Challenge #00558 - A183: Strange Passtimes

The next intergalactic olympic sport: Human/Numidid Assisted-Launch Longflight

(aka throwing the numidids and seeing who can flap furthest)

Amity narrowly missed being the first civilisation to adopt human co-operation by a margin of two Standard Weeks. The Britanians became the first humans known as ‘mostly harmless’ to the Galactic Alliance, thanks to Ambassador Harry.

But that didn’t stop the Galactic Alliance from coming to have a good boggle.

“You’re in luck,” said the human. “There’s the Olympics going on.”

Every Terran colony seemed to have an Olympics. The Galactics had taken one look at the insane array of competitions of physical excellence and started motions to try and ban it. But they already knew the inevitability of a pan-Terran Olympics happening at some distant date in the future.

“On a centenary, we hold the event in Wiwazheer,” said the Numidid perched on the human’s shoulder. “Tradition.”

They quickly learned that the Amity Olympics included equestrian events, with both Human and Numidid riders… and one with both.

The crowd favourite was Miss Daisy, ridden by Martha Willard who was, in turn, ridden by Ku’lu.

The Human stayed in the saddle. The Numidid perched on a special harness attached to the Human.

“It celebrates the Life Run,” said their guide. A human with a Numidid-esque name of Syri. “Susan rode Calico with T’reka on her shoulder, from Wiwazheer to the base camp. And then threw T’reka towards the ladder when Calico started floundering in the sand.” Syri made an expressive, practiced gesture. “All to stop Kal’rike from firebombing the entire continent. The original coat Susan used as an improvised harness is still in the Wiwazheer museum.”

“Thanks,” managed Ambassador Hwrii in the solid tones of I-didn’t-need-to-know-that. As a Numidid herself, she was leery of the humans at all, and still in shock and awe that what should have been a backwards backwater was, instead, a thriving and prosperous planet. With in-system colonies.

That they had done so with the assistance of… deathworlders… and still survived? That was a miracle.

And another miracle unfolded below.

A competitive recreation of a race to save life.

T’reka must have been a truly mad genius to trust a human with not only her life, but all the life on this poisonous continent. Considering the tech level this entire planet was now capable of… was she trying to achieve this? Or just saving something interesting to study?

The original track raced around the starting circumference of Wiwazheer. A track that still existed, but no longer raced. There was another road that went from Wiwazheer to the nearest beach, and then took a sharp turn to the south until it reached the historical site of that base camp. It was no surprise that all the natives called it Calico’s Run.

Now they covered the same distance on a much smaller track. Culminating with a straight run where the humans hurled their Numidid passengers in a flight measured in both height and distance.

It was a gruelling contest. No wonder they saved it until last. And almost as visceral to watch as it must have been for the original participants. All that was missing was the element of lives being on the line.

All Ambassador Hwrii could think was, We’d best keep this away from the other humans. They’ll all want to play.

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Challenge #00557 - A182: Comfort Conniption

inspired by http://internutter.tumblr.com/post/77932780162/challenge-00429-a054-urgent-call-home

T’reka might not be as tactile as humans a lot of the time, but repeated exposure would presumably get her mostly used to them and the amount of touching, hugging etc. that tends to happen around humans, even when trying to be careful.

Extrapolating further: A scene with T’reka, a human and a new numidid having a minor conniption fit over perceived threats.

It had taken some significant time for both species to learn expressive body language. On the Numidid side, they shared the significant disadvantage of being scientists, and therefore inexperience with touch-gestures in the first place.

Hugging was right out. Su-syn and her family knew this.

They would gesture with open arms, but embrace with one. Covering the bird in question with the limb as if it were a wing. Winged coat sleeves became part of the human ambassadorial wardrobe, to assist with the verisimilitude.

As did a baby sling, when Su-syn live-birthed her young.

T’reka and her flock of students found it fascinating. Ze…. fascinating. Human infants were almost completely helpless and therefore guarded with a ferocious zealotry appropriate for a deathworlder with helpless young.

And there were days, like today, when she left her infant in the care of others, because an unknown factor was going to be present.

Administrator Ser was inspecting the facilities.

Numidid kind already benefitted from the humans’ punch-pen medication dispensers. Deaths from broken bones dropped eighty percent following their widespread adoption and training. Though the public did re-name ‘science breathing’ to ‘calming breathing’, just to avoid the stigma of the intervention’s origin.

Such breathing T’reka was doing now, in The House of Peace, where she planned to make a ceremony out of meeting the odious man once more.

“There now,” Su-syn sang. “We doing all. You is ready. Hush,” and laid an artificial cloth ‘wing’ across her back and squeezed lightly. “All is good. All is well.”

T’reka snuggled into the embrace and found it comforting. A predator species capable of crushing her in a thought, holding her as tenderly as she would a newborn. Possibly more so.

An unholy squawk shattered the peace.

Administrator Ser had arrived early.

Su-syn put her hands up to her shoulders, palms open, fingers splayed in a display that she was unarmed.

T’reka made a show of hopping off the human’s lap and greeting Administrator Ser with all due deference. Cringing and keeping her head low as befitted a scientist of her station.

Su-syn remained very still, watching Administrator Ser by looking at the furniture nearby. All the careful things she used to do, so many years ago. All that was missing was her camouflage costume. Gill-clothing or something.

“You were in the arms of a dangerous creature,” boggled Administrator Ser.

“Yes, sir.” T’reka bobbled and hunched and grovelled in his general direction. “As you see, they have successfully overwritten their primitive genetic programming. They saved my life. Even after it was explained to them that they didn’t need to.” She didn’t say, They value me. Not only as a scientist, but also a person. Kal’rike is going to suffer a brain drain when other young scientists find out about the tolerance of insanity.

“And you trust them?”

“They trust me with their infant.”

Administrator Ser boggled again. “Well… That is a definite indicator of trust,” he managed a few, discrete, science breaths to still his nerves. “I take it we are riding one of their… ungulates?”

“Horsss, sir. Yes. At a more sedate pace than the -ah- celebrated Life Run.”

“I have had many requests from other scientists willing to study this land… and the occupants.” A glare at Su-syn. “Humans and scientists seem to be a perfect fit.”

He had no idea which doors he was thinking of opening. T’reka could tell. And knowing that she could sway his thoughts one way or the other, that left the ethical question of which way she should make him lean…

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Challenge #00556 - A181: Mwa-hahahahaha

Mad scientists are real, lurking in academia.  Sure, they may not wield death rays and threaten the populace, but when a presentation ending in “Today, Australia! Tomorrow, THE WORLD!” receives thunderous applause, and your adviser’s name is literally Dr. Fatal, you begin to realize that your childhood dream of showing them, SHOWING THEM ALL is more realizable than you thought…..

Doctor Fatal was still giggling as she stepped away from the podium. That was a good sign.

“I’m almost obligated to do this,” said Dr Fatal. She pointed and sang, “You’re a me-ga-lo-may-nee-ac! You’re a me-ga-lo-may-nee-ac!”

“When your name’s Yvil, you gotta do a few things. It’s obligatory. Especially with a supervisor Fatal.”

“You’ve still got the bigger hurdle of getting the government to agree with it.”

Yvil made a face. “Urgh. Yuck. We all know the Australian government doesn’t do anything sensible until America does it. Maybe I should convince them.”

“I suppose robots programmed to quell opposition are out of the question?” joked Fatal.

“Yeah, nah. You can’t get the funding.”

Which turned out to be the best joke of the evening.

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Challenge #00555 - A180: Essential Developments

Ridiculous fact of the day: We went to the moon before we thought to put wheels on suitcases.

Some things are essential for cogniscent development. The ability to control heat is one. Civilisation in any form is another.

It is impossible to have a planet where the entire population are dancers. People must eat. People must learn. People must make insipid sitcoms and nobody knows why.

But some things… don’t always happen in the correct order.

“Wait,” said the saurian beside her. “Your species hasn’t developed luggage wheels?”

“Er. They didn’t ere I left, ye ken,” Shayde explained. It was rare that she got an alien talking to her as a person and she wanted to encourage that. “I think some had ‘em, but they were still pretty rare tae find.”

“Terran calendar nineteen eighty-six?”

“I left in eighty-seven, but close enough.”

“And… your species had already landed on your moon by then.”

“Oh aye. In sixty-nine.”

“Your species left your planet before you thought to put wheels on your luggage?”

“Technically,” Shayde allowed. “Everyone was expected tae have muscles back then.”

The saurian shook her head. “I am always amazed by the way different peoples develop. We thought the usage of the wheel in all ways possible was vital before we met the Iilshur'aur'ur.”

“I met one o’ them. They’re lovely.”

“And I understand your kind didn’t have a global law until centuries after you began colonising other planets.”

“Aye. Us humans are terribly backward. Nobody’s discovered Slood yet.”

A perplexed expression. Then a growing smile. “Ahh… this is a human joke, yes?”

Shayde laughed along. “Oh aye, I’ll drop me trousers any minute.” Damn. Another day of keeping her mouth shut.

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Challenge #00554 - A179: The Second-Unkindest Cut

“Aliens do not understand papercuts.”

The death world menace flinched, howling in agony. “Idonotfirkinbelievethis!” It dropped the weapon it was holding. “Agodsdamnedpapercut. Afterallthis, agodsdamnedpapercut…”

The huddling assembly of survivors blinked in confusion. This creature had survived toxic gas, lacerations, contusions, concussion, shock, awe, and extremes of temperatures… and now it was halted by a relatively minor injury to its apparently thick hide.

It wasn’t even bleeding, there.

Yet the creature stopped. Retreated, cannibalising its wounded finger and murmuring in agony.

The word went out across the Galactic Alliance: Humans can be stopped by apparently small injuries to their hide. Tag knowledge: papercut.

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Challenge #00553 - A178: Monstrous, Not a Monster

(based on your SPG/MiP crossover)

Francoeur’s initial efforts to help with the wounded, being generally scared of the soldiers, figuring out he can carry tons of resources and singing to everyone.

They still ran the cabaret, though it was starting to be more of a hospice and partially a hotel. More and more soldiers came in, and more and more saw him in all his monstrous glory.

Nothing gets a soldier reaching for their weapons faster than a seven-foot-tall flea.

“No, wait,” Lucille tried to shield him with her diminutive frame. “He is harmless. He would not hurt a flea.”

“He is a flea,” added Raoul. “But he won’t hurt anyone.”

“That’s a flea?” said the General. He still had his hand on his gun.

Francoeur cooed nervously and cringed behind both his guitar and Lucille.

“Fleas drink blood,” said the General.

“Not Francoeur,” Lucille shook her head in emphasis. “He eats fruit and vegetables. Not blood.”

He chirped an agreement, adding a nod.

The general finally took his hand off his weapon. “Doesn’t he talk for himself?

Half a smile. A generous shrug. "He prefers to sing.”

Raoul played a few, prompting notes on the piano off to the side of the stage. Francoeur soon joined in with his guitar, singing a melody he had sung hundreds of times before.

“He’s a rum ‘um, no mistake,” said one of the 'walking wounded’ Tommies in the audience. “Hardly speaks a word, but he can sing up a storm.”

The General came right up to Francoeur and poked a chin-palp. “So it talks? Let it speak, then.”

“…please do not do that…” For such a big bug, Francoeur had a tiny voice.

This greatly amused the General. “We can’t enlist 'im. He ain’t human and sending something like him in would just make the enemy angry. He’ll still have to volunteer his services to help the boys.”

Lucille made a face. “Doing what?”

*

“Orange juice,” Francoeur sang. “Seltzer water… Lift your spirits, wet your whistle, have a drink from humble me. Just a giant singing flea… Cool your throat, bless your lips… before you go home in ships.”

Half of the Tommies couldn’t see him. Their heads bandaged. Some were hallucinating. Those who were conscious and still had their eyes, they heard his song before they saw him. Cracked jokes about his size and the usefulness of his large shadow.

As long as they were smiling, they were not a threat. And as long as they were smiling, they didn’t see him as a threat.

And, in a pinch, he could carry a soldier to a hospital in a very big hurry.

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Challenge #00552 - A177: Mischief at Work

Pretending to be an exhibit at the waxworks museum.

The real trick, of course, is to blink or change poses when no-one is watching. Or, in the case of this waxwork exhibit, adopt a pose when someone approached.

She had hers already. Propped up at the writing desk and staring at the blinking cursor. In some, she actually dropped off to sleep like that, and nobody noticed the difference.

At least she didn’t snore sitting up.

But this time, she had a poker. Someone who ignored the velvet ropes and honour barriers and clambered up into the carefully-set-up diorama to prod, poke, or simply play around with every valuable artefact in there.

Therefore Trezi kept her thousand-yard stare until he was literally right up to her. Almost about to touch.

Then she sprang into motion, turning towards him and very quietly saying, “Please don’t touch the exhibits.”

Which was the worst way to find out that a patron had angina pectoris.

Which, ultimately, lead to hers being the first waxwork exhibit with a warning at the door. It stated that patrons were advised not to interfere with the dioramas, as doing so could result in unforeseen consequences.

Ironically, it lead to more patrons. And less time to stretch when she was working as a Replacement Exhibit.

On the other hand, it meant more money to repair the exhibits she replaced.

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Challenge #00551 - A176: Party Life

Person 1: Didn’t you blow up a planet somehow while you having a year long kegger?

Person 2: First; it was merely rendered uninhabitable. Second; the party lasted two and a half years. — RecklessPrudence

There are generally two ways to react when one is the last of one’s kind.

Kirov chose the other one.

He had but one life to live, though it was a long one, and elected to enjoy every last moment. He travelled from world to world, seeking the best of entertainments and some good, old-fashioned debauchery.

Of course he maintained the funds to support any half-breeds that occurred. He willed them his old home-planet -for all it was worth- and continued on celebrating the end of his kind.

It is said that a being exists for as long as other beings speak their name. And Kirov seemed bound and determined to become a galactic legend.

But it wasn’t all parties and sex. He enjoyed the quiet as much as any other intelligent creature.

This morning, he settled in to one of Amalgam Station’s Observation Benches to watch the chaos surrounding the new Jogging Track. Though it was festooned with cautionary signage, the sight of a running human or more still caused a panic.

He’d bought popcorn.

The nearest sign read: Humans run here for fun. Remain calm.

Another, nearby, read: Caution! Humans running recreationally.

Kirov guessed that they would be posting more at half Distance Unit lengths, before long.

Here one came. A tall creature with ebony skin. Her white hair bound up in a bouncing braid. Well… most of it. The rest of her was clad in a track suit in hazard colours. She spotted him and slowed to trot in place.

“‘Ere I know you,” she chirped. “Yer that feller that blew up a planet in a year-long kegger.”

“It was a two-year festival and I merely rendered a marginally-uninhabitable planetoid to be completely so,” he corrected. “Rumours of my effect on places is greatly… distorted. I funded the inevitable evacuation and the clean-up. Keeps some folks in employ.”

She grinned at this, still bouncing, and showing off sharp, white teeth. “Oh aye. Ye got tae swing round next Ambassador Meet. Liven the place oop a touch. T’ wee girlie from Hevun’s got the right idea, but you? You’d make it special.”

Definitely human, for all appearances to the contrary.

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Challenge #00550 - A175: Black-boxing It

Taken from an author talking about a piece of tech in their setting:

They’ve tried reverse engineering the displacement engine before. It goes a little like this:

Your moon is now a pretzel.

Your research is invalid. – RecklessPrudence

“So what is it?”

“I can’t figure it out,” said Helba, getting her facts out in the open. “I know what it does, it makes the gravity in this… place…” Station, ship… installation felt better, but it had plainly been here long enough to become a small planetoid.

The cargo cult seeing to its upkeep did a surprisingly good job for a bunch of mammals, but how it ran… That was the mystery.

“There are some elements I can understand but…” she shook her head. “There’s no reason for it to work. Yet it obviously does.”

Thokin scratched at her brow-ridges. “Can you try to figure it out? This technology could be revolutionary. We could solve the Long Flight problem. We could… we could build bases like this! Off planet. No central mass to keep things stable. Just… one of these. All we have to do is reproduce the technology.”

“I could try to black-box it. Replicate what it does.” Helba shook her head. It already seemed a daunting task. “I’ll come out the other side, either a genius or a mad thing.”

“The trick,” said one of the apparently-meditating natives, “is to be both at once.”

They shouldn’t have ignored him just because he was a male.

*

From the Last Journal of Helba Greyscale:

I can see it now. I’m so close. The key is the madness and the madness is the key. These insane little mammals made a calm machine, but mine is hungry. It demands a sacrifice.

It shall have blood. And when it has feasted it shall be the very glory of the empire!

Eeya mork g'risin f'thagen daas

Eeya mork g'risin f'thagen daas

Eeya mork g'risin f'thagen daas

*

The Nae'hyn reverentially sealed the invader vessel and tethered it to all the others who had tried and failed to copy their work. The remains would, in time, freeze-dry in their metal tomb.

They offered tours. They offered teaching. They offered to work for them. But every generation, the ones who ‘discovered’ their little station ignored their good advice and tried to repeat the impossible. And therefore went insane.

“Pay heed, my apprentices,” schooled Master Sun Swallow. “When copying unfamiliar technology, it is advisable to never throw yourself into your work. Figuratively, or literally.”

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Challenge #00549 - A174: Absence of Wenching

http://yoquinto.tumblr.com/post/78790240270/okay-but-a-story-about-an-asexual-pirate-who-gets

I really should stop sending these t you every time I find them, sorry.

[AN: Don’t you bloody dare stop! I love getting prompts FYI the post isn’t there any more, but I found this one thanks to searching: http://silentmercenary.tumblr.com/post/84994393370/yoquinto-okay-but-a-story-about-an-asexual :) If anyone knows where Yoquinto has gone, please let them know that their imaginings have become a thing]

In any bar, tavern, or lowly dive, pirates are wont to tell stories. They spin tall tales and heavy yarns concerning this or that peril on the high seas. from the mundane to the fantastic, to the ridiculous.

And of all the luckiest of lucky escapes.

And then they murmur of the only man to pilot a ship out of Siren-infested waters.

Aaron the Unturnable.

Who singlehandedly concussed and trussed his fellow crewmen and, without any wadding in his ears, nor anyone to measure the depths, turned his ship away from the wrecking rocks. Aaron the Unturnable, who never once set foot in a bawdy-house, nor rented either street molly or jolly-boy.

Aaron the Unturnable who, in so far as any man could measure, had no bedroom-related appetites at all.

Molly listened to them all in mounting disbelief. There never was a man born who couldn’t resist staring down her cleavage or groping her bottom and she used that only for monetary gain. Overcharging and under-changing the ‘gentlemen’ who never noticed.

And there never was a single one of them she wanted to take upstairs, for all that her landlord demanded it. He couldn’t fire her. She worked twice as hard standing up as any of the girls who chose to lay down.

“You still owe me half a crown, miss,” said a seafarer who had been rather quiet during the regular uproar. He was well-dressed and well-spoken and very neat in a piratical kind of way.

“Sorry,” she said, and gave him the rest of his change. “Is there anything else I can fetch you, sir?” She leaned over to polish the table, hoping to gather a few coppers while he leered.

He put his hand over his coins and looked her in the eye. “If you’re after this, perhaps you’d like to sit with me and chat a while.”

“I ain’t that kind of girl!”

“I’ve noticed. You may also have noticed that I did not ask you upstairs. I will not grope you, nor leer, nor trap you in my lap and I certainly shan’t be using your body in any way for my entertainment.”

Confusion. “Then what th’ devil do you want with me?”

An honest smile. He had all his teeth. “Camouflage. Any gentleman frequenting a tavern must soon gain a lady by his side or be deemed… strange.”

She looked close at him. “You ain’t one of them lady pirates, dressing like a man, is you?”

Gentle laughter. “No, madam. I am one hundred percent male.” He offered his hand. “Pleased to meet you, m'lady. I am Captain Aaron Zibowalski. Otherwise known as Aaron the Unturnable. And I happen to be looking for other Unturnables similar to myself.”

She’d never been happier to sit down. All this time, she thought she’d had something wrong with her. That she’d never been drunk enough or found someone pretty enough or… or a thousand other things. The idea that she might be Unturnable had never once crossed her mind.

The plan was ludicrously simple. With an entire crew of Unturnables, it was plausible to go to the Wrecking Coast, slaughter the sirens, and then gather up spilled gold and booty by the boatload.

The only problem was gathering a crew of Unturnables.

“I don’t has to pretend I’m a man, does I?” she quavered.

“Not if you don’t want to. Though I have it on good authority that trousers are preferred clothing when one is running about in the rigging. Snags and all. Besides, the question of intercourse on board will be naturally rendered moot.”

Of course. Naturally. A crew of Unturnables. It would be the safest ship in all the seas. Next to the Malevolent Maven and Hen’s Hags on board.

“Ain’t got a lot to get,” she said. “Ain’t got a lot at all.” Just her clothes and a small, disappointing pyg jar of copper coins to her name. Scrimped and saved and occasionally moved to stop Roundheels Jennifer from helping herself to the contents.

“Then I shall help you buy at least one pair of trousers. Consider yourself signed up. My ship is–”

“The Wandering Unicorn. I heard. I’ll be there first thing.” Even if it didn’t turn out as planned… it got her away from this tavern and the expectations of becoming a proper Wench.

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