Does anyone remember that post about space fuelling stops, because I haven’t seen it in ages, can’t find it, and it is ABSOLUTELY the inspiration for this.
#
Interstellar
exploration is, when you get right down to it, no different from travel by steam,
or even horse. The real limit isn’t in the power of the engines or the size of
the vehicle, it’s in the supply lines. It’s in the fuel.
Fuelling
stations are fortresses. Synocrystal is the most precious substance in
existence. This moonlet, orbiting a dead planet that circles a minor sun, is more
heavily armed than many whole settled planets. And it’s an important post,
because this is one of the stations where synocrystal is actually synthesized,
not just stored. There aren’t many places it’s even marginally safe to do that,
given how the stuff reacts to… well, everything. When I think of how the Ancestors
used to fuss over the dangers of nuclear fusion engines, and how much more
dangerous synocrystal is, I can’t help but laugh.
We’re a
pragmatic species. Given a choice between using an insanely dangerous fuel-source,
or being limited to our own solar system by slower-than-light travel, we barely
hesitated.
This
particular refuel started out badly. My fuelling hours are clearly posted on
the beacon. So is the notice that out-of-hours fuelling requires a prior
appointment. I’ll make exceptions for the couriers, sometimes, because they don’t
always get enough notice to make an appointment and because they’re
usually so appreciative, but that’s my business. I’m entitled to an
uninterrupted sleep-shift, like any other sentient.
But this wasn’t
a courier. This was a big ship, a trader… one of the private company traders, at
that. I know they have to register incredibly detailed plans, in case of
damaged or delayed cargoes, so they had absolutely no excuse for showing up in
the middle of my sleep cycle and blaring alerts at me.
I dragged
myself out of my bunk, ignoring Pepper and Choi’s protests, and went over to
the console. There’s one in my private quarters for situations like this, and I
reluctantly leave it active on the outside chance that it actually is an
emergency. Even as I got there, the contact alert blared again, and I toggled ‘audio
only’. “This had better be life or fucking death,” I said, over whatever form
greeting they were spitting out. “The posted hours are really damned clear.”
it’s fun that Mormonism is based off pseudo-archeology and Scientology is based off pseudo-psychiatry. By that logic the big American New Religious Movement of the 21st century is gonna be based on… pseudo-computer science?
Dear Emperor Martok, my name is Jim Mitchell i am 6 years old i live on Mars. The cruel Federation regime has stolen my people's independence and erased our culture and heritage. Their imperialist Starfleet stooges force us to survive by watching plays and apologizing to one another all day. Please send Class 5 B'rell Birds-of-Prey equipped with cloaking devices and Pu'DaH dak cha photon torpedos to free my people from these Federation P'takhs. My people yearn for freedom.
You know how sometimes you get a fleeting glimpse of some text and your brain won't quite have time to parse it all and kinda make up something to fill in? One time I was out and caught a billboard in the corner of my eye and I thought, that's sill, my brain somehow misread that as "Legends of Lasik". Then I took a longer look at what the sign actually said: "Legends of Lasik"
