A corollary to Clarke’s Third Law
Any technology, no matter how primitive, is magic to those who don’t understand it. – RecklessPrudence
(#00293)
Through a series of unfortunately predictable events, they were now stuck in the middle of nowhere with inadequate camping supplies, a cubic meter of marshmallows, three idiots and a whole bunch of electronica that was out of their service area and therefore as useful as a meringue umbrella.
Miri didn’t bother listening to the arguments since they had got cyclical. What she was bothering with was something useful. Several somethings useful, like preparing a camping area, gathering combustibles and constructing some individual shelters that at least one of the idiots would be sneaking out of to attempt sex with another. And, vitally important, collecting an array of the right kind of rocks.
“Nice campsite,” sneered one of the idiots.
“How are you gonna light the fire, loser?”
“Why did we even ask you along, loser?”
Miri picked up the correct two rocks and, hardly bothering to look, struck sparks with them. “Because I had the car,” she said, then gently coaxed the flame into life.
“Whoah.”
“Dude.”
“Are you magic?” said the cheerleader. “Please don’t curse us?”
And why would I bother when you’re clearly doing such a great job of it on yourself? thought Miri. “Just remember that I saved all your stupid asses and we’ll be fine.”
Next on the list: finding something to eat that wasn’t marshmallows. Miri gathered some long, straightish sticks that she had sharpened to a point. “Now. Who wants to hunt for dinner?”
“We got marshmallows.”
“I’m vegan.”
“Hunt? Like… kill an animal?”
Sigh. Sometimes, she wondered how folks like this managed to keep breathing every day. “Okay. One: Marshmallows aren’t vegan. They’re made with gelatin. Which is made from animals. Two: Thanks to Roy the Cheerleader, those marshmallows are nearly gone.”
“I only had a few,” he said, eating another handful.
“Three: The only edible plant life out here is prickly pears or peyote. I don’t recommend either. Four: We’re going to need some real calories to survive the night, because it gets cold as fuck in the desert. Any questions?”
She really shouldn’t have asked.
“Whaddayamean marshmallows aren’t vegan? It says ‘organic’ right here on the packet…”
“What’re those sticks for?”
“Do I get a bow like Katniss?”
“Is it okay to be on a diet?”
“If there’s no plants, doesn’t that mean there’s no animals either?”
“Are we gonna have to like, eat bugs?”
Miri sighed and handed out the sticks. “The pointy end goes into the thing you want to kill. Animals can eat a lot more of the plants out here than we can. You can have a bow the minute you finish making one. And if you don’t learn to shut up and do what I tell you, dinner will be bugs and not bunny. Got it?”
“Hahahaha… Bugs bunny!”
Oh God. Why did she ever agree to this?
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Another corallary to Clarke’s Third Law
Any sufficiently advanced psychological warfare is indistinguishable from a hostile paranormal. –RecklessPrudence
(#00292)
It is possible to manufacture bad luck. All that is required are enough inside people. It may also be necessary to have a unified or unifying mythos to attribute such bad luck to.
Take, for example, the retaking of The-Mining-Station-In-The-Fifth-Orbital-Ring-Surrounding-Star-B198Y36SQ3(*) by its original human inhabitants.
The independent evolution of both psychological warfare and technomancy in an isolated environment is miraculous enough, but the fact that this was achieved by a group of children is simply awe-inspiring.
The following account contains shocking breaches of cogniscent rights, child endangerment, property destruction, criminal behaviour, and sleep deprivation. Viewer discretion is advised. Authorities are aware of these transgressions and the offending parties have been appropriately reprimanded.
The human inhabitants of B198Y36SQ3 had long since been conquered by another species and turned into a workforce of manual, unpaid labor. This met with natural objections and backlash expressed in displays of force.
Force that was considered an inconvenience at best by the conquering forces.
An initially small group already inside the facility turned to acts of sabotage, ranging from subtle adjustments to gross theft. Conferences amongst the group resulted in ‘plug and play’ sabotage units that caused certain functions to effect the conquerer elite. Such sabotage was directly attributed to vengeful, supernatural entit(y/ies) and care was taken to ensure that the perpetrators were seemingly blameless.
This instilled an atmosphere of paranoia and trepidation amongst the elite, and sympathy amongst the conquered. The group expanded, and so did its scope of phenomena, up to and including 'miracles’ and 'plagues’ with varying degrees of success. Tying such actions to the human mythology of the area simply added to the paranormal flavour of the events.
Citizens who wish to acquire further knowledge must wait five days from the posting of this report for an uncensored account of said events. We apologize for the inconvenience.
(*) Translated from the nomenclature of the area into GalStand
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Sound advice.
If all else fails, try reading the instructions. – RecklessPrudence
(#00291)
Rael had run out of the regular curses and was busy running through the extensive selection of historical ones.
“I was always fond o’ ‘poo bum wee willy willy tits’, meself.”
He startled and hit his head on the overhead. Of course Shayde found him. She always found him when he was up to his elbows in problems and especially didn’t need a Shayde-shaped one in his periphery.
“I am very busy,” he grated.
“Aye, I can see that…” The distinct clinking sounds of her lining up his tools. “Yer anger aura’s big enough tae start its own star, ye ken.”
“And yet… you came,” he sighed. Extracted himself. Kicked it. “I have tried everything in the book. I’ve rewired it. I scanned the cylinder heads. I retriculated the spline actuator frigit, for flakk’s sake…”
“Turned it off and turned it back on again?”
Glare. “Off is currently its default state.”
“Bugger.”
Hm. That was one he missed. Rael nodded.
Then Shayde said something to make him homicidally cross. “So where’s the manual?”
“FLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAKKK!”
One of the first things one learned as a JOAT, and he’d forgotten it.
When in doubt - check the manual.
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A line from Pacific Rim.
“I’ve never believed in the End Times. We are mankind. Our footprints are on the moon. When the last trumpet sounds and the Beast rises from the pit — we will kill it.”
Curious to see what you do with it. – RecklessPrudence
(#00290)
At first, shortly after the Galactic Community realized humans could be occasionally useful, there was a great deal of prejudice.
Which is pretty normal, considering that generations of trepidation had gone into previously avoiding the entire species.
So, inevitably, when it came to territorial war… there was one solution.
“Send the humans. It might help thin them out a bit.”
It was quite a shock that the humans were: (a) not thinned out at all (b) astonishingly and regularly victorious, and © thirsty for more.
Those who did more considered research soon discovered that humans had been warring for millennia with their mortal enemies… other humans. They got good at war through constant practice. The viler and nastier the enemy, the viler and nastier they got in return.
And they came pre-packaged with an overstock of dirty tricks.
Very few species considered torture at all. Fewer used it.
Only the humans turned it into a mating dance.
Which is how the Galactic Community came to its senses and forged the Pax Homo Sapiens. Briefly summarized as: stay peaceful or the humans will get loose again.
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Failure Modes
“Hilarious” is the failure mode for horror; “nonsense” is the failure mode for conspiracy; “stereo instructions” is the failure mode for SF. –RecklessPrudence
(#00289)
Wishing many happy luck fall on your head following purchase of Penumbra 3K Foraging scavenger vessel!
For program of soaring trail, open star tracings jar. Signal loved star arrival.
For vacuuming gather, open eat jar. Signal for eat debris.
For living air, open cloud jar. Signal for atomic cloud love.
*
Hwell desperately flipped the laminated page over. It showed a picture of a stylized dinosaur holding a steering wheel and giving what he surmised to be a friendly gesture. Friendly stars surrounded the figure and the gigantic, happy company logo.
Whoever had written the idiot-proof manual spoke neither GalStand, whatever language those saurians originally spoke, nor idiot.
Flakk.
Axand'l was going to kill him…
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Because science is amazing.
Someone’s comments on this article.
And God said “Let there be light.”
And Man said “Oh I’ve got to figure out how he does that.”
And verily, did Man pull photons out of the screaming abyss.
Seriously, that’s amazing. Any day now I expect someone to march out of CERN wearing their labcoat over a wizard’s robe and announce that it turns out magic is real. – RecklessPrudence
(#00288)
She dreamed about it, sometimes. Often while Hackmeyer was staring down her cleavage as he mis-explained something she had already stated.
First, she would toss and flip a pen. Then she would Lift it for increasing lengths of time. Until it was obviously disobeying the laws of gravity. Then she’d just hold it there while Hackmeyer stared.
Then she’d mutter an incantation and turn it into a dragonfly, fly it around his head a few times, and then back into a pen, catch it, and pretend unknowing innocence when he tried to prove it to anyone else.
That sort of thing, though, she would have to save up for after her first graduation. No sense driving an evil man crazy - or running the risk of becoming institutionalized herself - until after she got the degree that would have her moving up and out and far, far away from Hackmeyer and his filthy tricks.
It was her little secret. Her’s and her baby brother’s.
Magic was real. All it was doing was waiting for science to catch up.
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How I have felt, on occasion.
Critical system Error at WhattheflyingF.exe
Restoring brain from backup. – RecklessPrudence
(#00287)
“You broke him!”
“Nah-uh. You broke him!”
“You’re the one who told him the fifth pun!”
“Did not!”
“Did too!”
Billie the Walter Girl sighed and reached for the Number Five hammer. About thirty PSI seemed about right.
{CLANG!}
“Somebody told a pun,” complained The Spine as he rebooted.
“Yeah, your logic circuits can’t take too many of those,” said Billie. “Gentlebots, do try to limit yourselves to no more than three puns per show in future.”
“What happens at the third pun?” asked Rabbit.
“Well,” said The Spine, “I hit you.”
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For when Holy Water just won’t do…
After a series of unfortunate events I need to know where you can get a ballistic missile sanctified. Preferably with no questions asked. – RecklessPrudence
(#00286)
Blemisch looked over the data again. The weapons of science had had little effect on the beast currently corralled in a crevasse. However, science had determined that certain materials with occult significance had had some impact.
Her team was not the Mythbusters - they were busy. However, certain Mythbuster fans were just as good.
If a little… bizarre.
“It had me in its grip,” reported Blaine. “I was trying to use my keys and it flinched and let go when the Sonic touched it.”
Shaniqua Blaine was a fervent Whovian who could not own more episodes of the show unless she flew to Ethiopia and fetched them herself[1]. If there wasn’t some Who-themed article on her person at any given time, then she was either possessed or deathly ill.
“And here was I thinking it was allergic to rabbit,” snarked Shelley, the token male. “Faith has got to be the key.”
“I didn’t do anything yet,” complained Faith Eddings, the team hacker.
“Not you, the belief-faith,” clarified Crystal Lackey. “If we could get someone who really Believes to bless… Idunno… a missile?”
And that was how Blemisch added a descendant of Van Helsing onto the team. You never know when you might need to bless a ballistic missile at short notice with no questions asked.
[1] True facts: They’ve found over one hundred previously lost episodes in Ethiopia. And it may even fill all the gaps.
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Since I know you got started writing DS9 stuff…
(please note, this does not _have_ to be Star Trek, use whatever fits)
Species 8472 could be reasoned with. They could be bargained with. And they sure as hell did not drive one insane with their mere presence,
The Medusans do.
You have to understand, the Federation has one of the ballsiest diplomatic corps in fiction. They’re the guys who have to walk up to Cthulhu and make friends. – RecklessPrudence
(#00285)
There is a saying in Starfleet: There’s plenty of room for cowards on Earth.
The brave… go into space.
The adventurous… get promoted.
But only the inventive, open-minded, resourceful and fearless get Ambassadorial training. And only the best of those join Starfleet’s Corps Diplomatique.
Twyla didn’t exactly know what she did to get herself fast-tracked into SCD, but she still couldn’t help noticing that she was the youngest one there. They certainly hadn’t replicated any uniforms in her size, before. And in her opinion, still hadn’t.
The data pad clutched tightly to her chest was one meant for all the grownups in the room. Half the buttons on it were a mystery she still hadn’t solved. And, true to her colonial roots, she used the one they gave her for just about everything she could.
Like a shield against the slings and arrows of outrageous -invisible- fortune.
The map had said she was supposed to be here. She even had the right floor. But that didn’t stop Twyla from feeling like an impostor. Like she was about to get yelled at for invading grownup space.
The grownups were talking in a cluster. Some sitting. Some standing. One sitting on a console. Their more tailored uniforms and ease of being here made her feel even less confident.
One poked another one, pointed to her, and laughed under his breath.
“Hey, sweetheart,” smiled the pokee. “You lost? Lookin’ for your daddy? Your mommy?”
Her knuckles went white. “I’m… s'posed'a report t’ room… 34D8?” Damnit. The colonial hick-talk spilled out whenever she panicked.
Now all six of them were smiling and poking each other. There were women among them, but Twyla got the feel of a bunch of bullies.
Miles from home and her Hucker Stick. Fighting was against the rules. Twyla had looked them up. Therefore, she had to be… diplomatic.
“I’m to attend Professor Granger’s class on diplomatic resolution and understanding,” she managed far more bravery in her voice than she was feeling, right now. Twyla made herself let go of the padd to offer her hand. “I’m Twyla DeVries.”
Three words, and their attitudes changed in an instant. “The Plaitzar Colony Twyla DeVries?”
“Discoverer of the Maliatt?”
“Ambassador for the Maliatt?”
“Uh.” Twyla reeled her hand back in and clung to her padd. “Yah?”
They were no longer bullies. They were fans.
“Omigod.”
“Holy shit…”
“EEEEEEEEE!” One of the women did an insane little dance.
“Listen, I’m sorry about the parental thing. I had no idea. Obviously.”
“So I’m in the right place?” asked Twyla.
“Sweetie, I’m surprised you aren’t teaching us.”
Everywhere she went -well, almost everywhere- thereafter, those six grownups made themselves her honour guard.
Twyla DeVries. Twelve-year-old ambassador material.
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Challenge #00278: Den of Iniquity
Jacqui, the blackie, the lackey named Pertwee (and yes I know she’s a she! :P) and the almost comical bond formed watching the terrorist let loose in a crafts store.
[AN: Can we not have racist (or any –ist) words in submissions, please? No matter how cute it might be that it rhymes, it is not a nice word.]
John Smith had come to catch the mutant out. He still suspected that Scott Summers was somehow cheating, even after all this unexpected familiarity with mutant-kind. Even after finding out that no matter how mutant a mutant was, physically, they were still human, mentally.
Though Sara was a matter of some debate. Primarily because she had rarely been human in her mind before she became a ‘fully fledged’ mutant.
And speaking of Sara…
There was Mrs Adrien. High-powered socialite and unexpected advocate for mutant rights including the right to be treated like any other human being. Wearing a shade of blue that looked very fetching, rather than her trademark strawberry-pink power suit, or - Smith realized - her post-mutant-daughter purple.
Sharing leaning-space on the square column was none other than Agent Jane Pertwee. Trying to look menacing whilst also simultaneously leaning on a column and being damn near bored to death.
Come to think of it, his feet kind of hurt, too.
“This place needs courtesy couches.”
“There’s a kiddies’ zone in the far east corner,” said Jacqui. “Rubber jigsaw mats in various stages of decay, sadly. And the Smurfs cartoon series on an endless loop.”
Smith vomited in his mouth a little. “Ugh. Thanks but no thanks. I didn’t know you shopped here.”
“I’m don’t,” said Jacqui. “Sara’s insisting on becoming a 'fanbot’ for some something-punk band and can’t find the right kind of wig. Or makeup. Or items of flair. To be very strictly honest, I’ve lost track.”
“At least yours walks around,” griped Pertwee. “Mine’s been up and down the yarn aisles five times. And he’s picking up that same fucking ball of wool again!”
Smith could understand. He’d been allowing Summers to lead at increasing distances until the column looked like a very nice place to lean.
There was a distant crow of, “Yes! Gears!” from somewhere in the craft-themed labyrinth.
Jacqui remained rooted to her spot.
“I think your daughter’s found everything she’s looking for,” prompted Smith.
Jacqui leveled a glare at him. “You obviously have limited experience with craftspeople.”
“I’m picking up some of the lingo,” Smith confessed.
“Six times,” muttered Pertwee. “Ooo. He’s decided to take the fucking ball of wool. How excitement.”
“Sara’s culching,” explained Jacqui. “Whatever she comes to the checkouts with, it may not all be used for her current project, but it might come in handy.”
“OoooOOOOOoooo…” came the faint coo of Sara. Evidently, she had found something cool.
Jacqui rolled her eyes. “I really should look at some comfortable shoes,” she noted. “Or a portable chair.”
“I can recommend FitFlops,” deadpanned Pertwee. “They’re made for people who get sore feet. And ensure that they don’t.”
“No,” agonized Pertwee. “Don’t go looking at the crochet hooks again…”
“I take it some are more fussy about their sources than others?” Smith enquired.
“No,” said Jacqui in a dead, flat voice. “They’re all like that.”
“Sometimes?” said Pertwee, “We have to get rounded up by store security at the end of the day.” Her mad smile had nothing to do with finding anything funny.
“Been there, done that, got a dozen tee shirts,” said Jacqui.
Somehow, Smith got the idea that he would not be finding any mutant cheating, today. He would, however, be finding sore feet and the little cafe around the corner that made its keep from bored co-customers like him and Jacqui.
Pertwee, unfortunately for her, was not allowed to leave her post.
Smith bought her coffee anyway.
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