Showing posts with label space. Show all posts
Showing posts with label space. Show all posts

Friday, January 14, 2011

Bedtime Stories for the ADD: Humane

“So, the ship is stocked and everything is loaded and configured to spec. We’re done, right?” trainee logistics officer Hannah Shelling said.

“Not quite,” Chief Jackie Reed said.


“Set course for Beta Reticulae, Mr. Christopher.”

“Yes, sir,” Daniel said. He used Maere’s constant and a few modified equations of his own. The course plotted was elegant and deceptively simple. “Course plotted, sir.”

“Ahead full,” the captain said.

He engaged the Watson’s engines. The Watson left the system in a streak of light.


Daniel Christopher’s shift ended and he walked to his quarters. This would be his first longterm tour out of the system. He’d already clashed with first officer Craig’s over some minor disagreement. He needed to make a good impression, get on Craig’s good side. Otherwise, the next two years could destroy his career while boring him to tears.

He plopped on his regulation rack and turned the light out. Through his uniform, he felt a squarish bit of paper under him. He turned the light back on and turned over.

Special Orders: Lieutenant Daniel Christopher

He turned the envelope over, tore the flap open, and pulled a sheet from the envelope. All the identifying marks were absent. An admiral had signed it. When he finished the letter, he was to burn it.


“We’ve got to deliver these daffy letters to every bunk on the ship?”

“They’ve got to be the right letters too or there’ll be trouble.”

“They all say the same thing. What’s the point?”

“Not quite, Shelling. What if you got one of these letters and it had someone else’s name on it?”

“Oh,” Shelling swore. “Yeah, that would be a problem.”


Dear Lt. Daniels,

It will doubtlessly surprise you to know that you are the only human on board the Watson.

All your fellow crew and officers are androids.

You would have figured it out eventually, but in order to prevent problems later, we decided it was best to let you know now—

“Well, damn. That makes a lot of sense already, I guess.”


“So, why do we do it?” Shelling said.

“The androids make braver decisions,” Reed said, “When they think they’re the only human and they have to make up for all the inhumanity around them.”

“Huh.”

“Turns out it’s the same for humans too.”

“Are you saying—”

“I’m not saying anything,” Reed said. She pulled a cigar out, trimmed it, and lit up. “I’m not saying anything at all.”

#72

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Saturday, August 14, 2010

Mars of My Youth Podcasted

Hey, y’all. The Mars of My Youth was recently podcasted on The Dribblecast. If you prefer your stories in audio or want to share this one with folks who do, this is the way to go.

Some of you may have seen me announce a new Troll Jammies segment on Twitter recently. Right after I hinted at it, I acquired a new responsibility that ate up a lot of my free time that’s not already dedicated to writing fiction. When I catch up on that, I will definitely give the new segment a whirl. Until I know for sure that I am going to be able to do it, I won’t bother teasing you by telling you what it is.

There are a few other changes in the offing. I should be getting an actual banner for Troll Jammies soon and I’m scheming certain things which should be very cool.

I should probably take the progress box off since I can’t manage to keep it updated. Rest assured, I’ve submitted at least two stories since last I updated that. One was rejected, and I’m still waiting on a response for the other. I have several pending novella ideas, a novel that needs to either be dropped or edited, a novel and novella in progress, an audio novella I finished first draft and which is not yet ready to be beta-read, a bunch of short stories in progress or in editing, and a novel I started but which needs to be plotted before I pick it up again.

None of that actually guarantees I’m actually being productive. The “clearly productive” part was the part where I have been submitting stories. I didn’t actually mention a wordcount anywhere in there! I have days where I manage 1-1.5K and I have days where I manage finishing a short story. Since neither of those things is happening every day, this means I’m being a bit of a slacker. Not a horrible one, but something of one.

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Friday, July 9, 2010

Chrissmas Late Fees: Blood Money

Note: This is the second story in the Chrissmas Collins series. If you’re interested, check out part one.


Mr. Jacques,

Thank you for your kind response to my previous report.

I’ll ask about depilatory flavors the next time I see a Grey.

I can’t imagine what information an unimaginative person will find useful so future reports will continue as verbosely as before.

My next report should include an account of my court proceedings related to the previous report.

XOXOXOXO,

Chrissmas Collins


Chrissmas Collins sighed. It had taken twelve hours to hoof her space dingy to the stellar bus stop and she’d been waiting for it another four hours.

She didn’t feel comfortable taking off her space suit because she might have to propel herself out of the dingy at any moment. The consequence was that she felt rather sticky and disgusting.

The characteristic warble came over her comm. The bus was nearly there. She locked her helmet on and gave one huge push off the dingy, aimed toward the meager stop’s accommodations. It was little more than a lighted shed in space with boosters to keep it roughly in position.

In the ten minutes she waited in the shed, she became intimately familiar with it. The paint flecks on the inside. Signs reminding patrons to keep their mess clean and arrive at least ten hours early because some runs would run three hours off schedule to alleviate overcrowding.

Finally, the bus arrived. It looked huge and Chrissmas was hopeful it was nearly empty. How could it help but be empty at that crappy end of the universe?

She boarded the bus and there was some confusion about her pass.

The short, stocky Bellitans who drove the bus kicked the pass reader and repeatedly swore at the machine. After a few minutes of this abuse, he said, “Override code hazt-hazt-olap-hazt.” The machine beeped pliantly and the Bellitans nodded toward the back.

Chrissmas pushed behind the curtain. The bus was standing room only. She swore and grabbed a strap to hold onto. The bus started with a lurch. The bus lurched forward twice more before it entered Theoretical Space (or ‘T-Space’) and the ride smoothed out, and colors became tenuous.

Twenty-eight hours later, the bus left T-Space and landed on the current capital world of the Bellitans Empire.

Planet Hazt was known as Skrug-Cheyd before it became host to the capital. Even with all Chrissmas’s dedication, it was difficult to avoid being distracted by the tourist attractions.

She took a rail to the Judicial District. She peeled off her space suit and transformed it into a handbag. She was wearing a traditional Earth business suit.

Before she walked in the Court Building, she double checked to make sure she wasn’t carrying any contraband or weapons. Security was very tight and a few of her harmless items were heavily scrutinized before she was allowed to pass.

She entered the Fresher code on her suit—just four more Freshens left—and she went from bedraggled human to blond bombshell of the stars in two point five seconds. Freshers were a lifesaver at times like these.

Her meager understanding of Bellitans Imperial sent her in the wrong direction several times. Finally, she found the right court and met her Court Appointed Barrister.

Its Bellitans name was Spryde-Dheen-Olap. It, like all the Spryde, looked like a dark cloud with sparkling lights (usually purple) scattered within.

“Greeting. Many honors. Percival. Star heat.”

She bowed slightly. “Thank you for representing me.”

“Inappropriate thanks. Returned to rightful. Discussion of facts.”

Chrissmas explained the situation.

“Unfortunate high temperature.”

“No kidding.”

“Tearful warning linearly pointless.”

Her eyes grew wide. “Yes.” This was the Spryde who had warned her to move her stand because a bureaucrat was coming.

“Case lifts boulders. Confidence.”

Just then, the Garzango who had fined her in the first place, Uyullank, walked out of judges’ chambers with the wizened Bellitans judge.

“Impropriety,” Spryde-Dheen-Olap quietly exclaimed. Its sparklies turned almost red.

Uyullank, walking tenuously on five of his six legs, joked and was jovial with the judge. When the pair drew close to the trial area, Uyullank feigned surprise.

“Oh, is it your court date today, Human-Chrissy-Collins?”

She looked dour, “You know very well …” She put a gigantic smile on her face, “That it’s Chrissmas Collins, Blond Bombshell of the Stars. Not Chrissy.”

The judge looked confused. Dheen-Olap’s shineys had a somewhat greenish purple appearance.

“Astute,” Dheen-Olap remarked.

Uyullank colored slightly and bowed. “My apologies, Human-Chrissy-Collins. We are not yet at court.”

“Aren’t we?” Chrissmas asked.

The judge, whose name sounded like Gravy Biscuits, put on his Exalted Judging hat and stepped behind the pedestal. “We are. My friend Uyullank will remember protocol, please.”

Uyullank bowed his body slightly closer to the floor.

Gravy Biscuits pressed a buzzer. “The exalted court of the Bellitans Hazt, Muckety-Muck Gravy Biscuits is now in session.”

He pressed another buzzer and a warbling distorted version of the Bellitans Anthem Imperium played a verse and chorus sans lyrics.

“Well, now that we have that out of the way,” the judge shuffled some papers. “Let’s begin. Prosecutor, summarize your case.”

Uyullank stood and spoke, “The accused, Human-Chrissmas-Collins, operated a food stand without proper licensing, in flagrant violation of the law.” He sat his carapace on the stool-shaped chair.

“Is this true, Ms. Collins?”

Dheen-Olap nudged Chrissmas. It sent shivers up and down her spine.

“Yes, Exalted Judge.”

“Then why are we here? Why not just pay the fine?” the judge directed this question to Dheen-Olap.

“Licensure laws unequal. Monopoly assist,” Dheen-Olap said.


“Ms. Collins, as your species are a new addition to the empire, you may not be aware of certain facts about the Bellitans judiciary. The most complex case we have ever heard was decided in less than twenty four of your Earth hours,” Gravy Biscuits said.

Uyullank tapped his right middle leg impatiently.

“Your case looked simple. Instead, it has required analysis of statistics and the legislative process and consultation with legal scholars on a variety of subjects. It took four hours!”

Uyullank grumbled quietly.

“I want to make it very clear that the laws of the Bellitans Empire are not to be taken lightly. You committed a grievous error by breaking them. However, given the extenuating circumstances related to Earth’s severe poverty in general and yours specifically …”

Uyullank smirked.

“I invalidate the licensure law and require that any future licensure laws related to food service stands not be unequal. You will pay a fine equal to one tenth of the original fine. Neither you nor anyone else,” Gravy Biscuits eyed Uyullank, “May appeal this ruling as it has been approved by all members of the high court.”

Chrissmas stood and bowed from the waist. “I accept your judgement and thank the court for its eminent wisdom and graciousness.”

Gravy Biscuits and Uyullank left the court room.

“Well custom,” Dheen-Olap said.

“Thanks. And thanks for winning the case for me.”

“Human saying no worry. Ride home?”


So that’s how it happened. Pretty spiffy, I think. If you want to send a congratulatory bottle of something adult, you know the address.

Love,

Chrissmas Collins


Attention Ms. Collins,

Your inappropriately exuberant reports continue to annoy and frustrate.

The EIA finds this most recent report more disturbing for the content than for the stylistic elements, however.

Consult the appropriate agencies before speaking further on Earth economic speculations to the Bellitans Empire.

Sincerely,

P. Jacques, Earth Information Administration

P.S. You didn’t speak to a Grey even once on your trip to Hazt? What propulsion system do the Spryde employ? If the Earth tourism board advertised at the bus stop, would anyone see the ads?

Your report is woefully inadequate!

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Friday, February 5, 2010

Bedtime Stories for the ADD: Gerald Thomas Frankfurt

Gerald Thomas Frankfurt was the sole proprietor of a smallish interstellar shipping company. The shipping company was named—very unimaginatively—GTF. His first ship was the Out of Here, his second ship was the On With It, and his third ship—constructed briefly after Gerald’s theoretical death—was the Over It.

He made good use of his parents’ shortsighted naming scheme, and people assumed he was happy-go-lucky before they even met him. In the shipping business, being happy-go-lucky is seen as a positive. Anyone who doesn’t sweat it must be extremely confident. Not brash, or egotistical. Confident. As in, I’ve done that before a million times. This isn’t hard. Why are you sweating it?

Of course, it isn’t that hard to fake that sort of confidence if you are too dumb to know otherwise. Considering how close Gerry got to the black hole that killed him ...

#22

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Monday, November 16, 2009

Black Maw

I wrote this one on January 26 of this year. I had planned on doing something with it since it ended with the triple tilde which used to mean “new section” in my notes. However, I didn’t leave myself any other info so this one isn’t going anywhere.

It should be written as General Relativity Horror, but I have no intention of re-writing it. Enjoy the appalling unevenness.

Oh, I forgot to mention, swearing disclaimer: There is swearing in this piece. Two words, I think? Same word both times. I'm not offended and I hope you aren't. But if you think you might be, you should skip this one.


Ancient Earther jazz played over the ship’s speakers. If she closed her eyes and ignored the metallic echo, she could almost imagine she was in some cold dark corner of that planet. Assuming there was such place on that giant golf course.

The distorted sound of an alarm quietly clashed with the music. Shit.

The flashing red light that went with the alarm meant trouble aft. She checked the sensors to make sure nothing was going to jump her ship, and pulled herself through the pit door. The gravity was turned off everywhere but the pit, her sack, and the engine room. She jumped out of the pit and went floating aft.

She could see a blackened mark on an instrument box. She pried it open with a screwdriver on her belt.

Two resistors and a capacitor had blown. It was primitive, but it was a critical part of a system that made sure the internal radiation didn’t rise much above the cosmic background radiation that permeated the entire universe. If she was lucky, it wouldn’t matter that it was gone. If she was unlucky, she’d be glowing in the dark.

She had replacement resistors and a soldering gun in the compartment, but she’d have to cannibalize the capacitor from something that mattered less than not getting radiation poisoning. She launched herself back toward the pit.

Beeping persisted in the pit. “Shut up already!”

“Oh, shit. You’re not the radiation sensor.”

Her ship was falling into a black maw. She was too far inside its grasp to pull out again. She turned the ship to face the maw and plunged straight in. There was no sense in waiting for time’s unending approach to zero to arrive.

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Friday, October 30, 2009

Bedtime Stories for the ADD: Them Who Wait

The people of the Virgo Stellar Stream—a resource-poor galactic fragment who call themselves ‘Them Who Wait’—were looking forward to the completion of their emigration to the Milky Way. Which, coincidentally, they call ‘Good Things.’

Residents of the Milky Way were unavailable for comment.

Note: Virgo Stellar Stream (Wiki)

#8

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Friday, June 12, 2009

The Final Report of Chrissmas Collins' Fancy Foods Stand

Warning: This story contains several "naughty" words. I don't mind 'em, and hope you don't either, but c'est la vie.


I'm Chrissmas Collins and I had just gotten my first order of the day. One of the Grays came by and asked for depilatory cream. I shit you not, they stop here for depilatory cream.

I may be the only human who knows why. When that Gray thinks he's out of sight, he'll pop the cap off and squeeze a bit out and eat it. It's like junk food to them. The way they eat it, it must be awesome. I'm not stupid enough to try it myself. I'm just following the good old Earther way: earning my keep through private enterprise. Chrissmas Collins' Fancy Foods stand. Yes, I'm that Chrissmas Collins. Blond Bombshell of the Stars! My hair isn't really blond, my boobs are real, and my life isn't as glamorous as that special made it seem.

For instance, you saw me cleaning up after carrion, but you don't have to smell it in cramped quarters every day.

Earth wasn't always an abandoned theme park. Admit it, Earth was a theme park. The interstellar thoroughfare brought us out of a decades long depression. And then the Bellitans pulled a Route 66 on us. Now you can buy an Earth putt-putt place for a few hundred ounces of depilatory cream. No one likes putt-putt that much.

I don't like making depilatory cream. Sure, it's steady work, but I'd rather park my stand along the new highway and steal whatever business I can from space restaurants.

One of my buoys picked a Spryde ship. I punched the button to transmit a Spryde version of my blurb and let it wail on. I don't understand a word of Spryde, but according to the guy I paid to program the tone, it says "Chrissmas Collins' Fancy Rocks! We've got the most interesting rocks from the most interesting places in the Galaxy, fast and cheap! Come [untranslatable verb] our rocks!"

Luck was on my side. The ship docked with my stand and in an hours' time, I served about thirty Spryde. They're easy to please and hard to understand. Fortunately, they knew about my shortcomings and tried not to make things hard. They always love rocks from Earth and Mars, whatever the kind. They'll float it in the dark cloud of their body and their little purple sparklies will dance around the rock for a few minutes. Then, they'll give the rock back no worse for wear.

I can "sell" any rock an infinite number of times. Whatever they're doing to the rocks isn't noticeable to even other Spryde after the fact.

The rush wasn't all ease, though. One Spryde tried explaining something to me. Its sparklies kept going reddish. I couldn't understand what it was saying. "Bob's anthem marjoram parsec intersection banana hafflouty" was part of it. Yeah, I don't understand it either. Another Spryde came by and made Red see things my way. Red and my defender floated away after that.

It was a tense situation, but I kept cool under pressure.

As they left, one last Spryde approached the counter. "Bureaucrats. Coming. Affection feeling. Refuge."

That made sense, thank God. I thanked the Spryde and waited for them to leave my stand. As soon as they were out, I closed every container, clamped everything down, and got ready to make way. The bureaucrats want stands to pay a licensing fee.

If I could afford the license, I'd get real inertial dampeners so I wouldn't have to batten everything down. And I'd get real gravity plating to replace these gravity boosters I scrapped from an abandoned Mars facility. These don't even give one full Earth Gravity and I have to turn them off when I get the engine going or I'll blow a fuse and spend a week repairing life support. That's always fun.

I busted ass but wasn't fast enough. I heard the swooshy sound of a Bureaucrat ship connecting to my stand and about half a minute later a very old Garzango walked to my counter. His middle left leg seemed completely useless to him. I felt bad watching him struggle his way across the floor.

"What can I do for you, sir?" I asked. He wore the red pendant of a Bellitans bureaucracy high ranker.

"Stop selling without a license!" He growled.

"Oh really?" It was time to see if the way to this Garzango's heart was through his stomach. "I think you'd much rather a well-aged raccoon carcass. You should see how succulent it is. It's about three days old and I kept the temperatures rotating between 15C and 49C. I even have some of the original flies with it. Five in total, I think, sir."

The Garzango considered this. "My name is Uyullank. And no, I think not. It sounds very tempting. You humans really do make the best food. But you need to learn your place in the galaxy. You could make lots of money working in a Garzango restaurant.” He waved one of his feet to emphasize his point. “More than you could running this stand with a proper license!"

"Maybe so, sir, but I can make more running this stand unlicensed and I'm barely making enough money as it is. Why do you hate us so much?"

"The Garzango don't hate humans," he squinted.

"I didn't ask why the Garzango hate the humans," I put down my towel. "I asked why you hate us. I have many many Garzango customers and none of them have ever been anything but kind to me. Why does Uyullank hate humans?"

"You're trying to take our place. You take money from our restaurants. Even our kin eat here!"

You can't talk sense into someone who feels their family is threatened. I flashed the sign for family duty, nodding. "We aren't trying to take your place, but even if we were, we have as much of a right to be in space as anyone."

"Perhaps on Garzango dinner plates," his back legs flexed.

"We're not dead, Uyullank."

"Not yet, Collins. Not yet." Uyullank slapped a fine on my counter and hobbled out.

I hope his threat was an empty one, but if it's not, maybe someone who can do something about it will read this.


Attention Ms. Collins,

Thank you for your colourful report, which I believe could have been summarized as “Grays eat depilatory cream and some Garzango would like to kill all humans.” If you send further reports, please keep to the point. Do you think the Grays are interested in different flavors?

Sincerely,

P. Jacques, Earth Information Administration

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