We want fresh, new content, original content by the creators.
Feel free to post it on Saturdays. Let the market decide if it's worthy.
Thanks to /u/Turil for pointing out that comments aren't posts. Let me clarify:
The goal is to keep this subreddit as spam free as possible and we all know how easy it is to game the system. To that end, we've restricted self-promotion to Saturdays. No other sub allows any self-promotion unless that's its purpose, but we thought it would be a good, fun thing for our subscribers.
Clear enough? If you're promoting your own original content, even if it's in response to someone's question, then do it via PM.
The alternative is people finding ways around the letter of the rule rather than working for the intent.
Thanks, and GL
Alright, this battle will take place between BS-75 Battlestar Galactica And MCRN Donnager, This battle will take place in the star system Sol.
Let's assume that Galactica Is at full Strength and has a Complement of 100 Viper Mark VIIs and 50 Raptors, Commander Adama will be in command here.
Let's also Assume that Donnager is at full strength and has a Complement of 3 Corvette-Class Martian Frigates, Commander Theresa Yao will be in command here.
The First thing that happens is that Galactica Stumbles upon a Star System ( They Don't Know it's Sol ) and decide to check it out, they then take a Look at the Astroid field for Mining operations, and start an operation, this attracts the attention of the Martian Navy, and they decide to sent in the Closest available ship to locate the Unknown Vessel and Intercept it, this happens to be Donnager, Yao finds the vessel and notices that it is well over 3 times the length of the Donnager and then orders to Target it with the Torpedoes, Torpedoes which range between the Megaton Range, to possible Gigaton range. On Galactica on Dradis there is a small Unknown Vessel, the Crew speculate that it is a Cylon Support ship, however they notice that is lacks a Raider escort, Adama will likely think it is a Trap set by the Cylons, however Mining operations are at play, and it would take hours to evacuate all staff from the Operations, so they launch Vipers. Yao Notices that there is now a Massive Quantity of smaller starships, The Donnager then fires a Warning shot round which will pass 30 meters apart from the Galactica's hull, Seconds after launching, on Dradis there is a Nuclear alarm going off, they then order to fire flak rounds, which destroy the Torpedo.
Yao now Impressed with the Craft, closes in on it, this takes multiple hours and they are still within weapons range, However- moments later, they see a Bright flash, and nothing, later, a massive starship appears a mere 10 Km away from the Donnager and starts to open fire, much of the weapons miss the donnager, however the ones that do hit do critical damage, However, the Donnager, Now facing Galactica, Fires it's Railguns at Galactica, Going Straight through her, and causing Galactica to go dead in space- However, even if Galactica is crippled there are over 100 other craft in space coming at the Donnager, PVCs are fired at the vipers destroying most of them, however some get though and when they do, they reek havoc, firing they're munitions, some nuclear, they break though the hull of Donnager, however this would not last, the PVCs eventually destroy all vipers in the air ( Space ), now Yao is on a Disabled Donnager Calls for support, for Galacica, she has one final ace up her sleeve, Galactica then fires her Nuclear torpedoes, Simaltaiously Donnager fires they're Anti Warhead Munitions, and Nukes as well, Galactica is hit will almost all of the nukes causing cataclysmic damage, and finally- She Explodes, the Donnager is hit with a few nukes as well, however is still barely holding on, later Reinforcements com, Donnager is salvaged, and eventually repaired, so yeah thats my Thoughts!
What do you think? Am I Right? Am I Wrong? Please tell me! And have a great day!
( Thats another hour of my life I'm never getting back... )
My name is Chris Herron. For the last year and a half, I have been honing my skills as a narrator by hosting the podcast Tall Tale TV. Twice a week I post sci-fi and fantasy short stories submitted to me by authors from all over the globe.
I've worked with novice writers, traditionally published authors, and even a winner of the prestigious writers of the future contest. And currently, Tall Tale TV itself is in the running for a Parsec award for speculative fiction podcasting excellence.
Tall Tale TV originally started as a YouTube show, but just this past week I launch the podcast form of it. So far I have over 90 of my back episodes posted, and for the next three weeks, I will be posting multiple episodes daily until it catches up to the YouTube channel.
I started the project because in 2015 I went temporarily blind for the better part of a year. As an avid reader and writer, this hit me hard. My wife suggested I try audiobooks, and the experience was transformative. Hearing a good narrator bring a story to life is incredible, and I decided that if I regained my eyesight I would try my own hand at it.
It's taken me a few years, but my vocal coach has helped guide me and I will be launching my professional career sometime next month. But I am adamant that I will continue Tall Tale TV. So if this sounds like something you would be interested in, come check it out!
I know Netflix is trying to create their own Futurama and all, but screw it, the show's a lot of fun
In episode 4 of K Band Radio, the crew of the ¡Smash N Grab! reaches Bungo Magi and begins investigating Gimpy's disappearance. Heavy role playing shenanigans ensue and the plans change a bit after contact with the "enemy."
K Band Radio is an actual game play podcast following a crew of star ship repossession specialists.
(Apologies in advance. Submitted two weeks ago, but now the book is FREE on Amazon, too)
My Outlaw Galaxy short story collection is now permafree on Amazon, Smashwords, Kobo, B&N and Apple's ibooks store. Outlaw Galaxy: Little Wind and Other Tales is five short stories of action-adventure space fantasy, suitable for readers of all ages. About 15,000 words, or about an hour read time.
Outlaw Galaxy is space opera adventure (with a dash of fantasy) in the classic tradition of Star Trek: The Original Series, Star Wars, Flash Gordon, Buck Rogers, Babylon 5, original Battlestar Galactica, etc.
Currently #11 on Amazon's Free Science Fiction Short stories and anthologies.
Written by Bill Smith, author of:
Star Wars: The Roleplaying Game Second Edition (West End Games)
Star Wars: The Essential Guide to Vehicles and Vessels
Star Wars: The Essential Guide to Weapons and Technology.
Bill is also the guy who convinced Parker Brothers to put Boba Fett in as a playable token in the original Star Wars Monopoly (about 1995-1996-ish).
Thank you for taking a look, I hope you enjoy reading these stories as much as I enjoyed writing them.
Will be publishing the first two Outlaw Galaxy novels, Outlaw Galaxy: Trip and the Space Pirates and Outlaw Galaxy: Fugitive Among the Stars in the new few weeks.
I also have another short story collection, Outlaw Galaxy: Hunter's Truth and Other Tales out now, 99 cents, all major vendors (except Google Play, which is hopefully coming soon).
This is the revision of a scene that now fits into a larger story.
A certain part of the scene takes a risk that makes it worth posting for feedback...
...so after you read it, you'll know what that means. Your feedback is welcome, especially if you speak English and/or Hindi.
Boxes June 9th, Arcadia Mars. Daniel Fletcher and the Machina Jwi attempt to rob the First Martian Bank. https://docs.google.com/document/d/1slQvDKcAXtEEiuJnjJ2k3GsmEp0LlJZ9N7ivKJmv8vs/edit?usp=sharing
“Nine thousand neurons.”
“Nine thousand what?”
“Neurons. That’s how many you lose in a day.”
“What the fuck does that…”
Mitch took another stunted drag off his guruleaf cig, smothering the table in diesel haze. Early morning solar filtered in through the window, dousing everything in an antiseptic glare that could almost be mistaken for sunlight. Every year the politicians had campaigned on fixing the cities fluorescent skylighting, and every year it seemed to get worse. The smoke from Mitch’s cigarette danced in the obnoxious shine, vague naked figures and devouring mouths, until Dan coughed on the fumes and waved his hand to clear the air.
Mitch only gazed out the window maybe bored, maybe searching for a response “...so what” he said finally, turning his head towards Dan, aggravated strain in his throat, “...what fucking difference does that piece of trivia make?”
“It makes all the difference.” Dan shot back, not missing a beat “It means that every morning you wake up you are less of who you were then the night before. Sans nine thousand hard working brain cells. Now each neuron has about one thousand connections, and all together measures the equivalent of a one trillion bit-per-second processor…”
Dan paused reaching out two fingers to grab the passing waitress and motioning wordlessly at the empty coffee cup in front of him. There was a vacant silence as the two waited for the girl to top it off and then, when she had moved on, Dan finished.
“...but every day that goes by you are losing these processors...at genocidal rates. And that makes each of us a wet bag of decaying circuits. Half-cognizant equations on countdown toward extinction. So you ask me if I am worried about dying today? No. I’m not.” Dan frowned at the lukewarm coffee the waiter had left. “I’ve been dying a little bit every day since the day I was born.”
The diner shifted, just, ever, so...and Dan heard it. Chiming of the tiny bell on the front door, the influx of new hungry customers spilled in. A hectic clanging of pots and pans from the back of kitchen as the undocumented droids clocked up pace to the morning rush. The city was waking up, the streets outside growing busier, and that meant more casualties. People that didn’t need to die today.
“We should go.” Dan announced.
“Jesus…” Mitch leaning over the table, stabbing his cigarette at Daniel “it must be fucking horrible being trapped inside all that brain of yours. With this high-science whoa-is-me crap, do you even realize how you sound? What you actually sound like?”
“What do I sound like?” Dan asked unamused.
“Like a scared lil whiny bitch.” Mitch stated matter of factly grabbing Dan’s coffee and downing it like a shot of petrovodka. “Listen son, I am going to let you in on a little secret. The universe doesn’t give a shit about your feelings or your self-pontificating bullshit.”
“That we agree on.”
Mitch continued as if not hearing “There is no big brother in the sky, looking down on you…” he waved his hands in a fairytale manner “...there is only the street. This street will eat you alive...if you give it the chance. And you Daniel, you sound like a man who wants it too.”
Mitch Gibson. Oldest living gun runner of the Machina Jwi, that saying something in a gang where the average age of a membership ran just south of fourteen. Mitch was, and always had been, a shark. A raw force of teeth and muscles from some prehistoric ocean that nothing else had made it out of. Dan wondered if the man could smell the foulness of his own guruleaf, Mitch’s nose having been broken in every bar fight the brute could find. His augmented hand pinched the cigarette with servo motor precision, knuckle articulations spinning gently as he took another puff. Dan had never asked where Mitch had lost the right hand and Mitch had never offered. Nor his leg or his eye.
“...and that makes me nervous” Mitch snuffed his cig out on top of his soggy eggs “...you need to know why...because if you’re sloppy in this line of work you get yourself and everyone around ya killed. How long we known each other?”
Off to the right, lounging in the corner booth, a gaggle of five teenagers, two attempting to feel each other up, one haggling with the waitress over the price of a milkshake, another taking blinkposts of her syrup drenched pancakes, and the last, a young kid in a leather jacket that didn’t quite fit him, staring directly at Daniel. The kid had a smart visor down covering his eyes, hiding most of his pimpled face, but a faint smile crept across his cheeks. Was he watching an amusing video under those shades? Or was he recording the two men talking in the booth across from him? The kind of eavesdropping that could earn six hundred credits in a precrime court.
“About three weeks.” Dan snapping his head back to the table.
“And in all that time, do you know what I have seen? I’ve seen a man who doesn’t seem to want to be here. Who hesitates to pull the trigger on civs. Who passes on stims and empaths and who has everyone else but me convinced that he's a narc. So tell me, Dan, why all this? Why join the Machina Jwi and why the hell offer yourself up for this particular job of all jobs?”
Daniel shrugged again “I just wanna get paid.”
“Of course you do.” Mitch muttered sarcastically ”Well then, my young entrepreneur, listen closely...you make one misstep here and you are dead. You can’t open the box like you say you can, I’ll kill you myself. You want in with the Jwi, this is your chance but you need to pull this thing off immaculate. You understand?”
“Who is pontificating now?”
Mitch grinned sardonically but this resolved into a frowned as he checked the analog watch strapped to his mechanical wrist. “It's time, shut up and let's go.”
Dan took a final look at what passed for breakfast in this place, vat grown eggs scrambled on his plate, soybean protein stamped into the vague shape of bacon...orange juice from trees grown under that same fluorescence glow as everything else. It all started to taste the same after a while, and that meant they had definitely been here too long.
He nudged his plate to the side and the two stood up from the table, Dan grabbing the black and orange duffel bag from underneath the table. It felt like a ton of lead bricks.
“Jesus, What the hell is in this thing?”
“Leverage” Mitch answered hefting the bag on his shoulders like it was nothing, His knee servos, whining slightly under the added weight as Mitch headed for the door. The visored kid’s head slowly tracked them as they left. Let him call, Dan thought as he squeezed between tables and side booths towards the exit. Won’t make a difference now.
Mitch reached the door, barreling into the revolving entrance which jammed at his attempt, screeching out a violation siren and swiveling heads of every patron in the diner.
“Please authorize debt.” A registrar door terminal with an overly giddy voice chimed.
“Really?” Dan remarked disappointed, waving his phone over the terminal for payment and arching a skeptical eyebrow at Mitch. “...I am the one you are worried about?”
Mitch only snorted and headed through the now unlocked door out into the street.
Outside the diner, the air seemed different, less filtered, more diesel...like Mitch’s cigarettes. It didn’t matter that this was near the finance sector, the most expensive corner of the city. Under the containment dome everyplace smelled of the same carcinogenic miasma, that endlessly churned out byproduct of the surface factories. The air we breath, Dan thought to himself.
A passerby jostled against Daniel, clutching a rag against her mouth and coughing violently into it. Mar’s lung. Digging in his pocket, Daniel retrieved a small respirator, and calmly pulled the fabric straps over his head. He held his breath as the rubber vacuum sealed to his chin, a plastic intake valve on left sucking deeply from the otherwise inhospitable atmosphere. On the opposite cheek a green meter began tickling up, matching each breath to the market price of oxygen.
They were at the tapered end of the Boxes here, that labyrinth sprawl of prefabricated apartments stacked one on top of each other like a schizophrenic brickyard. The streets down here were close together, narrow enough to make you catch your breath. In front of Daniel, the backside of a loading dock warehouse, the walls Nexstele scaffolding in checkered patterns, rusted worm-piping burrowing out the facade like the bite of a rotten apple. Opposite the street, the Lonscrete base foundation of a residential tower, spiderweb cracks from serving so many years as atlas for thirty stories of layered humanity. The spray painting on the concrete read the the minute to minute pulse of the city. Graffiti markings of “Free Arcadius”, “No good Augs”, and “Dead Planet”.
Beneath these words, the huddled mass refugees, all tattered cloth and plastic wear with gaunt eyes that never quite left the ground. The purgings on Earth had worsened these few past years and the survivors flocked here in the same way that people trapped in a high rise fire will jump from the windows.
Daniel paused a second in the street, looking down a narrow alleyway. He felt...had he been here before…
“C’mon” Mitch growled snatching Dans trenchcoat and tugging him along. Up ahead Dan could see a tall, lanky man weaving his way through the crowd. He was dressed in a harlequinesque jump suit, all woven gold and indigo and jester bells, face painted up like a Greek tragedy.
“Who the fuck is this guy?” Winston inquired as soon as the two were within shouting distance. “And why the hell is he tagging in on our little banking trip?”
“This guy” Mitch slapped Dan’s back with all the nuance of a sucker punch. “...is the box opener.”
“What the hell took you so long?” Winston hisses at Mitch “We are on a very tight timeline here, in case you’ve forgotten.”
Mitch just kinda lumbers past Winston, bulldozing into the crowd. Winston and Dan take a moment to eye the other, then fall in step behind the big guy.
“I said...hey did you hear me?” Winston barked after Mitch.
Winston bit a response off his tongue then thinking of more choice words remarked “so um...that answers one question, so glad you are well fed, but that still doesn’t explain...” he pointed a finger at Dan and then screamed too every passersby in earshot, “...who the fuck this guy is!”
“T-89” Dan interjected.
Winston missed a step almost falling over then twisted on Dan “What did you say?”
“T-89.” Dan repeated, then softer “You have T-89 augmentations. Xeris Cybernetics, 2133 model.”
Winston blinked at the man, as if seeing him for the first time.
“Your eyes blink too often. A double tap every three seconds. It’s your cranial nerves kicking over, rebooting. Only happens with the 2133 models, and only in those who didn’t update their wetware. Which I am guessing you didn’t because it was bootleg.”
Winston’s mouth hung bewildered.
Couple blocks down and the alleyway opened up allowing the dome skylights to penetrate to the surface. Gradually, the detritus exchanged for designer stores hawking everything from the latest fashion to bleeding-edge grav cars. This was a restricted zone and here and there surveillance drones hovered, biometric scanners tuned to detect riff raff who trespassed beyond what their social ratings allow. Dan tugged his respirator higher up, hoping he fell below the probable cause threshold needed for the drones to ping his phone.
“He is a Neuric.” Mitch explained. “Which means…”
“He can hack an Oracle,” Dan said “get us access to the bank’s server core.”
Mitch smirked at Winston “Did you think we were doing this for spare change? Social credits? Nah...we are going to take them for everything they have. The whole damn city of glass.”
“How?” Winston asked.
“Off world routing account. Tiny mining colony on Phobes. My guy there will reencrypt the funds then sit on it until we arrive. We book passage on the next indentured shuttle and viola, a luxurious life in the outer colonies.”
The First Martian bank loomed ahead, a massive block of granite and opulence that could only have come from the heavens. Kinda of had when you think about it, you couldn’t find marble on Mars, and the amount they had had to cart in from Earth to erect this monument to greed could have established an outer colony on any gas giant of choice. The external structure was columns and archways all gilded silver, and under each arch, a statue nine meters tall in classical stance. A lone fluted colonnade lead to the twin airlock doors of platinum that served as the entrance. The doors were ajar with no guards posted outside. A place like this did not need them.
Winston took the steps two at a time, giddy to begin. Dan hesitated, sparing a glance up at the stained clock face mounted above the bank doors. Nine oclock. Winston slipped through the doors, followed by Mitch’s hulking figure, then Dan who heaved on the airlock doors slamming them shut behind him.
Just past the doors was the lobby, mahogany tables, aqua marine tile flooring and rows upon rows of bank tellers in cookie cutter suits and ties. Citizens queued up all in nice serpentine lines and corralled from the tellers all the way back to the entrance Dan and the gang had just walked through. There were three guards, in corporate dollar green uniforms under kevlar plating. The rest of the lobby was empty except for a statue on a dias in the center of the hall. It was of a skeleton, standing erect and holding out a bright red apple in its hand. The skeleton seemed to be made of onyx, yet somehow liquid, like shellacking. It gazed at the apple in it's hand as if expecting the fruit to speak.
At the sound of the doors slamming closed the room gives a startled hush, and Winston catches this like an opportunity. He just keeps striding, directly up to the teller booth, flourishing out his assault rifle as he does, waving in the face of anyone close enough to listen.
“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please, this is a robbery. Please remain calm, we are here only for the money. We do not want to hurt anyone here but so help me God we will if we have too. Flat on the ground, hands on your head, asses to heaven. This will all be over soon.”
Behind him, Mitch and Dan split the room, leveling weapons on the security personnel, disarming and hog tying the guards with zip lines into safe little packages. Dan pulls a six pack of roman candles from his trench coat, yanking each pin and meticulously setting the fireworks on the tile floor. Black smoke billows up the ceiling to choke the ventilation system. In the back of his head he is counting down the kilometer difference to the third precinct dispatch station.
“Twenty.” Dan counts backwards “Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen...” The firework smoke is filling the room, the lobby ceiling now completely lost to visibility. Dan doesn’t take his eyes off the air vent in the center of the rafters, he takes out a semi-automatic pistol and puts a laser sight bead right on the ventilation grating.
There is an elderly lady in the back who starts wheezing from the smoke. Dan snaps his fingers pointing her out and Mitch lumbers over to grab the woman, carrying her like a puppy towards the airlock doors and ushering her out before locking the airlock with a heavy chain and padlock. Then Mitch goes back to assembling something from metal parts in his duffle bag.
Winston paused, surveying the room for heroes. “In the time it takes us to rob this fine establishment the banking guilds will have made over three times our withdrawal. They will not miss it. And remember, every credit in this place is insured, you will not lose a dime and we will be on our way and we can all enjoy a lovely rest of the morning.” He hopped on a long stationary desk, knocking over pens and paper and waltzing over towards this burly gentleman in a suede dress suit. Winston squatted over the man, tugging at the man’s ponytail to get his attention.
In the background Dan kept counting “Twelve. Eleven. Ten. Nine…”
“You sir, you look particularly valorous. Are you going to to be giving us any trouble today?”
“No.” the man with the ponytail stared at the tile floor avoiding eye contact with Winston and just trying unsuccessfully to look at small as possible.
Winston straightened up. Then, without warning, a steel toed boot kicked out, hitting the ponytail man square in the jaw and dropping him like a matchstick. “Anyone else feeling kinda brave? Huh.” Winston shoved the muzzle of his gun in another civilian’s nose. “You?”
“Three. Two. One.”
The ventilation grill Dan is staring down begins to vibrate, then buzz from the inside. As if all the hornets on Mars were ready to burst out of that air duct.
“Get ready!” Dan shouts.
The ventilation duct blows outward in a fury of metal shrapnel. Dan with his finger clamped on the trigger before the first Tri-blade has even made it out the gate. The semi in his hand kicking out spent casing, kerchunk, kerchunk, kerchunk, as everything slows to a molasses crawl in the lobby. The first Tri-blade crashed to the ground, swiss cheese metal and motor oil. Kerchunk, kerchunk, red hot rounds littering the floor as several more angry drones swoop out of the ventilation system. The black smoke clogging their visual scanners, they twirl in place momentarily, long enough for Dan’s pistol to take down a second drone.
Tri-blades. Overclocked rotary fins, pivoting on three independent axis, like a freddy krueger remake of the bumblebee. Sensing the intruders below the smoke cover, the flying razors dove toward the bottom of the lobby. Winston raised his automatic at one, laughing maniacally and emptying an entire clip into the thing. The bullets ricocheted off the spinning blades. Jumping at the last minute, Winston clears the table and the knife drone skims past the civilians, flaying the scalp off an unlucky hostage who should have listened when they said everyone on the ground.
“Run this!” Mitch yells, showering the air with bullet spray from a compact gatling. A tri-blade, caught momentarily in the crossfire, disintegrates bit by pieces in the air, it’s tin carcass embedding into a splintered teller booth.
Dan heard a whirling, an angry lawnmower just behind his ear and turns to see another Tri-blade reorienting on a boomerang course to him. He pivots in place, desperate to get his gun up but it is too late, the drone catches him on the deltoid, it’s hypersonic blade splashing his blood diagonally across the the cowering hostages. Reeling back from the assault, Dan throws up his arms, the drone circling in for the kill, lawnmower buzz louder than hell. And Mitch’s gatling-gun opens fire. Lead collides with the drone, inches from Dan’s face, annihilating the machine and ringing Dan’s ear drums with siren wails.
“You fucking monsters!” a lady yells. She has hair like sangria, a blue sequin dress and legs you would eat a meal off of. Winston turns to her, a cruel smile playing with his lips.
“What’s that sweet heart?” Striding over towards her, he yanks her to her feet by that sangria hair. She doesn’t look frightened, just defiant, even as he is smelling her neck like a jackal in heat. He drags her to the teller booths, to the bank employees hiding behind three inches of bulletproof glass.
“Open the door”
“No.” the guy who looks like the manager said gallantly.
Winston plugs the assault rifle underneath the woman’s jaw, up towards the pretty parts and repeats
“Open the door, I will not ask again.”
Weighing cash versus the young misses life, the manager gulped and then shuffled his portly self over to the access door and reluctantly unlocks it.
“You coming?” Dan calls to Mitch who has resumed unpacking and assembling something big from his dufflebag. He is attaching a large plasma energy cell, like the kind powering grav-cars.
Dan opens his mouth to protest but Mitch booms “I’m fine. Go!”
Leaving him, Dan scoots through the security door into the backend office space. Inside the manager was arguing with Winston.
“You don’t understand.” the manager pleaded “I couldn’t open the vault if I tried. It is on a three hour countdown timer, it would take three hours before we could open it.”
“Show me.” Winston insisted.
The manager unlocked another passageway door and Daniel, Winston and the hostage lady followed him down a series of winding corridors to a rather nondescript elevator. The manager punched the code to the bottom. Felt like hours, but the car slowly descended. Thirteen floors, beneath ground level and Dan could feel the air getting colder. The elevator finally opened on another claustrophobic hallway. The walls, a sprawl of electronic connections, all feeding towards a big circular hatch at the end of the hallway. Vault Arcadius, fifteen tons of Titan alloy, fallout shelter grade and over one meter solid, ringed by wall spaces and foot long deadbolts held on a pressure lock. Nothing connected to the network, nothing with a logic gate. In a world of hackable silicone, here was a hunk of cold impenetrable metal.
The woman fidgeted, struggling to wrest free of Winston’s grip. Winston pulled her closer.
“Don’t hurt her” the manager protested “she was just here to make a deposit! She works for the Orphanage Corp, for christ sake!”
The manager pointed to a retina print on the side of the wall, next to a keypad. “Vault opens with a the passcode which changes daily, requires my ocular signature but all that is useless without this.”
He motioned towards an old fashioned lever, like the kind you would find on a slot machine. “This lever triggers a series of metal springs and clockwork mechanisms in the door itself which then slowly unwind over three hours. No way to bypass this. All you could do is wait. Buy by that time every cop in the city will be here. Best to just take the cash we have on hand and leave.”
“He won't do it. Don’t you understand!” The lady cried, squirming in Winston’s arms “Not in a million years for a creep like you!” She fought hard thrusting her chest against Winston then stopping and seeming to pout there inside of him. Finally, she whispered “Besides, it doesn’t matter, I already saw the code when he started the countdown process for me three hours ago.”
Her lips latched onto Winston's, kissing passionately and getting tongue. With her other hand she snaked a hand around his back, grabbing the automatic rifle slung at the hip. Before Winston could react she had aimed the gun at the manager’s skull, blowing out the backside in a Jackson Pollock of the corridor wall.
“Jesus, Kari what the hell!” Winston yelled pulling back from her.
“He's fine” Kari remarked, flipping over what was left of the manager’s cranium. She lifted the head up by the non-dripping parts and then carefully held the manager’s dead eyeball up to the ocular scanner and tapped in a twelve digit passcode into the keypad. The retina print scrutinized the manager’s eye, taking four tries because his eyes were too dilated by fear, before finally beeping acceptance. The vault door began unlocking, the clunk of heavy machinery lazily sliding out of place.
“You’re late by the way. Seven minutes off the mark.” she said irately.
“He was getting breakfast.” Winston jerked a thumb at Daniel.
“Idiot.” Kari commented as she rolled the vault door away.
My friends and I all work on large YouTube channels already, but we wanted to throw our hat into the sci-fi ring as lifelong nerds. It's surprising how few people are actually in the space on YouTube. If anyone has any recommendations to improve the channel or for the topics, I'd very much appreciate them!
My dream is for the video's comment section to be like a Reddit thread where people have intense discussion and debate the ethics behind the sci-fi films. I used to do 100s of comments a day at my work before building out my team so I'll be a great moderator :)
Ant-man: Ethics of Exclusive Superhero Tech
Back to the Future: Ethics of Time Travel
Jurassic Park: Ethics of DNA Cloning
Truman Show: NEXT WEEK
Alright, Now for this post, any Fighter, or Bomber Craft, from ANY Sci-Fi Show, and why you love it, got it? OK Here's mine!
Y-Wing Starfighter- Star Wars- I love because... I dunno! I just Do! HAH! Gives me more time to watch some Babylon 5! See yah!
I just visited the AltSciFi project blog today, intending to post the first scene of a new original story by one of our writers.
There is a far stranger real story that might be a great starting point for the future of fictional dystopia, though.
Upon logging in, I found a new comment waiting below this blog entry:
The comment thanked AltSciFi for the blog entry, as an artist was apparently being harassed by the same troll who targeted our project two years ago.
This wouldn't have been strange except for the fact that another gang of idiots on Twitter -- who called themselves "The Artist Community", as if they represented some grandiose and nonexistent group of All Artists -- attacked this project with more copyright trolling in early 2018. You can read about that here:
That recent slander/libel campaign began after AltSciFi re-posted an image on Twitter, then gave the artist credit by mentioning her. The artist still howled to her followers about "stealing art" and was promptly blocked. Three months later, another artist found prototypes of the project's store site and joined forces with the previous troll to launch a viral slander campaign across social media.
A few months after that, I discovered the same snake who virally slandered this project was preying on another artist; that artist bases her entire public persona on being shy and trusting, and has been taken advantage of quite publicly and recently.
In other words, she's the perfect target, and now her popular cyberpunk webcomic is a sympathy scam (or at least, it definitely seems that way) with someone's else name above the title (the snake) as the "main artist".
Now I'm seeing a pattern. There is a subset of social media users who make sport of trying to destroy the reputations of other artists using copyright ideas that are completely meaningless in the modern internetworked world. Spreading art that an artist has already self-promotionally posted for free never harms the artist, as you can read more about here (click/tap here).
In a capitalist world, nothing is "free". Someone earns profit from every website where artwork is shown; site operators need to pay web hosting bills. In other words, copyright trolls fundamentally want to destroy the world wide web itself -- in order to satisfy a notion of "free", "ownership" and "control" that does not exist online, never has existed, and never will unless corporations and trolls successfully destroy the web.
Here's the question: one main purpose of AltSciFi is to use science fiction to educate readers about the importance of user privacy and digital human rights (to prevent a cyberpunk future).
All throughout the slander/libel/etc. campaign against AltSciFi, the names of the trolls were never directly mentioned. But in 2016, I did directly name a copyright troll who had been engaging in targeted harassment across Reddit for two weeks.
An artist just found that blog entry and was thankful to be warned about an abusive idiot who has now been doing the same thing for two years on Reddit. (See the thread where it happened again recently, here)
Harassment via obsolete copyright and bullshit legalistic threats is a serious issue, and there's a well-established pattern that seems to be getting worse. Worst of all, none of it actually benefits artists. It just does the real offenders' (Facebook, Twitter, etc. -- those who surveil, collect and sell massive amounts our personal data to whomever pays) dirty work for them. Internet copyright trolling keeps people from enjoying good art and prevents artists from earning the profit/recognition they could have earned.
Would it be better to publicly name the perpetrators of the new slander/libel attack against AltSciFi so that there is a record of it, in case they try to victimize someone else? Their privacy isn't at issue since they proudly and publicly tried to destroy this project using coordinated gang attacks across several social media sites. It's a tricky question.
Edit / TL;DR - A Fire Upon the Deep is exactly the book I was thinking of. Thank you all for the help and for the recommendations of City, the pre&sequels, Darksight and Uplift (which I've read).
Reddit is awesome. Better than googling. There are a surprising number of hits of bible verse for "alien dog science fiction"
There was a book I read several years ago that I cannot remember nor find in a google search. The reason I'm looking for it is that it was probably one of the best executed alien species, as they had a truly - well - alien thought process. Totally not just human thinking with something stuck on their hands.
What I can remember is that they were sentient dogs. They communicated via thought and the pack was a group / shared mind. There were humans involved, I think they crashed or something. There was a war between two large groups and the improvement in technology was the human's fault. They used only their mouths as the one usefully articulated tool using option.
Please. Help me. I obviously can only remember the basics and I would really like to re-read the book.
Science Fiction, or Speculative Fiction if you prefer. Fantasy too. Asimov, Bradbury, Clarke, Dick, Heinlein and other SF books. SF movies and TV shows. Fantasy stuff like Tolkien and Game of Thrones. Laser guns, space ships, and time travel. etc. Star Trek, Battlestar, Star Wars, etc.