Introducing: The Xylanth

Oops.  Well, in my defense, it's been relatively busy recently between taking on new students, dropping old students, and analyzing new topics/tests for students.  And also, I've been grappling with plot points (or lack, thereof).  But I rejoice! I've made good headway recently!

In fact, I've been writing up the various alien species that will be present (aside: someday it will be interesting to present books as an interactive wiki) in the galaxy; not just alien life, but a species that has risen to civilization and beyond.

It's not as simple as just doodling some crazy looking thing, slapping a name on it, and calling it a day (well, maybe for some).  Life - sentient, civilized, technological and advanced life - raises quite a few problems beyond the immediate chemistry of self assembly.  You wonder what form it takes, and consequently how it perceives and interacts with the world at large.  You wonder why they develop civilization - it's not every top dog species that does so.  On Earth, we frequently point to division of labor and specialization as being advantageous for survival (and thus traits that lead proto-humans to socialize and civilize as being evolutionarily advantaged).  That is not always the case.  In some sense, if you ARE the top dog species, that is a disincentive to gather and form a society; more frequently, it is an underdog species that forms groups, develops into a civilization, and thus becomes top of the pyramid.

Well, I say frequently, but really, all I can talk about is what humans have done.

There are other questions too: development of technology (particularly tools and metalwork), religion, societal rules, interactions with other planetary life, and so forth.  Not all of it is useful or necessary.

Anyway, each of these gives me a firmer understanding of what was initially a nebulous idea for an alien species, and the role it will play.  They're pretty fun to write up too, something of a short story in and of themselves.  Today I present the first: The Xylanth.  (I have written 3 more of some 12 or so)

The Xylanth
Plant Based lifeform | Scavenger
Ascendent Milieu
"The Puppeteer" (Meat Fuckers)

The Xylanth are a curious species of mobile plant.  They are evolved from a carnivorous vine, similar in nature to the Rafflesia; seedlings take root in a corpse (preferentially; a living host animal can serve, but are more apt to kill the seedling, even if weakened; any living host is killed as the seedling matures) which serves as a manipulable, mobile frame for the growing plant as well as a ready source of food.  As the seedling matures, root-like tendrils pierce through the corpse and intertwine with the skeleton, allowing the juvenile to draw nutrients and move about.  By the time the new xylanthan reaches maturity, photosynthesis becomes the primary source of energy; the corpse will have been eaten away and replaced with a twisted mass of plant life.  The outer most vines will harden and change in appearance according to the specific race (varietal) of Xylanth - fire resistant hardwood varietals exist.

The Xylanth do not naturally compete with one another, particularly as they are mobile.  They are capable of moving about to seek sunlight and corpses (even hunting live animals to do so).  However, the same mobility made attaining civilization difficult.

Initially, xylanth grouped to better hunt animals for corpses and to clear away vegetation for unimpeded sunlight.  This naturally encouraged settling.  Additionally, the best source of corpses were battlefields for the wars incessantly fought between the planet's various CHO-main (human) factions.  These corpses became prized for their useful shape, as well as being frequently found with armor and weapons.  Eventually, xylanth that worked together were selected for due to their numerical advantages in defending themselves against the local CHO-mains.

The human nations of Sylv warred against one another incessantly; they became terminally stalled at a medieval-equivalent level of development due to multiple large scale wars, each of which resulted in massive population die-offs, starvation, poverty, and general lawlessness.  The generation of new knowledge was little in demand as laborers, not philosophers and thinkers, were needed.  Progress diminished, then disappeared entirely.  The discovery of Xylanthan "corpse puppets" swiftly led to the first unification of the human nations against a common enemy.  It was also the last.

The Xylanthans won overwhelmingly.

Distrust followed on the heels of defeat; how could plants defeat the combined might of the human nations? The humans burned away large tracts of land, never realizing they were creating fertile new grounds for the Xylanth; every human soldier that fell became a Xylanthan terror.  Soon, hardwood and fire resistant varietals appeared amongst the Xylanth.  All the while, the humans scorched and salted farmlands, scores of peasents and farmers and poor drafted into the armies died, leaving no one and nowhere to grow and harvest crops.  Starvation and plague ran rampant alongside bickering and blame in the aftermath, and on the brink of extinction, still the humans sought to kill one another.

This would not do.  Rather than permit the obliteration of the human race (and thus, such wonderful corpses), the Xylanth mediated a peace, a pseudo-symbiotic relationship with mankind: the human nations pledged to turn over their dead to the Xylanth, to supply metal ores and teach the secrets of metallurgy, and in kind the Xylanth provided the human nations with agricultural goods, livestock, and maintained a peace between the three nations of man.  The food the Xylanth provided was both delicious and nutritious - the humans soon found themselves in better health and living longer than they had before.  But the Xylanthan foodstuffs, grown or husbanded by their techniques, was a shackle to bind mankind forevermore to the Xylanth - laced with addictive chemicals, the humans soon found themselves dependent on the Xylanth for their continued survival.  They could not grow their own food, did not desire such meagre produce as they could manage, and poaching was punishable by death.  The humans led longer, healthy, peaceful lives, and the Xylanth ensured themselves a continued supply of superior corpses.

A symbiotic slavery.

Membership to the Milieu was granted on the grounds that the Xylanth constitued a smbiotic civilization.  They maintained a peace amongst the sentient civilizations of their home world and, not the least, kept what would otherwise be considered a Pandoran species of human firmly under control.    Conveniently ignored was the matter of slavery by chemical addiction on a planetary scale and the role of the symbionts in the Xylanthan life cycle.  In spite of the peace they profess to maintain, the Xylanth care little about the frequent skirmishes that occur along the outer borders; far better to let human nature create long-standing grievances and feuds, the better to prevent humans from ever reuniting under one banner.  Their admittance was awkward then, to say the least, and considered something of debacle in the Milieu's history by various member species, especially CHO-main varieties.

Xylanth "see" in the IR/UV spectrum; the exact organs by which it does so have not been identified, but scholars generally agree that the flowers which sprout from the eye sockets are not eyes, but rather mouths - xylanth communicate primarily via chemical-pheromone signals.  They are also proficient at a form of body-sign communication (Xyll), which is the primary means by which they communicate with humans on Sylv.  They are capable of processing auditory signals, but are incapable of replicating them.  Identifying marks of individuality and gender appear in the IR/UV spectrum, and is thought to play a role in "speaking" Xyll, at least between Xylanth when they choose to do so.  The similarities between Xyll and Commain expedited first contact between the Xylanth and the Milieu.

The humans of Sylv had made a practice of identifying individual xylanth by a description of scent, such as "Droppings which have baked in the sun for two days before breaking open, borne on a breeze."  By some irony, Xylanthan names take the form of descriptive scents and are translated thusly.

Recent work - languages

Pictures! hopefully they are not absurdly large.  No idea; I'm on the tablets.  Anyway, as I have mentioned, I've been engrossed in transferring my notes from a rather rain-logged notebook to something a little more durable (and yet, not to a digital format, ironically).

As happens whenever I do this kind of thing (such as with essays), this has let me go over my ideas a second time more critically - to consider what is important, what is overbroad and extraneous, to revise and refine and develop.  So making progress!  Story is beginning to come together much better (somewhat less open ended), and possible plot twists are making themselves known!

But what it boils down to is a paper bound "wiki" - all the information and detail and reasons and so forth that I come up with, collected in one area.  I can even jump from page to page!  It's more organized now.

What you see in the last picture has been the most recent focus for the past few days (not pictured: three or four pages of discarded drafts) - a language subsystem.  It was inspired by something I read somewhere else (I wish I could remember where exactly now, to give credit where credit is due) but I've never quite bothered to formalize it.

what boils down to is a universal translation system for a foreseeable problem in interspecies communication; indeed, we have this problem here on Earth already, right here and right now.  Body Language (and other subtle communicators).  No one has a true Sarcasm Detector right?  The age old example would be the smile - it does not mean the same thing in all cultures, much less all contexts.  In some cultures it is a hostile gesture, a declaration of impending violence.  In others, a gesture of friendliness and welcome.  IIRC, the famous picture of Nixon stepping off a plane and signing "peace" with his fingers was, locally, equivalent to an offensive declaration to all viewers.  Kinda like flipping everyone off.

So what happens when you have aliens attempting cross species communications, if we have that problem within a single species on a single planet?  What happens if one alien is beaked, and wholly incapable of smiling?

What if the alien is a hive swarm, and incapable of demonstrating, much less comprehending, such individual expression?

What of species (for example, some octopii) that communicate through photo-chromatrophic signals (color changes and patterns)?

Thus the Emotional-Context Indicator system; imagine using hand signals to indicate whether you were or were not serious in making a statement (akin to Patrick Rothfuss' system in Wise Man's Fears, iirc)? Or to indicate deference to or agreement with another in making a comment?  How much better for eliminating misunderstanding!

Of course, I wouldn't put it past humans to misuse such a system for deception.  So it's not necessarily without it's flaws.  And of course, if you lack appropriate limbs for such signals, that's a problem too.  However, posit a wearable adornment of low level AI, capable of translating subtext via color gradients or shapes (and translating likewise back to the wearer, perhaps through holographic projection).

But not all emotional-context require signals, and in some cases it would be counterproductive (such as signalling that one was lying).  In case, I've imagine a tiered system, 1-10, indicating degree to which the resulting ECI is present in; and come up with quite a few.

I think I have more negatives than positives.... Well, that's Valentines Day for you.

Happy New Years!

Happy (belated) new years everyone!

New years is like, a two week long event here in Taiwan.  During which firecrackers.  Because.

Anyhow, I've (finally) begun transferring my notes to dedicated notebooks; previously, my notes for DE and Weavers were scattered across multiple notepads, a notebook, and a sketchbook.  Which can make things confusing.  In doing so, I've written a synopsis, and that helps tremendously in the organization and focus.  I can also see that, fundamentally, it's too broad and open ended... like a sandbox version of a book.  Which, while enormously interesting to me personally, I can see being both unsatisfying and confusing to others.

I've also been taking note on books that discuss the writing craft, and have thus far engaged in my standard MO - download, feel proud, and then forget about them entirely.  There's a certain irony in writing a book called "The Now Habit" (which I have) for procrastinators (which I am) because we are both precisely the people who need it (so I got it) and who wont read it (which I haven't yet; I think it's been a year. At least.).  There are, however, quite a lot of free and cheap ebooks on writing and I DO intend to read the ones I've grabbed (questionably the same could be said of The Now Habit... possibly I see it as a talisman).

It would be interesting if the acquisition of books meant an instant integration of the 'knowledge' within.  Ah well.

But part of the polarizing need for these books in me (get in mah brain belleh!) is that I am reading a wide range of SF lately for inspiration and learning/analysis... seeing how other authors approach certain topics (themes) as well as present those topics (methods/style).  And I'm seeing more and more of things I don't 'like' - internal inconsistency.  I think I've talked a little bit about this before - it bothers me when something is presented or touted in one fashion, but the behavior or action is altogether different (often due to a limitation in understanding on the author's part).

For example, an author uses a lot (indeed, too many) buzzwords to describe an AI - which subsequently talks and responds like a search engine.  Indeed, all those buzzwords amounted to what was basically Siri or Google Now.  Which is a technology that exists and does not need all the buzzwords or pseudo technology to function.  That is a glaring bit of discord; as Dan Brown wrote, "the best science fiction has its roots in science."  Buzzwords, as we should all know, are empty and devoid of meaning - they are flash without substance, and do little more than to cover up that void (and often poorly at that).

Another example of internal inconsistency - Pacific Rim.  I love this movie (how can you not love giant robots punching giant monsters in their giant faces?), but there are so many internal inconsistencies, it's a testament to how much we love giant robots punching giant monsters (did I mention it has giant robots punching giant monsters?) that we are willing to overlook the discrepancies.  Like, all the world, banding together to research, develop, and build, in 14 months giant, walking (no easy task) robots.  The technology required to do something like that is not simple.  And then to create a neural interface, a computer operating system, remote monitoring systems, and eventually some sort of digital-energy power plant is far and away high science-fiction.

But basically they are only good at awkwardly punching (which never actually harms any of the monsters).  Also, there is the super glaringly obvious weak spot of the everything vital being in the head, which is easily accessible and lightly armored, despite the ample abundance of heavily armored frame.

Somehow, the same technological advances didn't extend to effective weaponry; a plasma weapon which is so slow as to be useful only as a first strike weapon (in which capacity it is amazingly never used) built into a transforming hand is amazingly high tech, but we don't see anything else along that line - just various forms of punching and medieval weaponry (which is awesome, but doesn't make a lot of sense).  Also, despite all the technology and mind control, the robots communicate via manual walkie-talkie only.

It takes a lot of glitz and flash to distract a person from suspension of belief - if your media is visual, that might be easy enough, but when you require the active participation of a reader, that's a whole other story (no pun intended).

To me, it's important to start from a foundation of understanding the world your story takes place in.  Notwithstanding that to me, universe creation is fun, it allows you to explain and analyze your own story for internal consistency.  When I read about patrick rothfuss spending hours and having notes on the currency system in his world, which is something readers only tangentially experience in the story, that says there is a high degree of consideration for internal consistency of his world - which allows a story to make sense.  If the world is not internally consistent, how can the story be?

Surprisingly, that is something which is important to more than just story writing - you see it in things like video games, movies, political campaigning (i guess so far we are still dealing with fiction), religion (still fiction), law, economics (still fiction so far), and science (fiction?!).

Well, I guess in a way, reality is just a story.  If only we were better writers.

Upcoming

Was hoping to write more part 3, including a battle sequence, but decided I really did need to do more research on what a military base was like - I went to an airfield once as a young kid to see one of the last performances by the Blue Angels, but that's about as close as my experience gets.

That's the thing with living in america, at least - your knowledge of locations and settings are largely stereotype and hardly accurate.  My mental conception of a military base is something like open air fields, hangars, jeeps, tanks, and a barracks or three.  I know from talking to a very few enlisted individuals I've had the opportunity to meet and chat with that this is not accurate at all.

When I think about news and heavily biased reports on foreign lands, I find that this is true too: my mental picture of a place like Iraq or Afghanistan is bomb craters and sand.  This is not only insulting and arrogant, but certainly incorrect.  It's something that needs to change, and I don't want to add to it.

Something else I've thought about more recently: a lot of science fiction novels simply create a technology (or a name for something) and we, as readers, just accept it.  Maybe that's just the nature of the genre.  I've been trying to work more reality into my technology - I'm not saying I know how to make superconducting material or cold fusion, but rather, I want to use cutting edge and theoretical technologies and sciences as a starting point, and then extrapolate or imagine what developments could occur; what the missing steps would lead to.

Fundamentally, science fiction is more fiction than science - it's an entertaining "lie" of "what if."  But any lie is more compelling if there is a grain of truth buried at the core.  I also feel that otherwise, you may as well just write anything you want, at which point you have the "Superman dilemma" - if something is so powerful, how does anything oppose it?  What story results?  Conflict becomes irrational and unbelievable.  For the same reason, every superhero has a weakness of some sort - but the question is whether it simply becomes a literary device that becomes difficult for the reader to buy into.

A planet blows up, and out of all the directions debris can go in (and over such a great distance), so much kryptonite (an unknown substance) conveniently lands on earth? and it travels at the same speed roughly, due to the explosion, as a thruster-escape capsule?  And survives atmospheric entry in hand portable form?  And every bad guy just happens to have some when they most need it?

The Drop (part 3)

Like most military bases, the Calico Advanced Robotics Research and Modern Warfare Development base was in most ways indistinguishable from other suburban American areas: it featured a modern, sprawling commercial mall with the usual chain stores and restaurants (Dave and Buster's was a local favorite), a movie theater complex with 8 screens and an IMAX, two In-n-Out burger joints, three different smoothie shops, a national chain gym (despite military access to a state of the art facility), an indoor paintball arena, and more coffee houses than churches.  A public bus system connected various parts of the base and offered a scheduled shuttle service to both the Palmdale Transportation Hub to the west and the Calico Ghost Town to the east, a popular tourist attraction.   A small airport and a modern medical hospital rounded out 'amenities'.  Sure, the police were a little less tolerant of mischief and you saw more people in fatigues and camouflage than you typically otherwise did, but all in all it was a run of the mill mini-metropolis.

More or less in the middle of nowhere.  That was a little less typical.

Although many bases had begun to switch to more high rise condominiums for housing, CARR-MoWD still maintained a respectable number of single-lot houses.  From the beginning, CARR-MoWD was intended to house more officers, researchers, and engineers than line soldiers.  Top brass decided to focus on comfort; space was not a premium as on other bases, particularly overseas.  Development and planning for CARR-MoWD had begun in the early 2000's.  Military analysts at [DARPA] and [RAND] had become distressed with spiraling military costs; the military creature had begun to grow out of control, as short sighted spending focused on lower immediate costs over the long term.  Analysts noted the increase in recruitment and the focus on "disposable" soldiering and foresaw a significant decline in the technological edge that had formed the backbone of the early american armed forces as a consequence of the strategy of quantity over quality.

The argument to invest heavily in future warfare came to a head amidst the over budget, overdue, and underperforming [F-35 Lightning JSF].  Billions were being wasted on a multi-role fighter that relied on a gimmick that could not be used for it's stated purpose: the jump jet SVTOL capabilities necessitated special materials on the take off and landing zones to withstand the high temperature output of the engine.  This made its deployment from temporary, forward bases impossible - the [thick slabs of metal] needed were both too expensive and too heavy.  RAND corporation simulations predicted a total loss of advantage by the JSF outside narrow operational parameters to older generation fighters.  Worse yet, after technical specifications and designs were hacked, a superior variant entered into production in China, well in advance of the JSF's prototype.

And then the events in Afghanistan made the argument for reclaiming the technological edge became incontrovertible: American armed forces were under-equipped and far too vulnerable to low technology, improvised weaponry.  It also became clear that the focus of American warfare was shifting towards distant, remote engagement and weaponry.  It seemed, from the American perspective, that warfare would inevitably become a long range affair, conducted from beyond the range of unassisted human eyesight.

RAND analysts laid out a roadmap to regaining technological ground: focusing on science education, research, and cutting edge development.  Increasing investment in materials science, robotics, drone development, and energy.  DARPA set aside land for a military base and began covert construction on a secure research and testing facility under the black budget.  There would be no leaks - no technological one-upsmanship.

Research progressed steadily, taking cues from the public sector, in creating robotic weapons platforms, unmanned assault vehicles suitable for a variety of environments, and even more "traditional" combat machines; just prior to the Ssi-Ruhk appearance in 2031, a prototype "walking tank" All Terrain Agile Combat Vehicle had been produced based on research in quadruped drone weapon platforms.

The appearance of an alien species in Earth orbit, a species as technologically beyond humankind as humans themselves were beyond their own primate progenitors, had not put a stop to research; if anything, it had spurred a greater sense of urgency in developing new technologies.  While observing alien technology to inspire innovation, it became readily apparent how laughably primitive Earth technology was in comparison; humans were completely at the mercy of their alien visitors.  And yet, however remote the chance for survival, life will chase after it.

The avatar-construct [Lancer] was one of several designed by the pilot [Jackson Lee].  There really had been no need for the "previously human" to take part in any conflict; they were, despite identical physiology, less able and adapted to taking advantage of the digital aspect of their existence.  But there had been a general consensus: if the curtain to humankind was to drop, then they who were human would do it. For the sake of those who were not chosen, they would strive to bring about the inevitable end quickly, painlessly.  It was conceivable that human-scale constructs may become necessary in the course of Reclamation, and especially those capable of human-equivalent interactions and articulation.  In the end, there were some reservations with regard to possible psychological effects on what was and remained a bipedal, human psyche inhabiting an non-humanoid form for prolonged periods.

[Lancer] stepped out of his Pangolin transport and into the impact crater.  "Looks like Pancaked pulled off the crash stop without a problem," [Jackson] commented as he observed his surroundings.  The pilot interface was a bizzare dichotomous virtual reality - on the one hand, the A-C served as his physical body.  He experienced, virtually, the environment from the same perspective as if he were the robotic construct.  Relevant data panels and tags simply appeared and disappeared as needed in his field of vision.  Sans the optical data processing, it was a bit like being human again.

On the other hand, he was simultaneously aware of being in a virtual control room with his AIDE [Caith] - impossible as there was not only no such structure, but no space for anything even approximating the virtual control room.  The substrate housing their awareness was nestled within the torso, beneath armor plating, artificial muscles, power conduits, sensors, and so forth.  And yet, there he was, in Caith's representation of the construct.  He was aware of her somewhere behind him, a presence, at a holographic control console, monitoring a much greater flow of information than he was aware of, watching a a 360 degree field of vision at the same level of detail he managed approximately [???]105 degrees.

"Indeed; I've sent him our 'all clear' and he reports operational status - no noteworthy damage sustained," reported Caith.  "Our Antica are inbound ETA twenty seconds," she continued.  Fuzzy yellow and black cross hatching overlaid onto Jackson's vision.  "Their projected landing sites are noted."

Jackson continued to survey their landing site.  Behind him, he could hear the Pangolin righting itself.  As intended, they had landed at the [direction] end of the airport landing strips.  

The Afterdeath (a comedy)

Johnathan Cooper had been waiting in line a very long time.  He wasn't entirely sure just how long; there were no clocks, no calendars, no time pieces where he was.  There was only The Line.  A seemingly endless line of individuals, strangers, occasionally shuffling forward, amidst a bright world of eternal day.  It was pleasant, if featureless and boring; a fluffy white fog seemed to cling low to the ground, in every direction.  It was hard to tell if he had moved at all.  It was hard to tell how long he'd been standing there.  Did he just get here? He was pretty sure he'd been standing for a while.  It was hard to tell.  Everyone else in line seemed to agree.

No one ever got out of place in line - there was a a tacit sense that doing so Simply Wasn't Done - and so conversations proceeded largely with one's immediate neighbors in line.  Stories would travel up and down the line, but usually became garbled in the manner such things did.  John didn't know the people around him, but apparently that seemed to hold true for much of the line.  Everyone had seemed to live fairly good lives though; good, God fearing men and women.

Just how long had he been waiting in line? He didn't know.  Patience is a virtue, he thought.  Well, not officially, but it's a good thing, he quickly amended.  It didn't seem to matter, however.  There was nothing for the line but to wait.  He couldn't even fall asleep from the boredom.  He'd tried counting the people in front and behind him, that he could see; he'd arrived at 67,332 repeatedly.  He was confident it was an accurate number.  He couldn't be totally sure either, but it seemed like each time he'd counted, it were the exact same people in the exact same order.  Possibly that would be the next thing to try; he was saving it for when he got tired of simply counting.

At least the weather was pleasent; a sunny blue day, a few fluffy clouds in the sky.  He couldn't quite tell where the sun was though.  In fact, it never seemed to change - it just seemed to come from everywhere.  Not too hot, and not direct - which was fortunate, because he was pretty sure he'd forgotten his sunscreen - but simply omnipresently radiant.  Just right.  Like the temperature.  Strange, there were no birds.  No animals of any kind; no insects either, but that was just as well.  He couldn't stand insects.

There just didn't seem to be anything but The Line; if he hadn't been standing on it, he wouldn't have been sure there was a ground at all.  He was moderately sure there was; he seemed to be standing on something, at any rate.  Did that cloud move? No, no it hadn't.  Maybe.  It was hard to tell without any points of reference.  He stared at it suspiciously, as if daring it to move.  Or perhaps it was staring at him? He took a step forward, along with the entire line, and then came to a stop again.  He'd moved hadn't he?  He, and not the cloud?

He sighed.  Always, The Line.  Nothing to do, he supposed, but to count again.  One, two, three...

===========

The Devil was angry.  Indeed, he was Greatly Upset.  This was not, in itself, unusual.  He would not have described himself as being particularly given to calm or happiness.  Not in the usual sense, at any rate.  He worked hard, all day, every day, dealt constantly with whining, complaining scum; and the screaming.

The screaming never stopped.

He'd tried to convince himself once that he enjoyed the screaming.  The screaming, he had thought in an altogether agreeably malevolent manner, is as a soothing lullaby, whispered to my weary soul to comfort me.

But no, it was still just screaming.  Always, the screaming.  it never stopped.  He had thought it was his own fault, particularly after the Scream Louder and I Will Torment You Harder campaign (which had failed spectacularly, but he refused to give them any victory, and so the tactic continued).  Once though he had tried simply not tormenting the damned: not searing their aetheric flesh, not puncturing their bodies repeatedly with glowing hot, poisoned, implements of torture, not playing dubstep (that one had been more a relief for himself than any kind of attempt at anything), not recreating their vile (or even the rather less vile, fairly innocent, more-of-a-misunderstanding-really-than-an-out-and-out-sin) sins (everything was a boring rerun by now anyway), not freezing over at random with skin peeling cold.  In short, being just a place, rather than an altogether unpleasant place to spend any amount of time.

That hadn't worked either.

The latest development was, however, just too far.  It had always been accepted that Hell would eventually reach capacity; the Devil had argued about the inevitability with Management.  The response had been to introduce remediation programs and the possibility of parole to free up space, and a promise to look into acquiring more real estate for expansion in the future.

Except real estate prices only increased; real estate owners lobbied against zoning that permitted the expansion of Hell into their area on grounds of blight (as well as Blight) and decreasing value.  So they'd just have to make do.

Only it had been only around two thousand years and Hell was full.  Literally.  There was not a free centimeter anywhere; the Devil couldn't even get in, and had to furlough a large number of his demons (which had caused a great deal of discontent, itself not normally a terrible thing in Hell, but now there were rumblings of unionization which would be a right pain to deal with).  Those still working were generally working around the door, or simply jabbing souls in line.

That had been new.  There was a line to get into Hell.  It had, at first, been something of an ironic innovation (he wasn't sure why he hadn't thought of it first, in all honesty) and he played around with ideas of assigning "boarding zones" (which would never be called), lines that led in a circle, lines that led to other lines, and so forth.  In the end, he'd had to: the back up had grown to ridiculous proportions.  He hadn't even the space to do anything truly cruel with the floor; they'd settled for sprinkling tacks on the ground, which the Damned surreptiously swept out of the way with their feet.  Everyone pretended not see anything. It was all quite embarassing and, even more, inconveniencing.

And so the Devil was in Heaven.  It was uncomfortable.  It was awkward.  It was bright and shiny and, frankly, he stood out.  He hadn't had an opportunity to take so much as a shower before coming, and Hell was hot, sweaty place.  To be entirely honest, he wasn't entirely sure which place he'd found more uncomfortable: Heaven or Hell.  It just wasn't something that ever really came up in his day-to-day.  But now he was here, waiting for his appointment to talk things over with The Management, although he felt certain they'd send him some know-nothing junior official to blow him off.

 And then He came sauntering over.  Jesus.  The Junior.  It was looking to be, in what had been an unbroken string of bad days, an Especially Bad One.

Fight Night

"Frank Feldts here with my co-host, long time veteran gladiator Chet Sommerlan!"

"Thanks Frank, a pleasure to be shootin' from the sidelines with you, as always!"

"Right back at you Chet! We're broadcasting LIVE from the Junk Pit arena; tonight's match up is between light weight class walkers.  In one corner, we have a member of the Gray Steel Hawks mercenary outfit, Jair in the Horseless Headsman; his opponent, up and coming gladiator Johann Graebauer, currently enjoying a five-win streak in his Spartan Prince.  Ladies and Gentlemen, this promises to be a standout match.  Chet? Your thoughts?"

"Well Frank, it's not unheard of for mercs to do a round or two in the arenas; but it is uncommon, and usually results in some fierce and brutal matches."

"Right, long time gladiator fans will know, there's an intense rivalry between Mercs and Gladiators, and no love lost between them.  Chet, you've fought your share of grudge matches right?"

"Sure have Frank, and let me tell you, if Johann thinks he can just swagger his way through this match up, we might have to rechristen his walker the Spartan Coffin.  You couldn't pay me enough to get in there right now against Jair's Headsman."

"And here we are now looking at Jair and the Horseless Headsman; Relevant technical data is flowing like the booze at Geirmund's Mead Hall, official sponsor of tonight's match.  Chet, can you help our viewers at home make sense of all these numbers?"

"Can do Frank.  Headsman is a custom job like most merc walkers; you have a Halsev Tornado chassis up top.  The Tornado is a excellent light torso; all-rounded surfaces help deflect all types of incoming fire.  Ample weapon hardpoints on the lower torso; pilot's compartment is spacious and well armored, power plant is symmetrically distanced to the arms and legs.  Arms have good clearance for a wide variety of arm mounted weapons."

"That's because of the bulb-shape of the torso right?"

"Exactly; although Jair's walker has a custom matte black and weathered taupe paint job that makes the torso look like a giant skull;  he's still got the high velocity short range machine guns on the 'jaw', but it looks like he's added something to the torso's weapon bay mounts that wasn't there before-"

"You're talking about that flickering flame light in the eye sockets right? Those are freaking me out right now, like damning eyes, and I could swear they didn't use to be there."

"Yeah, those are definitely new, they look like pilot lights for a mark 3, or even mark 5, Kenbishi flamethrower.  And of course, he's still got his signature weapon, the Guillotine.  I swear that thing gives me nightmares."

"Yeah, that is one seriously evil looking, large axe"

"Headsman's chassis is paired with a RenkeiZ bipedal locomotor platform.  Nothing special, but very reliable.  Good speed, very agile, average stability.  Dependable and sturdy, the kind of gear you'd expect on walker that might have to go weeks or even months without a full maintenance."

"That's a common complaint, right? That gladiator walkers are showroom divas and merc walkers are, well, as Johann himself put it, 'the butch of the ball.'"

"Yeah, and I mean, that's just a matter of circumstances and goals you know? It's comparing Rifles and Grenade Launchers."

"I'd be hard pressed to call the Headsman 'butch'; that skull effect is actually quite terrifying.  Now we're over in Johann's bay where they are finishing prep work on the Spartan Prince.  It's quite a different walker altogether.  Chet, you mentioned the bipedal platform on the Headsman, perhaps you can start us off with how Spartan Prince's, uh, 'chicken legs' are different from those, and how quad legs are different from both?"

"Haha, I'd be careful Frank, Johann might throw a challenge your way!  But seriously, the 'Reverse Counter Jointed' leg platform is one that is built for speed.  It's excellent for closing the distance with a foe, as well as keeping your distance.  But that straight line speed comes at a price: the design has poor agility for maneuvaring and dodging, and the altered joint makes for a more hopping gait which makes aiming on the move more difficult.

Now quad legs, those four legged, low slung, kinda spider leg design, those are bult for stability.  You see them often on long range type walker; makes those sniper shots easier.  But more legs means a slower gait and lower top speed.  Their agility is surprisingly decent, due to their ability to side-step."

"And in spite of all that, Johann has a shoulder-mounted long range High Energy Laser."

"Yeah, it's unusual to see something like a HEL on a light-class walker.  Uses up a lot of the spare capacity of the power plant, and not that great for a run-and-gun fighting style you usually see on the lighter guys.  Of course, the Spartan has a bit more armor than usual, opting for a Coregiani Barone chassis with augmented armor flares."

"It's a beautiful standard-type torso with pauldron and gorget flares.  Although like most walkers, it has no true 'head'."

"Yeah, well, why would you put the pilot in a standout, lightly armored location right? Stick him in the chest."

"Speaking of which, the Spartan Prince is well equipped for that task, rounding out it's armaments with a Lockheed medium range kinetic rocket rack on the right arm and a Medieapons ultanium hardened spear-mount in place of the lower left arm."

"I heard that tonight's match had something to do Johann making a spear thrust motion at the Gray Steel Hawks and Jair offering to castrate him in reply."

"Ouch.  We'll see who lives up to his words in a few moments as the two combatants move onto their arena lifts.  Now Chet, you've fought plenty of times in the Junk Pit right?  What is it like?"

"The Junk Pit is a pain in the ass, and the management is proud of that reputation.  It's dark, muddy, and there's metal every-god-damn-where.  Drives the sensors crazy.  And most of the junk piles are scuttled and obsolete walker parts.  That, and the random bits of machinery that are active but doing nothing useful drives targeting bonkers.  And if that's not enough, they've wired power sources to some of the odd bits of walker trash in the pit, and they love to turn them on and off at random.  If you don't have a heart attack from getting a proximity alert from the junkpile you just walked past, it's because you are probably too busy shitting yourself."

"Cabin boy, get me my brown pants, right Chet?  Haha!  And how about that 'warehouse' structure they have in the middle? That's got to be tactically significant, right?"

"Not as much as you'd think Frank.  It's a rusted out, two story metal death trap really.  It gives you a better view, but you can't cover all the angles, and you're as likely to fall through the floor or get caught from behind while staring out the window for your opponent as you are to get the jump on them.  Sometimes it helps, but it's usually a rookie mistake."

"And here we go the lifts are rising into place and our fight is about to get underwa-wow would you look at that? We could have a very short fight on our hands!"

"Oh yeah, it's not often they do this kinda thing Frank, but the operators do sometimes start the walkers out right near each other, practically back to back."

"All that stands between these two is a stacking container! Fight fans, it's all over the second one of them turns the corner and catches the other off guard!"

"Talk about an aluminum sheet between victory and disaster; they are both turning clockwise around the container! It's like a choreographed dance to destruction!"

"So what do you think is going on in their minds Chet?  Give us some insight."

"Well, Johann is making straight for the warehouse.  I think it's a mistake, but probably he's going to try to leverage the range advantage with his HEL; you know usually he's in the Garden or the Colosseum, he just doesn't have any experience in this arena yet."

"Certainly.  Who can forget his recent win in the Garden?  Blasted a hole through the hedge maze with his rockets to stun his opponent and then finished him off with the spear!"

"Took a page right out of Jair's book with that one, which may have led to all taunting.  There; Johann is heading into the warehouse and Jair, well, I have no idea what he's doing-"

"Yeah it looks like he's moving some of the machinery around - what is that, a plasma welder? Thermic lance? Can't really tell-"

"I think he's trying to get it closer to that burnt out hulk; yeah that's precisely what he's doing.  Someone told him this is a fight and not an art competition right?"

"Looks like Johann has negotiated his way into an empty room on the second floor.  What do you make of what he's doing with his spear there Chet?"

"Sly son of a bitch.  See how's scoring the floor with his spear, making cross hatches? He's weakening the floor leading into the room.  He can't watch for the Headsman and cover his back at the same time.  So he's setting a trap; he's weakened the floor and he's counting on Jair to close the distance to use his axe if he comes up on Johann from behind.  Tricky bastard, but I think it's a risky gambit; He's underestimating Jair."

"Does seem like a plan that could backfire if things go wrong.'

"Right; and in the arenas, things always go wrong."

"Did you see that? Did Jair use his flame throwers? I didn't see any flames-"

"That took me by surprise too; Frank can we go to an instant replay on that? Look, he fires his machine guns on the hulk from behind cover and - Bam! There it goes, up in flames!  That- that is truly evil.  Those have to be some kind of incendiary rounds."

"Ostriches, look at that thing burn.  I've never heard of incendiary rounds for a machine gun, Chet?"

"They don't make 'em, far as I know.  That is truly evil.  That must be something their techs came up with.  I'll say it again, you couldn't pay me enough to get in there."

"Well I still don't see what he's up to, but - there! Spartan Prince is opening fire his HEL! It looks like Horseless Headsman will be going home e- hold a minute, looks like Johann missed wide-"

"He's doing more than missing wide, he's lasing the hell out of that plasma welder.  Haha! That's what it was about! And now Johann's given his position away!"

"For a viewers at home Chet, what the hell happened to Graebauer's aim?"

"Well, I told you before about how all the machines and junked walkers screws with the targeting sensors right?  A pilot still makes the call on what to fire on though.  Johann saw the flaming hulk, must have thought Jair fired on it by mistake, and disregarded it; he started looking for Jair.  What he found was the plasma welder.  Must have seemed close enough, and with the way it's facing and the welder points at high temperature, he must have thought it was the Headsman after firing the flamers!"

"And now the Horseless Headsman is closing in on the tower! He's getting some remarkable accuracy with just machine guns at that range, isn't he?  Looks like he managed to catch the Spartan off guard without coming at him from behind!"

"Yeah that last barrage set the window and part of the room on fire; Johann wasn't expecting that and now he's panicking!"

"Fire is every walker jockey's fear isn't i- OH LOOK OUT! HE'S FALLEN THROUGH HIS OWN TRAP!"

"I called it didn't I? Frank I called it: it was going to backfire and it did.  Panicked with his arm on fire, back pedaled away and fell through his own floor trap-"

"JOHANN GRAEBAUER HAS OSTRICHED THROUGH THE FLOOR! I don't see how he's going to recover!  He's face down, stuck in a pile of floor plate and machinery, getting random holes bored into his armor and assorted crap welded to his torso-"

"Oh. Oh it's all over.  Here comes the Headsman.  It's all over but the crying for our little ostrich."

"He's popped his flare! He's signaled surrender! Johann Graebauer has thrown up the white flag and with that-"

"Given up with barely a fight, his sponsors are not going to be happy with that.  They are not going to be pleased.  Rising gladiator pulls an ostrich and gives up - Coregiani is going to be pissed."

"Ladies and gentlemen - hold on, the Headsman is still approaching, he's reaching down and raising the axe! Chet, is this-?"

"Haha! It looks like he's taking a souvenir, or making good on his promise - chopping off the Spartan Prince's spear arm, haha!"

"Well, I guess it's only natural for a merc to get some salvage after a fight in the Junk Pit, right?  Ladies and Gentlemen, now that we've whetted your appetite, we've got coming up in the Hall of the Mountain King a two on two bout between...."