Stuff

This is like 35% cool stuff, 65% porn

[rainbowcaleb]

and caleb and beau are supposed to be the smart ones 😂 

[madddscience]

An interesting sci-fi short story from 4chan.

[Imgur]

[the-real-seebs]

That is some fine writing.

[space-australians]

The Imgur link is broken so:

[Series of posts on 09/16/11]

About twelve years ago, a man died in high orbit over Tau Ceti V.

His name was Drake McDougal, and aside from a few snapshots and vague anecdotes from his drinking buddies, that’s probably all we’ll ever know about him. Another colony-born man with little records and little documentation, working whatever asteroid field the Dracs deigned to allow them. Every now and then a Drac gunship would strut on through the system, Pax Draconia and all that. But that was it.

One fine day, one of those gunships had a misjump. A bad one. It arrived only ninety clicks above atmo, with all its impellers blown out by the gravatic feedback of Tau Ceti V’s gravity well. The Dracs scraped enough power together for a good system-wide broadbeam and were already beginning the Death Chant when they hit atmo.

People laughed at the recording of sixty Dracs going from mysterious chanting to “’what-the-fuck’ing” for years after they forgot the name Drake McDougal. The deafening “CLANG” and split second of stunned silence afterwards never failed to entertain. Drake had performed a hasty re-entry seconds after the gunship and partially slagged his heatshield diving after it. Experts later calculated he suffered 11Gs when he leaned on the retro to match velocities with the Dracs long enough to engage the mag-grapples on his little mining tug.

Even the massively overpowered drive of a tug has its limits, and Drake’s little ship hit hers about one and a half minutes later. Pushed too far, the tug’s fusion plant lost containment just as he finished slingshotting the gunship into low orbit. (It was unharmed, of course; the Drac opinion of fusion power best translated as “quaint,” kind of how we view butter churns.)

It was on the local news within hours, on newsnets across human space within days. It was discussed, memorialized, marveled upon, chewed over by daytime talk-show hosts, and I think somebody even bought a plaque or some shit like that. Then there was a freighter accident, and a mass-shooting on Orbital 5, and of course, the first Vandal attacks in the periphery.

The galaxy moved on.

Twelve years is a long time, especially during war, so twelve years later, as the Vandal’s main fleet was jumping in near Jupiter and we were strapping into the crash couches of what wee enthusiastically called “warships,” I guaran-fucking-tee you not one man in the entire Defense Force could remember who Drake McDougal was.

Well, the Dracs sure as hell did.

Dracs do not fuck around. Dozens of two-kilometer long Drac supercaps jumped in barely 90K klicks away, and then we just stood around staring at our displays like the slack-jawed apes we were as we watched what a real can of galactic whoop-ass looked like. You could actually see the atmosphere of Jupiter roil occasionally when a Vandal ship happened to cross between it and the Drac fleet. There’s still lightning storms on Jupiter now, something about residual heavy ions and massive static charges or something.

Fifty-eight hours later, with every Vandal ship reduced to slagged debris and nine wounded Drac ships spinning about as they vented atmosphere, they started with the broad-band chanting again. And then the communiqué that confused the hell out of us all.

“Do you hold out debt fulfilled?”

After the sixth or seventh comms officer told them “we don’t know what the hell you’re talking about” as politely as possible, the Drac fleet commander got on the horn and asked to speak to a human Admiral in roughly the same tone as a telemarketer telling a kid to give the phone to Daddy. When the Admiral didn’t know either, the Drac went silent for a minute, and when he came back on his translator was using much smaller words, and talking slower.

“Is our blood debt to Drake McDougal’s clan now satisfied?”

The Admiral said “Who?”

What the Drac commander said next would’ve caused a major diplomatic incident had he remembered to revert to the more complex translation protocols. He thought the Admiral must be an idiot, a coward, or both. Eventually, the diplomats were called out, and we were asked why the human race has largely forgotten the sacrifice of Drake McDougal.

Humans, we explained, sacrifice themselves all the time.

We trotted out every news clip from the space-wide Nets from the last twelve years. Some freighter cook that fell on a grenade during a pirate raid on Outreach. A ship engineer who locked himself into the reactor room and kept containment until the crew evacuated. Firefighter who died shielding a child from falling debris with his body, during an earthquake. Stuff like that.

That Dracs were utterly stunned. Their diplomats wandered out of the conference room in a daze. We’d just told them that the rarest, most selfless and honorable of acts - acts that incurred generations-long blood-debts and moved entire fleets - was so routine for our species that they were bumped off the news by the latest celebrity scandal.

Everything changed for humanity after that. And it was all thanks to a single tug pilot who taught the galaxy what truly defines Man.

[fattyatomicmutant-deactivated20]

This makes me cry

[stephendann]

It had been so many cycles since the Drac incident, and even more since the Drake McDougal event, and the the galaxy had sort of come to the conclusion that humans were, well, human about things, and that they regarded their lives in completely incomprehensible ways.

Yet for all of the witnessed sacrifices, few warriors had ever been taught to recognise the most terrifying of human deeds. In a forgettable corner of the galaxy, in an unremarked planet with a previously less than recorded history, a party of six human security escorts bringing their rescued survivors to a hive ship became a party of five, 

A lone human, holding one of their handheld ‘melee’ weapons wordlessly tilted their head to their commander, and stopped, standing in plain sight in the middle of a field. 

Waiting.

When asked, the lower ranked humans simply said “She knows what’s she’s doing”.  The human captain’s inexplicable statement “She’s buying us some time” made it as if their companion had stepped into some form of marketplace. 

Katherine of Rescue Group’s fate was never confirmed, but no pursuit came that night. On the next dawn, when the hive ship was able to leave, the humans insisted we departed immediately, and did not go back for their companion.

We do not know for sure what became of Katherine of Rescue Group. All we know is that when pressed, the human captain explained to our own that the one who stayed had communicated an ancient human tradition, the rite of self sacrifice.  In words, the captain explained, the look and the nod would mean “Go on. I’ll hold them off.  It was not, as we thought, that this one warrior had sought victory over many enemies, but that they had calculated a trade off of the minutes or hours it could take to defeat a human, against the time needed by their companions.

Humans, as humans say, do not go gentle into that good night.  

Worse, they do not go gentle into bad nights, worse days, or terrifying sunsets. Dawn seems to fill them with potency and rage, as if to call upon the solar gods and tell the deities to come down here and say that to their human faces. We do not know how long she bought us, but we, the hive now called K’thrn, understand what it means to have someone expend their existence for the survival of others.

We find it terrifying.

[jazzybot4]

I love this one. Reblogging for something new. 

[aprilwitching-deactivated201808]

i think especially with relatively near future sci-fi and alternate present/just off reality sci-fi and fantasy, it’s a lot more effective to play off of “this word is the same, but the thing it refers to is in fact different than what you’ll initially picture or assume” than to invent a bunch of cutesy fake slang (again, ESPECIALLY for things we already have good words for)

like, for a real life example of what im talking about– we had “phones” in 1977, and we still have “phones” in 2017, but MAN would a time traveler from the 70s be confused by the things we call “phones” now, and the ways we use and relate to them– “im typing this text post on my phone, and autocorrect keeps cramping my style” is a straightforward and easily understandable sentence to me in 2017. it would sound like word salad to someone from 1977. (how can you TYPE something on a PHONE?? what does “post” mean in this context, or “text”? the fuck is “autocorrect”??)

but we still call them “phones”, you know, and not, idk, “cyberrectangles”

[aethersea]

interplanetary shuttle system makes use of automated, pre-scheduled wormholes to get you to your day job on mars every morning – still called taking the bus.

super high-tech window protectors that keep out the deadly light of the ultra-bright sun? “close the curtains, tom, it’s almost dawn.”

your zero-g space station’s air filtration system is malfunctioning, threatening to cause a fiery explosion as all the waste co2 builds up in the engine room rather than the greenhouse? time to call the plumber.

[sixth-light]

Two phones. 

[rockpapercynic]

I’ve been posting weekly photo-fiction to my new tumblr, The Shortest Story, and I thought I’d share some of my favorites so far. If you enjoy this, consider reblogging or following on Tumblr, Facebook, Tapas or Instagram!

[pleatedjeans]

clickhole

[mattsunsthighs]

barry wilmore has seen some shit

[academiemelusine]

Rational move is to keep the airlock shut, btw.

If one is Ramirez and one is, say, the Thing, then by opening the airlock, you guarantee that the Thing is on the ship, because both of them are on, and one of them is fake. You all die no matter what.

If you keep the door closed, then if Ramirez is outside, he dies in the vacuum of space and you die to the Thing next to you.

But if Ramirez is inside, then the Thing stays out and you both live.

Which means Barry got it right. Good for you, Barry, you cold motherfucker.

[abadazed]

Or you could just check the logs to see if any relair work was supposed to be done. No one goes out without an order and there’s always a paper trail.

[cheeseanonioncrisps]

A lot of ‘humans are weird’ posts play with the idea that humans are one of the few species that actually evolved as a predator and, as such, we are unusually strong and fast— but what if we’re not.

What if we’re tiny?

What if, to the majority of species in the galaxy, ten feet tall is unusually short— it basically only happens due to rare genetic conditions— and the average human is basically cat sized or smaller?

Instead of being terrified by our strength, the aliens’ most pressing concern is how exactly they’re going to communicate with us when we’re all the way down on the ground.

There are experiments, with aliens crouching low or humans standing on high platforms— but it usually ends up being either uncomfortable for the alien or dangerous for the human, or both, and just generally impractical for everyone.

But, while the diplomats and politicians are trying to figure out a dignified and simple solution, the ordinary people who actually have to work with the aliens have found one. Humans are, generally, pretty good climbers, and most species have conveniently places scales, feathers, fur or clothing that can act as a hand or foothold. Sure, some humans have a fear of heights, but those aren’t typically the ones going into space. Besides, climbing on a living alien often feels safer than climbing up a rock or something— at least you know you’ve got somebody to catch you.

Soon it becomes accepted that that’s the way humans travel with aliens— up high, easy to see and hard to tread on (there were quite a few… near misses, in the first few meetings between humans and aliens), balanced on somebody’s shoulder like the overgrown monkeys that we are.

Many humans see this as kind of an insult and absolutely refuse to go along with it, but they aren’t the ones who end up spending a lot of time with aliens— it’s just too inconvenient to talk to somebody all the way down on the ground. The ones that do best are the ones who just treat it like it’s normal, allowing themselves to be carried (at least, it’s ‘carrying’ when the aliens are within earshot. Among themselves, most humans jokingly refer to it as ‘riding’), and passing on tips to their friends about the best ways to ride on different species without damaging feathers, or stepping on sensitive spots (or, in at least one case, ending up with a foot full of poisonous spines…).

The reason they don’t feel patronised by this is that they know, and they know that nearly everyone else in the galaxy knows, that humans are not just pets.

After all, you’d be surprised when a small size comes in handy.

Need somebody to look at the wiring in a small and fairly inaccessible area of the ship? Ask a human.

Need somebody to fix this fairly small and very detailed piece of machinery? Ask a human, they’re so small that their eyes naturally pick up smaller details.

Trapped under rubble and need somebody to crawl through a small gap and get help? Ask a human— most can wriggle through any gap that they can fit their head and shoulders through.

If you’re a friend, humans can be very useful. If, on the other hand, you’re an enemy…

Rumours spread all around the galaxy, of ships that threatened humans or human allies and started experiencing technical problems. Lights going off, wires being cut— in some cases, the cases where the threats were more than just words and humans or friends of humans were killed, life support lines have been severed, or airlocks have mysteriously malfunctioned and whole crews have been sucked out into space.

If the subject comes up, most humans will blame it on “gremlins” and exchange grim smiles when they’re other species friends aren’t looking.

By this point, most ships have a crew of humans, whether they like it or not. Lots of humans, young ones generally, the ones who want to see a bit of the universe but don’t have the money or connections to make it happen any other way, like to stowaway on ships. They’ll hang around the space ports, wait for a ship’s door to open and dart on in. The average human can have quite a nice time scurrying around in the walls of an alien ship, so long as they’re careful not to dislodge anything important.

Normally nobody notices them, and the ones that do tend not  to say anything— it’s generally recognised that having humans on your ship is good luck.

If there are humans on your ship, they say, then anything you lose will be found within a matter of days, sometimes even in your quarters; any minor task you leave out— some dishes that need to be cleaned, a report that needs to be spellchecked, some calculations that need to be done— will be quickly and quietly completed during the night; any small children on the ship, who are still young enough to start to cry in the night, will be soothed almost before their parents even wake, sometimes even by words in their own tongue, spoken clumsily through human vocal chords. If any of the human are engineers (and a lot of them are, and still more of them aren’t, but have picked up quite a few tricks on their travels from humans who are) then minor malfunctions will be fixed before you even notice them, and your ship is significantly less likely to experience any major problems.

The humans are eager to earn their keep, especially when the more grateful aliens start leaving out dishes of human-safe foods for them.

This, again, is considered good luck— especially since the aliens who aren’t kind to the humans often end up losing things, or waking up to find that their fur has been cut, or the report they spent hours on yesterday has mysteriously been deleted.

To human crew members, who work on alien ships out in the open, and have their names on the crew manifest and everything, these small groups of humans are colloquially referred to as ‘ship’s rats’. There’s a sort of uneasy relationship between the two groups. On the one hand, the crew members regard the ship’s rats as spongers and potential nuisances— on the other hand, most human crew members started out as ship’s rats themselves, and now benefit from the respect (and more than a little awe) that the ship’s rats have made most aliens feel for humans. The general arrangement is that ship’s rats try to avoid ships with human crew members and, when they can’t, then they make sure to stay out of the crew members’ way, and the crew members who do see one make sure not to mention them to any alien crew members.

The aliens who know, on the other hand, have gotten into the habit of not calling them by name— mainly because they’re shaky as the legality of this arrangement, and don’t want to admit that anything’s going on. Instead they talk about “the little people” or “the ones in the walls” or, more vaguely, “Them”.

Their human friends— balancing on their shoulders, occasionally scurrying down and arm so as to get to a table, or jumping from one person’s shoulder to another, in order to better follow the conversation— laugh quietly to themselves when they hear this.

Back before the first first contact, lot of people on Earth thought that humans would become space orcs. Little did they know, they’d actually end up as space fae.

[mx-delta-juliette]

Space Australian Medicine

Despite the best efforts of everyone involved, something truly nasty escaped Earth. They call it giardia, a microscopic organism that their Planetary Protection Officer called “pretty dumb” and “not too bad, really, a week of digestive upset and then it’s over.”

Yes, Earth has a Planetary Protection Officer. They have a Planetary Protection Office, and have had one since they were sending probes around their own solar system. Doctor Ma-et had found it a bit silly, like a child concerned about the cleanliness of their toys, until she learned that the job of the Planetary Protection Office had always been protecting other worlds from Earth.

Keep reading

[jumpingjacktrash]

i love this so much.

i love this individual piece of writing, and i also love the narrative tumblr has been developing around Crazy Primates From The Death Planet Just Want To Love You. it feels so real and so US. it feels like maybe if genuine contact happens, this is how it’ll go down.

we’re too young, as a species, to do any galactic business of our own. we’re barbaric and awkward, still fighting amongst ourselves for resources. we’d probably make the galactic powers very nervous. but the thing is, there is nothing more dangerous to a human than another human, and hasn’t been for centuries, and this is on a world where half the ‘habitable’ environments regularly kill people and the rest only kill people on occasion with floods and stuff. we make buddies with our predators, we make our diseases brew us chemicals and fuel. we turn everything to our own use, and would bloom through the universe like a horrible all-consuming plague – except that we already sorta did that a little bit on our own planet, we were THAT powerful, and we learned not to.

we are the infant titans who, having seen our siblings eaten, swore to protect instead of consume. we police each other – and ourselves – at the deepest levels, down to the bones of our spirituality. even the most vicious warmonger knows, KNOWS, in their heart of hearts, that what they do is not right, and will not be allowed to go on.

more advanced species didn’t have to learn this lesson, because they weren’t violent to begin with, or learned it a long slow way under the tutelage of older powers. and here we are already, these holy fools, who hold death itself in our hands, and have the hunger for infinity in our eyes, and they ask us what we plan to do with this power, and we say: “where can we help?”

“and also, can we pet your dog?”

[saffronheliotrope]

I love this so very much, both the fic and the commentary. As much as I love Star Trek and always will, its utopian vision of humanity as a distinguished part of the galactic UN, everybody-just-learning-to-get-along seems a little impossible at times like these. This picture of reckless, a little bumbling, ultimately good-hearted and good-doing humanity seems somehow more plausible, and gives me some real flickers of long-term hope.

[jumpingjacktrash]

a further thought on my previous thought:

if humans are the one species so toxic we learned by experience not to be a hegemonizing swarm before we developed time travel, and survived it… that means anyone who starts trying evil empire shenanigans now is NEW AT IT.

imagine a relatively little-known species suddenly gets to acting real hincty, breaking treaties and taking stuff and breaking stuff. the galactic council is horrified. the humans are like “oh they’re just being little shits, smack ‘em on the snoot.” the galactic council respectfully suggests the humans volunteer to be the ones doing the smacking. the humans point out that yeah, that is what they were doing.

the first ones to show up are, as always, the helpers. maybe this change in behavior is due to some disease or disaster. but nope, it turns out to be a nasty ideological vector, and the humans know from long experience that this one does not go away on its own, but fighting it from the outside makes it last so much longer.

so the next ones to show up are a different kind of helper: military advisors.

galactics: what are you doing??? you’re making it worse!

humans: worse? or BETTER???

under clearly delined circumstances and non-allegiances, so as not to break any interplanetary laws on behalf of humanity, these vicious masters of war teach the upstarts how it’s done. from the warp-tech version of village-burnings to mutually assured destruction, with defcon settings and terror alerts in all the spaceports, in under a generation. the upstarts have gotten much better at war, but only in their own space, and they are learning how it is that a whole species can be tired.

galactics: ok, we think we kinda see what you’re up to, but it’s awful and we wish you would’ve just made them stop fighting.

humans: you can only do that to forces that understand they’re in trouble. when we first got there, they were still having fun.

galactics: we don’t understand.

humans: right. the sick thing is, war is fun. that’s the disease. you can’t fight fun with bigger, better fun. you have to run ‘em around their own back yard until they work off the rush. only then can they look at their own mess and wonder what cleanup’s gonna be like.

galactics: it makes a weird kind of sense. so is that it, now? are they done? are they… cured?

humans: hahahahahahaha no. they’re just finally starting their treatment. now we send in the economists.

[mx-delta-juliette]

Space Australian Medicine

Despite the best efforts of everyone involved, something truly nasty escaped Earth. They call it giardia, a microscopic organism that their Planetary Protection Officer called “pretty dumb” and “not too bad, really, a week of digestive upset and then it’s over.”

Yes, Earth has a Planetary Protection Officer. They have a Planetary Protection Office, and have had one since they were sending probes around their own solar system. Doctor Ma-et had found it a bit silly, like a child concerned about the cleanliness of their toys, until she learned that the job of the Planetary Protection Office had always been protecting other worlds from Earth.

Keep reading

[jumpingjacktrash]

i love this so much.

i love this individual piece of writing, and i also love the narrative tumblr has been developing around Crazy Primates From The Death Planet Just Want To Love You. it feels so real and so US. it feels like maybe if genuine contact happens, this is how it’ll go down.

we’re too young, as a species, to do any galactic business of our own. we’re barbaric and awkward, still fighting amongst ourselves for resources. we’d probably make the galactic powers very nervous. but the thing is, there is nothing more dangerous to a human than another human, and hasn’t been for centuries, and this is on a world where half the ‘habitable’ environments regularly kill people and the rest only kill people on occasion with floods and stuff. we make buddies with our predators, we make our diseases brew us chemicals and fuel. we turn everything to our own use, and would bloom through the universe like a horrible all-consuming plague – except that we already sorta did that a little bit on our own planet, we were THAT powerful, and we learned not to.

we are the infant titans who, having seen our siblings eaten, swore to protect instead of consume. we police each other – and ourselves – at the deepest levels, down to the bones of our spirituality. even the most vicious warmonger knows, KNOWS, in their heart of hearts, that what they do is not right, and will not be allowed to go on.

more advanced species didn’t have to learn this lesson, because they weren’t violent to begin with, or learned it a long slow way under the tutelage of older powers. and here we are already, these holy fools, who hold death itself in our hands, and have the hunger for infinity in our eyes, and they ask us what we plan to do with this power, and we say: “where can we help?”

“and also, can we pet your dog?”

[saffronheliotrope]

I love this so very much, both the fic and the commentary. As much as I love Star Trek and always will, its utopian vision of humanity as a distinguished part of the galactic UN, everybody-just-learning-to-get-along seems a little impossible at times like these. This picture of reckless, a little bumbling, ultimately good-hearted and good-doing humanity seems somehow more plausible, and gives me some real flickers of long-term hope.

[jumpingjacktrash]

a further thought on my previous thought:

if humans are the one species so toxic we learned by experience not to be a hegemonizing swarm before we developed time travel, and survived it… that means anyone who starts trying evil empire shenanigans now is NEW AT IT.

imagine a relatively little-known species suddenly gets to acting real hincty, breaking treaties and taking stuff and breaking stuff. the galactic council is horrified. the humans are like “oh they’re just being little shits, smack ‘em on the snoot.” the galactic council respectfully suggests the humans volunteer to be the ones doing the smacking. the humans point out that yeah, that is what they were doing.

the first ones to show up are, as always, the helpers. maybe this change in behavior is due to some disease or disaster. but nope, it turns out to be a nasty ideological vector, and the humans know from long experience that this one does not go away on its own, but fighting it from the outside makes it last so much longer.

so the next ones to show up are a different kind of helper: military advisors.

galactics: what are you doing??? you’re making it worse!

humans: worse? or BETTER???

under clearly delined circumstances and non-allegiances, so as not to break any interplanetary laws on behalf of humanity, these vicious masters of war teach the upstarts how it’s done. from the warp-tech version of village-burnings to mutually assured destruction, with defcon settings and terror alerts in all the spaceports, in under a generation. the upstarts have gotten much better at war, but only in their own space, and they are learning how it is that a whole species can be tired.

galactics: ok, we think we kinda see what you’re up to, but it’s awful and we wish you would’ve just made them stop fighting.

humans: you can only do that to forces that understand they’re in trouble. when we first got there, they were still having fun.

galactics: we don’t understand.

humans: right. the sick thing is, war is fun. that’s the disease. you can’t fight fun with bigger, better fun. you have to run ‘em around their own back yard until they work off the rush. only then can they look at their own mess and wonder what cleanup’s gonna be like.

galactics: it makes a weird kind of sense. so is that it, now? are they done? are they… cured?

humans: hahahahahahaha no. they’re just finally starting their treatment. now we send in the economists.

[xkcds]

The Antikythera mechanism had a whole set of gears specifically to track the cyclic popularity of skinny jeans and low-rise waists.

Lunar Cycles [Explained]

[dankmemeuniversity]

[asmuchasidliketo]

[Image description : tweet from Jennifer Morrow @jenniferemorrow

“Me: *looking through a telescope*: Wow the universe is so beautiful

God: *placing hands inside black holes*: Thanksssss, it has pockets”]

[asmuchasidliketo]

Satellite

“If you’re going to let it burn up, make sure it happens over the deep end of the bathtub and not any populated parts of the house!“

[qfantasydragon]

Space Chefs

So I don’t know if anyone’s written about this yet, but I was trawling through the humans-are-space-orcs tag and I was hit by the sudden realization that I’ve seen nothing about space chefs. 

Space chefs must be like one of the most knowledgable professions out there, think about it:

“Alright, so this is a Crexian from Norix- that means capsicum is a deadly poison, Omega-3 will cause muscle spasms and due to the atmosphere on Norix, calcium will give them terrible diarrhea- no wait, this is a male, so Omega-3 is actually delicious–”

“–a Bio-bot, model Gamma-341, so absolutely no organic oils in anything or their systems will stop working, and for Stabby’s sake do not let anything with iron in it so much as look funny at their food–”

“–Mariddian fresh out of hibernation, shove as many protein additives into that meat as you can get away with and remember not to use salt, it fries their neural pathways–”

Like. I bet there’s an Interstellar Chef magazine in circulation full of recipes that are two pages long and then all the species that can and cannot eat it are listed for the next five. And every time a new species joins the intergalactic mess, the magazine runs a special issue as all the space chefs die a little more inside. The special issue gives a brief breakdown of the new species biology and then dives straight into what’s poison, what’s nutritional, what’s considered delicious and whats considered choke-worthy. If at all possible, the special issue also includes recipies from the species native culture while all the space chefs desperately try to figure out what dishes they can jury-rig into a new definition of edible.

They probably love humans though.

“Hey Jaxki, did you hear about the new species that the Crynsu found? They’re supposedly from a Death World, can you belie–”

“Oh fuck another speices?!?! They found three last spin and I’m still trying to figure out what to feed the Hrethad. Any word what they eat? You get the Chef before me.”

“Hold up let me look, I just got it today…void and dust!”

“Oh novas, what, can they not have water or something?”

“Jaxi these fuckers eat everything! They can digest chlorogenic acid! Some of them do it every day, by the void-loving gallon!!! And that’s just the nose of the Quarlag! This thing has a whole list of chemicals these guys consider delicious or edible and I swear to you it’s like someone mixed their list of the universe’s most common compounds with its spacing deadliest poisons!”

“Oh thank FUCK.”

[quietpinetrees]

[starship-goldfish]

Our good friend @quietpinetrees has brought his microfiction to tumblr and it is achingly beautiful.

[andisupreme]

oh this is gorgeous

[akela-nakamura]

They stop at Mars. There’s no reason not too. Xan’Toch wants this relationship to work, it’s been many years since there was a major intergalactic failing. Xan’Toch is not keen to repeat last time and the humans’ request to stop at world that is devoid of life is not the weirdest request Xan’Toch has received. 

The human is young and goes by the name Carrie. Xan’Toch has been informed that she is a female or a “woman” as she prefers. She carries with her a bag filled with old transmitters and outdated equipment. Her space suit is clearly higher tech, almost laughably so. She stands at a viewing port, intense in a way Xan’Toch cannot understand. What could be on this planet that is worth stopping for?

They land not far from the coordinates Carrie gave them. Curious and wanting to take notes on this strange new species, Xan’Toch asks to accompany Carrie on her mission. She agrees but seems more focused on getting out fo the airlock.

The bag seems to be heavy, and though Xan’Toch offers, Carrie says she will carry it herself. Xan’Toch makes a note–Humans are either possessive of things they deem theirs or stubborn. Either one could become an issue if they are pressed in the wrong way. Xan’Toch has been smoothing inter-species relationship for far too long to let details like that slip by. Though humans, by and large, are confusing and seem…disinclined in fitting into the categories Xan’Toch has organized most species into, every bit of information is important. 

Xan’Toch remains silent on their journey. They are heading for a ridge, and for the life of them, Xan’Toch cannot tell what the difference between this ridge and every other ridge on the planet is. But they keep their mouth shut, in fear of insulting Carrie. This species is one of many with confusing religions and Xan’Toch does not wish to insult a human god of some sort. 

She seems to know where she’s going, though how Xan’Toch doesn’t know how. Humanity has said they’ve never sent people past their moon. Carrie slows, struggling up the steeper terrain. Xan’Toch, of a hearty species, helps where they can. 

“There!” Carrie cries, sliding down a rock face. Xan’Toch winces–surely they know the dangers of damaging their space suit? Carrie doesn’t seem to care and is very busy dusting off–something. Xan’Toch approaches, confused. They cannot figure out what Carrie is cleaning off. They catch a reflection and suddenly the thing Carrie has found no longer seems to be a rock. 

It’s mechanical and old. Xan’Toch cannot name some of the parts that make it up but Carrie seems to know what to do. Which doesn’t make sense. Humans, as primitive as they are, have some very interesting and impressive bit of engineering. Whatever Carrie has found is outdated even to humans. 

“What is this?” Xan’Toch asks, hoping they haven’t crossed some invisible line.

“Opportunity,” Carrie replies, fixing hoses and replaces what looks like old solar panels. 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Xan’Toch says, after several moments. 

Carries laughs, and shoots Xan’Toch what they know now to be a ‘grin.’ Something indicative of human happiness. “This is Opportunity,” She says, gesturing to the old machine, almost obscured by the dust and sand. “She was an exploratory Rover back in the early 2000s, gathering information on Mars. She was lost after a major dust storm came through, it knocked her solar panels and communications out. Her last broadcast….” Carrie looks back at the machine, apparently called ‘Opportunity.’ “She reported that her batteries were low….and that is was cold. After fifteen years, Opportunity finally stopped. She finally rested among the stars.”

Xan’Toch has lost the thread of this conversation. Carrie sounds…fond, sad even. Like this machine meant something more than exploration and science. Like it had been a friend, lost to a planet unknown. It doesn’t make sense. It is simply a tool. 

“You look confused,” Carrie comments but doesn’t seem surprised. “It’s…silly, but I grew up listening about Oppy’s adventures. Seeing her discoveries and getting excited when she found something new. When we lost contact…I cried. I wasn’t alone. Losing Oppy felt like losing a friend. She took thousands and thousands of pictures and took so many samples–she-she was here when we couldn’t be. We left a mark on Mars before we could stand on it. And now I’m here and…” Carrie swipes a hand across what looks to be an optical device. 

Xan’Toch has no words. Has to previous experience with this. from the sounds of it, humanity….bonded with this machine. Sent it off into space, followed its discoveries and mourned its final malfunction. 

“I can bring her back. Whether it’s just back online or back to Earth I don’t know yet. But…I had to stop. I had to see her, to let her know we hadn’t forgotten.”

What Carrie’s saying doesn’t make any sense to Xan’Toch. But what she’s saying is genuine, full of feeling. They do not know what to say or how to articulate it back to their superiors. So Xan’Toch does the only thing they can. 

They walk over and start digging Opportunity out of…her grave. 

The smile Carrie gives them is worth it. 

[tlirsgender]

Neurotypicals headcanoning robots as autistic is wrong and bad because they’re saying autistic people are robots but when autistic people do it it’s epic and sexy because we’re saying robots are autistic. There’s a difference

[ober-affen-geil]

#people who have been othered identifying with characters/concepts that are distinctly other??#incredible. their vision. the metaphor. poetry.#people in a position of power relating marginalized people to inanimate objects?#death be upon ye

[injuries-in-dust]

[scibotdragonfire]

This made me snort/laugh at work, SO, FUCKING, HARD! *takes breath* Love it.

[asmuchasidliketo]

Tractor Beam

“Did you base the saucer shape on pop culture depictions of aliens, or was that stuff based on your ships? Does the rotational symmetry help with… hey, where are you going?”