Monday, June 28, 2010
Friday, March 26, 2010
The Screaming Elevator
It was 12 nic sticks past midnight local time and I'm completely stimmed out from my last run. Two bottles of Mongorian Klop and I still can't sleep. My inner clock is all boled up from the Macron run and their damn 36 hour rotation. Drunk as hell and hyped up on stim I was when the Confed call came in. "All able pilots required to report for humanitarian mission or face revocation of license" and all the rest of that bols.
So I's drag my carcass, bloodshot and trembling, to the Confed office to report for duty. The Confed jacko eyeballed me like I was begging credits. Ignoring him, I scanned the mission board. Seems the twerps on Vatican III have run out of food. Again. That's what you get when you plant a colony on a desert plant.
"Food's ready and waiting for immediate transit, Captain." says the perturbed, neatly pressed Confed jacko. "The Confederation thanks you for your service."
As if I's got a choice. Bastards. I grunt and head for the fight deck. The flight doc plugs me into the machines and certified that I am alive but barely. He doses me with another stim and warns me against the dangers of drugs and alcohol. Stoned to the bejesus, I nod sagely and thank him for his sagacity and his drugs.
My old LA-87b flier was fueled up and loaded by the time I make it to Departures. I sign the manifests and give the Spacecraft Inspector the finger. For my trouble he handed me a list of Ship Flight Worthiness violations. Nothing that will force him to ground me, just damn expensive to fix. Sometimes it doesn't pay to be a VoidJumper.
The trip's nothing interesting. Just black void and singularities, the standard fare of modern space flight. My LA-87b drops into realspace in the designated zone and immediately the radio starts pounding my poor depleted brain with distress calls from the planet. Thanks to my hidden stash of Mongorian Klop or it would have been a miserable flight.
I check the Grid for landing orders and a hotel room. The Mongorian Klop has finally overcome the stim and it's time for sleep. The thought of spending the night in my bird was too depressing. So I ordered a suite at the only hotel available. Who cares? The Confed was picking up the tab anyway, might as well make the most of it.
There's no chance I'm leaving my bird wide open on this planet. So I stayed and watched these damn starving scarecrows unload for more than an hour. They spent more time tearing open and cramming vittles than hauling. These yokels were probably going to get rich selling food on the black market but that's no care of mine. Sleep is what I crave.
As luck has it, my hotel (the only damn hotel on this backwards shithole) was the nastiest little bols you could imagine. The building itself looked like it was built by drunks after a long weekend. Six sideways tilted floors and built from local timber - what a dump.
The old crocker at the desk looked enough like the crazy old bastard that stunned me that I almost plugged him full of holes with Molly. My better nature stopped me when I realized I was still so drunk I would probably miss. Time enough to kill him tomorrow.
Key in hand, I called the ancient elevator. Stepping inside and pressing the button for the top floor was harder than ever especially since the damn buttons seemed to evade my finger. The wood paneled doors creaked shut to reveal knife carved ads for whores and eateries. Suddenly the elevator let's out this horrific scream and begins to tremble before lurching upwards. Scared the piss out of your humble hero. What a nightmare.
Some divinity sure smiled at me cause my room was just outside the elevator. I staggered to the door, inserted the key card and stumbled inside. Sleep beckoned. Not even undressing, I fell face first on the bed. Mattress lumps and all, it didn't matter, I was asleep instantly. Snoring and dancing with Morpheus.
Until that damn elevator screamed again. Woke me like cold water on my bols. I cocked one eye open, fighting through the crusted goo on my eyelids, a certain sign of too much stim.
Good thing I got the suite, I thought. This is smaller than that jail cell on Wolf 9021.
Nature called so I creaked to my feet and limped to the can. Looking into the mirror I took stock: good looks intact if in need of more sleep and grooming. I groped for the seat on the toilet when I heard the door to my suite open.
The beauty of adrenaline is it can overcome anything, even Mongorian Klop, exhaustion and stim withdrawal. In one fluid motion, I lever Molly out of her holster and snap off the bathroom lights. Hiding in the shadows, I peek into the room and see a shadow walk past. Quantum quick I step behind the shadow, pressing Molly to it's head.
"Freeze fucko," I say gallantly, though it came out more like fwee fooku. Damn Mongorian Klop.
The crocker from the front desk, trembling in terror, says "Message for you sir. You didn't answer my calls."
Using teeth to scrape the hair off my tongue, I says "And this gives you license to violate my space?"
"It's marked urgent sir. From the Confederation."
"Drop it on the bed and fuck off or I'll blast open your sinuses."
The crocker ran for his life. Only, he didn't leave any message. Just as well, I thought. Last thing I want is to hear from the Confeds again. Bastards probably want me to keep receipts or some shit.
I bolted all the locks and pushed the drawers against the door to ensure no further interruptions. Using the can to eliminate the internal pressures, I used the time to field strip and clean Molly. After washing up, I undressed and dropped my gear into the cleaner.
I slipped Molly under the pillow and settled in for more sleep. Let the Confed deal with their own bols for a while. I needed sleep now. Later I would hunt for more drink.
My last thought before sleep was how strange that the message light on the phone wasn't blinking.
--- To be continued....
So I's drag my carcass, bloodshot and trembling, to the Confed office to report for duty. The Confed jacko eyeballed me like I was begging credits. Ignoring him, I scanned the mission board. Seems the twerps on Vatican III have run out of food. Again. That's what you get when you plant a colony on a desert plant.
"Food's ready and waiting for immediate transit, Captain." says the perturbed, neatly pressed Confed jacko. "The Confederation thanks you for your service."
As if I's got a choice. Bastards. I grunt and head for the fight deck. The flight doc plugs me into the machines and certified that I am alive but barely. He doses me with another stim and warns me against the dangers of drugs and alcohol. Stoned to the bejesus, I nod sagely and thank him for his sagacity and his drugs.
My old LA-87b flier was fueled up and loaded by the time I make it to Departures. I sign the manifests and give the Spacecraft Inspector the finger. For my trouble he handed me a list of Ship Flight Worthiness violations. Nothing that will force him to ground me, just damn expensive to fix. Sometimes it doesn't pay to be a VoidJumper.
The trip's nothing interesting. Just black void and singularities, the standard fare of modern space flight. My LA-87b drops into realspace in the designated zone and immediately the radio starts pounding my poor depleted brain with distress calls from the planet. Thanks to my hidden stash of Mongorian Klop or it would have been a miserable flight.
I check the Grid for landing orders and a hotel room. The Mongorian Klop has finally overcome the stim and it's time for sleep. The thought of spending the night in my bird was too depressing. So I ordered a suite at the only hotel available. Who cares? The Confed was picking up the tab anyway, might as well make the most of it.
There's no chance I'm leaving my bird wide open on this planet. So I stayed and watched these damn starving scarecrows unload for more than an hour. They spent more time tearing open and cramming vittles than hauling. These yokels were probably going to get rich selling food on the black market but that's no care of mine. Sleep is what I crave.
As luck has it, my hotel (the only damn hotel on this backwards shithole) was the nastiest little bols you could imagine. The building itself looked like it was built by drunks after a long weekend. Six sideways tilted floors and built from local timber - what a dump.
The old crocker at the desk looked enough like the crazy old bastard that stunned me that I almost plugged him full of holes with Molly. My better nature stopped me when I realized I was still so drunk I would probably miss. Time enough to kill him tomorrow.
Key in hand, I called the ancient elevator. Stepping inside and pressing the button for the top floor was harder than ever especially since the damn buttons seemed to evade my finger. The wood paneled doors creaked shut to reveal knife carved ads for whores and eateries. Suddenly the elevator let's out this horrific scream and begins to tremble before lurching upwards. Scared the piss out of your humble hero. What a nightmare.
Some divinity sure smiled at me cause my room was just outside the elevator. I staggered to the door, inserted the key card and stumbled inside. Sleep beckoned. Not even undressing, I fell face first on the bed. Mattress lumps and all, it didn't matter, I was asleep instantly. Snoring and dancing with Morpheus.
Until that damn elevator screamed again. Woke me like cold water on my bols. I cocked one eye open, fighting through the crusted goo on my eyelids, a certain sign of too much stim.
Good thing I got the suite, I thought. This is smaller than that jail cell on Wolf 9021.
Nature called so I creaked to my feet and limped to the can. Looking into the mirror I took stock: good looks intact if in need of more sleep and grooming. I groped for the seat on the toilet when I heard the door to my suite open.
The beauty of adrenaline is it can overcome anything, even Mongorian Klop, exhaustion and stim withdrawal. In one fluid motion, I lever Molly out of her holster and snap off the bathroom lights. Hiding in the shadows, I peek into the room and see a shadow walk past. Quantum quick I step behind the shadow, pressing Molly to it's head.
"Freeze fucko," I say gallantly, though it came out more like fwee fooku. Damn Mongorian Klop.
The crocker from the front desk, trembling in terror, says "Message for you sir. You didn't answer my calls."
Using teeth to scrape the hair off my tongue, I says "And this gives you license to violate my space?"
"It's marked urgent sir. From the Confederation."
"Drop it on the bed and fuck off or I'll blast open your sinuses."
The crocker ran for his life. Only, he didn't leave any message. Just as well, I thought. Last thing I want is to hear from the Confeds again. Bastards probably want me to keep receipts or some shit.
I bolted all the locks and pushed the drawers against the door to ensure no further interruptions. Using the can to eliminate the internal pressures, I used the time to field strip and clean Molly. After washing up, I undressed and dropped my gear into the cleaner.
I slipped Molly under the pillow and settled in for more sleep. Let the Confed deal with their own bols for a while. I needed sleep now. Later I would hunt for more drink.
My last thought before sleep was how strange that the message light on the phone wasn't blinking.
--- To be continued....
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Letter Home
### BEGIN XM ###
NOTICE: All military communications are censored prior to transmittal as per MSA Art II Sec 9A P31.
Censor #1248346213492134
FROM: Thomas Garson, Sergeant
TO: Elliot Garson, Sr. (lovedabighoe@oht.na.4u2nv.com)
Dear Sir,
Greetings from (censored)! I've been much busy since enlisting with the 125th. They're first class bol mashing bastards to tell true. Everything was much tougher than I believed. The begins suck worst. They still gots a high rejection rate for the early grafts but I's fine. No signs of hyper-aggression psychosis.
The training was brutal. I never knowed something could be so exhausting. It's hard to explain. I realize I'm discorporate now but I still get tired. Weird.
We're trapped in school constantly. Quantum math, chemistry, physics, orbital mechanics, celestial nav, systems repair, waldo training, synapse acceleration training, polytite binding, strategy, tactics and a whole host of other things that eventually just become second nature. When your brain is wired, it's impressive how quick you retain.
Happily they've given us 6 days R&R!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
R&R is good. That's when we get to go Simming!
One thing they make clear to us newbie FNGs-- In the Sim you don't jaw about the braincase. Sim looks, smells and feels real...so it's real. Perception is reality and that shit. And they'll kick holy bols outta anybody says other. Relax, enjoy - no shop.
Personal, I'm in with that directive. Who the hell wouldn't want to be 21 years old forever? That's what we are in the Sim - prime of life, full health with all the heaven and hell we could want. Booze, drugs, sex, everything and better than real. No nasty side effects like hangovers or paternities. Plus we get to put on heavy metal. Who's luckier than me?
I can't describe the suits, sir. The eggs and regs call them Mission Specialized Mechanized Assault Carriers. Fags. We call them heavy metal.
There's nothing like it. It's like putting on power. I can rain down more terrible pain than all the (censored) ever. I mean we got (censored) with (censored) and (censored) on (censored)! Old Johnny Ron would squirt himself. Our firepower is terrifying. I can literally devastate the entire surface of a (censored)-sized planet in (censored) ticks.
Shit! Almost forgot to tell you. This is crazy shit! Last (censored) I was in (censored) and this Urchin comes with wild-eyed fervor. Craziest little (censored) you ever saw. Something's nagged me about it for long times now. Glad to share it off my chest. So, this (censored) is dragging some mangled (censored) behind him and mumbling about (censored). Sudden like, it grabs me and says (censored). The bols of it is, just the day before I was (censored).
Can you believe that shit? Blown away! What does it all mean?
Anyway, got nothing else really to say. We're going Simming in a few minutes. I wanted to write, sir, and let you know that I'm well. I'm not really sure where they'll send me next or even when I'll be able to write. I always get mail tho. I'd love to hear from you.
Respectfully,
- Tom
SQE: asdlkwoe224weplo43keyuiwfermx535owi567em23xo12wx6ie5ejml8976kaw137ew12e4x09az
### END XM ###
NOTICE: All military communications are censored prior to transmittal as per MSA Art II Sec 9A P31.
Censor #1248346213492134
FROM: Thomas Garson, Sergeant
125th Mechanized Assault Recon Division
(tgarson@mech.pickledpunks.mil)
TO: Elliot Garson, Sr. (lovedabighoe@oht.na.4u2nv.com)
Dear Sir,
Greetings from (censored)! I've been much busy since enlisting with the 125th. They're first class bol mashing bastards to tell true. Everything was much tougher than I believed. The begins suck worst. They still gots a high rejection rate for the early grafts but I's fine. No signs of hyper-aggression psychosis.
The training was brutal. I never knowed something could be so exhausting. It's hard to explain. I realize I'm discorporate now but I still get tired. Weird.
We're trapped in school constantly. Quantum math, chemistry, physics, orbital mechanics, celestial nav, systems repair, waldo training, synapse acceleration training, polytite binding, strategy, tactics and a whole host of other things that eventually just become second nature. When your brain is wired, it's impressive how quick you retain.
Happily they've given us 6 days R&R!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
R&R is good. That's when we get to go Simming!
One thing they make clear to us newbie FNGs-- In the Sim you don't jaw about the braincase. Sim looks, smells and feels real...so it's real. Perception is reality and that shit. And they'll kick holy bols outta anybody says other. Relax, enjoy - no shop.
Personal, I'm in with that directive. Who the hell wouldn't want to be 21 years old forever? That's what we are in the Sim - prime of life, full health with all the heaven and hell we could want. Booze, drugs, sex, everything and better than real. No nasty side effects like hangovers or paternities. Plus we get to put on heavy metal. Who's luckier than me?
I can't describe the suits, sir. The eggs and regs call them Mission Specialized Mechanized Assault Carriers. Fags. We call them heavy metal.
There's nothing like it. It's like putting on power. I can rain down more terrible pain than all the (censored) ever. I mean we got (censored) with (censored) and (censored) on (censored)! Old Johnny Ron would squirt himself. Our firepower is terrifying. I can literally devastate the entire surface of a (censored)-sized planet in (censored) ticks.
Shit! Almost forgot to tell you. This is crazy shit! Last (censored) I was in (censored) and this Urchin comes with wild-eyed fervor. Craziest little (censored) you ever saw. Something's nagged me about it for long times now. Glad to share it off my chest. So, this (censored) is dragging some mangled (censored) behind him and mumbling about (censored). Sudden like, it grabs me and says (censored). The bols of it is, just the day before I was (censored).
Can you believe that shit? Blown away! What does it all mean?
Anyway, got nothing else really to say. We're going Simming in a few minutes. I wanted to write, sir, and let you know that I'm well. I'm not really sure where they'll send me next or even when I'll be able to write. I always get mail tho. I'd love to hear from you.
Respectfully,
- Tom
SQE: asdlkwoe224weplo43keyuiwfermx535owi567em23xo12wx6ie5ejml8976kaw137ew12e4x09az
### END XM ###
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Interview With A Green Sucker Faced Monster
Good evening, it's Maria Comet Ingersol here live and in 5senz! Be sure to smell me everywhere lovers! I'm with the Grand Manchuzian Glogsplotter of the Sacred Church of the Neglected himself, Fran Juuploop!
Fran, it's been ages since we last snarled at each other!
"To true Little Snorka! I am surprised none of The People has eaten you yet."
Bols Fran, you kidder. Let's nano right in: How do you feel when humans name you 'green sucker faced monsters?'
"Is terribly hurtful to us. We are peaceful race. We have lovely culture with thousand year galactic history. Our only wish is to learn."
Yeah, Fran, but what about the rumors that you eat people?
"Those are vicious lies! Shame on you Snorka for spreading lies about us! I thought you were friend to The People."
Sorry Fran. I just wanted to goad you a chance to share your side. I meant no damage.
"I accept, Maria Comet Ingersol Snorka. You have been good human friend to The People. It is hurtful to us that you believe we steal your people away. We have always sought peace with neighbors. We shared so much together and yet there still is doubt. It saddens me."
Fran, would you level share us something about your Church?
"Skkkreeek! Delicious fang pleasures! Snaaarrrrr... ... Forgive me Snorka. I am always happy to speak of my gods to any who ask for it. It is wonderful that we can share their teachings. Our gods do not ask for prayer or worship. They require us to study, learn and to add to the knowledge of The People. The greatest gift we can give our gods is knowledge so we dedicate our lives to finding wisdom and truth to share with all who come freely."
"It was we who invented what humans call the Grid so that we may share knowledge with one another. Not just ideas but experiences, memories, senses, feelings, sensations, the full sum. And humans have embraced Gridsense wholeheartedly. You have invented thousands of new applications and uses. Truly astonishing how creative your people are."
"It is our belief that humans are gift from our gods. We were meant to find you at time in our existence when we beginning to stale. Your energy opens our minds in new directions. We welcome all who seek knowledge and wish to share. The Sacred Church of the Neglected is place where you can blossom in supportive and fun environment."
Fran, you've come under heavy criticism from the Christian Church. They allege that you are seeking to draw off the most creative and talented human engineers to work for you. They say it's part of your plot to control the human race. And then there's more nasty rumors.
"Look Snorka, I know Christian God. I have learned of him in my travels. I have great respect for his power. He is able to instill hysteria into his chosen followers and commit them to great and terrible acts. It is frightful to see deity so directly involved in the affairs of his followers. Our gods much more distant. We don't bother them, they don't bother us."
"It is true that your human history proves that Christian God can be very dangerous. Shall we count the wars or atrocities? I have no desire to mix with Christian God nor his followers. They frighten me. Please speak of something else."
What about your Church's pornography? Some of your works are very explicit. What about the 5sense addicts? Or the people that have been psychologically damaged from explicit content?
"We have made arrangements to heal those who have suffered damages. If we cannot heal, we will take their care... Skkkreeek!... and compensated their families. We urge everyone effected to join our lawsuit against Palindrome ZeroG, the manufacturers of the Ego Filter software. We were certain that human egos were too frail for full 5sense. We apologize for the pain this error has caused and we have already fixed it."
"We urge you to be careful when consuming 5sense pornography. The more explicit reels are labeled for your protection. We recommend that humans interested in consuming explicit content should first run free training sim at our Gridsite. Try free today! Nav over, your fantasies alive in 5sense! Or come by the Sacred Church of the Neglected... Snaaarrr..."
Fran you old con artist! That's two ads you've snuck in! You'll hear from ads for payment.
"Worth every credit Snorka. Looooorrrhh. Slurp."
You know, I've been finaling to ask you a question since we first met. What's "Snorka" mean in human?
"After dinner mint."
This is Maria Comet Ingersol...
"Skkkreeek! Fang pleasures!"
...reporting live from Manchuzia on GalactiVision in 5sense. If you found tonight's naughty message visit my Gridsite for a free prize! Good night.
Fran, it's been ages since we last snarled at each other!
"To true Little Snorka! I am surprised none of The People has eaten you yet."
Bols Fran, you kidder. Let's nano right in: How do you feel when humans name you 'green sucker faced monsters?'
"Is terribly hurtful to us. We are peaceful race. We have lovely culture with thousand year galactic history. Our only wish is to learn."
Yeah, Fran, but what about the rumors that you eat people?
"Those are vicious lies! Shame on you Snorka for spreading lies about us! I thought you were friend to The People."
Sorry Fran. I just wanted to goad you a chance to share your side. I meant no damage.
"I accept, Maria Comet Ingersol Snorka. You have been good human friend to The People. It is hurtful to us that you believe we steal your people away. We have always sought peace with neighbors. We shared so much together and yet there still is doubt. It saddens me."
Fran, would you level share us something about your Church?
"Skkkreeek! Delicious fang pleasures! Snaaarrrrr... ... Forgive me Snorka. I am always happy to speak of my gods to any who ask for it. It is wonderful that we can share their teachings. Our gods do not ask for prayer or worship. They require us to study, learn and to add to the knowledge of The People. The greatest gift we can give our gods is knowledge so we dedicate our lives to finding wisdom and truth to share with all who come freely."
"It was we who invented what humans call the Grid so that we may share knowledge with one another. Not just ideas but experiences, memories, senses, feelings, sensations, the full sum. And humans have embraced Gridsense wholeheartedly. You have invented thousands of new applications and uses. Truly astonishing how creative your people are."
"It is our belief that humans are gift from our gods. We were meant to find you at time in our existence when we beginning to stale. Your energy opens our minds in new directions. We welcome all who seek knowledge and wish to share. The Sacred Church of the Neglected is place where you can blossom in supportive and fun environment."
Fran, you've come under heavy criticism from the Christian Church. They allege that you are seeking to draw off the most creative and talented human engineers to work for you. They say it's part of your plot to control the human race. And then there's more nasty rumors.
"Look Snorka, I know Christian God. I have learned of him in my travels. I have great respect for his power. He is able to instill hysteria into his chosen followers and commit them to great and terrible acts. It is frightful to see deity so directly involved in the affairs of his followers. Our gods much more distant. We don't bother them, they don't bother us."
"It is true that your human history proves that Christian God can be very dangerous. Shall we count the wars or atrocities? I have no desire to mix with Christian God nor his followers. They frighten me. Please speak of something else."
What about your Church's pornography? Some of your works are very explicit. What about the 5sense addicts? Or the people that have been psychologically damaged from explicit content?
"We have made arrangements to heal those who have suffered damages. If we cannot heal, we will take their care... Skkkreeek!... and compensated their families. We urge everyone effected to join our lawsuit against Palindrome ZeroG, the manufacturers of the Ego Filter software. We were certain that human egos were too frail for full 5sense. We apologize for the pain this error has caused and we have already fixed it."
"We urge you to be careful when consuming 5sense pornography. The more explicit reels are labeled for your protection. We recommend that humans interested in consuming explicit content should first run free training sim at our Gridsite. Try free today! Nav over, your fantasies alive in 5sense! Or come by the Sacred Church of the Neglected... Snaaarrr..."
Fran you old con artist! That's two ads you've snuck in! You'll hear from ads for payment.
"Worth every credit Snorka. Looooorrrhh. Slurp."
You know, I've been finaling to ask you a question since we first met. What's "Snorka" mean in human?
"After dinner mint."
This is Maria Comet Ingersol...
"Skkkreeek! Fang pleasures!"
...reporting live from Manchuzia on GalactiVision in 5sense. If you found tonight's naughty message visit my Gridsite for a free prize! Good night.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Pay Back
Dressed in his most magnificent Centauri tuxedo, Arthur Thornton Worthheimer III stood ready to plunge to his death from the 255th story penthouse of the luxury Carlyle Towers on Serendipity.
His wealth was staggering. His life had been one of complete wealth and power. Presidents begged to meet him, emperors kissed his feet. As part of his charitable works, he once donated 50% of his annual income and cured space herpes.
A pillar of the interstellar elite, he enhanced his reputation by offering gifts of 1 million credits every hour. It was wildly popular and generated hordes of great publicity. No one ever believed for a moment that it was possible to hack a Galactic Bank credit card.
Only yesterday he had been the wealthiest human in the universe. He controlled the lives of trillions of people. He had all the trappings of power and prestige. Now he was just a tired, worn out, poor old man standing on a rooftop in the rain.
The officials at the Galactic Bank were very apologetic. There was nothing they could do. The money had simply vanished. All they could tell him was that at exactly 12:00:52 local time, while he was giving away the $1 million credits, an external credit card computer connected to his card. Somehow it was able to hack through their 100 year unbeaten security system and issue an order for the immediate transfer of all accounts owned by Mr Arthur Thornton Worthheimer III. Somehow it was also then able to delete all records of the transfers before unleashing a malware attack which crippled the Galactic Bank planetary grid for 16 hours.
Somehow the damn press got wind of the story and all hell broke loose. Overnight people stopped using bank cards. The galactic economy froze to a halt. Top economists predicted the recession would last 2-3 years until public confidence returned. Half the security staff at Galactic Bank were immediately fired except for the Chief Security Officer who was imprisoned as per the terms of his contract.
Because of the enormous drop in Galactic Bank stock, management immediately triggered the Substantial Harm clause of the contract signed by Artie Worthheimer when he opened his accounts. This caused all remaining assets of Mr Worthheimer to be immediately transferred to Galactic Bank in order to recoup their losses. Salivating for fees, lawyers massed on both sides in preparation for the 100 year court battle which never came.
In short, Arthur Thornton Worthheimer III was ruined. Broke. Flat on his back, out of business, busted. Cooked.
He raised his eyes to the heavens one last time to watch the Google constellation roll by. How could this have happened? Who could have done it? But Google offered no answers.
So he jumped.
That's how it works here in the Universe. Most people live their entire lives in peace, only being treated like an enemy by their government. And others, like Mr Worthheimer, make the terrible mistake of making powerful enemies.
His wealth was staggering. His life had been one of complete wealth and power. Presidents begged to meet him, emperors kissed his feet. As part of his charitable works, he once donated 50% of his annual income and cured space herpes.
A pillar of the interstellar elite, he enhanced his reputation by offering gifts of 1 million credits every hour. It was wildly popular and generated hordes of great publicity. No one ever believed for a moment that it was possible to hack a Galactic Bank credit card.
Only yesterday he had been the wealthiest human in the universe. He controlled the lives of trillions of people. He had all the trappings of power and prestige. Now he was just a tired, worn out, poor old man standing on a rooftop in the rain.
The officials at the Galactic Bank were very apologetic. There was nothing they could do. The money had simply vanished. All they could tell him was that at exactly 12:00:52 local time, while he was giving away the $1 million credits, an external credit card computer connected to his card. Somehow it was able to hack through their 100 year unbeaten security system and issue an order for the immediate transfer of all accounts owned by Mr Arthur Thornton Worthheimer III. Somehow it was also then able to delete all records of the transfers before unleashing a malware attack which crippled the Galactic Bank planetary grid for 16 hours.
Somehow the damn press got wind of the story and all hell broke loose. Overnight people stopped using bank cards. The galactic economy froze to a halt. Top economists predicted the recession would last 2-3 years until public confidence returned. Half the security staff at Galactic Bank were immediately fired except for the Chief Security Officer who was imprisoned as per the terms of his contract.
Because of the enormous drop in Galactic Bank stock, management immediately triggered the Substantial Harm clause of the contract signed by Artie Worthheimer when he opened his accounts. This caused all remaining assets of Mr Worthheimer to be immediately transferred to Galactic Bank in order to recoup their losses. Salivating for fees, lawyers massed on both sides in preparation for the 100 year court battle which never came.
In short, Arthur Thornton Worthheimer III was ruined. Broke. Flat on his back, out of business, busted. Cooked.
He raised his eyes to the heavens one last time to watch the Google constellation roll by. How could this have happened? Who could have done it? But Google offered no answers.
So he jumped.
That's how it works here in the Universe. Most people live their entire lives in peace, only being treated like an enemy by their government. And others, like Mr Worthheimer, make the terrible mistake of making powerful enemies.
Monday, December 21, 2009
The Discovery of Zero Point Energy
"The Discovery of Zero Point Energy"
by W. Willis
HS1103
According to quantum physics, the fabric of reality is in constant motion. When humanz figured out how to harness this energy, we solves many problems. This quantum energy is called Zero Point Energy, and it made modernity (likes void jumping and e-vox) possible.
And it seems that Professor Federico Capasso from Harvard University (Old Home/NAC) might have just taken the first step towards its. By harnessing quantum changes, Capasso was able to make two eensy small objects move sidebys. The two object were electron micro itsy bitsy nano tiny but yous gots to build on something. Brainiacs built on and now we has star drives and hull burners for void ships and all the pretty joys of modernity.
And, because Prof likes it when we includes quotes from long dead smart guys:
------------------------------------
Dear Professor Blatfast,
I have done my best but this is floxing boring. Bols, who cares about ancients?
:: Bill
"When the florx are in your hair, start fires to kill." ~Shan Chu Rissa
by W. Willis
HS1103
According to quantum physics, the fabric of reality is in constant motion. When humanz figured out how to harness this energy, we solves many problems. This quantum energy is called Zero Point Energy, and it made modernity (likes void jumping and e-vox) possible.
And it seems that Professor Federico Capasso from Harvard University (Old Home/NAC) might have just taken the first step towards its. By harnessing quantum changes, Capasso was able to make two eensy small objects move sidebys. The two object were electron micro itsy bitsy nano tiny but yous gots to build on something. Brainiacs built on and now we has star drives and hull burners for void ships and all the pretty joys of modernity.
And, because Prof likes it when we includes quotes from long dead smart guys:
"[E]verywhere there is energy... There must be some way of availing ourselves of this energy more directly. [W]ith the power derived from it...humanity will advance with giant strides."
~Nikola Tesla, 1891 (possible creator of Tesla Madcap Fair on Mingl VII? I was to research it but ran out of time since my crocker gran went crit.)This is my report on the discovery of Zero Points Energy which is very importantly for modern life else we'd still be stuck on Old Home banging rocks for fire and without Mongorian Klop.
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Dear Professor Blatfast,
I have done my best but this is floxing boring. Bols, who cares about ancients?
:: Bill
"When the florx are in your hair, start fires to kill." ~Shan Chu Rissa
Thursday, August 13, 2009
The Rogue Annointed
Confederation political hero Jefferson Wheeler was dying.
The shuttle accident had caused irreparable damage to his body. Fortunately, he had a clone waiting.
The Emergency Medical Personnel rushed his gasping body to the hospital. The EMPs frantically applied all their training to stretch Mr. Wheeler's life. Meanwhile, cortical recorders downloaded his memories into the ambulance's storage grid while simulanteously writing to his online backup. Without any serious screw-ups, he was going to make it.
Plus he'd have the added benefit of the clone's younger body. Jefferson Wheeler was not the kind of spendthrift who would go through the expense of cloning for merely cosmetic reasons. But his life insurance required him to maintain a clone.
The clone was force grown on Nevada IX at the new ElectroLife Lab satellite complex. It was in storage at Sinai Mass Bay Hospital across town. It was currently being rushed to Sisters of Ongoxspew from the opposite direction. With luck, the clone would arrive before Mr. Wheeler.
The surgeons were alerted of the inbound ambulance and were prepared to meet it at the docking clamp. Slipping Jefferson Wheeler into a stasis pod, they were able to make enough repairs to guarantee a complete memory download. It was never good to leave out the death in the memories. It significantly decreases the odds of clone rejection if you remember the death of your old body.
With the memory backup complete, the husk of Jefferson Wheeler was allowed to naturally expire. According to his Living Will, his former body was cremated and placed in an urn for later collection. The clone was successfully rehydrated and deglazed of freezer burn. The neurosurgeons began the memory implantation process.
...
All in all, it went very well. The brain's Executive Functions came through at 98% which had the doctors high-fiving later than night over drinks. It was a textbook clone migration.
...
Except that the memories of Mr. Jefferson Wheeler were somehow replaced by Chisriack Gloop's, a xenoGnome janitor from Pokeipski township. Poor Mr. Gloop had donated his body to science and apparently his memories were included. He was in hysterics for 3 hours after his revival. Apparently he made his donation 133 years ago so he had some trouble adjusting.
The Mother Superior of the Sisters of Ongoxspew Hospital ordered a complete audit of the entire neurosurgery department. All further clone migrations have been rerouted to other hospitals until someone is blamed for this terrible incident. In the end, it will likely be some low-level computer technician who will suffer. Scapegoats are always useful.
The investigation would find that a millisecond after the upload of Jefferson Wheeler's entire memory, the files were erased. A millisecond later, the memories of Chisriack Gloop uploaded. Strangely, the company paid to host Mr. Wheeler's backup had suffered a catastrophic server failure and lost his files too.
Jefferson Wheeler was truly, forever dead.
Needless to say, the lawyers are going to have a field day. Widow Wheeler is sure to hire an army of legal gunslingers to rain terrible e-subpoenas on the Sister's heads. The Sisters will fight back valiantly on the media holos. In the end the insurance company will take a hit and everyone will get on with tormenting other people.
That's how it works here in the Universe. Most people live their entire lives in peace, only being treated like an enemy by their government. And others, like Mr. Wheeler, make the terrible mistake of making powerful enemies.
And none could be worse than one of the Annointed.
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