-
like grip on the rippling muscles of his neck. He stiffened his back, leaning
back as hard as he could, and to her surprise he actually lifted her several
inches.
But her surprise was short-lived. She curled her arms in toward her ribs
and began driving her knees, one after another, into his liver and spleen
without losing her iron grip on his neck.
He struggled—valiantly, she would later admit—to shake her off, but her
relatively light, one hundred kilo frame actually served to advantage her in
this particular exchange. No matter where he turned, or which way he
pivoted, she used his own momentum against him to further tighten her grip
on his neck while burying her knees repeatedly into his torso. None of her
blows were fight-enders, but all it took was a single well-placed shot to the
liver to put even the most valiant warrior down for a few seconds.
Eventually, she found the sweet spot just beneath his ribs, and landed a
blow to his ribs that saw his body briefly go limp—which was all it took to
being her toes to the floor for the briefest of moments.
That was all it took for her to use her unparalleled power-to-weight ratio
to launch her left knee into his perfect, pearly white teeth…well, into his
previously perfect, pearly white teeth.
He staggered from the blow, allowing her to touch her feet to the deck
again, and this time it was her right knee that rearranged the focal point of
the man’s vanity. By now he was well-and-truly defeated, but she saw
potential in him which had been absent in the other ‘applicants’ of the day.
So when he fell to one knee, clearly addled from her repeated blows to
the head, she held him upright and slammed another half dozen blows into
his face. The first two were off-target as he vainly struggled to avoid square
shots, but after those two it was unlikely he retained any of his senses.
Her work done, she stepped back and saw a trio of teeth—or the better
portions of them—fall out of his mouth and clatter to the deck. He then
swayed to the side and crashed to the deck, snoring as loudly as any of her
babies had done since arriving aboard this new ship, which apparently
suited them better than their previous lodgings had done.
She doubted more than a few of his front teeth remained plugged into
their original sockets, and she knew she would get an earful from her
mother after the man reported to Medical to secure her services to repair or
replace the lost members. But it had been the right thing to do for him; he
had been only the third recruit to step into the circle thus far that had what it
took to join a unit which had essentially been created for her by Walter
Joneson himself prior to his death.
Not just anyone could be allowed in, but Glaucus had proven himself
worthy of at least a second look. And she fully intended to give him that
look—after he got his face fixed, of course.
“Next?” she asked, standing and wiping her brow with a fresh rag which
she pulled from her hip pocket. She swept the assemblage, which had
thinned out significantly since the start of the affair an hour earlier. In truth,
it had been the most challenging day of the tryouts thus far. She was
grateful for the exercise, but a glance at a nearby chronometer told her that
it was time to wrap things up.
When no one stepped forward to accept her invitation, she scowled and
made eye contact with a nearby Tracto-an.
“Take him to Medical,” she said, gesturing to the still-snoring Glaucus
before turning on her heel and leaving the circle for the day, “and bring all
of his teeth.”
 Chapter IV: Gazing into the Abyss

Raphael Tremblay looked up at the perfect sphere floating in the air

before him and could not help but shiver. He had come down at least once
every shift to check on the eerie thing, but no matter how many times he
looked at it he never got used to the experience.
This…abomination was very nearly responsibly for wiping out all of
humanity, he thought, not daring to speak the words aloud. He had served in
the military for over a decade, counting his time in the academy, and he had
learned to cope with the harsh realities of warfare.
Powerful weapons, commonly referred to as ‘weapons of mass
destruction,’ were generally what most citizens would reply when asked
about what they feared most. The notion that an individual or group could
get a hold of devices or technology capable of wiping out millions—or even
billions—of sentient life forms in the blink of an eye were understandably
terrifying, and Tremblay shared his fellow citizens’ fear of such monstrous
devices.
But they were as nothing compared to the dangers posed by what floated
ominously before him at that very moment. The AI Wars, as the darkest
period in human history had come to be known, had very nearly seen
humanity’s light extinguished from the cosmos forever. It was a sobering
thought that tens of thousands of years of human development very nearly
disappeared in the cosmic blink of an eye.
“Pretty thing, ain’t it?” he heard a now-familiar voice say with only
slightly more reservation than was usual for its owner to display.
Tremblay’s mind refocused on the moment as he shook his head, “I don’t
think I could disagree more.”
“Aw, c’mon,” Lynch scoffed, his footsteps echoing through the
quarantined and heavily-secured cargo bay as he approached, “a man like
you has to admire something as potent and, frankly, as perfect as Archie.
What’s more, the fact that the very thing protecting it from bein’ destroyed
—that damned shell he’s hidin’ behind—keeps it from interacting with the
rest of reality has to give you some measure of appreciation for the ‘verse’s
sense of irony.”
 Tremblay had indeed considered that particular angle at some length, and
was forced to at least partially concede the point. But he wouldn’t give the
Imperial noble the satisfaction of hearing him do so, instead opting to scan
the mirror-perfect surface of the globe for something…anything that might
suggest something had changed.
But the only sights which greeted his eyes in its bronze-tinted surface
were the reflections of the cargo bay and its two inhabitants.
“And to think,” Lynch lowered his voice a tick as he stood beside
Tremblay, his hands clasped behind his back, “there was a time these things
were considered our future.” He snorted, “If humans before the Wars were
anything like the modern crop, they probably considered the AI to be the
next step in our evolution or some other such nonsense.”
“There are plenty of people who still think that way,” Tremblay riposted
grimly.
“Yeah,” Lynch sighed, “but they’re past reachin’.”
That piqued Tremblay’s interest, and for the first time since entering the
cargo bay he peeled his eyes away from the core fragment’s reflective
surface. “What do you mean by that?” he pressed. “I was under the
impression that your plan was to wage a war of ideas. Are you already
conceding defeat before the proverbial first shot has even been fired?”
Lynch snorted, but unlike Tremblay he kept his eyes fixed on Archie’s
shell. “Come at me better than that if you wanna take a swing, son,” he
rebuked in a casual tone. “You can’t reach everyone, no matter how true
your message is or how good you are at communicating it. Some people are
gonna be dug in too deep to be moved; they’d rather drown in the mud than
accept a hand up and out of it.” He shrugged indifferently, “Can’t nothin’ be
done for them. I’m only interested in helpin’ those who wanna help
themselves.”
Tremblay wanted to argue, but as usual Lynch had deftly cut him off. It
was irritating, but oddly rewarding, to be working with someone like
Lynch. After a few seconds’ lull in the conversation, Tremblay turned once
again to face the Core Fragment which Lynch frequently, and inexplicably,
referred to as ‘Archie.’
“When you’re tryin’ to win the hearts and minds,” Lynch spoke into the
almost unnatural silence, “you’ve got to understand that there will always
be extremists who you can’t move off their spot. You’re usually best served
by going straight at them instead of talkin’ directly to the masses.”
Another random document with
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 The processes in so far as lead enters can best be divided into—
(1) Glaze; (2) decorative.
1. Glaze Processes.—The charge of glaze is made by weighing
out and mixing carbonate of lead with the necessary silicates and
silico-borates in the lead house or mixing-room, where wet grinding
prepares the mixture for the dipping-tub. “Putters-up” hand the ware
to the dipper, from whom “takers-off” place it on boards for removal
to the drying still, or place it (in large works) directly on to the shelf of
an appliance known as a “mangle,” in which an endless chain carries
the ware through a heated chamber. Subsequently superfluous glaze
has to be removed from the base, rims, and not infrequently also
other parts of the articles. This ware cleaning is performed with a wet
sponge or flannel, either while the ware is still moist or by scraping,
the particles removed dropping into a vessel of water; or, if the glaze
is dry, over a grating provided with exhaust draught. The ware is next
removed by the glost-placer on boards, and each piece is separately
placed by him in the sagger (fireclay receptacle) and carried into an
oven to be fired.
2. Decorative Processes.—Majolica painting is the application of a
coloured glaze rich in lead by means of a brush. Ground-laying
consists in dusting powdered enamel colour on to a pattern first
printed on glazed ware with an oily medium. Colour dusting differs
from the same only in detail.
Aerographing (colour blowing) is the blowing on to the ware, by
means of a jet of compressed air, coloured glaze, or enamel colour
held in suspension in oil or other liquid in a glaze kettle or aerograph
instrument.
Dangers.—Apart from risk inseparable from, and increased by,
defective lighting, uneven floors of wood or brick, collection of dust
on benches and floors, and the risk entailed in the sweeping of these
even when watering is practised, and lack of care and attention to
detail on the part of the worker, the following special dangers are
incidental to the various processes: In dipping the glaze (except in
tiles, where the surface only is allowed to touch the liquid), splashes
on to the face and overalls of the dipper, “hander-up,” and “taker-off”
(dipper’s assistants), and “threader-up” (in the case of china
furniture), especially when, as with plates, there is much shaking of
the ware. These splashes dry, and the overalls may become so
coated with glaze that every movement, such as carrying boards or
leaning against the mangle, crumbles it off as dust into the air. As the
dipper shakes the ware, some of the drops are disseminated into the
atmosphere as a fine spray. In ware cleaning the work may have to
be done so rapidly that it is difficult always to observe proper care,
and the worker is tempted to withdraw the article from the range of
the exhaust. Sometimes a ware cleaner is seen blowing away with
her mouth dust lying on the ware.
Dipping-boards, unless freed from adherent glaze by washing after
use, create dust whenever ware is placed on, or removed from,
them, when they are handled and placed on or taken off the stillage
bars, and when they are stacked. Persons gathering at the mangle
are exposed to dust if there is any outward current of air from it. The
glost-placer raises a slight amount of dust as he takes the ware from
the board and places it in the sagger. The dangerous practice
formerly almost universal of rubbing the bottoms and rims of cups,
etc., either together (without use of an exhaust) or rubbing them on a
piece of leather fixed round the chest, is generally replaced by
removal of the glaze on a moist piece of flannel, but it is still possible
to find men doing it in outlying potteries. In majolica dipping and
painting (apart from the obvious risk of splashing and contamination
of the hands), danger arises mostly from scraping the edges and
under surfaces of the tiles on to which glaze, when applying the
background, has overflowed. The amount of glaze so removed is
considerable, and if it is not all caught in the trough of water, the floor
becomes an added source of danger.
In all the decorative processes—ground-laying, aerographing,
colour-dusting, and grinding of colours for aerographing, etc., the
danger is one solely arising from dust.
Prevention.—Meticulous attention to detail, not only in the
provision, but also in the maintenance, of the locally-applied exhaust
ventilation, alone can allay the danger in the processes to which dust
is incidental, such as ware cleaning, gathering at the mangle, glost-
placing, and the decorative processes. The Lead Committee
considered that, as there was no rapid method of testing the actual
degree of moisture, exhaust ventilation might be required in the case
of ware that was not cleaned within fifteen minutes of the application
of the glaze. Such a requirement would prevent the practice now
prevalent of painting as many as three dozen tiles, piling them one
on top of another, and then proceeding to the operation of scraping.
No danger attaches to removal of glaze with a damp sponge or
flannel, but means must always be at hand for washing and damping
them. In the dipping-house, (a) impervious floors should be provided,
which could be washed down so as to prevent the risks from
sweeping, and from glaze drying, and being raised as dust; (b)
partial covering of the dipping-tub to prevent splashing and spray;
and (c) substitution for the overalls at present worn by persons in the
dipping-house, glost-placers, millers and mixers of glaze, majolica
paintresses, and others, of overalls of some light waterproof material
which could be sponged, or of aprons of waterproof material worn in
front of the overalls. Dipping-tubs and walls and floors in close
proximity to them can with advantage be painted red. Dipping-boards
should be washed with clean water after every time of use.
Automatic machines for washing and scrubbing boards are in use in
some factories.
To reduce risk or remove the danger of lead poisoning in this
industry, use of low solubility glazes or of leadless glazes are
advocated. On this point the Lead Committee say: “The effect of
melting the lead with silicious matter amounts to imprisoning it in
such a manner as to render it less liable to the action of the acids
which it meets in passing through the human body, and in
consequence largely reduces the likelihood of its absorption into the
blood. If the frit is properly compounded, all but a small fraction of
the lead is rendered insoluble, and glazes so made are spoken of as
‘low solubility glazes.’ The finished glaze generally contains from 12
to 22 per cent., or more, of lead oxide, but after the process of fritting
with sufficient silicious material only from 2 to 5 per cent. remains
soluble.”[A]
[A] Raw lead comprises red lead, white lead, and litharge. If introduced in
this form as a constituent of glaze it is soluble in dilute acids. If, however,
the raw lead is fluxed by heating with a part or the whole of the silica, it is
converted into “fritted lead.” The solubility of the frit depends upon the
relative proportions of material taken. Thorpe[23], as a result of numerous
 analyses of lead silicates (after determining their solubility as regards lead),
both simple and complex, in use in the potteries and on the Continent,
found that the quantity of lead dissolved had no necessary relation to the
quantity of lead in the silicate. “Primarily and in the main the insolubility of
the lead depends not upon any one oxide or group of oxides, but upon the
maintenance of a certain proportion between the whole of the basic oxides
on the one hand and the whole of the acidic oxides on the other. If the value
of ratio bases/acids is higher than, or approximately equal to, two, the
amount of the lead extracted is small, but if it fall much below two, the
quantity of lead dissolved begins rapidly to increase.”

On the subject of the use of leadless glazes, the Committee

conclude that in all classes of pottery ware a great many articles can
be manufactured in a very high state of perfection, with reduction in
the cost of production of certain classes of common ware, such as
jampots and Persian painted ware; but that in certain other classes,
owing to the excessive number of “seconds,” their use would entail
increased cost or sacrifice of quality, so much so as to involve loss of
important markets; and, finally, that certain kinds of ware, in
consequence of difficulties relative to accuracy in reproducing old
patterns, colours, or methods of decoration, cannot at present be
made at all without use of lead.
In the case of manufacturers who are able to conform to the
Thorpe test of low solubility—i.e., glaze which yields to a dilute
solution of hydrochloric acid not more than 5 per cent. of its dry
weight of a soluble lead compound, calculated as lead monoxide
(PbO)—important relaxation of certain special rules are allowed,
such as limitation placed on the employment of females and young
persons, and periodical medical examination of the workers.
H. R. Rogers[24], one of H.M. Inspectors of Factories, Stoke-on-
Trent, has worked out a simple test to show approximately how
much lead has been used in the glaze of a piece of pottery. Thus, by
treating glazes with hydrofluoric acid for forty seconds, absorbing the
liquid with filter paper, precipitating the lead on the paper as the
sulphate, dissolving out the sulphate soluble in water, and then
precipitating the lead on the paper as sulphide, stains are produced
varying, in depth of colour, according to the proportion of lead in the
glazes concerned (see Plate IV.).
 Briefly summarized, the recommendations of the Potteries
Committee in regard to the processes are—
Manufacture of Glazes.—No handling of white or red lead without
at least 5 per cent. of added moisture, and no weighing out, etc., nor
employment in the room, to be allowed within thirty minutes of such
weighing out, etc., without the wearing of a respirator.
Lawning—i.e., straining glaze so as to remove insufficiently
ground material through a fine lawn sieve—to be done by an adult
male only, except where less than a quart of glaze is lawned.
Dipping.—Impervious floors sloped towards a drain to be cleaned
by an adult male, after work has ceased, with a jet of water and a
mop. Walls adjacent to dipping-tubs to be tiled or painted with
washable paint, and cleaned daily. Dipping not to be done where
artificial light is necessary during hours of daylight.
Threading-up and Thimble-picking to be done in a room
sufficiently separated from any place where scheduled processes
are carried on.
Drying Ware after Dipping.—The same requirement as to floors as
in dipping-house.
Boards.—To be cleaned with clean water by an adult male after
each time that dipped ware has been placed on them and before
subsequent use. Boards for use in lead processes to be painted red
at the ends.
Mangles.—Ventilation to be so arranged as to maintain a flow of
air into the hot chamber from the workroom. Mangle shelves to be
thoroughly wet cleansed once a week.
Ware Cleaning.—Local exhaust ventilation to be applied except
when the process is carried on entirely with use of wet materials
(damp sponges, etc.), or when done within fifteen minutes of
application of glaze. Troughs to be provided to collect glaze, and to
be cleaned out and supplied with fresh water at least once a week.
The floors and standard of lighting to be the same as for the dipping-
house.
Glost-placing.—Boards to be treated as already described. Floors
to be impervious. Women, young persons, and children to be
excluded, except that women to be allowed to place china furniture
and electrical fittings.
 Majolica Painting and Mottling.—A sponge and clean water to be
placed beside each paintress; special washing accommodation in
the painting-room or adjoining it; splashes to be removed
immediately by wet sponging. Work-benches and floors to be subject
to the same conditions as potters’ shops.
Flow Material—i.e., the substance usually containing much lead in
the form of powder and placed in the sagger to cause certain colours
applied to biscuit ware to run slightly—to be weighed out in front of
an exhaust draught and delivered to the glost-placer by an adult
male.

PLATE IV

Fig. 1.—No Lead used. Fig. 2.—Fritted Lead used.

0·9 per cent. solubility.
Fig. 3.—Fritted Lead used. Fig. 4.—Fritted Lead used.
1·5 per cent. solubility. 5·0 per cent. solubility.
13·9 per cent. total lead. 5·0 per cent. total lead.

Fig. 5.—Raw Lead used. Fig. 6.—Raw Lead used.

19·4 per cent. solubility. 44·1 per cent. solubility.

19·4 per cent. total lead. 45·2 per cent. total lead.
 Fig. 7.—Rockingham (Raw Lead)
used.
50·9 per cent. solubility.
50·9 per cent. total lead.

Ground-laying, colour-dusting, and aerographing to be done under

locally applied exhaust ventilation. Proper receptacles to be provided
for cotton-wool used and waste cotton-wool to be burnt. No short-
sighted person to be employed to do either glaze or colour blowing,
unless wearing suitable glasses, and certificate to this effect to be
entered in the Health Register.
Litho-Transfer Making.[25]—Transfers for the decoration of
earthenware and china are made in special factories, of which there
are seven, employing 257 persons. The patterns are impressed in
the ordinary chromo-lithographic fashion, but as the enamel colours,
containing high percentages of lead, are dusted either mechanically
in the machine, or by hand by means of a pad of cotton-wool, danger
from dust is great in the absence of maintenance of a negative
pressure inside the dusting machine and an efficient exhaust draught
behind the bench where the final dusting with flour, to remove the
superfluous colour, is done. In one factory, before a fresh colour was
applied to the adhesive pattern on the sheets, the machines had to
be cleaned as far as possible of the previous colour used. To do this
it was necessary for the attendant to enter a closed chamber at the
back of each machine, so as to supply the powder to the hoppers
which feed the rollers, or to clean them by means of a brush,
sometimes as often as every half-hour. The upward exhaust
ventilation applied to the interior of the machine tended to draw the
dust created in brushing past the worker’s face, and led to severe
incidence of poisoning. The remedy suggested by Pendock[26] was
to dispense altogether with the need for entering the chamber, to
maintain a slight negative pressure inside the machine by downward
exhaust, and to remove the dust by means of a small vacuum
cleaning plant.
At the same factory the flouring bench was in the same room as
the machines, and the locally applied exhaust drew its air-supply
from the general atmosphere of the room. Apart from faulty
arrangement of the exhaust ducts leading to effects of too local a
character, dust was drawn from other parts of the room, including the
machines, so much so as to necessitate frequent cleaning of the
glass hoods. Poisoning among those employed in flouring occurred.
To remedy this, an air-grid with curved inlets at intervals of 2 inches
apart, leading into a trunk in connection with a fan, was placed along
the back of the bench and under the top of the glass hood. In order,
however, that its action should not interfere unduly with the general
ventilation of the room, but be, in large measure, independent of this,
a somewhat similar grid, introducing air from the street outside, was
fitted along the front of the bench. The whole arrangement was
operated by one suction fan. Ten cases occurred in this factory in the
year before this arrangement was carried out. In the three years
since, three cases only have been reported. In the ten years 1900-
1909, 48 cases were reported among 257 persons employed.
Vitreous Enamelling.[27]—Surfaces, such as sheet iron for
advertisement signs, cast iron for baths and gas stoves, copper for
copper letters and tablets, brass for jewellery, and glass for lettering
and decoration, are treated with glaze or enamel colours, which,
either in the mode of application or subsequent treatment before final
vitrefaction, give rise to dust.
 In the manufacture of advertisement signs, glaze is swilled on to
the sheet of iron. After drying, it is fired or vitrified, and upon this
surface as many other coats of glaze are applied as may be wanted.
As soon as the colour is dry, lettering is effected by brushing away
the dried (but not fired) glaze exposed through stencils.
Dangers and Prevention.—Exhaust ventilation for the removal of
the dust is essential, but it is, unfortunately, unable to draw the dust
away when brushing is done at a distance of more than about 18
inches from the exhaust opening. And some of the plates required
are very large. No exhaust-pipe has yet been invented which will
follow the hand of the worker without impeding movement. In
consequence of severe incidence of poisoning, mainly on young
women who do the work of brushing, when the process was first
introduced with enamel glazes containing from 15 to 75 per cent. of
lead, manufacturers quickly turned their attention to use of enamels
free from lead. For this class of work they appear to have been
entirely successful, and now lead poisoning is almost a thing of the
past. Thus, of 122 samples examined in 1910 from factories claiming
exemption from the regulations by reason of the use of enamels
containing less than 1 per cent. of lead, excess was found in three
only[28].
Porcelain Enamelling.—The cast-iron bath or stove is heated
to redness in a muffle furnace. On withdrawal from the furnace it is
placed by the helpers on a table capable of being turned in every
direction. Enamel powder is then dusted on to the heated metallic
surface through a sieve attached to a long wooden handle, held by
the duster, who protects himself from the intense heat by a mask and
an asbestos cloth covering.
Fig. 12.—The first glaze is sprayed on with an aerograph. The portion of the stove
to be glazed is shown on supports on the sliding table, which is half out of the
cabinet. When the casting is fully in the cabinet, the end piece and the centre
piece close the cabinet sides, and, fitting on a felt beading, make an air-tight
joint. The spray, shown in front of the cabinet, is worked through the holes in the
glass front. Exhaust is provided at the top.

Dangers and Prevention.—The heated column of air carries up

much of the powdered glaze as it is unevenly distributed by jolting
the handle of the receptacle, and in the absence of very efficient
exhaust ventilation this dust will, as the current of air strikes the roof
and cools, fall down again. The hood placed over the bath must have
steep sides and be brought down as low as is possible without
interfering with work, and the duct leading to the fan must be
unusually wide, so as to be able to cope with the up-rush of heated
air. If the sides of the hood be shallow, not only will the dust fail to be
removed, but the hood itself may become so hot as noticeably to
increase the discomfort from heat to which the men are exposed
during the three or four minutes, five or six times an hour, that the
dusting operation lasts. A method has been patented by M. Dormoy
of Sougland[29], Aisne, France, for carrying out automatically in a
closed chamber the process of dusting on to small red-hot castings,
such as are required in the manufacture of stoves. It is not applicable
for baths.
Occasionally, in the case of small castings, again, the enamel is
sprayed on by means of an aerograph. For this excessively
dangerous process we have seen simple and ingenious devices for
carrying it on quite safely in a space under negative pressure, and
covered in except for the necessary openings through which to work
the spray (see Figs. 12, 13, 14).[A]
[A] The cabinets have been patented by Messrs. Wilsons and Mathiesons,
Ltd., Leeds, by whom they are made and supplied. Since using them there
has been no trace of illness among the persons employed.
Fig. 13.—After firing the casting is lifted out for treatment with dry glaze, which is
sprinkled on with a sifter shown on the table. The turntable enables the operator
to manipulate the red-hot casting more easily.

White enamel powders free from lead are used entirely by some
firms, but the black and coloured enamels on stove grates contain
lead. A frit analyzed in the Government Laboratory was found to
contain 26·66 per cent. of lead oxide. The fact that all the lead used
is in the form of a silicate, even although the silicate is readily soluble
in dilute acid, tends, we believe, to cause incidence of poisoning to
be less than might have been expected from the amount of dust
often present in the air, and attacks, when they occur, to be less
severe, as a rule, than they would be were raw carbonate of lead
alone used. For the arduous work entailed the men are specially
selected. Despite their exposure to lead dust, the majority continue
to work for many years without marked signs of lead absorption. The
management should provide a suitable room for the men to cool
themselves in the intervals of dusting.
Fig. 14.—The cabinet is shown when dry dusting is being done. The casting is
worked by tongs through a slot in the side of the cabinet (not seen), while the
worker dusts the casting with his arms through the two front holes. He can see
his work through the square pane of glass. (Photographs kindly made by Mr. F.
W. Hunt, Leeds.)

Manufacture of Electric Accumulators.[30]—Electric

accumulators are secondary batteries which serve for the storage of
electricity, in order to allow of a current when desired. A primary
battery is one in which the materials become exhausted by chemical
action, and, unless a portion or the whole of the materials is
renewed, fails to supply electricity. The secondary battery becomes
exhausted in the same way, but the chemical contents are of such a
nature that it is merely necessary to pass a current of electricity
through the battery (charging) in order to recharge them. In the
accumulator battery the positive element is peroxide of lead, and the
negative element spongy lead. The elements—several positive
connected together and several negative—are placed in dilute
sulphuric acid contained in vessels of glass.
The form of accumulator in almost universal use now is the pasted
plate, but it varies greatly in size, according to the use for which it is
required. It may be either large, to act as an equalizer or reservoir of
current in electric-lighting installations, or quite small for ignition
purposes in motor-cars. The litharge smeared on to one plate
becomes converted into the positive element, peroxide of lead,
during what is called the “forming process” (passage of the electric
current through the dilute sulphuric acid solution in which it is
placed), and red lead smeared on to the other becomes spongy lead
to form the negative.
The industry gives employment to about 1,200 persons. Plates are
first cast in moulds from a bath containing molten lead or of lead with
admixture of antimony. Irregularities in the plates so cast are
removed by a saw or knife (trimming), and sometimes filed or
brushed with a wire brush. The interstices in the plates are next filled
in by means of a spatula with paste of litharge or red lead, as the
case may be, which has been previously mixed either by hand at the
bench or in a special mechanical mixing machine. After drying, the
plates are removed to the formation room to be charged. To allow of
the passage of the current, positive elements are connected
together, and negative also, by means of a soldering iron or, more
frequently, of an oxy-hydrogen blowpipe flame. After formation is
complete the plates have to be built into batteries, or “assembled.”
Tailpieces, technically known as “lugs,” have to be connected with
each plate, effected usually by the oxy-hydrogen blowpipe flame.
Finally, a connecting bar of lead is cast on or burnt on to the lugs.
Dangers and Prevention.—In casting, danger is mainly from
dust in depositing the skimmings, and from fume also when old
accumulator plates are melted down. For these reasons exhaust
ventilation over the melting pots should be provided, embracing also
(by branch ducts if necessary) the receptacles into which the lead
ashes are thrown. In mixing and pasting, the danger is from dust of
oxides of lead to be controlled (see Fig. 6) by—(1) Exhaust
ventilation by branch ducts protecting (a) the barrel from which the
material is scooped, (b) the mechanical mixer into which the weighed
quantity of oxide is discharged, (c) the bench at which the mixing by
hand is done; (2) dampness of benches and floor to prevent raising
of dust either by manipulation of the (often) heavy plates or trampling
into powder the paste which may fall on the ground.
In assembling or putting together of the formed plates, and in
earlier stages of the manufacture also, filing or use of a wire brush
causes production of metallic lead dust and of the oxides when the
brush touches them—a danger only to be met by exhaust ventilation.
How far the poisoning to which the lead burners engaged in
assembling plates is attributable to lead fume, produced by the high
temperature of the blowpipe flame, and how far to handling (with
inevitable dislodgment of dust) has not been satisfactorily settled.
Incidence of poisoning on this class of worker in the past has been
marked.
Generally there is need for impervious floors, solidly built, so as to
prevent vibration and the raising of dust from passage of trolleys
conveying the heavy plates. Gloves are frequently provided, more to
protect the hands from contact with the sulphuric acid used in
making the paste and jagged edges of the plates than as a
preventive of lead absorption.
In the 10 years 1900-1909 incidence, according to precise
occupation, has been—Casting, 33; pasting, 114; lead burning, 69;
and assembling the plates, etc., 69.
Glass-Cutting.[31]—Red lead enters largely into the mixture of
raw materials for the manufacture of glass. Flint glass, for instance,
contains 43 per cent. of lead. The raw materials (white sand, red
lead, and generally saltpetre) require to be very carefully mixed, and
a few cases of poisoning have been reported from the dust raised in
sieving. One man works the sieve, resting on two runners across the
bin, while another shovels the mixture into the sieve. The operation
is not a continuous one, and respirators have principally been relied
on to protect the workers. It should be possible to carry out the
mixing operations in a dust-tight closed apparatus.
Poisoning from lead fumes generated in a glass furnace is
unknown. Lead poisoning used to be common in the process of
polishing cut glass on a brush by means of “putty powder” (oxide of
tin, 29 per cent.; and oxide of lead, 71 per cent.), mixed with water to
the consistency of a paste. The brush was made to revolve at high
speed, with dissemination of the putty powder as a fine spray into
the atmosphere of the workroom. Although rouge and oxide of iron
have replaced putty powder to some extent—especially for the
polishing of the bevelled edges of plate glass—no substitute can at
present be found to give the final lustre and brilliancy required in the
case of cut glass and in certain kinds of high-class work, such as
polishing lenses.
Locally applied exhaust ventilation has robbed the process of its
dangers. Pyramidal-shaped hoods enclose the spindle and putty box
and brush before which the workman sits. The draught of the fan
prevents escape of spray. The lad who feeds the brush with putty
powder stands at the side, and in our experience his cap and clothes
are now free from signs of splashing. Formerly the polishing was
done by each man at his own berth, thus endangering the health of
all working in the vicinity, as the custom of the trade is that the same
man carries through the work both of cutting and polishing. Polishing
occupies only about a fifth of a man’s time, and it has now, owing to
the position of the fan, to be carried out in one particular part of the
room.
Dr. D’Arcy Ellis[32], Certifying Surgeon for the Stourbridge district, has described
the processes as formerly carried out:
“The mixture of lead and tin is heated over a bright fire in a shallow iron pan. As
it melts, the top scum which forms is skimmed off, dried, pounded to a powder in
an iron mortar, and afterwards sieved. The person who does this work always
suffers more or less. He usually protects himself by wearing a respirator—there is
a good draught at the flue, and the sieve is enclosed in a box—but there is always
a certain amount of dust. This putty-powder is used on the wooden wheel, and is
dabbed on the wheel as it revolves. All good bold work can be polished in this way,
and there is not much risk to the workman, as the speed at which the wheel
revolves causes the mixture to cling and not fly about. This process does not
answer for any fine work, so it is contended; and to enable this kind of work to be
properly polished brushes made of bristles are used. They are mounted on an iron
spindle, and are usually about 6 inches to 7 inches in diameter, with a face of 1
inch to 1¹⁄₂ inches broad. They are driven at a speed of about 2,000 revolutions a
minute. The putty powder is applied to these brushes (which are of various sizes)
in the same way as to the wooden wheel—that is, by dabbing it on. For smaller
work, such as tumblers and wine-glasses, the workman applies the putty mixture
himself, holding the glass against the brush with his right hand, and using his left
underneath to apply the mixture. Where, however, larger work has to be done in
which the workman cannot manage with one hand, the service of a boy is called
in, who does what is called the ‘feeding up.’ This boy stands partly in front and
partly at the side of the brush, and applies the mixture with one hand with the wisp
of straw. In this position the boy gets splashed with the putty mixture which flies off
the brush, and it is generally believed by the workmen to be the most dangerous
occupation. At one time—not very long ago—all the various processes of the work
were done indiscriminately in the workshop, and consequently the men were
frequently found working in a perfect haze of fine dust, which had been thrown off
from the brushes. There was no attempt made to separate and detach the less
injurious part of the work, such as the roughing and cutting, from the general
workshop, the lead polishing only occupying about one-fifth of the workmen’s time.
After the glass has been polished by the putty it is taken away to another
department, where girls are employed as 'wipers out.’ They take the glass with the
dried putty upon it, dip it into a basin of water, and then wipe it dry. Some of these
girls have been known to suffer from lead poisoning.... Drop-wrist was frequently to
be seen—in fact, there was hardly a workshop in the district in which cases of
wrist-drop could not be found. They were all anæmic, and the albuminuric and
prematurely aged were frequently met with.”

In this small industry in the past the poisoning must have been
considerable. In 1898 nineteen cases were reported. Reference to
the table on p. 47 shows that the number now is greatly reduced.
Those reported are generally cases which have ended fatally from
the sequelæ of lead poisoning contracted many years previously.
Stained-glass painting—a form of vitreous enamelling—very rarely
gives rise to poisoning, as no dust is generated (see vitreous
enamelling for use of aerograph in glass-painting).
Paints and Colours.[33]—Most of the cases have occurred in
the manufacture of white-lead paint, although manufacture of
chromate of lead and of Brunswick greens (barytes with which
Prussian blue and chrome yellows are mixed) account for several.
The following table shows the precise occupation of persons
affected, the number of cases distributed according to precise
occupation, and the proportion of these to the total in 225 cases
which were closely examined:

Precise Occupation Number Proportion

of Person affected. of Cases of Cases
 in each to Total
Subdivision. (per Cent.).
Mixing and grinding (mainly of white lead) 144 64·0
Packing (mainly of red lead) 19 8·4
Sieving 2 0·9
Manufacture of chrome yellow 22 9·8
Colour house and filters 16 7·2
Painting and stencilling 6 2·7
Other processes 16 7·0

Knowing the conditions of work, we can confidently assert that the

poison must have entered the system in the form of dust in at least
90·0 per cent. of the cases, and in the remainder the possibility of
dust having been the cause is not excluded.
In a small factory the cask of white lead is broken and the material
scooped out into a pail. Scales are at hand, and when the amount of
lead removed weighs half a hundredweight the contents of the pail
are discharged either into a cylindrical pug-mill or into the pan of an
edge-runner to be mixed with oil. In large factories the dry white lead
is generally shovelled directly from the cask down openings or
shoots in the floor to the grinding mills below.
Dangers and Prevention.—Dust arises in unheading the casks
from the displacement of air following the scooping or shovelling out
of the lead, in filling the pails, and in discharging the lead into the
mill. All points should, and can, be adequately protected by locally
applied exhaust ventilation at each one of the points enumerated. A
telescopic arrangement of the branch duct in connection with the
barrel enables dust generated in scooping out to be removed as the
contents of the barrel get lower and lower (see Fig. 15).
 Fig. 15.[A]

[A] Fig. 15 shows the arrangement for preventing dust at every point where
it is produced in a factory where dry colours are ground, sifted, and packed
on a large scale. On the upper floor, the chamber is shown in which the
contents of a cask are tipped down a shoot leading in the one case to the
burr stone mill on the left, and in the other into the Blackstone sifters.
Exhaust is arranged at two levels to catch the dust arising from the
displacement of air. After grinding in the closed-in burr stone mill, a hood
and duct is arranged over the point where the material is discharged into
the barrel. Similarly, the casing of the two Blackstone sifters is connected
with the exhaust fan, and also the cover of the barrel into which the ground
material falls. Inside the edge-runner (the door of which is shown open) a
negative pressure is maintained, and one branch duct controls the dust in
the scooping out of the material from the barrel, while another is connected
to the cover of the receptacle into which the ground material is discharged.
Tapering of the ducts, tangential entry of branches, fan-box, and collecting
filters, are all shown. In the factory in question there are four edge-runners,
three burr stone mills, and two Blackstone sifters. Altogether exhaust
ventilation is applied at twenty-five points. (Drawing kindly supplied by the
Sturtevant Engineering Company, Limited, London.)