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....
Showing posts with label Heretic-In-Chief. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Heretic-In-Chief. Show all posts
Friday, March 26, 2010
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.
------------------------------------
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.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
Sun, Sex and the Elvii - A Reconn Mission Briefing
He hated to admit it, but he really liked the chromosphere. There was something amazing about roasting in the top layer of a star, like a beach vacation with his family a long time ago. He remembered basking and playing for hours in the sun, sand and surf. And while there weren't any beaches in the star, it still felt very relaxing.
But he wasn't there for RnR. He checked his neural nanites to monitor the progress of his reconnaissance mission. The Elvii had built a space station in an otherwise unremarkable star system and somebody up the chain of command wanted to know why.
According to his records, the Elvii were a religious sect. It all started with the Aelfiin first contact. After a 250 year journey to colonize a world at Star 1472-2346-432-2-A-3466525, the Aeelfiin found humans had already been there for 129 years. After lots of hand wringing (and arm twisting), the politicians agreed that the Aelfiin "refugees" should be given "sanctuary."
Well, low and behold, humans did it again. It seems there isn't a space species that some human will not sleep with. Even the green sucker-faced monsters have groupies. So, some human colonists had sex with Aelfiin and made a little half-breed race called Aeltizos. After a time, the Aeltizos got tired of being treated like losers so they struck out on their own. They colonized a few moons in the system's gas giant and started a culture of their own, including lots of religions. And some of those religions have a tendency to get out of hand.
The most fascinating fact about the Elvii religion was the constant dancing, singing and getting jiggy.
So now Sergeant Thomas Garson of the 125th Mechanized Assault Recon Division (Pickled Punks) was hiding under the solar corona of Star 1472-2346-432-2-B-3466587 to watch a space station filled with wacky Elvii. If these religious nuts were planning to do something bad, it was his job to do something much worse to them first.
Not the most exciting job in the universe, but there were some perks. Besides, all n00b FNGs get crap assignments.
Fortunately, military life is all about routine. It kept him busy and active. His favorite was weapons practice. There was something incredibly gratifying about blowing holy hell out of a star! The best part is that you can't ever win. Not without some help anyway.
The Elvii wrote it off as "increased solar activity" and went right back to jiggling their hips, singing and chasing each other for sex.
When shooting into the star was over, he still had to monitor mission progress (automated at every 15 seconds), scan all data for keyed threats, perform system-wide sensor sweeps, chart and diagram everything larger than a golf ball, run diagnostic scans, monitor all quantum foam activity, perform routine maintenance and always with the damn reports! He even mapped the Hawking radiation to calculate the exact spacial dimensions of the nearby blackhole.
Year 1 was troublesome. All the Elvii on the space station were in combat training. An odd unarmed martial arts style they called Kingfu. This style seemed to combine a deep understanding of balance, leverage and dancing. There were never any weapons but some studied techniques for smashing stringed instruments over each other's heads. In either case, the Elvii are accomplished and capable unarmed fighters.
But he wasn't there for RnR. He checked his neural nanites to monitor the progress of his reconnaissance mission. The Elvii had built a space station in an otherwise unremarkable star system and somebody up the chain of command wanted to know why.
According to his records, the Elvii were a religious sect. It all started with the Aelfiin first contact. After a 250 year journey to colonize a world at Star 1472-2346-432-2-A-3466525, the Aeelfiin found humans had already been there for 129 years. After lots of hand wringing (and arm twisting), the politicians agreed that the Aelfiin "refugees" should be given "sanctuary."
Well, low and behold, humans did it again. It seems there isn't a space species that some human will not sleep with. Even the green sucker-faced monsters have groupies. So, some human colonists had sex with Aelfiin and made a little half-breed race called Aeltizos. After a time, the Aeltizos got tired of being treated like losers so they struck out on their own. They colonized a few moons in the system's gas giant and started a culture of their own, including lots of religions. And some of those religions have a tendency to get out of hand.
The most fascinating fact about the Elvii religion was the constant dancing, singing and getting jiggy.
So now Sergeant Thomas Garson of the 125th Mechanized Assault Recon Division (Pickled Punks) was hiding under the solar corona of Star 1472-2346-432-2-B-3466587 to watch a space station filled with wacky Elvii. If these religious nuts were planning to do something bad, it was his job to do something much worse to them first.
Not the most exciting job in the universe, but there were some perks. Besides, all n00b FNGs get crap assignments.
Fortunately, military life is all about routine. It kept him busy and active. His favorite was weapons practice. There was something incredibly gratifying about blowing holy hell out of a star! The best part is that you can't ever win. Not without some help anyway.
The Elvii wrote it off as "increased solar activity" and went right back to jiggling their hips, singing and chasing each other for sex.
When shooting into the star was over, he still had to monitor mission progress (automated at every 15 seconds), scan all data for keyed threats, perform system-wide sensor sweeps, chart and diagram everything larger than a golf ball, run diagnostic scans, monitor all quantum foam activity, perform routine maintenance and always with the damn reports! He even mapped the Hawking radiation to calculate the exact spacial dimensions of the nearby blackhole.
Year 1 was troublesome. All the Elvii on the space station were in combat training. An odd unarmed martial arts style they called Kingfu. This style seemed to combine a deep understanding of balance, leverage and dancing. There were never any weapons but some studied techniques for smashing stringed instruments over each other's heads. In either case, the Elvii are accomplished and capable unarmed fighters.
..... Estimated time to eliminate all Elvii on station: 1.2 seconds.
During Year 2 things started to get interesting. The Elvii stopped all formal unarmed training to start racing in wooden hovers! They built huge race courses all throughout the space station. Hordes of Elvii raced in hovers and inflicted untold damage. Afterwards, the Elvii would fist fight in bars and other recreational areas. Nevertheless, they still made time for singing, dancing and chasing one another.
It was like the Elvii went absolutely nuts! Running around wearing dark-colored animal hide jackets and beating each other up. Or rioting with hovers! He recorded the best races and brawls into his neural personal space. These flixs where going to get gazillions of Grid hits!
The only reason they weren't on the Grid already was because he was hard-wired for radio silence. Those damn engineers had literally removed his transmitters. He was completely mute. As far as MechSergeant Garson was concerned all engineers were the spawn of hell. It wasn't that he hated them. Far from it. Their skills and knowledge gave him a body for each mission. It was just that they seemed to hate him. Very, very much.
Time passed and he did as he was trained to do. He hid in the roiling flames of a sun and watched the strangest events unfolding on board the Elvii space station.
In Year 3, the Elvii changed out of the animal hides and put on colorful synthetic cloths. Floral motifs were very popular and it wasn't uncommon for the Elvii to decorate each other with flowers. There was a 26.5% increase in random outbursts of singing and dancing. Except now there was 3 times more sex.
Garson was convinced it had something to do with the females' outfits. He remembered sex well enough to know those ladies looked amazing. He filled the rest of his personal neural storage allowance with those flixs. These were going to get 100 gazillion hits and earn him a waterfall of cash.
By Year 4 they switched out of the flower shirts and put on long flowing robes. The only real effect of the change in clothes was that the robes caused a 8 second delay in getting naked. Otherwise, the usual festivities continued unabated.
At the end of the 4th year the Elvii gathered to host one last enormous brawl followed by a phenomenal orgy. The following morning everyone boarded starbuses and scattered to major, nearby star systems.
He waited an additional six months to make sure the station was completely abandoned. But all was quiet. His mission completed, he left the inferno and returned home.
During Year 2 things started to get interesting. The Elvii stopped all formal unarmed training to start racing in wooden hovers! They built huge race courses all throughout the space station. Hordes of Elvii raced in hovers and inflicted untold damage. Afterwards, the Elvii would fist fight in bars and other recreational areas. Nevertheless, they still made time for singing, dancing and chasing one another.
It was like the Elvii went absolutely nuts! Running around wearing dark-colored animal hide jackets and beating each other up. Or rioting with hovers! He recorded the best races and brawls into his neural personal space. These flixs where going to get gazillions of Grid hits!
The only reason they weren't on the Grid already was because he was hard-wired for radio silence. Those damn engineers had literally removed his transmitters. He was completely mute. As far as MechSergeant Garson was concerned all engineers were the spawn of hell. It wasn't that he hated them. Far from it. Their skills and knowledge gave him a body for each mission. It was just that they seemed to hate him. Very, very much.
Time passed and he did as he was trained to do. He hid in the roiling flames of a sun and watched the strangest events unfolding on board the Elvii space station.
In Year 3, the Elvii changed out of the animal hides and put on colorful synthetic cloths. Floral motifs were very popular and it wasn't uncommon for the Elvii to decorate each other with flowers. There was a 26.5% increase in random outbursts of singing and dancing. Except now there was 3 times more sex.
Garson was convinced it had something to do with the females' outfits. He remembered sex well enough to know those ladies looked amazing. He filled the rest of his personal neural storage allowance with those flixs. These were going to get 100 gazillion hits and earn him a waterfall of cash.
By Year 4 they switched out of the flower shirts and put on long flowing robes. The only real effect of the change in clothes was that the robes caused a 8 second delay in getting naked. Otherwise, the usual festivities continued unabated.
At the end of the 4th year the Elvii gathered to host one last enormous brawl followed by a phenomenal orgy. The following morning everyone boarded starbuses and scattered to major, nearby star systems.
He waited an additional six months to make sure the station was completely abandoned. But all was quiet. His mission completed, he left the inferno and returned home.
Mission accomplished. The next mission better be more entertaining than this or he was going to start killing engineers...
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
A New Recruit
He floated in a a sea of darkness, no sight, no sound. Images of chaos and screams floated out of the darkness to torment him with nightmare memories. The screeching klaxons, acrid smoke pouring from the control panels, the moans and screams of his bros as the insertion vehicle died around them. The pilots called them "canned meat" because of the re-entry pods each trooper was locked into, but those pods weren't enough to save them. The nightmare images swirled around in a carousel of pain and remembered tragedy.
His mind replayed the mounting vertigo, the feel in the pit of his stomach as the high altitude vehicle plummeted thousands of meters towards a fiery collision with some very definite terra firma. He remembered the vomit in his helmet followed by the irrational shame of puking in his gear. He saw the panic stricken troopers in their pods across from him struggling against the inevitable. And the moment when forces overcame the vehicle's shell which ripped the insertion vehicle apart.
Obviously he was dead. No one could survive that horror. So, this silent, lightless void must be Hell. Judged and sent to perdition for his sins, he imagined a tear forming in his eye, but he had no eyes. He had no body anymore, he was just a disembodied mind. They say an amputee still feels his missing limb and so too could he feel his missing flesh. Trapped in a silent and never ending void, he cried out in incorporeal agony.
A flutter caught his attention and drew him out of his despair. It seemed like the tiniest vibration which he sent his awareness after in the hopes of breaking the eternal monotony. His attention focused on this vibration and encompassed it. And then the colors, sounds and feelings of life crashed in on him again.
He was lying on his back looking up at the light emitting Daedalus cells overhead. He was completely paralyzed but that did not bother him yet, especially when compared to the darkness he had just escaped. The room looked like every other hospital room he had ever been in, complete with force grown flowers which looked like iridescent purple daisies. The walls had the pale green color that seems the favorite of uncaring medical bureaucrats. There were people everywhere performing important looking tasks or they could just as easily have been wasting time. Looming over him, checking his vital statistics, was an enormous black skinned man with a bushy gray streaked beard and wearing a lab coat.
"Welcome back Private Garson," said the lab coat standing over him.
"Where am I?" asked Private Thomas Garson.
"Hospital ship Kevorkian in orbit around Nylon VI. You have suffered a significant trauma which resulted in the loss of 90% of your body. The rescue team that recovered you managed to put you into a stasis pod before your brain died. Don't worry, you're stable and you're gonna make it. Just get some rest now, the General wants to speak with you."
Afraid to sleep, Garson kept his eyes open. He realized he could easily look around the entire room with no difficulty but he could not see himself at all. No matter how hard he tried he could not see his body. After trying several times to move himself, he gave up. After an hour of waiting, the shortest officer he had ever seen marched in. His iron gray hair still showed signs of his last failed attempt at home hair coloring, but his uniform was pressed to perfection. His ramrod straight back screamed of self-importance but his shifting eyes betrayed his neuroses. His stripes revealed him to be the General the lab coat had mentioned earlier.
"Trooper Garson, I'm Major General Levy, Commander of the 125th Mechanized Assault Recon Division. We specialize in multi-environment combat," barked General Levy. "I'm here to offer you an opportunity to join our ranks. We are the best of the best, Trooper. Only those with the right psychological profile and physical condition are allowed to join my command. What do you say, boy?"
"Sir, I think you might be mistaken," neuralized Garson. "The doctors say I've lost 90% of my body, how can I possibly stay in the military?"
"Don't be stupid, son." replied General Levy. "I can't believe you've never heard of the 125th! The 125th Mechanized is a special discarnate unit. We issue you a body based on the mission requirements. You'll receive training in zero-g combat, extreme environmental combat, underwater combat and in all new advanced weapons systems. You'll become a member of the most elite unit in military history. A group of true warriors who use their brains to get the job done. But don't think for a minute you boys won't command the most hellacious fire power, because the 125th can bring down more pain per square meter than any unit in the army."
"Son, I'm handing you a golden opportunity on a silver platter. What the hell else are you going to do? Do you want to go home and be another wasted cripple? Do you want to burden your family with your care, or do you want to keep fighting to protect everything you believe in? Did I mention you get a significant bump in pay? "
"Thank you for the opportunity, sir. I think I should speak to my doctors before I make a decision though. I'm just not sure what my medical situation is at the moment."
"Look kid, your psych profile says you're perfect for this unit. Opportunities to be a hero don't come along every day. This isn't about doctors. It's about standing up and refusing to let something as bullshit as losing your body stop you from being a soldier. Your mind still works, we can provide you with a body."
Garson looked deep into General Levy's eyes and saw nothing but truth therein. Obviously he wasn't kidding.
"How does it work, sir?"
"Simple," said Levy. "First you say Yes. Then we transfer you out of this hospital ship and onto our combat carrier. What's left of you will be fitted into our special life support capsules. That will sustain you and keep you alive indefinitely. Then we'll start your training. You'll learn to pilot various combat mechs and other assault craft. By the time you're finished you'll be able to drive everything from the standard Predator class attack ships to assault tanks and even submarines.
"We'll upgrade your neural nanites with the latest small unit tactical combat software and we'll even implant you with a direct entangled comms line. When you deploy you'll be plugged directly into a mechanized body or vehicle. Usually, the 125th is sent for recon but we are occasionally called upon to eliminate small threats. You may work alone or in a team of three. You will operate completely independent of the command structure when deployed, which really means you'll only ever answer to me directly.
"What do you say, son? What's it going to be: 125th and glory or crippled at home?"
"I'm in."
"Welcome to the Pickled Punks, kid. You've made the right decision."
His mind replayed the mounting vertigo, the feel in the pit of his stomach as the high altitude vehicle plummeted thousands of meters towards a fiery collision with some very definite terra firma. He remembered the vomit in his helmet followed by the irrational shame of puking in his gear. He saw the panic stricken troopers in their pods across from him struggling against the inevitable. And the moment when forces overcame the vehicle's shell which ripped the insertion vehicle apart.
Obviously he was dead. No one could survive that horror. So, this silent, lightless void must be Hell. Judged and sent to perdition for his sins, he imagined a tear forming in his eye, but he had no eyes. He had no body anymore, he was just a disembodied mind. They say an amputee still feels his missing limb and so too could he feel his missing flesh. Trapped in a silent and never ending void, he cried out in incorporeal agony.
A flutter caught his attention and drew him out of his despair. It seemed like the tiniest vibration which he sent his awareness after in the hopes of breaking the eternal monotony. His attention focused on this vibration and encompassed it. And then the colors, sounds and feelings of life crashed in on him again.
He was lying on his back looking up at the light emitting Daedalus cells overhead. He was completely paralyzed but that did not bother him yet, especially when compared to the darkness he had just escaped. The room looked like every other hospital room he had ever been in, complete with force grown flowers which looked like iridescent purple daisies. The walls had the pale green color that seems the favorite of uncaring medical bureaucrats. There were people everywhere performing important looking tasks or they could just as easily have been wasting time. Looming over him, checking his vital statistics, was an enormous black skinned man with a bushy gray streaked beard and wearing a lab coat.
"Welcome back Private Garson," said the lab coat standing over him.
"Where am I?" asked Private Thomas Garson.
"Hospital ship Kevorkian in orbit around Nylon VI. You have suffered a significant trauma which resulted in the loss of 90% of your body. The rescue team that recovered you managed to put you into a stasis pod before your brain died. Don't worry, you're stable and you're gonna make it. Just get some rest now, the General wants to speak with you."
Afraid to sleep, Garson kept his eyes open. He realized he could easily look around the entire room with no difficulty but he could not see himself at all. No matter how hard he tried he could not see his body. After trying several times to move himself, he gave up. After an hour of waiting, the shortest officer he had ever seen marched in. His iron gray hair still showed signs of his last failed attempt at home hair coloring, but his uniform was pressed to perfection. His ramrod straight back screamed of self-importance but his shifting eyes betrayed his neuroses. His stripes revealed him to be the General the lab coat had mentioned earlier.
"Trooper Garson, I'm Major General Levy, Commander of the 125th Mechanized Assault Recon Division. We specialize in multi-environment combat," barked General Levy. "I'm here to offer you an opportunity to join our ranks. We are the best of the best, Trooper. Only those with the right psychological profile and physical condition are allowed to join my command. What do you say, boy?"
"Sir, I think you might be mistaken," neuralized Garson. "The doctors say I've lost 90% of my body, how can I possibly stay in the military?"
"Don't be stupid, son." replied General Levy. "I can't believe you've never heard of the 125th! The 125th Mechanized is a special discarnate unit. We issue you a body based on the mission requirements. You'll receive training in zero-g combat, extreme environmental combat, underwater combat and in all new advanced weapons systems. You'll become a member of the most elite unit in military history. A group of true warriors who use their brains to get the job done. But don't think for a minute you boys won't command the most hellacious fire power, because the 125th can bring down more pain per square meter than any unit in the army."
"Son, I'm handing you a golden opportunity on a silver platter. What the hell else are you going to do? Do you want to go home and be another wasted cripple? Do you want to burden your family with your care, or do you want to keep fighting to protect everything you believe in? Did I mention you get a significant bump in pay? "
"Thank you for the opportunity, sir. I think I should speak to my doctors before I make a decision though. I'm just not sure what my medical situation is at the moment."
"Look kid, your psych profile says you're perfect for this unit. Opportunities to be a hero don't come along every day. This isn't about doctors. It's about standing up and refusing to let something as bullshit as losing your body stop you from being a soldier. Your mind still works, we can provide you with a body."
Garson looked deep into General Levy's eyes and saw nothing but truth therein. Obviously he wasn't kidding.
"How does it work, sir?"
"Simple," said Levy. "First you say Yes. Then we transfer you out of this hospital ship and onto our combat carrier. What's left of you will be fitted into our special life support capsules. That will sustain you and keep you alive indefinitely. Then we'll start your training. You'll learn to pilot various combat mechs and other assault craft. By the time you're finished you'll be able to drive everything from the standard Predator class attack ships to assault tanks and even submarines.
"We'll upgrade your neural nanites with the latest small unit tactical combat software and we'll even implant you with a direct entangled comms line. When you deploy you'll be plugged directly into a mechanized body or vehicle. Usually, the 125th is sent for recon but we are occasionally called upon to eliminate small threats. You may work alone or in a team of three. You will operate completely independent of the command structure when deployed, which really means you'll only ever answer to me directly.
"What do you say, son? What's it going to be: 125th and glory or crippled at home?"
"I'm in."
"Welcome to the Pickled Punks, kid. You've made the right decision."
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Math Language
"Philosophy is written in this grand book— I mean the universe— which stands continually open to our gaze, but it cannot be understood unless one first learns to comprehend the language in which it is written. It is written in the language of mathematics, and its characters are triangles, circles, and other geometric figures, without which it is humanly impossible to understand a single word of it; without these, one is wandering about in a dark labyrinth."
~Galileo Galilei
"Born of man's primitive urge to seek order in his world, mathematics is an ever-evolving language for the study of structure and pattern. Grounded in and renewed by physical reality, mathematics rises through sheer intellectual curiosity to levels of abstraction and generality where unexpected, beautiful, and often extremely useful connections and patterns emerge. Mathematics is the natural home of both abstract thought and the laws of nature. It is at once pure logic and creative art."
~ Seymour Papert
~Galileo Galilei
"Born of man's primitive urge to seek order in his world, mathematics is an ever-evolving language for the study of structure and pattern. Grounded in and renewed by physical reality, mathematics rises through sheer intellectual curiosity to levels of abstraction and generality where unexpected, beautiful, and often extremely useful connections and patterns emerge. Mathematics is the natural home of both abstract thought and the laws of nature. It is at once pure logic and creative art."~ Seymour Papert
"God is a Mathematician"
~ Sir James Jeans
Thursday, October 16, 2008
The Battle of Nouva Roma
"These rustics are obviously suffering from delusions," snarled Political Officer Alexi Grushenko. Admiral Xiaopeng Chin ignored him as he examined the data relayed to his neural nanites by the bridge Combat Grid. Pinpoints of red designated the motley collection of enemy vessels hovering like a malevolent cloud over planet Nouva Roma. His flagship, NCV Independence, had just punched through spacetime to arrive 250,000 kilometers from orbit.
A new neural feed from Sensor Officer, Lieutenant John Smith-Rodriguez: "Admiral, hostile craft are powering up engines and realigning trajectories towards Independence. Estimate 6 minutes to intercept."
Pale pink lines extrapolated from enemy alignment vectors resolved into a standard Two Crossed Fists attack pattern. Chin smiled. Rustics, indeed.
"Battle group, disengage tethers and await combat orders. Shield control, charge up the projectors. Sensors, full multispherical sweeps."
As the thoughts left Chin's mind, the Assault Carrier sprang into action. Eight Dreadnaught class battle platforms detached and fired their engines to distance themselves from Independence. Each platform bristled with missile launchers, rail guns, twenty-five Capture class marine transports and one magnificent singularity cannon. A swarm of 10,000 Predator class attack drones catapulted out of their racks and into the coldness of space. Each Predator equipped with one sensor/comm satellite and nine missiles capable of traveling at maximum speeds of 0.25c. All attack space craft detached from Independence to form into the Unfolding Fan defense exactly 25 kilometers away.
"Safe distance reached," sang out Sensor Officer Smith-Rodriguez. He had the annoying habit (probably from his ancestors) of speaking aloud.
"Engage shields," neuralized Admiral Chin.
Power shunted and the shield projectors rumbled to life. As they folded energy into the 4th dimension, the projectors emitted a millimeter thick time warping bubble at a distance of 10 kilometers. The bubble could not actually stop anything moving towards them, but it would slow it down long enough for Independence's point defense rail cannons to blow it to atoms.
"Ensign, open a channel to commander of hostile fleet."
"Aye, sir. Channel open."
"Attention hostile fleet this is Naval Carrier Vessel Independence. Disengage attack vectors, power down all engines and weapons and prepare to be boarded. This is your only warning."
Static harmonics crackled as translation software massaged the reply: "Independence, this is the Voice of God. We have claimed the planet below in the name of God. Interference with our Crusade is a sin. Flee before our Holy Might."
"Joy," though Chin with a healthy note of sarcasm. "Crusading fundamentalists." He sent a search request through his neurals to gather all available data on the Voice of God religious sect.
"Sir, sensors reporting class, registry and armaments of hostile fleet," cried Smith-Rodriguez. "Total of 2,182 space craft."
Chin reviewed the list that scrolled through his neural HUD. Only the Dominant class ship posed a real threat. In less than one second he designated kill zones and assigned his combat resources accordingly. The Dominant earned its own kill zone with Dreadnaughts Wright and Sikorsky ordered to "indulge themselves."
Four seconds later, the singularity cannons on Wright and Sikorsky aligned their focal antennaes to intersect at a point in space just ahead of the Dominant. Energy cells folded power into the quantum foam at the foci to form a micro-miniature black hole in space. When the Dominant passed through it, a point-sized singularity ripped through the armor plating, first piercing the life support cabin then the engine compartment. Explosive decompression did the rest. Within seconds the enemy ship was an expanding cloud of wreckage with no survivors. After eight seconds, the singularity dissolved back into the q-foam.
The Predator drones leapt forth like birds of prey at the enemy. Hostile vessels launched missiles and fired mass cannons at the oncoming Predators. Responding swarms of smart missiles smashed into their targets and lit up the void with plasma detonations as carbo-titanium nosecones impacted at a quarter the speed of light in a cataclysmic assertion of Newtonian physics. There was no need for the explosive warheads of old; the massive release of energy was enough to destroy anything and everything in range.
"Break through sector thirty-six!" screamed Smith-Rodriguez onto the silent bridge. "Two inbounds have contacted the stasis bubble."
With a thought, Admiral Chin oriented six point defense rail guns to open fire on each inbound missile. The first missile died as a one kilo ball bearing sheared through the onboard computer rendering the weapon into another chunk of space junk. The second missile proved more persistent and required no less than six direct hits before succumbing to the damage. "Six hits! Must be some kind of record," thought out Politico Grushenko.
Sixty percent of the enemy fleet was destroyed or too damaged to fight on. Independence however had only lost eight percent Predator drones and no platforms. Marine transports departed from the platforms to seize the damaged ships and to retrieve emergency lifeboats. Enemy vessels turned to flee; if they could get far enough they would jump to safety.
"Destroy them all before they escape!" demanded Grushenko. "They must not be allowed to spread their poison."
Bols to you Grushenko, though Admiral Chin privately. Political Officers kept up with all the political wrangling within the Confederation Assembly. They were supposed to advise the senior flag officer on the political ramifications of any action, not to issue orders. Arguing with him now would lead to more trouble than the lives of the fundamentalists were worth. But it still pissed him off.
Ten minutes from when Independence first punched into Nouva Roma's solar system, it was all over. Predators chased and destroyed all the remaining fundamentalist space craft. More than 300 prisoners were captured by the marines and dropped into stasis chambers for transit to trial then penal colonies. Losses were within acceptable margins and no pilots suffered mental collapse from piloting 100 Predators each under combat conditions.
"Independence Battle Group, stand down."
The battle was over. Yet another victory credited to Admiral Xiaopeng Chin in his long and acclaimed career. Somewhere in the vastness of space, he silently prayed there was a real challenge for his brilliance; a worthy enemy that would test his skills.
Maybe one day, he thought privately.
A new neural feed from Sensor Officer, Lieutenant John Smith-Rodriguez: "Admiral, hostile craft are powering up engines and realigning trajectories towards Independence. Estimate 6 minutes to intercept."
Pale pink lines extrapolated from enemy alignment vectors resolved into a standard Two Crossed Fists attack pattern. Chin smiled. Rustics, indeed.
"Battle group, disengage tethers and await combat orders. Shield control, charge up the projectors. Sensors, full multispherical sweeps."
As the thoughts left Chin's mind, the Assault Carrier sprang into action. Eight Dreadnaught class battle platforms detached and fired their engines to distance themselves from Independence. Each platform bristled with missile launchers, rail guns, twenty-five Capture class marine transports and one magnificent singularity cannon. A swarm of 10,000 Predator class attack drones catapulted out of their racks and into the coldness of space. Each Predator equipped with one sensor/comm satellite and nine missiles capable of traveling at maximum speeds of 0.25c. All attack space craft detached from Independence to form into the Unfolding Fan defense exactly 25 kilometers away.
"Safe distance reached," sang out Sensor Officer Smith-Rodriguez. He had the annoying habit (probably from his ancestors) of speaking aloud.
"Engage shields," neuralized Admiral Chin.
Power shunted and the shield projectors rumbled to life. As they folded energy into the 4th dimension, the projectors emitted a millimeter thick time warping bubble at a distance of 10 kilometers. The bubble could not actually stop anything moving towards them, but it would slow it down long enough for Independence's point defense rail cannons to blow it to atoms.
"Ensign, open a channel to commander of hostile fleet."
"Aye, sir. Channel open."
"Attention hostile fleet this is Naval Carrier Vessel Independence. Disengage attack vectors, power down all engines and weapons and prepare to be boarded. This is your only warning."
Static harmonics crackled as translation software massaged the reply: "Independence, this is the Voice of God. We have claimed the planet below in the name of God. Interference with our Crusade is a sin. Flee before our Holy Might."
"Joy," though Chin with a healthy note of sarcasm. "Crusading fundamentalists." He sent a search request through his neurals to gather all available data on the Voice of God religious sect.
"Sir, sensors reporting class, registry and armaments of hostile fleet," cried Smith-Rodriguez. "Total of 2,182 space craft."
Chin reviewed the list that scrolled through his neural HUD. Only the Dominant class ship posed a real threat. In less than one second he designated kill zones and assigned his combat resources accordingly. The Dominant earned its own kill zone with Dreadnaughts Wright and Sikorsky ordered to "indulge themselves."
Four seconds later, the singularity cannons on Wright and Sikorsky aligned their focal antennaes to intersect at a point in space just ahead of the Dominant. Energy cells folded power into the quantum foam at the foci to form a micro-miniature black hole in space. When the Dominant passed through it, a point-sized singularity ripped through the armor plating, first piercing the life support cabin then the engine compartment. Explosive decompression did the rest. Within seconds the enemy ship was an expanding cloud of wreckage with no survivors. After eight seconds, the singularity dissolved back into the q-foam.
The Predator drones leapt forth like birds of prey at the enemy. Hostile vessels launched missiles and fired mass cannons at the oncoming Predators. Responding swarms of smart missiles smashed into their targets and lit up the void with plasma detonations as carbo-titanium nosecones impacted at a quarter the speed of light in a cataclysmic assertion of Newtonian physics. There was no need for the explosive warheads of old; the massive release of energy was enough to destroy anything and everything in range.
"Break through sector thirty-six!" screamed Smith-Rodriguez onto the silent bridge. "Two inbounds have contacted the stasis bubble."
With a thought, Admiral Chin oriented six point defense rail guns to open fire on each inbound missile. The first missile died as a one kilo ball bearing sheared through the onboard computer rendering the weapon into another chunk of space junk. The second missile proved more persistent and required no less than six direct hits before succumbing to the damage. "Six hits! Must be some kind of record," thought out Politico Grushenko.
Sixty percent of the enemy fleet was destroyed or too damaged to fight on. Independence however had only lost eight percent Predator drones and no platforms. Marine transports departed from the platforms to seize the damaged ships and to retrieve emergency lifeboats. Enemy vessels turned to flee; if they could get far enough they would jump to safety.
"Destroy them all before they escape!" demanded Grushenko. "They must not be allowed to spread their poison."
Bols to you Grushenko, though Admiral Chin privately. Political Officers kept up with all the political wrangling within the Confederation Assembly. They were supposed to advise the senior flag officer on the political ramifications of any action, not to issue orders. Arguing with him now would lead to more trouble than the lives of the fundamentalists were worth. But it still pissed him off.
Ten minutes from when Independence first punched into Nouva Roma's solar system, it was all over. Predators chased and destroyed all the remaining fundamentalist space craft. More than 300 prisoners were captured by the marines and dropped into stasis chambers for transit to trial then penal colonies. Losses were within acceptable margins and no pilots suffered mental collapse from piloting 100 Predators each under combat conditions.
"Independence Battle Group, stand down."
The battle was over. Yet another victory credited to Admiral Xiaopeng Chin in his long and acclaimed career. Somewhere in the vastness of space, he silently prayed there was a real challenge for his brilliance; a worthy enemy that would test his skills.
Maybe one day, he thought privately.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
The Age of Energy: A Historical Summary
Humans have come through many great advances in our history. We have divided our technological history through a series of Ages. We started in the Ice Age then Stone, Copper, Bronze, Iron, Classical, Dark, Middle, Industrial, Information, Biotechnical and finally into the Energy Age. It was a time of great change for humankind. Finally, we were able to solve the greatest problem of human history: energy.
Back in ancient times, energy was mostly created by burning hydrocarbons to release pent up chemical energy. Industrial equipment, based on mechanical systems, converted a fraction of the hydrocarbon's potential energy into useable energy in the form of either motion or electricity[1]. Because these systems were woefully inefficient, only the smallest fraction of available energy was harnessed. As strange as it may sound, these same processes powered the earth for centuries.
Most historians agree that the Age of Energy official began in the year 2058 with the creation of the first Daedalus Screen by Dr. Fwad Malik of ARAMCO. Dr Malik based his invention on the previously discredited Theory of Potential Dynamics by Professor Ian E. Morris[2]. The Daedalus Screen was originally developed to be a super efficiency solar panel. However, when preliminary tests showed that the total output of the Screens exceeded the total visible light input, it was clear that a major discovery had occurred; the new cells were converting all radiated energy.
As everyone is aware, Dr Malik had invented the superconverter,[3] a device capable of converting 99% of all radiation into electricity. Within months, new versions of the cell were developed that could produce any kind of energy. But Dr Malik feared that the fundamentalist King of Saudi Arabia would destroy the new invention, so he published the processes involved in the creation of his Daedalus screens to the world through the Grid. Within two weeks, Dr. Fwad Malik died under mysterious circumstances.
By 2061, the first Daedalus cell was born when scientists from Lawrence Livermore National Laboratories encased a gram of uranium in a cylinder of the Daedalus material. By tooling the cells to convert all released radiation, these new batteries provided power for the 10,000 year lifetime of the radioactive isotope. The first Daedalus cell batteries were small and were mostly used in small electronics devices. Daedalus cells output constant energy levels regardless of use. All power generated in excess of demand is converted into neutrinos and released to decay in order to comply with the Laws of Conservation of Energy. Electronic devices had to be redesigned to include power regulators to control the flow of electrical power.
In 2062, the first private conveyance called "automobile" was produced using Daedalus technology. By 2066 most homes had disconnected from public power utilities[4] in favor of large scale Daedalus cells. The previous energy producing nation-states[5] either faced economic collapse or were forced to adapt to the Age of Energy. Therefore, while Saudi Arabia became the largest regional exporter of fresh water, Venezuela collapsed and fractured into multiple self-governing ethnic indigenous territories. It was a time of great upheaval and change.
The old political struggles and armed battles of old Earth changed overnight. For the first time in human history cheap, clean energy was available for all. Once energy stopped being an expensive commodity, massive leaps in agriculture, manufacturing, travel and space exploitation were realized by our ancestors. Finally, humankind could stop fighting each other for energy resources and they could turn their eyes to the challenges of the new millennium. Our current civilization would be impossible without The Age of Energy.
Footnotes:
[1] Electricity is an early power distribution system based on electron flows thru copper conduits. Apparently Copper Age technology was still in use in the Information Age!
[2] Morris, Ian E. "The Theory of Potential Dynamics"; Beijing University Press; 14 March 2024. Morris died penniless and insane living under a bridge shouting out his theories at anyone walking by.
[3] A superconverter is a phenomenon occurring in certain materials with internal matrices maintained at absolute zero, characterized by almost no energy form-wave conversion loss.
[4] Historical Note: Because power generation required enormous facilities, everyone purchased power from corporations that manufactured and sold power. Strange but true.
[5] Archaic governing body based on regional territorial control.
Back in ancient times, energy was mostly created by burning hydrocarbons to release pent up chemical energy. Industrial equipment, based on mechanical systems, converted a fraction of the hydrocarbon's potential energy into useable energy in the form of either motion or electricity[1]. Because these systems were woefully inefficient, only the smallest fraction of available energy was harnessed. As strange as it may sound, these same processes powered the earth for centuries.
Most historians agree that the Age of Energy official began in the year 2058 with the creation of the first Daedalus Screen by Dr. Fwad Malik of ARAMCO. Dr Malik based his invention on the previously discredited Theory of Potential Dynamics by Professor Ian E. Morris[2]. The Daedalus Screen was originally developed to be a super efficiency solar panel. However, when preliminary tests showed that the total output of the Screens exceeded the total visible light input, it was clear that a major discovery had occurred; the new cells were converting all radiated energy.
As everyone is aware, Dr Malik had invented the superconverter,[3] a device capable of converting 99% of all radiation into electricity. Within months, new versions of the cell were developed that could produce any kind of energy. But Dr Malik feared that the fundamentalist King of Saudi Arabia would destroy the new invention, so he published the processes involved in the creation of his Daedalus screens to the world through the Grid. Within two weeks, Dr. Fwad Malik died under mysterious circumstances.
By 2061, the first Daedalus cell was born when scientists from Lawrence Livermore National Laboratories encased a gram of uranium in a cylinder of the Daedalus material. By tooling the cells to convert all released radiation, these new batteries provided power for the 10,000 year lifetime of the radioactive isotope. The first Daedalus cell batteries were small and were mostly used in small electronics devices. Daedalus cells output constant energy levels regardless of use. All power generated in excess of demand is converted into neutrinos and released to decay in order to comply with the Laws of Conservation of Energy. Electronic devices had to be redesigned to include power regulators to control the flow of electrical power.
In 2062, the first private conveyance called "automobile" was produced using Daedalus technology. By 2066 most homes had disconnected from public power utilities[4] in favor of large scale Daedalus cells. The previous energy producing nation-states[5] either faced economic collapse or were forced to adapt to the Age of Energy. Therefore, while Saudi Arabia became the largest regional exporter of fresh water, Venezuela collapsed and fractured into multiple self-governing ethnic indigenous territories. It was a time of great upheaval and change.
The old political struggles and armed battles of old Earth changed overnight. For the first time in human history cheap, clean energy was available for all. Once energy stopped being an expensive commodity, massive leaps in agriculture, manufacturing, travel and space exploitation were realized by our ancestors. Finally, humankind could stop fighting each other for energy resources and they could turn their eyes to the challenges of the new millennium. Our current civilization would be impossible without The Age of Energy.
Footnotes:
[1] Electricity is an early power distribution system based on electron flows thru copper conduits. Apparently Copper Age technology was still in use in the Information Age!
[2] Morris, Ian E. "The Theory of Potential Dynamics"; Beijing University Press; 14 March 2024. Morris died penniless and insane living under a bridge shouting out his theories at anyone walking by.
[3] A superconverter is a phenomenon occurring in certain materials with internal matrices maintained at absolute zero, characterized by almost no energy form-wave conversion loss.
[4] Historical Note: Because power generation required enormous facilities, everyone purchased power from corporations that manufactured and sold power. Strange but true.
[5] Archaic governing body based on regional territorial control.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Datran IV Colonization Finance Committee Minutes
File Ref# 2119080734567892
2119 Aug 7 : 14:12
### TRANSCRIPT ###
VoiceID: Saunders, Matthew H.
EmployID: SA-926-70-1108
Title: Chairman of Finance Committee, Director of R-Squared Multiverse, Inc., Professor
SAUNDERS: Is it on? Is this damn thing working? Hey, Vince, is the light on?
VoiceID: Gonzalez, Vincent M.A.H.
EmployID: G2-832-01-6092
Title: Data Technician
GONZALEZ: Yes sir. Lights on and we are recording.
SAUNDERS: Make sure, please. I don't trust these damn things.
--Silence 2 seconds
GONZALEZ: I verify you are recording, sir. All backups functioning normally. You may proceed sir.
SAUNDERS: Alright, I call this meeting for the Finance Committee to order. We are here today to listen to a proposal to colonize a new world. We all remember Doctor Fortune who has come to us before. Remember also that by Court Order we must not allow the disasterous results of his last colonization effort to affect our decision here today. Also, I am required by R-Squared Multiverse to state that Doctor Fortune is not really a doctor of anything; he had his name legally changed fourteen years ago. Doctor Fortune, you have the floor.
VoiceID: Fortune, Doctor
EmployID: n/a
Title: Interplanetary Playboy, Best Selling Author, Pimp
FORTUNE: Thank you Professor Saunders. Ladies and gentlemen of the committee, honored personages, visiting dignitaries, off-world visitors and you green sucker-faced monsters. Before you this afternoon I shall present an investment opportunity that will repay itself in more than 68 years! A planet so perfect, an opportunity so fantastic...
Ladies, gentlemen and intersexuals, I present to you - the Datran star system...
--Audio: Play "The Accordions of Zool" FileID: 2119080734567892-1
--Holo: Play "Datran - Star of Fortune" FileID: 2119080734567892-2
FORTUNE: See the worlds spin gently around their star, almost exactly like our Sun. It is exactly the same in luminosity, temperature and color but it is 6.1% larger. The star system Datran is home to eight planets. Four outer gas giants provide ample opportunity for He3 mining. Current spectroscopy certifies that He3 concentration is at 62% in Datran VI! Mining can commence immediately without need for expensive concentrators! That alone makes Datran a guaranteed profit center.
Now, allow me to show you Datran V. Analysis from scout probes, which I personally financed, indicates that there are a wealth of minerals for mining not only on the surface, but throughout the neighboring asteroid belt. I have a committment from StarCore Mining that states if you finance this colonization effort, they will undertake the total cost of the mining operation in exchange for a 25% stake in the profits.
VoiceID: Gelsomino, Agostino
EmployID: G1-214-02-7210
Title: Legal Counsel
GELSOMINO: Have you included this contract in your proposal documents?
FORTUNE: Yes sir! Please refer to "StarCore Agreement"
--Doc: "StarCore Agreement" FileID: 2119080734567892-3
GELSOMINO: Have you signed this agreement?
FORTUNE: Your approval of the contract is required.
GELSOMINO: Continue.
FORTUNE: Ladies, gentlemen and other, I now call your attention to the crown jewel that makes this entire undertaking possible. I present to you, Datran IV.
--Audio: Play "Pimpin' 'Hos on Satellite 9" FileID: 2119080734567892-4
FORTUNE: Datran IV! A world identical to our earth. Same atmosphere, within 1% the same size and exactly the right distance from their star. There is an existing biosphere with amply life. We have multiple probes in orbit that have been relaying back data for sixteen months. The most dangerous animal on the planet looks like a cross between a leopard and an iguana but weighing 2.5 tons. Fortunately, they have no armor against blasters. Priority Item 9,357 calls for needed equipment to extinct these beasts.
--Doc: "Colony Priority Expenses" FileID: 2119080734567892-5
SAUNDERS: Why does this rank so high on your financial priorities? Usually planned extinctions don't come in until much lower on the list.
VoiceID: Ming, Susan
EmployID: MI-193-44-9345
Title: Sensitivity Officer, Doctor of Xenobiology
MING: If I might, Mr. Chairman? I agree with Mr. Fortune. These things are terrifying. They should be eradicated but it should be done humanely. Mr. Fortune, can I have your assurances that these beasts will be put down humanely?
FORTUNE: Yes Doctor Ming. We'll shoot them from 'copters with high-powered blaster rifles.
MING: Well, I'm perfectly alright with that.
SAUNDERS: Please continue Doctor Fortune.
FORTUNE: Thank you Mr. Chairman. Datran IV is a lush garden paradise. No ape-like mammals have evolved. There are no signs of intelligence on land nor sea. Animal life has not evolved past that leopard-iguana. Furthermore, our environmental sensors have detected no unknown viruses or germs. Which, permit me to add, further advances my theory that the common cold exists on all habitable planets.
Datran IV is lush with life. To date we have discovered sixty new species of edible plants and vegetables. On the largest continent there is an enormous glacial plain slowly formed by receeding glaciers 2,000 years ago. The potential as farmland is unbelieveable. We estimate mature production will exceed 100 billion tons per year! A veritable Garden of Eden for all to enjoy.
Now, please allow me to address the elephant in the room. Terrible mistakes were made on Pimpin' III...
GELSOMINO: Stop right there! We are legally required not to think about that!
FORTUNE: Nevertheless! Mr Chairman, hear me out!
SAUNDERS: I'll allow it. Carry on.
FORTUNE: Colonizing a new world is an enormous task. No one person is fully responsible. That being said, who could have known that our weather control satellites would cause the entire planet to vanish under a massive hurricane? My lawsuit against the satellite manufacturer is still pending. In memory of all who died on that ill-fated planet, I ask for a second chance.
SAUNDERS: Talk to us about Specialist Personnel. You've made some non-standard requests.
FORTUNE: Because of the extensive nature of this expedition, we will require multiple specialists for the stage 1 seed colony. The Security Specialist should be trained in all standard issue military weaponry and will be responsible for building the colonial militia and executing the planned extinction.
The Engineering Specialist will ensure the orderly functioning of all equipment on the planet for the stage 1 seed colony. This includes repair of farm equipment, light transportation systems, sewage systems, power generation and all other colonial infrastructure.
We will need a Pilot for our planet-hopper vehicle to shuttle personnel to and from orbit as needed for satellite repairs. During off time, this individual will also be tasked with scouting the immediate solar system for future stages of the colonial and industrial efforts. He can also chart hazards and deploy navigation satellites as usual. If he lives long enough, he can eventually shuttle personnel from the mining facilities for R&R on Datran IV.
SAUNDERS: Who do you have in mind for Colonial Governor?
FORTUNE: I am happy to announce I have secured the services of none other than, the interstellar holo actor - Zoobie!
MING: Zoobie? What's a zoobie?
SAUNDERS: Are you joking? Everyone knows Zoobie! Remember, from "Kid Space Ranger!"
MING: Sorry sir. I guess that's before my time.
SAUNDERS: Blaspheme! Fortune, can I actually meet Zoobie?
FORTUNE: I'm sure that if you see fit to fund this colony, something can be arranged.
SAUNDERS: Well, in that case: I hereby approve funding for the colonization of the Datran star system. Is Zoobie here?
FORTUNE: No sir, but I'll call him and see if he can join us for drinks now.
SAUNDERS: I can't believe it! I'm going drinking with Zoobie!
### END TRANSCRIPT ###
2119 Aug 7 : 14:12
### TRANSCRIPT ###
VoiceID: Saunders, Matthew H.
EmployID: SA-926-70-1108
Title: Chairman of Finance Committee, Director of R-Squared Multiverse, Inc., Professor
SAUNDERS: Is it on? Is this damn thing working? Hey, Vince, is the light on?
VoiceID: Gonzalez, Vincent M.A.H.
EmployID: G2-832-01-6092
Title: Data Technician
GONZALEZ: Yes sir. Lights on and we are recording.
SAUNDERS: Make sure, please. I don't trust these damn things.
--Silence 2 seconds
GONZALEZ: I verify you are recording, sir. All backups functioning normally. You may proceed sir.
SAUNDERS: Alright, I call this meeting for the Finance Committee to order. We are here today to listen to a proposal to colonize a new world. We all remember Doctor Fortune who has come to us before. Remember also that by Court Order we must not allow the disasterous results of his last colonization effort to affect our decision here today. Also, I am required by R-Squared Multiverse to state that Doctor Fortune is not really a doctor of anything; he had his name legally changed fourteen years ago. Doctor Fortune, you have the floor.
VoiceID: Fortune, Doctor
EmployID: n/a
Title: Interplanetary Playboy, Best Selling Author, Pimp
FORTUNE: Thank you Professor Saunders. Ladies and gentlemen of the committee, honored personages, visiting dignitaries, off-world visitors and you green sucker-faced monsters. Before you this afternoon I shall present an investment opportunity that will repay itself in more than 68 years! A planet so perfect, an opportunity so fantastic...
Ladies, gentlemen and intersexuals, I present to you - the Datran star system...
--Audio: Play "The Accordions of Zool" FileID: 2119080734567892-1
--Holo: Play "Datran - Star of Fortune" FileID: 2119080734567892-2
FORTUNE: See the worlds spin gently around their star, almost exactly like our Sun. It is exactly the same in luminosity, temperature and color but it is 6.1% larger. The star system Datran is home to eight planets. Four outer gas giants provide ample opportunity for He3 mining. Current spectroscopy certifies that He3 concentration is at 62% in Datran VI! Mining can commence immediately without need for expensive concentrators! That alone makes Datran a guaranteed profit center.Now, allow me to show you Datran V. Analysis from scout probes, which I personally financed, indicates that there are a wealth of minerals for mining not only on the surface, but throughout the neighboring asteroid belt. I have a committment from StarCore Mining that states if you finance this colonization effort, they will undertake the total cost of the mining operation in exchange for a 25% stake in the profits.
VoiceID: Gelsomino, Agostino
EmployID: G1-214-02-7210
Title: Legal Counsel
GELSOMINO: Have you included this contract in your proposal documents?
FORTUNE: Yes sir! Please refer to "StarCore Agreement"
--Doc: "StarCore Agreement" FileID: 2119080734567892-3
GELSOMINO: Have you signed this agreement?
FORTUNE: Your approval of the contract is required.
GELSOMINO: Continue.
FORTUNE: Ladies, gentlemen and other, I now call your attention to the crown jewel that makes this entire undertaking possible. I present to you, Datran IV.
--Audio: Play "Pimpin' 'Hos on Satellite 9" FileID: 2119080734567892-4
FORTUNE: Datran IV! A world identical to our earth. Same atmosphere, within 1% the same size and exactly the right distance from their star. There is an existing biosphere with amply life. We have multiple probes in orbit that have been relaying back data for sixteen months. The most dangerous animal on the planet looks like a cross between a leopard and an iguana but weighing 2.5 tons. Fortunately, they have no armor against blasters. Priority Item 9,357 calls for needed equipment to extinct these beasts.
--Doc: "Colony Priority Expenses" FileID: 2119080734567892-5
SAUNDERS: Why does this rank so high on your financial priorities? Usually planned extinctions don't come in until much lower on the list.
VoiceID: Ming, Susan
EmployID: MI-193-44-9345
Title: Sensitivity Officer, Doctor of Xenobiology
MING: If I might, Mr. Chairman? I agree with Mr. Fortune. These things are terrifying. They should be eradicated but it should be done humanely. Mr. Fortune, can I have your assurances that these beasts will be put down humanely?
FORTUNE: Yes Doctor Ming. We'll shoot them from 'copters with high-powered blaster rifles.
MING: Well, I'm perfectly alright with that.
SAUNDERS: Please continue Doctor Fortune.
FORTUNE: Thank you Mr. Chairman. Datran IV is a lush garden paradise. No ape-like mammals have evolved. There are no signs of intelligence on land nor sea. Animal life has not evolved past that leopard-iguana. Furthermore, our environmental sensors have detected no unknown viruses or germs. Which, permit me to add, further advances my theory that the common cold exists on all habitable planets.
Datran IV is lush with life. To date we have discovered sixty new species of edible plants and vegetables. On the largest continent there is an enormous glacial plain slowly formed by receeding glaciers 2,000 years ago. The potential as farmland is unbelieveable. We estimate mature production will exceed 100 billion tons per year! A veritable Garden of Eden for all to enjoy.
Now, please allow me to address the elephant in the room. Terrible mistakes were made on Pimpin' III...
GELSOMINO: Stop right there! We are legally required not to think about that!
FORTUNE: Nevertheless! Mr Chairman, hear me out!
SAUNDERS: I'll allow it. Carry on.
FORTUNE: Colonizing a new world is an enormous task. No one person is fully responsible. That being said, who could have known that our weather control satellites would cause the entire planet to vanish under a massive hurricane? My lawsuit against the satellite manufacturer is still pending. In memory of all who died on that ill-fated planet, I ask for a second chance.
SAUNDERS: Talk to us about Specialist Personnel. You've made some non-standard requests.
FORTUNE: Because of the extensive nature of this expedition, we will require multiple specialists for the stage 1 seed colony. The Security Specialist should be trained in all standard issue military weaponry and will be responsible for building the colonial militia and executing the planned extinction.
The Engineering Specialist will ensure the orderly functioning of all equipment on the planet for the stage 1 seed colony. This includes repair of farm equipment, light transportation systems, sewage systems, power generation and all other colonial infrastructure.
We will need a Pilot for our planet-hopper vehicle to shuttle personnel to and from orbit as needed for satellite repairs. During off time, this individual will also be tasked with scouting the immediate solar system for future stages of the colonial and industrial efforts. He can also chart hazards and deploy navigation satellites as usual. If he lives long enough, he can eventually shuttle personnel from the mining facilities for R&R on Datran IV.
SAUNDERS: Who do you have in mind for Colonial Governor?
FORTUNE: I am happy to announce I have secured the services of none other than, the interstellar holo actor - Zoobie!
MING: Zoobie? What's a zoobie?
SAUNDERS: Are you joking? Everyone knows Zoobie! Remember, from "Kid Space Ranger!"
MING: Sorry sir. I guess that's before my time.
SAUNDERS: Blaspheme! Fortune, can I actually meet Zoobie?
FORTUNE: I'm sure that if you see fit to fund this colony, something can be arranged.
SAUNDERS: Well, in that case: I hereby approve funding for the colonization of the Datran star system. Is Zoobie here?
FORTUNE: No sir, but I'll call him and see if he can join us for drinks now.
SAUNDERS: I can't believe it! I'm going drinking with Zoobie!
### END TRANSCRIPT ###
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Hostilities Resumed
After centuries of warfare between the planetary systems of New Francisco and the people of the Aggressor Collection, the first intrepid steps have been taken to forge a lasting peace. The war has shattered economies and cost countless lives. As always, both sides started their negotiations with ridiculous and unreasonable demands knowing that they could be used as bargaining chips towards the real peace settlement.
The talks lasted for thirteen months as both sides negotiated almost as fiercely as they had fought. And so, came the day when the peace was to be signed. The rulers of both great star systems came together on New Francisco to afix their names to the final terms that would ensure peace in both realms. The majestic Shan Chu Rissa finally met face-to-face with his lifelong enemy the Ponderous Emperor Minlix. With no speeches, they signed the peace treaty and the Emperor accepted the Shan Chu's invitation to a traditional dinner.
The evening went well initially. Emperor Minlix seemed to enjoy the food and was lavishly served by a bevy of lovely females. Shan Chu Rissa asked numerous questions about Aggressor culture. Then came the fortune cookies.
At first, Emperor Minlix was confused by the fortune cookie custom but one of his lovely servants explained it to him. After reading the fortune, Emperor Minlix strode across the table and brutally stabbed the Shan Chu. The ensuing battle between both leader's bodyguards left a sizeable crater in the North Banquet Hall and blew out one entire wall of the Imperial Fortress.
Shan Chu Rissa is in critical condition but is expected to fully recover as soon as one of his clones can be brought out of storage. Emperor Minlix escaped with half his bodyguard on his yacht. They also damaged the Near Space Sensor Array and stopped to paint graffitti on the Lonely Bridge.
After extensive research, this reporter has acquired the fortune in question: Never settle for less than you deserve.
In other news, the Imperial Defense Forces have issued new conscriptions for glorious combat service.
The talks lasted for thirteen months as both sides negotiated almost as fiercely as they had fought. And so, came the day when the peace was to be signed. The rulers of both great star systems came together on New Francisco to afix their names to the final terms that would ensure peace in both realms. The majestic Shan Chu Rissa finally met face-to-face with his lifelong enemy the Ponderous Emperor Minlix. With no speeches, they signed the peace treaty and the Emperor accepted the Shan Chu's invitation to a traditional dinner.
The evening went well initially. Emperor Minlix seemed to enjoy the food and was lavishly served by a bevy of lovely females. Shan Chu Rissa asked numerous questions about Aggressor culture. Then came the fortune cookies.
At first, Emperor Minlix was confused by the fortune cookie custom but one of his lovely servants explained it to him. After reading the fortune, Emperor Minlix strode across the table and brutally stabbed the Shan Chu. The ensuing battle between both leader's bodyguards left a sizeable crater in the North Banquet Hall and blew out one entire wall of the Imperial Fortress.
Shan Chu Rissa is in critical condition but is expected to fully recover as soon as one of his clones can be brought out of storage. Emperor Minlix escaped with half his bodyguard on his yacht. They also damaged the Near Space Sensor Array and stopped to paint graffitti on the Lonely Bridge.
After extensive research, this reporter has acquired the fortune in question: Never settle for less than you deserve.
In other news, the Imperial Defense Forces have issued new conscriptions for glorious combat service.
Brain Hack
It was easy really. The Target was on the Grid using outdated firewall protocols. When you're wide open like a Hetera House, you have to expect visitors. It took only a nano for me to brute bypass the identcode and another ten nanos to forge his DNA. Under half an hour and I had the entire contents of his brain downloaded into my neural deck, including financials, passcodes, family comm channels, military data and weapon release codes.
How was I supposed to know he was the President?
You'd think he'd have better security...
How was I supposed to know he was the President?
You'd think he'd have better security...
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Just Signal Ahead: A Rant
It's said in our oldest myths about Old Home (whats the pinky-out frifroo types calls "TEHH-rah"), that even then they had developed technology that allowed them to communicate with each other. Mind you, this was more long ago so it wasn't we was all brainplugged into the Grid. It was a primitive audiovoice handheld commo device using something called "radio" waves. And even back then, it was accepted as courteous manners to use this box and "call along or ahead" which means to communicate with the person before you showed up knocking at his main portal.
Personally, I finds that it is a good custom. So, here's my position.
If yous coming to visit mineself, you gots to signal ahead. Don't appear on the edge of my Grid sense shooting off waves of intent. Yeah, I got that upgrade. Cry some more!
If you come within my Grid sense waving intent, I'm making distance. Clear? Just call ahead and let me know to expect you. I don't care if you do it from just outside my Grid sense. Just signal.
Maybe you got to serve me process. Maybe that old juvy Syn charge from Pyra has finally caught up with me. Maybe it's Mum back from her latest rejuv and wanting to tattle me sex tales.
Or maybe it's my enemies: The Stellar Express Couriers. I have never gotten good news from any of them. When I sight them, I open fire. Home turrets too. BURN blue uniform messenger of evil!
And you damned green drippy sea squid-looking suction cup face monsters from that homeworld that sounds like a dog up-heaving dinner onto the floor. Blaw-THRRA. I'll never say it like you so stop with the nasty looks! Damn I hate those nasty beasties! GET ON THE GRID LOSERS! That way I won't have to kill the next 5k I meet.
Anyone want to talk about the Kree? Holy hells! I don't care what you want to say your names are, you are the Kree. Deal with it Kree. It isn't an insult. You're just a bunch of dumb, lazy, good for nothing Kree. You are giant cockroach praying mantis creatures from the Abyss. Your mandible pincers look designed to slice human heads off.
Oh, yeah, while I'm ranting, does anyone in the Coalition really believe there's an Orc running for office? Do those pigmen understand anything but money or brute force? Their government Classification is "a splintered extralegal econo-paramilitary tyranny." What old Home Earthers called a mafia! And now we are letting them into government? Did some govBrain think they weren't corrupt enough?
Ye bols, what about those prissy pansy types with them pointy ears! They look a bunch of pris lads when they shake at you. You know the ones I mean, right? They look human enough, just the ears and sharper features verse us. The pris ones with the hide coats and prissy pants that shake and bop around. Sometimes they even sing! I saw one last week with mane a .5m high! GET ON THE GRID! Even Orcs got the decency to be Gridwise. I think I heard the one last week say they were called Elvy or something like that. LOSERS!
My point: If you are coming to me, just signal ahead. Takes 2secs. "Hey, incoming." Otherwise, we're going to dance. OR I'm going to clear. Depends on mood. Entering my Grid sense with intent sirening is a declaration of war. All you that refuse to be Gridwise, you're Finaled.
Personally, I finds that it is a good custom. So, here's my position.
If yous coming to visit mineself, you gots to signal ahead. Don't appear on the edge of my Grid sense shooting off waves of intent. Yeah, I got that upgrade. Cry some more!
If you come within my Grid sense waving intent, I'm making distance. Clear? Just call ahead and let me know to expect you. I don't care if you do it from just outside my Grid sense. Just signal.
Maybe you got to serve me process. Maybe that old juvy Syn charge from Pyra has finally caught up with me. Maybe it's Mum back from her latest rejuv and wanting to tattle me sex tales.
Or maybe it's my enemies: The Stellar Express Couriers. I have never gotten good news from any of them. When I sight them, I open fire. Home turrets too. BURN blue uniform messenger of evil!
And you damned green drippy sea squid-looking suction cup face monsters from that homeworld that sounds like a dog up-heaving dinner onto the floor. Blaw-THRRA. I'll never say it like you so stop with the nasty looks! Damn I hate those nasty beasties! GET ON THE GRID LOSERS! That way I won't have to kill the next 5k I meet.
Anyone want to talk about the Kree? Holy hells! I don't care what you want to say your names are, you are the Kree. Deal with it Kree. It isn't an insult. You're just a bunch of dumb, lazy, good for nothing Kree. You are giant cockroach praying mantis creatures from the Abyss. Your mandible pincers look designed to slice human heads off.
Oh, yeah, while I'm ranting, does anyone in the Coalition really believe there's an Orc running for office? Do those pigmen understand anything but money or brute force? Their government Classification is "a splintered extralegal econo-paramilitary tyranny." What old Home Earthers called a mafia! And now we are letting them into government? Did some govBrain think they weren't corrupt enough?
Ye bols, what about those prissy pansy types with them pointy ears! They look a bunch of pris lads when they shake at you. You know the ones I mean, right? They look human enough, just the ears and sharper features verse us. The pris ones with the hide coats and prissy pants that shake and bop around. Sometimes they even sing! I saw one last week with mane a .5m high! GET ON THE GRID! Even Orcs got the decency to be Gridwise. I think I heard the one last week say they were called Elvy or something like that. LOSERS!
My point: If you are coming to me, just signal ahead. Takes 2secs. "Hey, incoming." Otherwise, we're going to dance. OR I'm going to clear. Depends on mood. Entering my Grid sense with intent sirening is a declaration of war. All you that refuse to be Gridwise, you're Finaled.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Wolf 9021
I've never been the same after what happened on Wolf 9021. You see, I was sitting in this bar, strictly VoidJumpers, Slidehawks and those ridiculous green alien things with the suction cup faces who's name I can never remember. Just sitting in a booth at the back, facing the door because you never know who's coming in to a dump like the Black Hole Bar.
So, I'm sitting there, drinking shots of Mongorian Klop (with NanoLytes!) and getting my brain hammered into little goo nuggets, when this old guy sits at my table. I'm not kidding you but this guy was the damn oldest crocker I've ever seen. He looked like those old asteroid miners that enjoyed too much Syn to meet quota. He's sitting there leering at me with that crazy look old crockers get when they've checked their final neuron.
"You're a spicy VoidJumper, ain't cha?"
I didn't want to be impolite to the old ballmasher, so I says "Piss off, crocker. I'll crack your hips, you waste of O2."
At which point, this crocker starts wheezing, tears oozing like he's on the verge of the Final. I gets up to search his pockets, see if he's got anything worthy when he grabs my forearm in a polytite grip.
"I got that bastard," the crocker hisses at me, covering my good looks with spittle. "I've waited seventy-nine years. He's dead. I'm alive."
"Well good on you, crocker." I say prying his fingers off my arm.
"I good and well shattered his bols. Took every cent he ever made. I'll teach you Artie Worthheimer! Nobody steals my girl! I ruined you, you miserable bastard. Now this nice VoidJumper is going to take me to The Coordinates!
Now, I have to interrupt the solilo. There's something you need to understand. This crocker looked like ten tons of excra. But he sure sounded convincing. And you never know. Hell, I hadn't made any money in six cycles.
"Well, I didn't realize you came with custom!" I says in a great recovery. "Where will you be going to then?"
Well, we get's on the ship, he's mumbling about Coordinates. My good old LA-87b flying like some fat bird of prey clears Departure Control, travels the required distance from atmo and jumps the void to The Coordinates.
We clear the singularity and disengage the barriers in the coldest part of nowhere you could imagine in the darkness of the Infinite. There's barely any foam activity and sitting in the middle is this giganto cargo container, like they use in the haul to Portio F82. I mean big. And the old crocker begins to solilo again.
"Seventy-nine years, you bols. I knew I'd outlive you, you miserable scum. Now I will spend your great wealth. I shall live like a king." And the like, followed by more wheezing and eye ooze which I come to learn is just the crocker having a mirth.
Now, dear reader, let me tell you a few things. The thought of Finaling the crocker crossed my mind about a million reps. Let's face it, even with a full regen, the crocker was wasted. Wasn't I really just doing the old bols a favor? I had Molly on my hip. One shot, clean, polite and alot less to clean up.
That's when the crusty crocker clubs me from behind with some concealed e-stunner and I drop like a jettisoned corpse. I don't know what happened afterwards. I woke up in my boat, airseals untampered and alive with a cracking headache. The crazy crocker and beautiful spinning box of treasure unaccounted for missing.
But piled in my pilot's chair is a handful of Sextonite gemstones.
Like I said, fellas. I haven't been the same since Wolf 9021. And if I ever find that old crocker, I'll space him.
So, I'm sitting there, drinking shots of Mongorian Klop (with NanoLytes!) and getting my brain hammered into little goo nuggets, when this old guy sits at my table. I'm not kidding you but this guy was the damn oldest crocker I've ever seen. He looked like those old asteroid miners that enjoyed too much Syn to meet quota. He's sitting there leering at me with that crazy look old crockers get when they've checked their final neuron.
"You're a spicy VoidJumper, ain't cha?"
I didn't want to be impolite to the old ballmasher, so I says "Piss off, crocker. I'll crack your hips, you waste of O2."
At which point, this crocker starts wheezing, tears oozing like he's on the verge of the Final. I gets up to search his pockets, see if he's got anything worthy when he grabs my forearm in a polytite grip.
"I got that bastard," the crocker hisses at me, covering my good looks with spittle. "I've waited seventy-nine years. He's dead. I'm alive."
"Well good on you, crocker." I say prying his fingers off my arm.
"I good and well shattered his bols. Took every cent he ever made. I'll teach you Artie Worthheimer! Nobody steals my girl! I ruined you, you miserable bastard. Now this nice VoidJumper is going to take me to The Coordinates!
Now, I have to interrupt the solilo. There's something you need to understand. This crocker looked like ten tons of excra. But he sure sounded convincing. And you never know. Hell, I hadn't made any money in six cycles.
"Well, I didn't realize you came with custom!" I says in a great recovery. "Where will you be going to then?"
Well, we get's on the ship, he's mumbling about Coordinates. My good old LA-87b flying like some fat bird of prey clears Departure Control, travels the required distance from atmo and jumps the void to The Coordinates.
We clear the singularity and disengage the barriers in the coldest part of nowhere you could imagine in the darkness of the Infinite. There's barely any foam activity and sitting in the middle is this giganto cargo container, like they use in the haul to Portio F82. I mean big. And the old crocker begins to solilo again.
"Seventy-nine years, you bols. I knew I'd outlive you, you miserable scum. Now I will spend your great wealth. I shall live like a king." And the like, followed by more wheezing and eye ooze which I come to learn is just the crocker having a mirth.
Now, dear reader, let me tell you a few things. The thought of Finaling the crocker crossed my mind about a million reps. Let's face it, even with a full regen, the crocker was wasted. Wasn't I really just doing the old bols a favor? I had Molly on my hip. One shot, clean, polite and alot less to clean up.
That's when the crusty crocker clubs me from behind with some concealed e-stunner and I drop like a jettisoned corpse. I don't know what happened afterwards. I woke up in my boat, airseals untampered and alive with a cracking headache. The crazy crocker and beautiful spinning box of treasure unaccounted for missing.
But piled in my pilot's chair is a handful of Sextonite gemstones.
Like I said, fellas. I haven't been the same since Wolf 9021. And if I ever find that old crocker, I'll space him.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)