Challenge #00734 - B003: A Short, Sharp Shock

“It occurs to me…your inability to use the brain evolution granted you is none of my fucking concern.”

(There’s a difference between being differently abled and BEING WILFULLY IGNORANT)

[AN: Oh, don’t I know it. Just look at the majority of the Republican Party, anyone wealthy enough to never worry about bills, or Tony Abbott]

They’d carried through with it. The police, who he paid for with his taxes, had done little but make sure a car cruised by his mansion, once a day. And it wasn’t even on time. He would have been far better off paying for an independent security detail. But then, he’d trusted his taxes to work for him.

Then again, They, whoever They really were, had got him while he was in the bathroom.

And now he was in the mud and filth of a half-filled pothole. In an alley that was strewn with garbage, offal, and faeces.

Urien Peel allowed himself three seconds of bemused bawling before he found the strength to at least pull himself out of the noisome puddle. What he could see of the sky was grey. There was no indication of where he was or how to get back to Nirvana Estates.

“You’re going to have to sell that suit, friend,” said a voice from the debris. What he’d thought was another mouldy pile of garbage turned out to be a Noper located somewhere within a baggy, knitted… thing… that he hoped was at least warm. It certainly didn’t look to be good for anything else. Especially the general health of the area.

It would take him some subsequent weeks to learn that the unhealthy-looking colouration of that garment was the product of random dye, and not the mildew and filth that seemed to abound in the area she called Lower Skunge.

But, right now, he tried to recoil without stepping in something that would leave a stain.

The Noper in the tattered tarpaulin tent just giggled. “Relax, friend. If I’d have meant to roll you, you’d never have known it. Been watching over you. Should be grateful.”

“How do I know you’re not the one who put me here?”

More laughter that showed off, not horrible and yellowing teeth, but starkly white and well-kept dentition. “Friend, does it look to you like I have the resources to bust into Elysium or Nirvana or Shangri-La or wherever you’re from and hijack your overfed ass?” She moved, standing up slowly. Revealing that most of her apparent bulk was insulation. “Naw, friend, you were dropped off by the Karmic Re-Alignment Society. KRAS. They got themselves something of a Robin Hood scheme going on.”

She must have weighed sixty-five kilos, sopping wet. And she sure didn’t have any kind of physical advantage.

“Robin Hood?”

“Yeah. But in this case, it’s steal the rich, make ‘em poor, and see if they don’t live long enough to change their ways. I go by Angel. 'Case you’re wonderin’.”

“I’m Supreme Senator Urien–”

“Oh, I know who you are, Mr Peel. Everyone in Lower Skunge knows who you are.” Another surprising smile. “You’re the asshole who wants to nuke the poor. You goin’ nuke yourself, now, Mr Peel?”

“I’m not poor! I have Quintillions! All I have to do is snap my fingers to the right people and I’m back in charge of your sorry ass.”

“Well, if you want to get to the right people alive…” said Angel. “I strongly recommend you engage in some protective camouflage. People’re gonna notice that suit. That suit says you have money. Hell, there’s some folks here in Skunge who’d skin you just for your buttons.”

He didn’t doubt her. He knew the criminal element was rife in the Poverty Quarter. “Why haven’t you?”

“Because my best interests lie in you seeing how the other half lives. If you’ve been there… you’re not likely to be nasty to them as is still there.”

She lead him on a labyrinthine journey, through the Swap Markets where he traded clothing from the skin up (“Keep the socks, friend. Socks is hard to come by.”) for far more disreputable wear and some face paints (“These’ll change your face until the beard comes in.”) as well as some basic hygiene products(“It’s worth it to brush every day. Trust these teeth.”) and a large assortment of gewgaws that went into a voluminous sack (“They arrest you for having cash, down here.”).

“Why should they arrest you for having money?” he asked over a bowl of something that, while not the fare he was used to, was at least warm and promised to fill his belly. It was definitely not vegan or good for his waistline.

“Evidence of drugs,” said Angel. She ate as if she didn’t expect another chance to. With the bowl right under her mouth and very little time wasted in getting the food inside her. “Any money is proof that you been dealin’ drugs in Lower Skunge. They don’t 'spect you to earn any other way. And if'n you’re pretty enough, it’s evidence of prostitution.”

He remembered campaigning for those laws, in an effort to wipe out the drug trade and prostitution. The two major sins of the Nopers. He hadn’t expected that law to ever hurt himself, and not just because he wasn’t involved in either crimes.

It went like that for months, as his beard grew and the face-paints flaked away.

To get money, one had to be registered for employment. To be registered, one had to pass a written test (Urien hadn’t held a pen since he left elementary, and many of the reading and comprehension tests had words that baffled him) and have obtained previous work for cash (which he could be arrested for holding) as well as passing a physical.

The last part was a sticking point for Urien. They failed him for eating fast food, which was the only food he could legally obtain. Even the work trucks that sent him out for sweaty, back-breaking labor in the fields didn’t pay him in the fresh, healthy, natural food that his party insisted was available to everyone.

“Don’t they see how many corners I’m backed into?” he ranted over the evening fire.

“The word you’re looking for,” said Angel, “is 'we’re’. We’re backed into corners. We’re forced to decide whether to do something illegal and get executed, or to keep legal and starve. Even this fire could get us arrested if we were in the wrong place.”

And that was how he learned that the fire brigade for the Poor Quarter was forcing people who had homes to freeze in the winter. The homes of the Poor Quarter were bleak, concrete cubes that were lucky to have a door. There was no heat and no chance of trying to be warm without lighting a fire. And fires indoors (whether or not there was a door) were an offence punishable by life-term imprisonment for the family, and death for the fire-lighter.

The good news - according to Angel - was that the fire brigade enforced this law by district, and the cold families would huddle together around fires in other districts.

And, once in a great while, the better part of an unmonitored district would go up in flames (the cheap concrete was re-enforced with wood fibre and flammable chemicals) and the fire brigade would insist on stricter laws and more funding.

Urien had been all for handing them whatever they wanted. It had been his opinion that the Nopers were too stupid to know what was good for them. Now he understood what they were up against.

Three months after he woke up in a puddle, Angel lead him to The Wall. The fifty-foot tall barrier between the Poor Quarter and at least the middle class. It was telling that he had been poor long enough to fear the armoured and armed police force.

Angel downed her bag five feet beyond the bright yellow line. “This is as far as I go, friend. I’m pretty much as illegal as you can get while still being a citizen. Clean your face. Announce who you are in a loud, clear voice. Hold your hands high. And… you’re gonna have to leave your sack.”

Urien nodded. Carrying a sack past the yellow line was like carrying a visible bomb anywhere near a public figure. The contents of the sack would at least buy Angel some meals. Maybe even a nearly new pair of socks.

She helped him shave. One last act of kindness from a woman he barely knew. Angel kept herself to herself, and only showed him the ruin his laws had wrought.

It was intense, showing the police force who he was. Getting arrested and processed anyway. Getting interrogated.

Learning that, at least legally, Angel was really a man. And since she was also brown of skin, that meant she was a Dangerous Element… and therefore had to be rounded up and punished for public safety. She must have known this. But she helped him anyway.

And after that, months and months of deprogramming. He learned, in the end, to repeat what was told to him. But he could never un-see what he had seen.

They wouldn’t let him back into politics. The people who counted, the people who paid their taxes, wouldn’t vote for anyone who had 'gone soft’ on the poor and criminal.

All he could really do, was divert his wealth towards helping those poor souls on the other side of The Wall. Which meant funnelling his funds towards bands of fellow bleeding-heart hippie whack-jobs trying their utmost to help the disadvantaged. After the inevitable divorce, of course.

Funds that included a sizeable monthly stipend for the Karmic Re-Alignment Society.

Every little bit helped.

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Challenge #00733 - B002: Buggier Than a Backyard Barbie

You know, the only good thing about [operating system] is that even the viruses have compatibility issues.

Yusslisstek BSOS had only one advantage over other, more stable systems. It was almost completely immune to any kind of virus, trojan, spyware, malware or worm ever concocted by the devious minds of hackers anywhere.

This was mainly because BSOS was a collection of kludges held together by the willpower of the coders and, some suspected, dark sorcery.

It would certainly explain why, when it was installed, the cooling fans of the hapless computer would soon sound like eldritch chanting.

And if it wasn’t for the invasion of the Yobsidith, BSOS would never have gained fame. All it took was Junior Technician Tammy convincing them that that OS was all they needed to conquer the world.

It took all of twenty minutes before the Yobsidith fleet caught fire.

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Challenge #00732 - B001: The Better Part of Valour

Person #1: A ‘strategic withdrawal’ is running away. But with dignity.
Person #2: So lay in a course and let’s get the dignified hell out of here.

Human ships. A fleet’s worth. Just hanging around in space, as one of their own authors was wont to say, in precisely the way that bricks don’t.

The crew of the Expendable Question could instantly tell that these vessels had been made by humans. They showed a deathworlder’s evident disregard for basic safety.

“Sir?” said science officer K'cops. “Might I recommend a strategic withdrawal?”

Captain Mij was busy staring, transfixed, at the view screen. “Very carefully, if you please.” Her hands were shaking. “Passive scanners only, gas thrusters only. Do not do a single thing to earn their attention.”

“Aye, Sir,” said Ulus, at the helm. She even moved to manipulate her controls carefully.

It was as if the entire bridge crew were.

Lieutenant Aruhu, the only male on the bridge, focussed his attention on the ear-bud that was near-permanent equipment as a comms officer. “I’m monitoring their communications, Sir. There’s no signal whatsoever. No radiation… nothing.”

“Best to be safe and certain, Lieutenant,” said Captain Mij. “Let’s be sure we’re out of scanner range before we engage the big engines.”

“Aye, Sir.”

Probes, sent much later, would verify that this particular patch of space was a dumping ground for decommissioned terran space vessels.

Captain Mij refused to feel silly about it. Those were deathworlder ships. For all she knew, they were rigged to explode.

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Challenge #00731 - A366: That’s Me All Over

“I thought we were going to knock it’s head off?” “We’re disassembling it into easily carried pieces”

“I really would advise against that,” said their victim. Currently a head on a shelf. But that was the problem when one was dealing with robots. They didn’t always die all at once.

“Stop talking, you’re supposed to be dead,” said McLargehuge. He was the smaller, smarter, and sneakier of the two thieves.

“I did knock its head clean off,” rumbled the human mountain known as Tiny.

“Good job there, fella. But I wouldn’t touch those power cables. Your cutting tools aren’t—”

BZZZZT

“—insulated.” The robot sighed. The good news, she could call by wifi for help. The bad news, her body was now in some significant disarray and incapable of pulling herself together.

Now. To shut down and save power or keep the line open and hope?

Some days, it seemed reasonable to quit while she was a head.

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Challenge #00730 - A365: Strange Nest-Fellows

Imagine a life-preserving pod being picked up by a human vessel. Imagine it contains a Numidid keet (and possibly a dead parent or message from them). Imagine that keet raised by humans with no contact or knowledge of the Numidid people besides the pod remains. Imagine that keet as a young adult meeting other Numidid for the first time with no idea of Numidid society.

[AN: I know this is hellishly late, but I was hoping our internets would have returned by the time I was done faffing about today. Alas. No such luck]

You pick up all kinds of weird things in the Greater Sargasso. There’s gravitational eddies where debris winds up and this one? Well, it it was pretty damn huge. All kinds of things wound up in there.

Including a survival pod.

There were two inside. Birds. Cogniscent birds. One adult. One little. The adult had clearly sacrificed itself for the little one. It had left a note. A recording.

“Stranger, should you find my little Pippit alive, I beg you to care for her as you would your own. If we are both gone by the time you find us… I bear you no ill will. My people may be looking for me… for us… but I suspect we have been declared as ‘lost’. I beg you, be kind… and cherish my Pippit.”

Pippit was dehydrated and hungry. And cold. Three things I could fix, at least. And the data from the pod. The medical analyser on board declared her species to be super-fragile. At least, compared to human kids. A broken bone could mean death by shock.

I’d never even thought of being a parental, let alone a parental to a super-fragile birdlike critter.

“I can’t promise you I’ll get your name right,” I said to the poor little kid. And she was a really little kid. Less than a quarter the size of the adult. “I’ll call you ‘Pip’, and log your genetic parental’s message. I’ll teach you everything I got about your kind which, sadly, ain’t much. And I’ll do all I can to keep you safe.”

Pip just plain didn’t talk for a Standard Week. I could grok. She’d just lost her entire world. I did what I could for ‘mama’. I guessed it was a mama. Comp said she was a female, so I made her neat and plastered the pod with every known memorial sign while I copied every last scrape of data from the pod.

Then I asked the Powers That Be to care for Mama Bird’s soul. And sent the pod back into the Sargasso from whence it had come.

Poor tiny Pip followed me around, ever after that. Always at my heels. Huddling close.

I almost had heart failure every time I nearly stepped on her. Poor fragile little creature. I found out that a hoodie or a pouch had her feeling safe and me not fretting about breaking her.

Making her own bed-slot was a hassle. I fudged Mama Bird’s dimensions and cleared out a closet that seemed about right. Pip had a soft place to sleep, warm food, and a caring parental. All she needed was an education.

And -hell- when you’re a scavenger, what you got is either what you find or what you bring with you, so Pip learned her ABC’s from the Spacer’s Manual of Useful Knowledge, and lots of my personal library.

Which included Great Expectations. Don’t look at me like that. I read it to fall asleep. Pip was so excited to hear her name that I read it to her. Of course I told her how much society had changed in between the writing and the reader. And how some of the characters were just plain unobservant about what was clearly in front of them.

I kept talking, of course. Little by little, Pip opened up. Called me ‘tall-mama’, and generally took an interest in everything and anything.

Any answers I didn’t have, I showed her how to look up.

When we finally hit Cashport Station, Pip had almost finished getting her adult feathers. Her clothing was lacking. Fabricated things that sort-of-fit, made from recycled blankets. Clothing said ‘cogniscent’ better than clothing, and Pip needed better clothing than his fabricator could provide.

She rode on my shoulder, of course. Muttering to herself about this species and that species. What was good manners and bad manners. She even waved to a pack of Meeyahndans and said, “Hello! I am not prey! I am not threat! Good hunting!”

Bless her heart.

Admin gave us trouble. I had no paperwork but the stuff Mama Bird had recorded. Therefore she was registered as Pip Foundling, and I got a whole bunch of free educational material for our next long haul.

Getting her a life suit, ship skins and all the other stuff was expensive. I didn’t mind. She deserved to have some of the pretty things. And a set of serviceable work boots so her feet weren’t in danger. And by serviceable… I mean that she could also grip with them. The end result was ceramisteel armour with carbon-fibre and kevlar blend under-cloth.

And somewhere between the Sargasso and Rest Stop, our next port of call, Pip became my Pip. I didn’t have to look after her. I wanted to.

But Rest Stop was where we found her kind.

They stayed in the big trees, and hooted and whistled. Not cat-calls. Bird talk. Mama Bird had spoken a variant of GalStand in her message. I’d had no idea Pip had her own language.

Should have guessed, but there you go.

Pip swapped to GalStand Simple. The streamlined version of the unholy mess that is GalStand Entire. “No me knowledge, bird talk,” she shouted up. “You come teach?”

The ‘dangerous human’ -me- had to go and sit far away while Pip discussed her origins. She was excited and eager, but her fellow feathered friends were far more cautious and spooked by her.

One of the elder Birds came to roost on my table. “You raised this keet?”

“Pip? Yeah. I found her in a life pod in the Greater Sargasso. It was that or let her die, and I’m not the mean kind.”

“She will not have a good life among her own kind. She is only suited to be a scientist.” That last word was pronounced like something a body would scrape off a shoe.

"Not good amongst your kind, eh?”

“No[1].”

“Well, if you don’t want her, I’ll take her in. That’s how we started. Family is more to me than just genes in a matrix. And maybe it’ll be more to her and her kin.”

I passed him a copy of Mama Bird’s last message. So the family would know. But Pip? She was almost doomed to be that weird estranged relative to her gene-family.

Screw ‘em. She has all the family she needs with me and my tribe of scavengers. We do whatever we can to help her be happy.

[1] Of course, these events happen within days of Amity’s rediscovery by the Galactic Community

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Responses to “Fright of a Lifetime” (2-4)

Ideas that this mash-up sparked:

1. Krumm is out lurking and finds Abner’s trough. Meets Abner, and cue unlikely friendship.

2. The monster trio meets the Sewer King. ‘Nough said.

3. The Gromble watches the results of the Halloween ‘War of the Worlds’ debacle; is grudgingly impressed.

[AN: Once again, I have to remind my readers to PLEASE SUBMIT PROMPTS ONE AT A TIME. My own absent-mindedness and technological incompetence means that I have to do multiple stories at once. On one hand, it means I get ahead on my story count, on the other hand - increased risk of extreme wrist pain. Yes, I know it’s a pain in your ass, but I’d rather have your temporary inconvenience than my actual physical injury]

(#00727 - A362 - #00730 - A365)

2. Abner meets Krumm

Something smelled delicious. He was supposed to be on reconnaissance, but Krumm was also hungry. Which was why he left his stake-out spot to investigate.

Someone had left out some premium slop in a long, shallow container. Krumm couldn’t help but help himself. Delicious.

A rhythmic grunting came from his left. A fellow connoisseur also enjoying the slop.

“They got really nice eats, here,” said Krumm. “Just like mother used to spoil.”

The pink creature looked at him, grunted again, and went back to eating.

Krumm could relate. This stuff was too good to waste with casual conversation.

It took him several months of illicit return visits to realise that his dining partner was actually a surface animal.

3. Monsters V Sewer King

They had been watching him for some time. It wasn’t often that the humans invaded the monster world, let alone stayed, so classifying this one became something of a problem.

And there was the fact that one of Dr Buzz Kutt’s previous attempts at a human suit was missing with its occupant inside.

“If he is a monster in a human suit,” speculated Oblina, “then I’m very glad you rescued me in time.”

“He smells like one of us,” said Krumm, odour expert.

“He looks and talks like a human,” whispered Ickis. “I say we avoid him just to be safe.”

Krumm had an idea. “Hey. Can you do that brain-tickling thing to find out if he is a human or not?”

“Well it would rather resolve things, since I can’t tickle the brains of fellow monsters.”

“Great,” said Ickis. “Then all we have to do is wait for him to fall asleep.”

Which was, when they got down to it, a really boring stake-out. Apparently the Sewer King had sleep disorders and relied heavily on a human beverage called Kaffi.

4. Gromble V Helga

“It is, it is,” the Gromble cooed to himself. “It is just human children in masks. And that one…” he pointed to the leader on the screen. “I know that one.”

He consulted the files. Of course it was Helga Pataki. The scariest resident of the surface world shy of Montgomery Burns. He recorded the footage she broadcast, and created a highlights and lowlights list. Not that there were very many lowlights.

And, because he was a teacher who used shame and fear to motivate his students, he used it as an example of how pathetic his student body was.

“This is the work of a human,” he informed them. “One human, with some minor conspirators, managed to terrify an entire city. Whereas most of you… CAN’T MAKE A SMALL CHILD CRY! What are you doing wrong? Well… why don’t you study this, and give me a twelve-page essay on all the details?”

All of them shrank in their places and wailed in anguish.

Oh yes. Life was good.

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Response to “The Fright of a Lifetime” (1)

Oblina tries her hand at scaring Helga, but studies her first. Recognizes her interaction with Arnold from her time in Dr. Buzzcut’s Human Suit. Take it from there!

(#00726 - A361)

The view from the gutter was not wide, but it was educational. Oblina had long since learned to recognise the human by her shoes.

She had somehow suspected that Dr Buzz Kutt’s theories had been in error, but there was living confirmation. She could see and hear Helga verbally abusing a boy and, the second he was out of earshot, turning around and waxing lyrical about how much she was in love with the human.

Human love was crazy.

But it broke her heart to hear it. A girl who thought she was monstrous, scared to leave herself vulnerable to anyone. Afraid to have a softer side because the world was so cruel.

Oblina couldn’t help herself. “Try telling him anonymously,” she said.

*

Helga reacted, jumping up and looking around. “I’LL KILL ANYONE WHO SAYS ANYTHING!” But her fists were primed with no target in sight. She slumped back down. “Great. Now I’m hearing voices.”

“At least it’s good advice,” whispered the voice.

She sighed. “Shows what you know. It’ll end badly. Everything ends badly. I never get anything I deserve.”

“So you fail before you try? That doesn’t make sense.”

“Whatever.” Helga got up again and slouched away. Even the voice in her head didn’t understand… Everything good went to her prettier sisters. And so would Arnold.

But still… an anonymous note. It wouldn’t hurt. Something a lot more subtle than the lurid poetry that they’d found and laughed at.

Two days later, Arnold found a construction paper heart in his locker. It had the words, “I love you, but you won’t look at me.” in neat, anonymous printing.

And she heard how bad it must be for that person, thinking that he couldn’t love them back.

The next day, she left another. This time, it said, “You can’t love Ugly.”

And she heard how Arnold thought nobody was ugly. Not even her.

The day after that, she left a third. “If you really believe in love, meet me under the Big Oak after school. Come alone.”

And she got detention. So she was running late for the meeting in the pouring rain with her sister’s big yellow umbrella.

Please, please, please…

He was still there. Huddled in the shelter of the tree with his coat over his head. Splashed by the mud from passing cars.

She added him to the shelter of her umbrella. “You OK, football-head?”

“Thought I could help somebody. Guess it was a prank.”

“Maybe they got scared. Maybe they got detention. Maybe…” She scrunched up her eyes. Took a deep breath. Bit the bullet. “Maybe she’s right here.”

“…helga?”

“Yeah, go ahead and laugh. I’m almost used to it anyway.”

“That book full of poetry was yours, wasn’t it?”

She dared look at him. He wasn’t judging her. He wasn’t being cruel. He was just asking. “So what if it was. I heard you laughing at it.”

“Gerald did most of the laughing. I was trying to get him to at least tone it down. That stuff was… real. I could tell whoever wrote it… I could tell you were hurting.”

Helga found that her eyes were stinging. “I’m not crying,” she croaked. “Got some rain in my face.”

“It’s okay.” His hand joined hers on the umbrella handle. “You’re allowed to feel things.”

Illogical tears with a crooked smile. “We met under an umbrella. You were the only person in the world who ever gave a fig about me. And all I could do was snap at you.”

“it’s okay. What you get from people is all you know how to give back.” He smiled for her. “I could show you? Being nice isn’t that hard.”

“Being nice makes me invisible.”

“I see you, Helga,” soothed Arnold. “I always see you.”

It rained hard, all the way home. She, too, got splashed with mud. But all of a sudden, it didn’t matter. There was no cold. There was no rain. Just his warmth and the sunshine of his smile.

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One person’s trash…

Arizona pyrope garnets occur in a remote section of the Navajo Nation in Arizona. The gems have never been mined commercially because there aren’t enough of them.  The entire world supply of these gems depends on those living nearby who collect a few stones after the occasional rainstorm and trade them at local stores.

This gem is most commonly called “ant-hill garnet” because they are “mined” by ants. Ants find the garnets while digging their anthills, drag them out, and discard them on the surface.
It’s wonderful to imagine the ants being SO FRUSTRATED at all these stupid crystals getting in the way of their work.
Makes you wonder what humans discard that an alien species would see as valuable.

(#00725 - A360)

Pebbyxx Brokk, the sign read. Assorted Liquids.

Cho'desh, already in a mind to browse, wandered inside. There were tanks, of course. Clear plexisteel and, for the more active liquids, solid glass, showed the interested customer the contents.

What almost startled Cho-desh out of her skin was the acids. She half expected them to be bubbling, but they just sat there. They didn’t even look evil.

“Uric acid,” she read, and then backed away.

“It’s quite safe,” soothed the shopkeep, presumably Mx Brokk. “That’s three centiUnits of solid glass, behind a repelling shield guaranteed to deflect even the most aggressive blows.”

“Why do you even have that?”

“Asteroid miners use it to dissolve worthless carbon,” explained Brokk. “It’s quite profitable and worth the trip.”

“Trip?”

“Oh yes. I found a little wormhole that leads to the outer reaches of this boring yellow star system. The cogniscents there are just entering the space age and they flush this,” a friendly knock on the container, which made Cho'desh flinch unconsciously, “into the higher atmosphere. I buzz the planet a few times and pick up their rejects. They’re none the wiser.”

“For that?”

“Dear Cogniscent… I get two Hours a miliUnit. And that’s for the super-condensed crystalline form. Then I sell them the purified water at an Hour a Standard Liquid Unit. How could I not pay attention to such profit?”

“And they just… dump it?”

“It’s waste to them,” Brokk shrugged. “Can I interest you in some more -ah- amenable liquids?”

“Thank you, but… no. I’m in exploration mode.”

Brokk nodded understanding and wished her a good day.

Cho'desh spent the rest of her day wondering what sort of creature would just throw away something as dangerous and valuable as uric acid.

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Challenge #00724 - A359: Technobabble

From a forum conversation on technobabble: “we’re running low on pixie dust and the containment breach can’t hold any more rabbits so the ship is going to explode from thermal expansion and kill us all”

Responded to with: “Pfft, everyone knows pixie dust is self-containing.”

They called it the Ark.

“So… you got all the StarMetal that was ever made, and turned it into… this?”

“There’s also magically re-enforced Dweomer Steel. It’s all been turned into an alloy, and used for the plating. It’s charmed to hold together and keep the air inside.”

“Air,” repeated Jogoth the Mage.

“Well, yes,” explained Featherleaf the Crafter. “The higher up you go, the less air there is, so we need to take it with us.”

Jogoth boggled at her. “Where are you taking this… abomination to the eyes?”

“Up,” Leatherleaf chirped. “The StarMetal comes from the sky, far above the moon, right? So in order to get more, we have to get up into the sky.”

“Right. And you used all the StarMetal you could get in order to get more.” Jogoth shook her head. This was something that usually required a padded room.

“YES!” Featherleaf jumped and clapped as she grinned in enthusiasm. “StarMetal is rare because it doesn’t fall so very often, but if we get it before it can fall, we can have tons of StarMetal. Can you imagine having tons of it? The progress we can make! StarMetal vehicles! StarMetal re-inforced buildings! StarMetal everything!”

“And you’re certain you won’t die,” prompted Jogoth. “…taking all the StarMetal with you…?”

“That’s what all the wards are for. The air stays in. The dangerous things stay out. And anything that tries to impact will be slowed and then it will just stick to the outside. With the right levitation spells, we can return safely to where we started.”

“And you’ve tried this?”

“Just to the edge of the stratosphere, so far. I collected twenty ounces.”

And it took a Karat’s worth to make a StarMetal sword. “Twenty…”

Featherleaf dashed into her workspace and returned with a small box. The StarMetal inside were jagged fragments, not the rounded nodules that Jogoth was used to seeing. Nevertheless, it was several kingdom’s ransom worth of the stuff.

And she’d casually put it in a plain wooden box without a lock.

“There’s tons of it up there,” whispered Featherleaf. “Tons. The sky-band we can see through telescopes? It’s all made out of floating StarMetal mountains. And I need all the mages I can get.”

The sheer potential had her hooked. “Consider me hired.” It was insane, of course. But the potential to pay for all the cool stuff a Mage could ever  want or need. Both, belike.

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Dragons need better PR agents.

“Hmrph… but that’s how it always is, isn’t it? Just because they have so many prolific bards and scholars in their employ, they think they get the rights to dictate how everyone else is seen by the future generations - they don’t even TRY to ask my opinion… I’ve got scales on my butt older than their eldest king, and they still think they know more about my kind than I do… Humans are utter idiots.”

Catlike, the great elder dragon stretched and yawned, settling back in place before resuming his remarks to his one-woman audience.

"Er, that is to say, present company excluded, of course.  But honestly, it just is aggravating, how things get twisted. I invest in the region by keeping my finances local, and they call it ‘hoarding wealth’.  I defend my property from attackers, they cheer on the ‘heroes’ who ‘assaulted the monster in its own den’.  I can’t even go out for a bite to eat without some peasant who barely has enough wits in him to play in the dirt-patch he calls a farm screaming that ‘the dread beast is pillaging his prized cattle’… Prized? You mean the weak and elderly of an already-pathetic herd?  Which I only took because the royal huntsmen already claimed all the best boar and deer in the Grand Wood for His Majesty’s table? Bah.  And I didn’t burn down that orphanage intentionally - a moth flew up my nose and I sneezed when passing over it on my way to the Southlands. Could’ve happened to anyone, really.”

He shrugged, gently passing the delicate satchel back to the royally-garbed woman.

“Feh… they’ll probably even find some way to spin this little meeting of ours into some ‘villainous machination of the demon wyrm’, I imagine. Probably claim I kidnapped you to eat you or something. Ridiculous.”

(#00723 - A358)

“Well I am a princess,” said the bard. “I just happen to be temporarily out of the princessing business.”

“I know,” said the dragon. “I could smell it on you. Something about the royal inbreeding.”

“Excuse me?” said the Princess Bard.

“Well you do tend to mate with your cousins a lot. Knights errant who are promised your hand don’t happen that often, do they?”

“Uhm…” she blushed. “Yeah. I was going to marry my second cousin twice removed? He’s thirty-five. I’m not even almost fifteen. So… I ran away.”

"Thirty five,” rumbled the dragon. “Since we are chatting, I suppose introductions are in order. The long form of my proper name is… a little unpronounceable for you… you may call me Gort.”

“I’m Ivy,” said the Princess Bard.

“The same plant, but a different name. Interesting. Is thirty-five so terrible? I understand it’s more than twice your age.”

“…i’m… closer to thirteen…” Ivy mumbled. “I don’t even have my moon time yet and they were trying to put me out to stud and I’m not sure if I ever want a man with me like that. Let alone him. I’d rather be a bard and sing for my supper.”

"Good for you,” said Gort. “I shall hire you to be my bard. I don’t suppose dragon-roasted meat is your thing.”

“Er. No. Sorry.”

“To each their own,” enormous talons gently plucked what seemed to be a small urn from the pile and filled it with gems and coin. When Gort put it next to Ivy, however, it turned out to be an urn well above her own height and half again as wide as she was. “Is this sufficient payment? I know little of human furnishings, so I trust this will be sufficient for the alcove?”

“More than sufficient for my entire life!” Ivy had to stand on a rock just to reach into the top and pluck out an emerald the size of a warrior’s fist. “What do you want me to do?”

“Simply tell the truth about me,” said Gort.

Ivy sighed and picked up her instrument. A simple traveller’s harp. “Do you know the name for this?”

“A lyre,” said the dragon. “Yes. An appropriate instrument for a bard. I see. Very well. Gild the truth about me. You will fly with me when I fly. See the world from the clouds. Share in the Dragonsong. And, in general, know about me.”

This was more than Ivy had ever expected. It beat the living hell out of huddling under trees and getting kicked into the gutter. “Thank you, sir dragon! I’ll do my best, I promise!”

Gort chuckled. “Dear little princess bard,” a head big enough to dwarf four horses swivelled around on a huge neck so the gigantic lizard could whisper, “Ivy is ever a girl’s name. In all its forms.”

“Oh. Lady dragon…” Ivy curtseyed. “My apologies, m’m. I was always taught that dragons were male.”

"Humans,” Gort rolled her gemlike eyes. “How do they expect little dragons to be made, hm?”

“I suppose we never thought of it,” allowed Ivy. She was staring at the emerald. A King’s ransom. Certainly enough to hire workers to cut a stair up and into the alcove. And craftsmen to make what furnishings she liked. She remembered her mother telling the craftsmen what she wanted. Ivy could certainly do it with a little more grace. And spin the tale of the generous dragon who just wanted people to understand.

…and maybe even have some spare coin for a better lyre. Yes. Maybe even get a dragon put on its body, somewhere. In honour of her sponsor.

And she’d have to think of something a little more poetic than ‘Gort’. It just didn’t sound very lyrical.

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