Tag: Sci-Fi

Categories
They are Smol Stories

They are Smol – and It’s a Smol World: Chapter 6

It is said everyone knows – in the way that “everyone” knows things – that liquor, tortilla/potato chip and porno sales skyrocket before a bad storm. You know the type of storms, the ones that are guaranteed to knock out power? Where the weatherman comes on and tells you this is a bad one, to shelter or leave the area, etc., etc.? See, liquor, chip and porn sales skyrocket before a bad storm because there’s not much to do in a blackout other than drink, snack and uh… well. Entertain yourselves in the way and manner that all mankind has done since the discovery of genitalia.

However, since babies tend to come whenever they damn well decide to, we can only hazard a guess – you talk to the maternity ward of a hospital or to professional midwives and sure, they’ll say there are baby “seasons” but to pin it down to a specific time or tie it to a specific hurricane or storm system… that’s ridiculous. This is why it’s one of those “everyone” knows facts; for the majority of modern human history there was no way to really tell if this was a fact or not.

It is also said in a way that “everyone” knows, that when you have no work you tend to slow down and enjoy things more often – as long as there’s no impending threat to your livelihood, of course. If you’re let go or get fired, but you can and do get a job lined up in a week or two, you’ve got a mini-vacation. Go to bed late, sleep in, have a day trip here or there and enjoy the family you have. Sure, that might lead to some more… extracurriculars, seeing as how you’re spending more time at home, but again – “everyone” knows that happens (but can’t prove it), and it’s to be expected.

Luciana Aleman believed that she, her 17 siblings, and her couple hundred immediate relatives were the perfect, living proof that “everyone” was absolutely fucking correct.

After the Great Clusterfuck, there was no power outside of major city centers for quite some time. Almost every Maternity ward in the world (and some offworld, if you’d believe the stories of being at overcapacity) now actually had the data to back up an almost literal, biblical flood of infants being born roughly 9-11 months after everything went to utter shit. The ones that came early were, of course, the “we’re gonna die so might as well” and the ones that came later were the “we’re out of rubbers but eh”. Her Grandfathers and Grandmothers were somewhere in the middle of that wave, but none of her Great-grandparents would tell and the Catholic Church didn’t really care as long as they went to mass and were baptized on time.

Then came the fabricators and the almost nonexistent demand for blue-class jobs. Sure, if you were a master electrician or welder or something you were fine, but her Grandfather was a migrant sharecropper, like his father before him and his father before him. If the Americans weren’t planting crops (and they weren’t at the time) then you don’t have much to do…

And so, over the couple decades it took for everyone to pull themselves together, her Great-Grandparents ended up gracing the earth in the traditional way, and Luciana was happy to count on 8 Great-uncles and 11 Great-aunts in her immediate family, which of course led to another 27 uncles and 35 aunts – not inclusive of her father and mother. Her parents apparently took a look at the size of their immediate family and considered it a challenge.

Luciana was the first shot in the subsequent and impromptu baby war amongst the Aleman clan. She came first, then a couple of her cousins were born, and then everything kinda just got out of hand. Luciana was joined by Martin, but then her uncle Sebastian – the first uncle Sebastian, not the second – had triplets and well…

Well it’s not like Papa Ricardo was gonna stop. At this point, the cost of living was so low, and Sofia is a beautiful lady, and they’ve got power and A/C and 150,000 on-demand channels and all the comforts of modern living and Abuela demands sacrifice…

So after Martin came the first set of twins, Mia and Catalina. Then Thomas, Gabriel, Joaquin and Andres, Zoe, Ana Sofia – the last of the girls – and then something happened and it was all boys after that. Juan Pablo, Juan Diego, Juan Jose, Juan David, Juan Sebastian, Juan Manuel, Juan Martin and little Juan Esteban.

Come to think of it, that something might have been her father ascending to lifelong dad-jokehood, because as he would say later in his life “If you’ve seen Juan of my boys you’ve seen ‘em all.”

Luciana smirked at her reflection in the port-side “window”, the green-gray planet hanging lazily below them. ‘At least my name isn’t a dad joke.’ She mused, using an idle thought to ping her implant about the new world she was orbiting. It’s name was “Gentle Expanse”, but “Green Fields” or “Quiet Meadow” might have been a better translation. Even after all these years and universal updates, things still were a bit wonky with the matrixes – and it really didn’t help that language kept evolving, especially human language. There were your traditional derivatives, sure, but now an entire ‘star-farer’s lexicon’ to add to the mix. Silver City translated well enough; you build a silver mine, and then a city to support the mine. Done and done.

What was really intriguing was the fact that they were going to be building a city-within-a-city. The SC planning board basically gave them unfettered and heavily deregulated permits to build… whatever they wanted to do. Whereas most people back home who were getting sick of there being so many people signed up in a heartbeat, they were more the city-living type to begin with; architects, scientists, coffee drink engineers, manbun archivists – you know the type. Her father took one look at the list of people who applied, simply put “farmer” in occupation, and now…

Now here she was, taking a decade off from her second PHD in Geochemistry to help her father find the “good earth” to start planting.

“Luci?”

Luciana turned from her musings and smiled, waving at her Abuela. “Hey there Abi! Sorry, are we already going down?”

Isabella nodded – well. She was nearing 130, so her “nod” was more of an upper-body-wiggle, but it got the message through. “Mmm. Your father has finally settled on a few acres of land he wants to work on, so we’re going to be taking a ship down in the next week or so.” Isabella leaned forward into her granddaughter’s kiss, the much taller woman leaning down to gently touch the old woman’s forhead. “And with that trip down, you could find yourself sitting next t-”

“Abi.”

Isabella scrunched up her nose, looking up at her granddaughter. Her single granddaughter. Her single, 40 year old Granddaughter. “All I want is for you to be happy, Mi Luzita.”

Luciana sighed internally. “Abi. I’m onto you – all you want are more great-grandchildren.”

“All I want are some great-grandchildren, yes! You’re the eldest, you should lead by example!”

“Abi. I know for a fact that I have nieces and nephews back home.”

“Yes.” Isabella said, matter-of-factly. “Back home. Not here.”

Luciana laughed, patting her grandmother on the back as they turned towards the exit door from the observation gallery. “So what, if the great-grandchildren aren’t near you they don’t exist?!”

Isabella looked up at her, a twinkle in her eye. “Shroginder!” She said, knowingly, as the door slid shut. The elevator pinged softly, and the two of them began to move down… and to the left.

“Abi, you know that’s not how this works.”

“Beh!”

Luciana rolled her eyes, adjusting her grandmother’s shawl. “Well. I’m certain you’ll work your grandmotherly ways and I’ll end up with a husband and 400 children, but that’s after I get you and papa settled. There’s no need for you to cause a scene when we land-”

“I do not cause scenes.” Isabella said, straightening up to her fearsomely hunched over height of ‘somewhere around 5’nothing’. “I cause memories.”

The Jornissian was screaming.

The Jornissian was screaming, trapped in his house, as the intruders advanced, and there was nothing he could do. He had already expended all the ammunition in his weapon, he had thrown any physical objects he could get his hands on, but nothing would stop their march forward. Cornered in his room – trapped – and facing death, he screamed.

smol humans T-posing to assert dominance around a cornered snek

The warmcuddles around him had assumed the dominance position, and the raw energy they were channeling was unstoppable.

[willows_and_towers]: “[LEAVE ME BE I PAID MY OXYGEN TAX-]”

[JOHN MADDEN]: “[JOHN MADDEN. JOHN MADDEN. JOHN MADDEN.]”

[Stole_yo_girl_and_dumped_her]: “[MOON IS MOON IS MOON IS MOON IS MOON]”

[BEP BEP BEP]: “[L_L_L_L_L_L_L_L_L_L_L_L_L-]”

Jonathan was having an excellent day. So lost in the deepest lore of this shitposting server he spent days – nay, weeks in the VR chat, taking breaks only to eat, sleep or use the pee bottle roomba. He had taken turns in other free bodies (the snake ones being the weirdest ones) and had happily shared his own model to the server, starting the JohnMadden Johneymen shitposting clan (which now numbered in the dozens and was therefore, unstoppable). Currently they had cornered a newbie who foolishly joined the human-only server in a non-human avatar, and must be shown the error of their ways.

Look, he didn’t make the shitposting rules (technically, nobody did) – he just enforced them.

[willows_and_towers]: “[NO STEP! HAIL FREEDONIA!]”

[willows_and_towers] [DISCONNECTED]

[willows_and_towers] [JOINED]

[willows_and_towers: “[WHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWH]”

The four humans T-posed at each other for a few more minutes before the walls melted away as a replica zephyr station fell from the heavens and killed everybody. Jon nodded in approval on his bed, the alien feeling of actually moving for the first time in a couple hours causing his neck to lock up.

“Ack, fuck.”

[Stole_yo_girl_and_dumped_her] turned to Jon, disconnecting all his joints to flop about in concern. “[You alright?]”

“Yeah, yeah-” Jon grunted as he sat up, the sudden lack of insulating bedding causing him to shudder as his damp body was kissed by the relatively cool air. “Fuck. I gotta shower.”

“[Showers are a myth invented by Ghengis Kahn to sell eggs.]” [BEP BEP BEP] helpfully added, growing his feet and shrinking his body to get into connection with his obvious hobbit ancestry.

“Real talk it was the Egyptians all along. Fucking furries.” Jon murmured, reaching up to tilt his VR helmet up. The admittedly dim artificial light of his quarters hurt his eyes, and he screwed them shut in self-defense. With a few subvocalized commands to his implant he went ‘AFK’, his physical avatar graying out as he peeled the visor from his face.

He could feel it peel away, and idly wondered exactly how long he’d been in. As his eyes adjusted to “real” light once more, he looked around his one-room abode; food wrappers scattered haphazardly on the floor, random stains of various fluids (again stop that it’s fanta) on the carpeting, the actual cleaning roomba screeching in the corner as a literal mob of piss-bottles fenced it in, the existential dread of knocking one of them over causing the robot to shake violently-

“Fuck. I gotta clean up too.”

[Stole_yo_girl_and_dumped_her] poked his friend’s body, his “hand” going right through [JOHN MADDEN]’s torso. “[He’s gone again.]”

[BEP BEP BEP] shrugged, now basically a head ontop of giant feet. “[And? He takes breaks all the damn time – probably on while at work.]”

“[Maybe.]” [Stole_yo_girl_and_dumped_her] mused, looking around for a new target for the shitposting clan to attack. “[Just seems odd, thou-]”

There was an alert that flashed across everyone’s vision, causing the whole server to stop dead in it’s tracks.

[Best_at_Tech][@ADMIN]: [MEMORY BUFFER PURGE INCOMING LEAVE NOW IF YOU DON’T WANT TO BE TRACED TO DEFAULT.]

A quirk of galactic nodes is that they stored vast – and I mean, almost incomprehensibly vast amounts of data – and would send that data out in almost-real time to other nodes via quantum linking; basically, a bit would flip on one node that would flip on another node halfway across the galaxy, and this would write/read data instantaneously. It wasn’t a perfect science, however, and sometimes things needed to be resent. Therefore, it behooved every system to keep a couple-day or couple-week log of data sitting on the node on the off-chance something needed to be pulled again. This of course didn’t count the data that had to sit for longer (such as census data, tax data, etc.) on the off chance that a backup was needed from a few years ago.

Really, just think of it as a 2 month real-time moment-by-moment backup of the entire Internet and you’re starting to get an idea as to what I’m talking about in terms of scope and amount of data stored. Even though their memory capacity was vast it was not infinite, and sections would be wiped – purged – if they were deemed out of date or no longer necessary. The only parts that would be ignored (and logged as ignored) are the parts that were actively being used; Who was there, why they were there and what they were doing would be noted and logged in a government database for some policy wonk to review and figure out if the algorithm needed tweaking sometime in the next couple decades.

However, when you’ve created an arguably extremely illegal server on a government rack that exists to drain the pent-up excitement of shitposters hyped for their new human neighbors, you very much don’t want to be on that list. Hell, you don’t want anyone to even know that bit of server space was being used!

So, wordlessly the entire server – well, almost the entire server, logged right off and started to wipe their history. After the purge the same secret path to the same server location would exist, and the world could be rebuilt. Anyone who stayed online would be … still there when everyone came back, but their personal info would be stamped for everyone to see. It’s the death of anonymity, and the absolute last thing anyone wanted was that kind of blackmail to exist.

[Stole_yo_girl_and_dumped_her] cringed, externally, and looked at the AFK [JOHN MADDEN]. “[I’m sorry.]” he said softly, as he logged off.

Twitter
Categories
Stories They are Smol

They are Smol – and it’s a Smol World: Chapter 5

Now in the movies, when a ship warps into a new star system they’re able to instantly come in at orbit of a planet, drop shields, deploy fighters, shoot guns, activate evasive maneuvers and all sorts of wonderful things that Hollybollywood would have you believe human starships can do. The real truth of the matter is that’s all bullshit. Once you warp into a system – even a well mapped system – you’re effectively blind until the EM spectrum can come back on and let you know who’s around you, where you are, and what the heck is going on, and almost most importantly, where the fuck is the system’s star. Although this takes milliseconds at most and nanoseconds at best, it’s still a delay.

So the real M.O. of any ship warping anywhere is to do so next to a pre-established buoy or marker of some sort, let your ship systems come back online, parse the data and then vacate the premises as quickly as possible. Although collisions can and do happen they are astronomically (hah!) rare, as space is vast, there are multiple entry points into any given system, legal ships radio ahead for the system’s Space Traffic Control to coordinate warp-out spots in spacetime and no good captain worth their salt sticks around on the off chance there’s an emergency warp coming in.

However, Reach was special.

I don’t mean that in a “Humanity uncovered in a few short decades answers to thousand year old technological riddles” kind of way, but in a “oh God we’re shipping families of a species that actually fits in the galactic census margin of error” and “I’ve heard the stories of what goes on in their R&D departments and if something goes wrong it will all be our fault” kind of way. When you have such precious cargo arriving at ludicrous speed, you tend to enact certain …overzealous safety measures. Reach and her escorts enjoyed a very close warp-in to Gentle Expanse, her multiple moons between sinking behind and cresting over the planet – on the off chance there were issues, rescue and repair was just a few minutes away, and everyone could be evacuated within an hour. Reach was also escorted by the Terran Combat Ships My Hand Slipped and La Chancla, as well as almost a dozen senate battle cruisers, logistics carriers, medical ships and a handful of dreadnoughts. Reach also enjoyed the dubious accolade of being the only escorted non-combat ship in 4,000 years to warp into a populated and mapped system and have absolutely no space traffic whatsoever cluttering up their EM broadcasts.

Like I said, Reach was special.

And so Reach, special, special Reach, sat just out of reach of it’s landing zone as various senate ships meandered throughout the system, re-re-re-mapping every navigational hazard, updating Galactic nodes, verifying the moratorium of new ship traffic with traffic control, setting up a defensive perimeter (cause you never know) and ultimately spending a couple extra hours blasting a few errant comets and meteorites that may have proved to be a problem to the colony in the next 780,000 years. The colonists aboard Reach weren’t too concerned about the delay – almost all of their excitement and time were spent pouring over geographical maps, reports of local flora and fauna, possible city layouts, connecting and setting up their own Galactic Net Node and other extremely interesting things that you, the reader, probably don’t want to know anything about. It was the navigational crew, the operations teams – and the military, especially, who started to go mad at just sitting there for hours, and then days as absolutely nothing of interest happened. When they finally did get the green light to move forward, it was only a 10 minute trip to orbit… and then the beginning of a multiple months-long stay as they unloaded their cargo.

Space travel, everybody.

== CHAT ENABLED ==

+) [PRIVATE CHATROOM 188.6@#!@.7&&23—99R JOINED]

+) [PASSKEY]: ***********************************************************************

+) [PASSKEY ACCEPTED]

+) [(TEXT)] / [SIMULATION]

+) [TEXT ONLY ACTIVATED]

[USER ACTIVITY]

[Poet of Stars][ACTIVE]

[Best_at_Tech][DORMANT]

[Stole_yo_girl_and_dumped_her][JOINED]

[dramdrunk][OFFLINE]

[MEGAMEGAMEGA][OFFLINE]

.

.

.

= = =

Ngruzren-of-Arzgr idly scrolled through his list of servers, logging into some, logging out of others, and making note of who was online and where. His tooth prosthetic was out, his clothing gone, and he was draped over a spherical beanbag in a way only the young (or those who are limber) are able to do. His eyes were glazed over, his tongue idly licking the gummy gap in his mouth.

= = =

[Stole_yo_girl_and_dumped_her]: [Who’s actually here?]

[Poet of Stars]: [Hey. Not joining us in Simulation?]

[Stole_yo_girl_and_dumped_her]: [Nah. I’m not up for it.]

[Poet of Stars]: [Fair enough – just know that you still have that whole black-heart default av.]

[Stole_yo_girl_and_dumped_her]: [What?! I swore I changed it-]

[Poet of Stars]: [Maybe on some other chatroom, but not globally. I mean, I don’t care, I’m just saying-]

[Stole_yo_girl_and_dumped_her]: [Fine, fine. I’ll hop in.]

= = =

Ngruzren-of-Arzgr frowned as he kicked in a few more subroutines with his implant, the embedded room computer taking on most of the processing load as he reached above and behind him, blindly pawing at the floor for a headset. Eventually – after a few groans, rolling over to actually search, and then realizing he was laying on top of his new pair all along – he put on the earpieces, a hard-light visor projecting perfectly over his eyes, ears and muzzle. He reached his arms out as he lay splayed on the floor, the room’s optics recording his position, marking it as “neutral” and building a world completely around him.

= = =

Ngruzren-of-Arzgr appeared, suddenly, in a wide open field with no atmosphere – the stars of his home system’s sky whizzing past him at ludicrous speed. The earth yawned open below him, breaking apart into various floating islands, twisted sculptures of art and geometry, and in one case a pen of [Night-Terror]-beasts, beating themselves impotently against the glass. He fell, and continued to fall, sighing as he passed rapidly through a solid carved-stone floor, through the dungeon below, and out the other side into the void.

He was, of course, not himself, which any sensible person would realize at this point. No, at this particular junction he was still his default offline persona, a night-rage beating black heart wreathed in ice and claw.

Ngruzren-of-Arzgr cringed internally at that description. It wasn’t a phase, it was simple experimentation, but… thank goodness he got past that as quick as he did.

[Stole_yo_girl_and_dumped_her]:”[Hey! I thought you fixed NoCollision! Ik’itili?!]”

[Poet of Stars] called out from somewhere and nowhere at the same time. “[No, she’s offline! And I don’t know – log out and change avs before you log back in?]”

[Stole_yo_girl_and_dumped_her] sighed, force-quitting the simulation chatroom. The sound and feeling of air whooshing over his body immediately stopped, and the expanse-less and featureless void that sat at the bottom of the map gave way… to his bedroom ceiling again.

Mentally switching avatars, Ngruzren-of-Arzgr logged back into the private server, no longer appearing at the zenith of the skymap but instead on the ground itself. [Stole_yo_girl_and_dumped_her] rolled his shoulders and fluffed his mane once more; He was a svelte gauntling, his blood-blue fur and skin glistening like thousands of droplets of frozen rain, or captive stars seen through a pane of ice. Teeth white as fallen snow, eyes a deep and mysterious black – but unlike the haggard and well, gaunt demons of yore, he was muscled. Fit. Proportioned in all the right ways to make the ladies notice hi-

[Stole_yo_girl_and_dumped_her] stopped his mental train of thought as a tiny-chomper stood before him, smiling with his tiny chompers. 

[Stole_yo_girl_and_dumped_her]:”[Wh. Uh. WHU.]”

The tiny-chomper shook his head disapprovingly. [Poet of Stars]:”[Oh no no. That’s not good at all. The correct greeting is ‘Hello! Pleasure to meet you!’ with an alternative ‘Do you need any help?’. Zero marks, go back to-]”

[Stole_yo_girl_and_dumped_her]:”[Wait, Swipressnssren?! How did – how did you get that model?!]”

[Poet of Stars] bowed dramatically – for a tiny-chomper, that is – and digitally ‘held out’ a file archive, which [Stole_yo_girl_and_dumped_her] accepted and began to download. [Poet of Stars]:”[Well, turns out our little tech diva knows a thing or to – or knows a few people – and somehow got a copy of some hard-light tiny-chompers. Tell me, do I look… familiar?]”

[Stole_yo_girl_and_dumped_her] shook his head, studying the alien before him. ”[No, I’d remember a tiny-chomper if I saw one…]”

[Poet of Stars]:“[Really?]” he said, suddenly making the avatar twist it’s features in fear. “[But life day will be ruined-]”

[Stole_yo_girl_and_dumped_her] groaned in voice chat and in real life, Ngruzren-of-Arzgr’s limbs going limp against the floor as he felt the life drain from his body.

[Stole_yo_girl_and_dumped_her]:“[Are you Kidding me?!]”

[Poet of Stars]:”[Nope. But the continued good news is that she also somehow got the randomization customization files as well, and the control behind it. You can customize your own tiny-chomper! And there’s also a server address…]”

[Stole_yo_girl_and_dumped_her] grinned as he dismissed his avatar, returning to the default ‘ball of light’, before running the package he was just given.

[Stole_yo_girl_and_dumped_her]:”[Whelp. There goes my evening.]”

Jonathan Protaganista was bored out of his mind.

Now, usually this would be cause for fear amongst his coworkers, his managers and, generally, everyone aboard whichever station he happened to be serving on at any given time. However, Jon was doing his best to stay out of trouble, out of the way, and most importantly, out of the spotlight. This wasn’t due to him turning over a new leaf at being selected/press-ganged into serving on Reach, which would undoubtedly put his name somewhere in the history books – probably near the bottom, in -50 typefont, if we’re being honest. No, he stayed out of the way and out of trouble and out of the spotlight for one very simple reason, which goes back to the most ancient of maritime law, and logically extended into the depths of space itself:

When the ship was away from port, the Captain’s word was law.

And although Jon could bullshit his way around his coworkers and his managers and generally everyone else who had no idea what he did but nodded sagely and made the appropriate knowing mouthsounds at bigly-sounding words, he could not bullshit a ship’s Captain who wanted to make history, his crew who were on a mission and a security team who could – and would! – throw him in the brig for weeks or months at a time.

The brig has no Wi-Fi, man. That’s inhumane.

So he sat in his room, day in, day out, only taking in what food his tamed herd of roombas would deliver to his door. His position was also basically outsourced; Jon was a master slacker above all things, and it wasn’t difficult to build a program and rewire a few robots to do his job in his stead. In regards to entertainment, Quantum communication was a thing, and the delay in getting the new media, news and art from home was measured in seconds as opposed to years. This was great for watching ‘the big game’, but absolutely terrible for gaming. Jon lives in a society, and that society put the millisecond latency he was used to in twitch shooters such as Cookie Clicker at the bottom of the “needs” bin.

And so Jonathan Protaganista was bored out of his mind. Although most games had a VR/AR switch, with his modest crew quarters and lack of a holodeck on the ship, he was forced to game by screen. Like an animal. When contextual clues that felt natural were reduced to indicator markers on the edge of that screen – it didn’t matter if it was wrap-around visor and in 32K, it still felt off. Stilted. So Jon did the next best thing a bored man can do alone in his room with a connection to the Internet.

No, not that. Stop that. Get your mind out of the gutter.

I am, of course, talking about shitposting. A few second delay is untenable for PVP or even PVE MMO games, but message boards? Text servers? That’s absolutely fine, man… If only he wasn’t banned from most of them. Turns out you can’t shitpost too hard when you’ve got a forced, fixed IIP ID.

“Server list… let’s see. Omnigender breathairians – banned. Karnakian Truthers – banned. Hollow moon theorists – banned. Flat-galaxy – banned. Mandatory Nanomachine Injections for US Senators – Ugh. There’s nothing fucking good left.” Jon murmured, his old haunts shunning him from his lack of VPN and proxy spoofs to hide behind. “Is there anything local I can do? Not like I’m fucking staying.”

His eyes tracked to various menu icons, his gloved hands gripping controllers to input and select text and icon choices. Eventually he connected to the ‘local’ GalNet node, his translation matrix working overtime to download a couple petabytes of data. Slowly, before his very eyes, unintelligible script formed words, then sentences, then inflection, meaning slowly sifting through byte by byte. After the translations loaded he completely ignored the welcome screen, the about section, and various other helpful and noble sites on his way to degeneracy.

Jonathan Protaganista was a master slacker, and he had various tricks up his sleeve to get to the “good” stuff. It wasn’t but a few weeks after a Galactic Node was established around Earth’s orbit decades ago that his spiritual lieges and slacker shaman ancestors put forth a titanic effort to crack, dismantle, hack, abuse, and shitpost furiously through all of the firewalls, botnet protections, and various other physical and digital protections put in place by his species’ benefactors.

Truth be told, they didn’t make it. They didn’t crack the GalNet node, but they pried it open just a little. Enough for some wiggle room. What tricks weren’t classified beyond ‘CIA blacksite visit’ were shared amongst slackers such as himself, and he was pleased to find that most nodes – or at least, the only other node he’s ever touched – seemed similar enough for him to root around in.

So he did.

“Porn, porn, vintage movies that I don’t care about, porn, games I can’t play, porn, financials of companies I don’t care about, porn, ah. FINALLY.”

Jon stumbled around the alien navigation, the same intuition that came to three races sharing millenia together completely lost on him. It took him a good 45 minutes just to find a server list, and even then all the options were either encoded or gibberish.

All but the one he joined.

== CHAT ENABLED ==

+) [PRIVATE CHATROOM WELCOME_ALL_HUMANS JOINED]

+) [PASSKEY: NULL]

+) [PASSKEY ACCEPTED]

+) [TEXT] / [(VISOR)]

+) [VR CHAT ACTIVATED]

[USER ACTIVITY][Page 1 of 57]

[LOOK_AT_MY_LIMBS][ACTIVE]

[HATEHATE][ACTIVE]

[MY TEETH HURT][ACTIVE]

[LIMBSY FACEMAN][ACTIVE]

[AAAAAAAAA][ACTIVE]

[BEP BEP BEP][ACTIVE]

[cuddle-me-now][DORMANT]

[LOUD_NOISES][ACTIVE]

[BbBbBbBbBbBbBbBbBbB][DORMANT]

[BURNING_MAN][DORMANT]

.

.

.

= = =

Jon smiled. The text that spilled past him – pouring past him in a speed almost too fast to see, was nothing but pure shitposting. Around him, a cacophony of noise; there was Roleplaying, conspiracy theories, random noises, people challenging others to duels, a few people with avatars running around completely naked-

These were his people.

He ported in his default avatar – a simple scan of his own body, he didn’t care – and walked right up to the nearest human being.

[JOHN MADDEN]:”AEIOU.”

The human, [Stole_yo_girl_and_dumped_her], turned and grinned, flailing his arms in ways that obviously broke every bone in ‘his’ body. “[BRBRBRBRBRBRBRBRBRBRBRBRBRBRBRBRBRBRBR]”

And over the next four hours, a friendship was born.

Twitter
Categories
Stories They are Smol

They are Smol – and it’s a Smol World: Chapter 4

For the first few weeks, they fought against the machine – purposefully working slow in protest.

The next few weeks after that, they returned to routine, albeit grumbling all the time.

However, It was within Month 5 of the great staffing, resupply and fitting of Reach, in the Year of Our Lord 2184, in the third dimension, in the Sol system (wherein Humanity was born and accidentally yeeted into the stars) whereupon arguably the most momentous occasion of the last 40 years occurred:

Jonathan Protaganista and Aisha Batal Alrawaya completed an honest-to-God full day’s worth of work.

It was such an anomaly that at first HR believed it to be a mistake; this forced both Jon and Aisha to spend an additional 15 minutes at work past their leave-by time to verify that yes, they were in fact at their stations doing their jobs, and no – it wasn’t a motorized blow-up doll sitting at their desks. Again. Their supervisor was eventually called in, who corroborated their stories – and furnished further proof of his eyewitness account by producing no less than 100 lottery tickets for the Powerball 37 drawing that same day. In a bizarre twist of fate (and the sudden, totally rational fear that the two of them were replaced by body snatchers from Pluto) HR decided to give them the next few days off – as a thank you for actually doing real work for once.

“I just don’t get it.”

Aisha shrugged, pouring herself another shot of tequila. “Who cares? Shit, if I knew working hard would get us more time off I would’ve started earlier! Like in college. Or preschool.”

“Well, ok, fair point – but I mean more what they’re doing with the first round of colonists. The Reach is going to be jumping with a full escort, right?”

There was the sound of glass-on-table as the empty shot was slammed down, Aisha grunting for a moment before replying. “Fuck. Yeah, I guess so? Couple of our own navy with some Senate heavy-hitters. I mean, it is our first colony ship, and everyone wants to make nice. Bury the hatchet and all that.”

“No.” Jon murmured, staring out the digital “windows” of the bar that they were currently occupying at 11AM on a Tuesday. Reach sat heavy and fat, like a bundle of cigars taped together a little to thickly in the middle, a swarm of lights dancing around it’s entire form in a symphony of engineering, operations and logistics. The majority of work was done; seeds and soil, livestock and pets, people and personnel were already on-board with their families, settling in to what would amount to a couple-month stay on-ship before a final drop to the new world.

Literally, in their cases.

“I mean more like… Sure there was a waitlist to go, but they’re doing 3 rounds of colonization? And it’s not to meet demand – It just seems weird.”

The bottle of Tequila was upended, the last few drops splashing into the half-full shot glass. “Mmm. Grunts first – grunts first always. Then the middlemen to make shit difficult for the grunts, then the upper class to pretend they did it all by themselves and never needed the grunts in the first place.”

Jon laughed mirthlessly, rolling his eyes. “Dramatic today, aren’t we?”

Aisha whined something half-heartedly mocking in response, downing the half-shot of tequila with absolutely no fanfare whatsoever. “Nngh. Jon, what’s your actual fucking question? Whenever you start thinking you get moody – your brain’s not used to working that hard-”

“Firstly, fuck you, you fuck like a limp fish and Faiza told me she thinks of Batgirl when she fucks you.”

“Good taste. S’why I’m gon’ marry her.”

“Secondly, the mix seems super weird. Construction crews, fine. Electricians – ok. Doctors, no shit. But Botanists? Xenobiologists? Survivalists? This world’s been occupied before we fucking discovered fire or some shit, why are they going?”

“Iunno. To prove that their shiny new degree actually means something? Gotta prove to daddy that his creds were worth spending, or that you really did need that decade to backpack around pan-africa to find yourself~”

Jon turned to look at his now very drunk comrade, scooting his beer closer to his side of the table and away from longing eyes. “Wow. I mean, I always heard lesbians had daddy issues buhOWWWW~” The statement died in his throat by a savage – well, ‘savage’ drunken kick connected with his shin.

“Asshole.” Aisha stated, resting her chin on the table.

Jon responded to the insult by slamming back his beer, letting the larger glass thunk heartily against the faux wood table. “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, we got 3 days off – fucking finally – so what do you want to do with ‘em?”

There was a small pause before Aisha looked up from her headrest, eyes only taking a few moments to focus. “Hey. Do you suppose the raid servers are empty cause everyone’s pulling overtime?”

They shared a look – You know the type I’m talking about. The sudden realization that all the cheaters, wall-hackers, chinese gold farmers (yes it’s still a problem in the future), enemy guilds, faction whores and tryhard powergamers were otherwise offline and their game would be… untainted. Pure. NPC-rich. Loot rich.

There would be nobody to stop them from powergaming.

“RACEYOUTOTHEDECK-”

“FUCK-”

Ngruzren-of-Arzgr was sweating, hard. Figuratively.

It had been 6 months of blood, sweat and tears to get to this point; the general orientation class was a breeze, and so he foolishly signed up for the intermediate offering. Then the advanced. Soon, what started as an undefined but necessary urge to work with the new colonists had morphed into an almost full-blown obsession. He parlayed his connections, his ‘life experience’, and his damn good grades to end up in the group that was presenting a final student project to the Gentle Expanse/Silver City tourism and public safety board.

It was 6 months worth of work condensed into a wordless set of diagrams that would help educate any Senate species, regardless of what their base written script was, or if their translators were working, on how to interact with the tiny-chompers. Hundreds, literalhundreds of iterations were put together in order to make the best possible collage of information, presented in the most clear possible way. Ngruzren’s team wasn’t even presenting the entire library of work; theirs was literally just a small chunk of a larger effort. Still, it was before both a city and planetary board of directors, and needed to be given the due weight and respect of the job put before him.

Ngruzren-of-Arzgr was sweating, hard… over a free safety pamphlet.

He stayed in the sideline, letting his body language show that he was extremely interested in what his Jornissian colleague was saying – he wasn’t really, the team lead had rehearsed the speech so often that he could say it from memory in a pinch, but presentation was everything at this stage and so he let his body show he was occupied in rapt attention while his mind wandered.

His dad kept looking at him with a look, a looky look that looked… looky, and Ngruzren didn’t know what to make of it. The night-rage thing… ok, granted, he looked fine but black was so limiting as a color and really, he looked better when he highlighted his own natural fur color and stayed with pastel clothing and bright accessories. The large mane wasn’t such a big pain-in-the-tail to keep as he was cautioned about, and… ok, it was nice that Mom was taking more time at home after winning the bid. But that’s not why he stopped with the night-rage hassle… honest.

Ngruzren kept going back to that look, like a hunter to the tracks of his missing prey. It didn’t make any sense! Sure, he might have suddenly found his passion in these new aliens, but is that such a bad thing? His life before was going to be reviewing drone core samples and sitting at a desk doing paperwork! Sure, steady and well-paid work, but boring as all get-out. At least here he could interact with people! Sure, they might be smaller, and weaker, and need help and should be herded properly and sometimes needed their food prepa-

Ngruzren inhaled, sharply, as the realization hit him so hard he physically swayed. He was packless, he went into season, the tiny-chompers were so small and cute, his father’s knowing look-

A sharp round of applause broke his epiphany, and he looked around confused for a moment – until he stood up, joining the rest of his team, clapping for some reason.

A female Dorarizin – the name escaped Ngruzren at the moment – stood, professionally adjusting her chest stays. “{Excellent presentation! We are most pleased to accept this addition to the localized training directory! I’m also speaking for my associates here – but given your team’s drive and dedication, that it would be remiss of us to not allow you all the chance to work with the tiny-chompers as well.}” Was she – was she looking directly at him? “{We still have many more positions to go through, but I’m almost certain your passion will intertwine with those open gaps and fill them quite nicely.]”

Ngruzren tilted his head slightly… Was. Was that a wink?

Ngruzren-of-Arzgr blinked, hard, as the female who was old enough to be his mother and was probably happily married already, continued to talk about next steps, promoting synergy, and other managerial talk, giving that same look to… to everyone else in the room.

Ugh.

Swipressnssren stared, unblinking, at his Dorarizin table-mate as he downed another bag of Hufflepuffs – what were essentially triple-fried skin-rinds of some sort of animal, the things powdered and coated with various savory and sweet flavors. Nori had to have devoured at least 12,000 calories in the past 10 minutes, and that’s just what Swipressnssren had personally witnessed.

“<Um. I take it the meeting didn’t go well?>”

Nori growled something noncommittal before swallowing another mouthful of the trashy junk food. “[No. Went fine, everything’s fine.]”

“<Hmm. Doesn’t sound fine.>”

Ngruzren-of-Arzgr crumpled up the tinfoil packaging, dropping it onto the heap of it’s bretheren on the table. “[The design was approved, the presentation went off without a hitch, and I am almost totally certain that I’ll have a position as a warmcuddle tour guide within the year. Frozen hells, I’ll probably even be in charge of an entire city block or two. Yay.]”

Swipressnssren sank into his coils slightly as he studied the alien-yet-familiar body language of his friend, his hands resting idly on his midsection coil. “<The amount of venom you just spat in that statement would make any old tooth proud. What’s going on, really?>”

Ngruzren – Nori, as he was called in the Jornissian’s tongue – frowned, grumbling something untranslatable as he stared at the tabletop before him, almost boring a hole through it with the intensity of his gaze.

“<Come on. I know that thing with your last… girlfriends didn’t work out->”

“[Why are you assuming it’s a girl problem?]”

“<Well, is it?>” The Jornissian hummed, rolling his shoulders in curiosity. “<It’s either women or work at this stage in life – unless you’ve found out you’re a proud papa->”

There was another nondescript mumble, and Swipressnssren stuttered. “<Wh-what? With whom->”

“[Ugh, you’re sounding as bad as my Mother.]” Nori smirked, his hands reaching up to play with the metal wrappers to what was left of his prodigious feast. “[No, it’s not girls, I promise. It’s just… well, like. Have you ever just caught yourself doing something stupid-]”

“<Me? Never.>”

“[Hah. Try to pretend you’re mortal, for a moment. But like. You catch yourself doing something stupid and then realize why?]”

“<…Introspection. You’re telling me you just now discovered introspectio->”

“[No, you coiled shit.]” Nori grinned – ah, finally a smile! – flicking a rolled up ball of tin at the Jornissian. “[I just… Well, you know I’ve been in an extended season because I have no pack.]”

“<Right. I mean, I thought you looked good with the whole black-sun thing going on->”

“[Just. Ok. Um, Thanks. But. So I’m in extended season with no female packmates. Brain’s flooded with all sorts of hormones and stuff.]”

Swipressnssren quirked his eyebrow as high as it could physically go – which wasn’t too far, given his physiology and the musculature of his hood, so it was a true feat. “<A… are you trying to tell me where hatchlings come from?>”

That comment earned him an entire fistful of wrappers bouncing off his head.

“[No, UGH. Look. Just… I’m in a mood right now – and I know, shutup – and like. I’m nearing the end of my development, and historically guys would’ve paired off by now – and a few months ago, we started to get into this warmcuddle research kick, right?]”

“<Riiight…. I’m not… you’re a cuddlefucker?>”

“[No.]” Ngruzren-of-Arzgr deadpanned, his hands kneading his forearms roughly. “[I just realized why I wanted to even do all of this.]”

“<Why’s that?>”

Nori looked up at his friend, as 1 million KM above him – at that very moment, in fact – Reach broke warp, gravitational waves rippling through the first alien star system that Mankind would call home.

“[I want pups.]”

Twitter
Categories
They are Smol Stories

They are Smol – and it’s a Smol World: Chapter 3

Pip

“[-And now, in local news. Another illegal personnel smuggling operation was busted earlier today operating around the Gas Giant Cloudpearl; Senate Teams lead by the H.S.T.’s own regional law enforcement discovered a network of hollowed-out asteroids at the edge of the gravity well. As they were discovered within 5 calendar years of creation squatters’ rights will not-]”

Pip

“[-letion of the dome, which allows for their own day-night rythm.]” The Jornissian professor on-screen said, shifting slightly in his seat.

“[I see! But won’t they be able to adapt like the rest of us?]” The Karnakian host questioned, leaning over his table with an eager expression on his face. “[I thought one of the reasons why we won the bid was because our planet and theirs are so similar?]”

“[From an atmospheric and gravitic comparison – yes, absolutely. However, we rotate much slower so no – a day on Gentle Expanse is roughly 1 1/2 of their entire day/night cycles on Dirt. It’s not a question of adapting to a couple extra hours of work or rest, but an extreme marathon of staying up and sleeping. I’ve been assured by the tiny-chompers that staying up longer than 13 hours at a time begins to impair their judgment, with extreme cases – 20 hours or so – even leading to audio/visual hallucinations.]”

“[Good heavens! So is that also the reasons for those isolation pods popping up around the colonization zo-]”

Pip

“[-ning is complimentary, but mandatory if you wish to be a tiny-chomper local guide or coworker. For an introductory rate of 500GRC you can enroll in our 10-week certified basic training course, enabling you to qualify for further specialized interaction opportunities. Top Mark Training Company: Preparing you for the workplace of tomorrow, today.]”

Pip

“{Daaaaaaaaad~}”

Dzgranra-of-Arzgr sighed as he worked the hard light projector, the remote long lost to him. His wives had thankfully put the lump of titanium in some reach of the house that would be safe from all prying eyes and paws – including those of his eldest son, all of his daughters, and the wives themselves. It wasn’t the first time the remote had been lost, but the fact that they put a child-lock on all remote broadcasting to the panel was both touching, and infuriating.

As if his children were so ill-mannered to watch a pay-to-own series without asking first.

As if he didn’t deserve to watch more pay-to-own series!

Pip

“[-st saying, if you’re not planning on serving them you shouldn’t be forced to qualify! These new regulations are going to put me out of business – I’m a Jornissian-only establishment; I can’t and don’t cater to anyone else, and that’s never been a problem-]”

The not-insignificant pile of pups that were congealed on the center rug began to wiggle as one; Dad was concentrating, and this could not be allowed to continue.

“{Daaaaaaaad it’s gonna staaaaart~}”

“{I know, loves, I know.}”

Pip

“[-TO SAVE THE DAY-]”

“{-THE SUPER SPACE TEAM, HOORAY!}” The entire mass of under-9-year-old pups cheered at once at the top of their lungs, temporarily deafening their father and quite possibly rattling all the windows in the house.

For the first – or last – time that week (depending on when you consider the week to start and end), Ngruzren-of-Arzgr was woken up 15 minutes before his alarm clock by the cacophony of voices, and smiled.

The evil Dr. Dark laughed triumphantly as she held the tiny-chomper fiercely by the shoulder, the smaller alien crying out in pain as the stonification ray was pressed to his head. “[Not another move forward, Super Space Team! If you move a single micrometer, I’ll petrify this tiny-chomper – and then move onto the rest of his family!]”

“[No! Help me, Super Space Team! If Dr. Dark petrifies us all, the life-day celebration will be ruined!]” the tiny-chomper said, interrupted in real-time in the entertainment den by gasps of shock from the pup-pile. Ngruzren-of-Arzgr, for his part, rolled his eyes as he watched the unfolding ‘drama’ from the stairwell hall, making sure to stay silent and still lest he be noticed and dragged into the pile himself.

The actor playing the evil Dr. Dark shook the very obvious hard-light automaton of tiny-chomper soft-but-helpful. “[Not another word out of you!]”

“[Enough!]” Prince Solaris said, the male Dorarizin posing dramatically – or as dramatically as you could – in his ‘super sun suit’, beads of pure stars charging up. “[You won’t be turning him or any of the other tiny-chompers into stone today!]”

“[Or any other day!]” the absolutely garishly pink Karnakian Time Priest chimed in, her own suit turning a few painful shades of color that made Ngruzren-of-Arzgr physically flinch but drew excited cheers from his little siblings.

“[At the end of this battle, I’ll be adding you to my heat rock collection!]” the disturbingly blood-blue Jornissian Space Ranger finished, his last pose forming the final link between the other two Super Space Teammates, glyphs of power glowing on their bodie-

“{Ancestors. Kill me now.}” Ngruzren-of-Arzgr murmured as he watched his little sisters become absolutely absorbed in the ensuing scripted fight/acrobatics scene. He looked around the den with a wry grin, finally noticing his father at the opposite end of the room waving him over with a bowl of Drzulr in his hand. Ngruzren-of-Arzgr would have taken a long, slow time to sneak around the hyper-attentive siblings, but … well.

Saturday morning cartoons.

So instead, he just quickly – but still somewhat quietly – made his way around the back of the pile, every so often catching a glance of the tiny-chomper being physically tossed to safety from one Super Space Team-member to another in a bid to yadda yadda yadda.

“{Good morning, Dad.}” Ngruzren said softly, gently bumping his head against his father’s.

“{Good morning, Son. Sleep well?}”

“{Mmhmm.}” Ngruzren murmured, walking into the kitchen to see if the pot was still full. “{We out of dryspice?}”

“{No, but if the tumbler’s useless let me know. I had to throw at least half of it out because someone left the lid open and some flea-prawn got into the spice.}”

“{Nk-Grenz? If it’s not one of my moms’ it’s another-}”

Dzgranra chuckled softly as he rested against the kitchen wall, keeping an eye on his children as he sipped the slurry from the bowl. “{Mmmm. Well, with us winning that settlement bid – which, I’ll have you know I gave your mother no end of tongue-lashing over keeping that secret from me-}”

“{I know, I heard – both types.}”

Dzgranra growled a somewhat embarrassed, impressed and chiding retort at his sons’ liveliness. “{Well, it had been a few weeks, and I’m not seeing you move out young man-}”

“{I know, I know. It just didn’t work out.}”

Dzgranra hummed softly into his bowl, taking another deep dreg of the sauce-like concoction, his senses perking up the more he imbibed. “{Mmm. Well. Regardless, I’m glad to see that your studies have improved – and that your fur color is back to normal.}”

Now it was Ngruzrens’ turn to hum softly, his eyes playfully narrowing at his father. “{It just became too much of a hassle to keep up. I’m keeping the long mane, though.}”

“{Ah.}” Dzgranra acknowledged, leaning into the den to see the screen again. The tiny-chomper was riding on the back of the Karnakian hero, the entire team escaping from an exploding secret lair of some sort. “{Well, still. I know you’ve thrown yourself back into your studies – which is good – but we can’t keep putting off a fitting, son. You’re at least a year overdue-}”

“{Dad. Now?}” Ngruzren said, adding the finishing garnishes to his bowl of morning pick-me-up. “{Look. I’m mostly sitting in lectures and modeling classes, I’m not giving oral presentations, and as you can hear my words aren’t slurred-}”

“{Mm.}”

“{…well. Not badly.}”

“{Look, I’m certain if you wanted to work with your mother she could arrange an internship-}”

“{I-it’s not that, Dad.}”

Dzgranra spared a hard side-glance at his youngest, unmarried son – who looked away at the gaze. “{Well? What’s got you doing a complete turnaround then?}”

“{I… uh. I wanna work with them.}”

“{With-}”

“{withthetinychompers.}” Ngruzren murmured all at once, not so much savoring his bowl of Drzulr as just taking the entire thing down as a shot.

“{You want to work. With the tiny-chompers. Son, your mother may have some sway but you’re very young and I’m pretty sure all those slots are taken-}”

“{Well then maybe as a tour guide then?! I don’t know – why are you so quick to-}”

“{Son. You’re studying to be a geochemical engineer.}”

“{A-and?}”

“{… and you’re applying to be a tour guide. What’s this really about, really?}”

“{I just…}”

Dzgranra looked at his son, hard, as the boy murmured half-truths and full lies to the both of them. Ngruzren was doing his best to convince his father – or himself – that he just needed some time to think, to see what the new species had to offer, to broaden his horizons, and it’s not like he was dropping out – really! He just wanted to take a break and make new friends and-

‘{Oh dear.}’ Dzgranra thought to himself as he watched his son stammer through excuse after excuse. ‘{His biological clock is hitting him hard this year.}’

The internal and external monologues were broken by another deafening cheer from the entertainment room – Dzgranra poked his head in to just miss the end-of-episode terrible joke, and the Super whatever team all laughed together with about a couple dozen generic tiny-chompers all dancing around them celebrating… life day, apparently.

“{Alright! Get cleaned up – we’re going to the park today-}”

There was another cheer and the excited babbling of voices, the thumping-patter of little feet, and the sudden tight pressure around his legs as his smallest instinctively found their favorite post yet again.

“{You coming, son? I could use the – no biting – help, if you’re interested.}”

“{Nah, I’m going to meet up with Trilly and Sweeps today.}” Ngruzren said, uncouthly licking the bowl clean before dropping it into the washbasin. “{He’s already done the first level of certification clearance, and he’s helping us both pass.}”

“{Alright… If you’re sure that’s what you want.}”

“{It is, Dad.}”

“You sure that’s what you want?”

Jonathan nodded, crouched behind the hard-light brick barricade. His HUD showed Aisha on a rooftop not 300m away, gun trained just over his head. Behind him, the shambling dead – both those hit with the nanovirus, and the robots who became unwitting carriers.

“Alright. When I start firing, you start moving. Ready?”

Jon tensed.

“Go-”

The staccato rapport of Aisha’s plasma sniper rifle broke the silence of the abandoned city, alerting both the other scavvies and roidroids to their location. Jon moved with purpose, the jump-jets in his boots activating to fling him against the plastic-glass of an abandoned clinic, the additional noise a distraction to the malfunctioning robots that shambled towards his new position. Thankfully their own AI didn’t give them complete object permanence, and Aisha was far enough outside of their AoE that her bolts-

There was an alarm.

“Awwwwww” Jon complained, his dead-sprint down a hallway turning into a light jog, and that into a lazy faceplant on the mossy, wet floor. A few moments later, the entire world glowed a pure white, and he was alone.

Jon’s rented holodeck was a 10m x 10m x 10m cube; large enough for any human to do most any activity in and not hit the walls with just basic movement. Combine that with a “moving” omni-directional floor and realistic hard-light feedback, and the fat l337 G4m3r was no more; you wanted to wall-ride then you had to git gud and ride that wall. You wanted to be a super soldier? I hope you like tackling people for actual finishing moves! And you wanted to be a scavenger in the reboot of the best post-apocalyptic FPS of all time –

Well. You had to be a jack of all trades, sure, but you also had to make sure to have enough money on your card to keep your session running.

“Jon you cheap fuck, if you timed out and left me to the horde-”

“Aisha, I swear to God I didn’t time out – The uh, game booted me out-”

“Fuck you, Jon! This is an endgame scavvie run – AAAAGGGHH FUCK I’M IN A STASIS FIELD. JON YOU LIMP-DICKED-”

There was an aggrivated sigh as Jon lifted the helmet from his face, the exit door now the only thing well-illuminated enough to see. “Sorry, Aisha.”

“Yeah, so am I, fuck. Now I gotta repair my Epics.” Aisha pinged inside his ear, grumbling. “You owe me some sunshards.”

“Yeah, yeah. I could’ve sworn I put in 20 creds, though.”

“20?! Four days off in a row and you’re planning on an all-nighter?”

Jon shrugged – not that anyone else could see it – and began to walk out of the holodeck. “Yeah, yeah. You tried Zero-Bean yet? Shit’s super concentrated-”

As he opened the door the corresponding door across the hallway opened up, his battle-buddy/slacker-buddy/work-wife Aisha emerging with a slight frown on her face. “Don’t think you can bribe me with coffee, Jon. That was a fucked thing to… Huh.” Jon followed her gaze to the panel on his room; it still said he was paying, and that he had a good 9 hours left on the rental. “Huh.”

“Ah! I fucking knew it! What the hell, my chip works fine-”

“Maybe their reader fucked up? I guess I can’t be too mad at you now, seeing as how it’s a hardware failure or somethin.”

Jon pressed the ‘assistance’ button on the panel, and an obnoxious red light appeared over his door. “Yeah, well, that shit still sucks. It ate my creds and fucked up our run; we’re gonna be back in lobby for another hour to get an open slot-”

“Jon.”

Jonathan turned to look at Aisha, who had pulled up and unlocked her tablet with her implant. The frown on her face had deepened considerably over the past few seconds, and she scrolled down what seemed to be an unnecessarily long email chain rapidly. “What?”

“Well I figured out what fucked up our session – Admiral Smalls.”

“Whaaaaaaaaat? He can fucking do that?”

“Yep. We’re on duty again; Reach is coming back ahead of schedule, and…” Jon deafened himself temporarily to his teammate as he subvocalized a few commands, his implant responding to and unlocking his own personal tablet/assistant. He quickly picked up on the email thread that was growing by the second, skimming responses almost as quick as they came.

“Fuck’s sake. No teardown? Refuel, check, and load up?”

“Fuck. So that cocksucker turns around Humanity’s first colony ship in record time-”

“-and we get a month of overtime pay. Fucking great. I’m filing with the Union after this.”

“As am I, this is bullshit.”

Jon let out a soft grunt as the realization hit him. “Fuck, you and Faiza had that thing, right?”

“Had, yes. But at least she’s on call too, so-”

“Bullet: Dodged.”

“Right? Fuck this. We’re supposed to load up and be shipped out in… 6 months? 6 Months overtime-”

The two slackers grumbled much louder than they really should have as their anger fed off one another. By the time they had exited the recreation wing, they were joined by a group of other slacker ne’er do wells, who all agreed upon one fundamental fact:

Mandatory 8 hour workdays were barbaric.

Twitter
Categories
Technically Sentient Stories

“Technically” Sentient: Chapter 22

Ikor closed his eyes, ignoring the incessant stream of data being blasted at him through the integrated heads up display of his helmet. He focused on the subtle things, the tug of gravity at his stomach, the deck vibrations caused by the Outrider’s thrusters, and the tightness of his armor around his chest. It wasn’t his first time being pulled from dead asleep to full combat readiness, and it wasn’t the first time he’d volunteered for a zero-reconnaissance, zero-intelligence rescue operation. In fact, there wasn’t anyone on the Outrider that considered this a first, or even unusual. The ship and his comrades both were well seasoned veterans, and while the ship still bore the bright, coppery color of it’s penetration shielding, the weary bones told a story much longer than the fresh glint of the hull would suggest.

Outrider, a catch-all designation for the class of vessel customized by commando and honor guard units, put together ad hoc whenever special missions arose. This one started life as a communications probe. It had been subsequently gutted, refitted with an oversize engine, clad in a twin layer of copper and tungsten alloy superconductor plates, and packed with as much firepower and communications equipment as would fit after all of that. It had a harsh, angular shape, like the delta tip of a spear meant for a titan, and in many ways it was. Ikor and his fellows would be the first to set foot on the slowly spinning dead asteroid, or more specifically in the dead asteroid, as their craft burrowed through the surface of it, superheated copper trapped in a fluctuating magnetic field cutting through the nickel-iron alloy like a hot knife through butter. The briefing had been, well, brief. Get on the ship, enter the asteroid, find the source of the transmission, wait for further orders. Simple. In theory.

The Outrider shook him in his harness, and his eyes snapped open. He scanned the readouts, checking everything from his squad-mates vital signs to the crude radar array built into the outrider. There was a dull impact as the vessel shook again, the maneuvering thrusters firing sporadically to guide them through an unseen debris field. His eyes narrowed, something this obvious should have been easy to avoid. He didn’t like it, but he knew it wouldn’t threaten the mission success chance. Anything big enough to damage the ship they could dodge, and anything too small to see coming they could shrug off, but it was a bad omen. This should have been easy to detect. This shouldn’t have been an issue to begin with. There was another impact, and the communication channel back to command went dead as an external communications relay was obliterated by a chunk of iron the size of a baseball traveling at 4000 meters per second. The backup relay kicked in moments later, operating flawlessly, and he let out an internal sigh of relief.


He scanned the motionless, midnight black helmets of his squad mates, who were all likely thinking something similar to him. There were only six of them in the pod, but with how heavily armed and armored they were . . . that wouldn’t be a problem. Their armor was self contained, bio-integrative, pressurized, had reactive elements and with powered muscle assist spindles running through it provided freedom and ease of movement even in high gravity terrestrial conditions. Each of them had auto-correcting equilibrium implants for fighting in zero-g or fluctuating gravity, joint replacements for controlling weapon recoil, nanotube bone reinforcement, and a hormone control node implanted on the right side of each of their hind-brains. Without putting too fine a point on it, they were about as much hardware as they were “natural,” and all of the hardware was aimed at making them more efficient, effective, and durable soldiers.

He set his jaw as he remembered the thing he’d watched throw around his people like rag dolls. It had been head and shoulders taller than them, and took hits like they were using foam training weapons for pre-modification recruits. Fear was something that had become a part of his life as a commando. There was fear of explosive decompression, fear of being gunned down by hypervelocity armor-piercing flechette, fear of just being in the wrong place at the wrong time . . . but he had never felt that primal kind of fear where something that was prey looked at something that was a predator. All of his weapons, all his armor, all that training and technology just didn’t matter in the face of that bellowing mountain of muscle and rage. They just kept hitting it and hitting it, but nothing seemed to stop it, or even slow it down. He’d never voice it, but when the Captain of the Honor Guard had saddled up on scene, and dusted the thing handily, he didn’t feel pride in his commander, or even awe for his martial skill, he just felt relief. It didn’t feel like a victory against that thing, just survival.

The command channel in his helmet chimed to life. “30 seconds to surface impact. Brace, and prepare to disembark.”

The calm, clear orders of General Vrang pushed such thoughts aside. He was being sentimental, getting distracted. He needed to focus, just on the mission, and nothing else. The asteroid seemed to be largely porous, with preliminary scans indicating a series of ordered chambers running through it roughly 200 meters beneath the surface. They should make entry very near the source of the signal, but those measurements were bound to have drift caused by what appeared to be a substantial layer of conductive metallic elements. Using their armor mounted microthrusters and mag-boots, they’d maneuver to the source of the distress beacon, mapping tunnels as they went, and then establish a more powerful long range communications array that could penetrate the damping effects of the conductive layer.

There was a dull crackle and a surge of heat as the liquid copper shell engaged, boring through dozens of meters of solid rock in seconds. Ironically, there was less turbulence digging through the asteroid than approaching it, Ikor mused silently. He quietly checked over his weapon. A sleek hybrid of several different weapon systems, he’d had it primed and ready since the hangar incident . . . as a sort of safety blanket. There was a standard Kinetic Pulse rifle nested down the length of the gun, perfect for use on standard soft targets, but around it was built a three prong, overdriven Microwave Beam Emitter. While the Kinetic Pulse weapon would pulverize flesh and shatter bone at considerable distance and at prodigious rates of fire, the Microwave Beam Emitter would flash-boil, ignite, or just outright incinerate anything that got within its range. Under that, he’d mounted a smooth bore AP-Flechette cannon, for when not even fire would kill it. There was enough firepower in his hands to bring down the Outrider, and he was almost certain it would be enough to stop a human dead in its tracks.

He really didn’t want to have to test that theory though.

The faint rumbling came to a stop, but the static interference from the asteroid made communications from General Vrang impossible now. Ikor switched to short range communications, no point in wasting energy cell life on the long range transmitter if it couldn’t get through. “You all know what to do, keep chatter to a minimum.” He received 5 affirmative crackles. A single click of the transmitter to let him know he had been heard. The seconds drug on in silence as the hull cooled, creaking and popping as it did so. Finally, their restraint harnesses automatically disengaged, and they were free to float about the cabin, though there was barely enough room for all six of them in it. The rear hatch slid open quietly, and while he had expected there to be a gust of air as the ship depressurized, he was surprised no such event occurred. Internally his brow furrowed, and he intuitively fired the thrusters on his boots, propelling him out and into the still faintly glowing tunnel they’d carved on their way in. His weapon was at his shoulder, and as he drifted away from the Outrider, he saw a multitude of half breached or completely bisected tunnels in their ships wake. “Kal, Vers, with me.” Two crackles of response met his order, and without bothering to check if they were behind him, he drifted up to the first opening.

He’d had a few guesses as to what they’d find, of course. He’d been expecting the polished alloy of a military installation, or the rough rock of a mining operation, or the long abandoned and shoddily constructed scrap-station used by illegal salvager’s and pirates . . . but he never would have guessed this. He gently drifted forward into the smooth, almost polished stone of the corridor. The lamps mounted on either side of his helmet cast bright light across the dark, but somehow glossy surface of the rock. The twin pools of light swept side to side as he scanned the strangely organic curves of buttressing and cross bridging, the almost rib like constructions arching the span of the tunnel. He flicked the safety on his weapon off, before guiding himself down to the flatter, more open portion of the tunnel and engaged his magnetic boots with a dull thump.

Ikor’s eyes flickered across his HUD one more time, checking to see what his suits sensors were making of the place. Gamma radiation? Nominal. EM transmissions? Virtually absent. Atmospheric pressure? Roughly three quarters standard.

“Specialist Vers, get me an atmospheric reading.” He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see her take a knee, and activate her forearm mounted diagnostic suite.

“Trace thorium, silica dust, oxygen, point-seven-seven atmospheres, and a large amount of water. I’m getting . . . unidentified carbon compounds, likely biologically complex macromolecules.” Her tone was firm, authoritative, but ended in a subtle uptick that was the hallmark of curiosity.

“Breathable?” Ikor crackled with a single raised eyebrow.

“In a pinch, affirmative. I wouldn’t until I can identify what the biological compound is though.” She shrugged. The gesture was barely noticeable considering how much gear she had on, but Ikor picked up on it.

He took a few tentative steps forward, scanning the long and subtly curving corridor with broad sweeps of his rifle. “Well, get me a line on that emergency beacon, and figure it out as we move.”

He took a few more careful steps forward before suddenly stumbling, barely able to catch himself as he felt his entire body suddenly get heavier.

“Sergeant?” Both of his squad mates moved forward sharply to cover him before he could wave them off.

“It’s nothing, just an artificial gravity field . . . must be malfunctioning, otherwise we’d have hit it on the way in.” He disengaged his magnetic boots, and took another few steps forward. “Strong too, we must be close to the source.”

The two affirmative clicks weren’t quite enough to put him at ease, but the navigational marker on his HUD was. 200 meters ahead, more or less. “Hopefully in this tunnel.” It was difficult to judge because of the unusual curve, but . . . if they were lucky. “Sitrep on the Outrider?” There was a pause. Perfectly normal, as they were likely making a visual inspection to ensure the integrity of the craft, but something about the place put Ikor on edge. He wondered if he still had the jitters from the hangar, but the thought was interrupted by a static crackle. “Outrider appears fully operational, tunnel integrity is sound. Status is green across the board.”

He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Good, that was good . . .

“100 meters front, do you have eyes on the source?” The communications link to Vers crackled, like there was some signal distortion, considering she was a half step behind him that shouldn’t have been-

Ikor glanced over his shoulder, and did a double take. Vers was gone. He spun on his heel, and Corporal Kal, his second in command, was clearly searching for her as well. “Vers, what is your location, I repeat, what is your location?” He quickly pinged his Friend-or-Foe system, stomach dropping like a stone as only 4 responses came up.

“I’m . . . “ The static was worse, much worse now. Kal pulled a monofiber cable off his belt and looped it through a carabiner on Ikor’s belt, slapping his commander on the shoulder to physically affirm he was still there. “I’m getting movement on my scope, how the hell did- CONTACT FRONT!” The high pitched report of Kinetic Pulse weapons fire echoed down the long corridor, and both Ikor and Kal took off at a dead sprint towards it. Their boots thudded against the dark gray, glassy floor, a faint mist slowly rising higher and thicker as they ran closer to the source of the sound and hopefully Vers. Kal spooled out a little slack, one hand on the security line, the other on his rifle as he tried to keep pace with Ikor, the years of training and drilling and instinctive combat response keeping them moving with a purpose, even in this bewildering scenario. “KP IS INEFFECTIVE, SWITCHING TO FLECHETTE!” The loud booming of the under-slung smooth-bore seemed close, but they still couldn’t see anyone. The panic and desperation in her voice was clear. “IT’S IN THE MIST! STAY OUT OF THE-” There was a crunching sound that turned Ikor’s stomach. He didn’t stop to imagine what caused it before flicking his Microwave Beam Emitter to maximum charge, and waving it around like a torch in the darkness. The faint mist turned to clear steam, and for a moment he caught a glimpse of something.

It was just a glimpse, just a hint, it was almost the same color as the mists, almost the same texture as the stone . . . but different. Wrong. Impossible.

But there wasn’t time to think about it. There wasn’t time to stop and wonder if what he saw was even real. He didn’t break stride, and neither did Kal. They had to get to Vers. Burning a way through the mists that aggressively coalesced behind them, they kept advancing. Vers Friend-or-Foe tag was visible on his HUD, but her vitals were flatlined.

That’s when he heard it. Coughing, faint, but there. The mists had begun to thin from the opaque wall of white to just traces of vapor coiling about their boots, and there was Vers, helmet in one hand, standing with her back to both Kal and Ikor.

“Vers, come in!” Ikor barked into their shared com channel, but received only silence. Switching to an external speaker, he barked out again. “Vers, answer me, I need a sitrep!”

She didn’t move, but her head tilted back just a few degrees. “I’m . . . I’m all right, Ikor.” She sounded . . . tired. “It’s alright. I think . . . I think it’s over.”

Kal was frantically sweeping his sectors, weapon at the ready. “With all due respect specialist, what the fuck?” Kal’s external speaker coughed into the dim mist as Ikor’s helmet lights swept over Ver’s armor. Scratched, battered, but otherwise intact, she didn’t appear to be wounded at first glance. Ikor kept his sights trained on her. “Vers . . . gimmie a sitrep, Vers.”

Vers, to her credit, took a few steps away, before leaning against the smooth wall of the tunnel. With a heavy sigh, she slid down to a seated position. Blood was flowing freely from her nose and ears, even one of her eyes was leaking a stream of bright red vitae from the corner. “This is gonna sound fucked up guys . . . but . . . uhh . . .” She scratched her head with her free hand, setting her clearly shattered helmet on her knee. That must have been the crunching sound he’d heard, Ikor mused silently.

His suppositions were interrupted as, with abject horror, Ikor watched something slither inside her suit. It was thin, long, but powerful, and his stomach turned as he could see the body-tight under layer of her combat suit bulge and ripple as it worked its way up her leg, across her abdomen, and around to her back. “ . . . Vers what the fuck was that?”

His tone was a half whisper, and his hands were shaking slightly as he trained his sights on her forehead, priming a flechette round in the under barrel smooth-bore.

“I get it, no like . . . really I get it. But we’re wrong. Every . . . everything we’ve been taught, everything we’ve fought for is a lie.” Her head dropped, and she shivered as something flashed across the side of her neck. “I don’t even know where to start, actually.”

She stood again, an expression of mixed consternation and frustration on her face. “No matter what I tell you . . . you’re probably just going to blow my head off. Because that’s exactly what makes sense to do. That’s exactly what I would do. I guess . . . I’m not even gonna say don’t fight it. Because . . . well, that’s what you’d expect me to say right now.”

Every fiber of his being was screaming at Ikor that this wasn’t Vers, this was something . . . something different. But the mannerisms were the same, the body language, the posture . . . some part of whatever was in front of him still was. “I guess I’d say it doesn’t . . . it doesn’t hurt? I mean you feel kinda dumb afterward, but it doesn’t hurt.”

An alarm sounded as something breached the boot of his suit, and he snapped his rifle down, firing at the space between his feet. He was rewarded with a spatter of gray gore, and a high pitched squealing sound, but he could already feel it . . . writhing inside him. His leg went numb, and it buckled as he lost all control of it. It didn’t hurt. That much was true. He could feel pressure though. Inside his muscles, across his bones as it swam through his flesh. He thought it would be a struggle, perhaps with some terrifying mental presence as his body was stripped from him. But it wasn’t. It was more like remembering something from a long time ago. Like where he left a set of keys, or an old song. He could feel its thin tendrils as they penetrated his skull, merging with his nervous system seamlessly. He expected something about it to terrify him, or at least hurt, but there was nothing of the sort. It was just . . . an awkward realization. The Coryphaeus, the Core Worlds . . . all of it was founded on pretty obvious lies, now that he could see the truth. It made sense, even. Even with that, he was still himself. All his memories, his aspirations, the pride he took in his career and his squad mates . . . even his penchant for capsaicin seasoned foods. Just, that, and bigger picture, the real plan. The way forward. It was . . . kind of staggering in scale, really. The whole galaxy, maybe even more. It was a lot to take in, or at least it would be if it didn’t feel like he’d always known it.

“You . . . were right, Vers. I do feel a little dumb.” He looked over to see Kal struggling to yank the gray tendril out of the neck seal of his suit, but after a moment of struggling, he too stopped.

Vers chuckled, the kind of good humored laugh one has when they’ve been made the butt of a practical but harmless joke. “Yeah . . . kinda glad that we got it figured out though, you know? Even if it was against our will. Glad you didn’t pop my head off . . . was actually really worried that was gonna happen.”

Ikor felt a moment of embarrassment. He was really ready to kill Vers out of fear. Fear of something he just didn’t understand, and out of dedication to a cause that would sacrifice him without a second thought. “Yeah . . . I do feel guilty about that.” He pushed himself to his feet, walking over to help Kel up as well. The creature from the hangar, the human, as he now understood, was never their enemy. He was just another piece on the board. He smiled to himself. It was freeing, to realize that the human he had been so frightened of was really on their side all along.

“Well, I’m glad you at least feel guilty about it.” She gave him a halfhearted, if a bit awkward smirk. All seemed so foolish now. “So, Sergeant, how are we going to pass on the uhh . . . “ Vers waved her hand around, thin gray tendrils erupting from her fingertips.

Ikor rolled his shoulders, and he felt it settle somewhere in the small of his back. “We’ll finish setting up the long range communication beacon, tell command the truth about it being a decoy, and then head back to the Outrider. We’ll pass it on once the harnesses have locked them in place.” Vers and Kal both nodded. “Well, let’s get to it then. Transcendence doesn’t happen on it’s own, you know?” That got a laugh from both Vers and Kal, as they all set off down the familiar tunnel once again.