Introducing the Nigh-Hulud 6000X!

I was inspired. Sue me.

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Sandworms make for the most terrifying heavy assault cavalry the galaxy has ever seen, but there’s no denying they come with disadvantages. That’s why Ix Defense Group (a CHOAM division) has designed the Nigh-Hulud 6000X. Unlike natural sandworms, the Nigh-Hulud-6000x can mount a variety of heavy weapons, while simultaneously allowing your jihadi legions to ride INSIDE its armored surface. The Nigh-Hulud 6000X is fully sealed, making it suitable for combat in multiple planetary ecosystems and atmospheres. Also, unlike organic sandworms, the Nigh-Hulud 6000X doesn’t fly into a killing rage when you mount shield generators on it or your infantry. And finally, the Nigh-Hulud can be disassembled for easy transport on your frigates or Guild Heighliners.

The Nigh-Hulud 6000X: The tactical option for the 103rd century battlefield

How To Tell If You’re In A Dystopian YA Novel.

“So,” said President Maximum Leaderking. “You come highly…” he paused to look at the notes in front of him. “Recommended.”

You’ve been on your own for seven years now. Seven years since the Derpvirus swept the globe and turned all the adults stupid. Well, stupider. Now, you’re more intelligent than any adult human simply by virtue of being sixteen. President Leaderking used to be a Nobel Laureate. Now, he might be qualified to manage a McDonalds. Only problem is, all the adults remember how to use guns, and President Leaderking’s goontroopers each carry an AH&SKS-757 Magnum Assault Rifle.

Seeing as there are six of them behind you, you say, “Yes, sir.”

“But you were not unaffected by the virus, were you?” President Leaderking continued.

How had he found out? You’d been so careful! But he knew. He obviously knew.

“No.”

“Smile for me, please?”

Alone in the room with him, you withdraw your luscious, full lips, revealing your vampire fangs.

“Well,” said President Leaderking. “That, combined with your top scores in archery and unarmed combat make you especially useful for our Outcast Squadron. It’s a group of ultracompetent freaks like you that we train to be terrors in combat and then unleash on the unsuspecting Borderlands totally unsupervised so that you can clear any survivors from our territory.”

Curse them for sending you out with nothing but natural talent and military training into a whole populace of poor people that the Government ruthlessly oppresses. What hope have you?

“It’s time for you to meet your new comrades.” And Leaderking mashes a button that activates the trapdoor you’ve been standing on, sending you down a ten-story chute.

A rough hand helps you up. It’s bigger than any hand you’ve ever encountered. “Hi,” said the boy. He must have been at least nineteen, and built like a really sexy tree, with dark brown hair and a beard that was at once full enough to make him look manly, and scraggly enough not to be gross. “I’m Logan Darkblade. You must be our vampire. Sorry about the ride.”

“What are you?” you stammer.

“He’s our shifter,” says another voice behind you. You turn and see a slender, olive-skinned boy with long, blond hair coiffed in a neat ponytail.

“What’s a shifter?”

“It’s like a werewolf. Except for not being gross or a curse. I can turn into a wolf that looks like an enormous, well-groomed dog at will.”

“Wow. And what do you do?”

“I’m Gareth Longthorne. I’m the Hunter.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m very good at every martial art and form of weapon known to man. I’m just good enough that you almost can’t show me up because you’re a girl. You’ll find that makes me devastatingly attractive. Now I should introduce you to our siren.”

“Why do we need a..?”

“No, her name’s Lydia Gravesend. She’s almost as beautiful as you, and you can tell by her red hair and snotty manner that she’s so freakishly outcast that she would never betray us to President Leaderking if we should give our allegiance to the oppressed of the Borderlands and lead an insurrection.”

“How do you know?” you ask.

“She’s wearing a T-shirt that says ‘Not A Spy For The Office Of The President.”

“Oh, good.”

 

As You Know, Bob, You’re In A Hard Science-Fiction Novel.

“I am? I’m in a hard science-fiction novel? How do you know that?”

“Well, Bob, look at it this way. What do you do?”

“I’m a scientist.”

“And what sort of scientist are you?”

“Well, I’m a nuclear physicist.”

“Right. And do you have any mad and overly-complicated schemes to take over the world?”

“Um. No?”

“How about make tons of money by dumping nuclear waste illegally all over women and children in some underdeveloped nation?”

“What? NO! Why would anyone DO that? Thorium reactors don’t even…”

“Please, Bob. We’ll let you have your exposition later. That’s how you know you’re in a Hard SF novel. In any other setting, a nuclear physicist would by definition be the villain. And who are all your co-workers here on this ship?”

“Well, there’s Dave the astronomer, and Karen the biogeneticist, and Shu-Ling the botanist, and Raymundo the geologist.”

“Okay, so two things to notice. First of all, everyone on this ship is a scientist, right?”

“Well… yeah.”

“So, no one is here just to pilot the ship?”

“Dave does that.”

“Or fix the ship?”

“Raymundo in an expert mech…”

“Or cook meals?”

“Karen is a professional chef at…”

“Okay, now you’re just embarrassing us all. Not only are the women all in the life sciences, one of them is actually your cook?”

“She’s a professional chef. That makes it not sexist.”

“Of course it does. And she, not to mention all of you, can have completely different full-time careers as well as being world-class, practically-Nobel laureates because scientists are just that smart, right?”

“Well… yeah? But I don’t do any of that stuff!”

“And what do you do for fun?”

“I play the violin.”

“And you did what with that back on Earth?”

“I was the concertmaster for the Boston Orchestra.”

“Of course you were. Why scientists should probably be running the planet Earth rather than running around in spaceships.”

“Well, we’re saving the planet from climate change and overpopulation and corporate greed actually, but I think your suggestion has merit…”

“I am just shocked to hear that. Bob, Karen had a question about nuclear physics she asked me to pass along: How much radiation should we expect to take traveling near the corona of that M-class star we’re approaching?”

“Well, that depends very much whether we’re talking about alpha, beta, or gamma radiation. As you know, alpha radiation consists of the nuclei of helium atoms, about which the electrons orbit…”

“Why are you answering the question of a double Ph.D as if she’s a high-school student? And using the Bohr model, which hasn’t been current for like fifty years?”

“Um, because… well, um…”

“Is it because your readers’ last contact with nuclear physics was in their junior year of high school? In Mr. Kramer’s class? That he went over once? For thirty minutes? While they were asleep?”

“Dammit.”

I Cast Missile Magicis: Hagrid Edition

You know how Hagrid “bought” Norbert the Norwegian Ridgeback from “some bloke in a pub?” And how he always was getting creatures from people?

Yup, that’s right. The Leaky Cauldron is That Tavern where all the Parties get their Quests.

“Why are we going after Black Dragon Eggs?”

“I dunno. Some big guy in The Tavern with more gold than sense is paying top dollar.”

“Is this gonna be like the time with the three-headed dog? Because we lost the bard when we went after the Giant Flobberworms.”

“Are you gonna bring that up again? I didn’t know they didn’t have ears. I thought that’s what the so-impressive bardic knowledge was for.”

“Oh, well excuse me for thinking that a ranger might know something about animals.”

“Go screw a drider.”

 

I Cast Missile Magicis

It occurred to me today that so much  would be explained if Dungeons and Dragons was actually supplying the Potterverse with its stuff. I just picture some Harry Potter wizards accidentally Apparating into a D&D plane and turning it into a gold mine. For example, this is a gelatinous cube:

Image result for gelatinous cube

As you can deduce, it’s a big monster that dissolves things. Swords aren’t much help, but maybe a couple of wizards stumble on it:

“What the hell is that, Nigel?”

“Our meal ticket this month, Rupert. Wands out. And Freezing Charm on three: One… two…”

And a few heavy blows with a hammer later, you’ve got the Acid Pops that they kept selling to the students in Hogsmeade.

Image result for Acid Pops

 

 

Midday In The Garden Of Evil and More Evil

I consider it my duty as a husband to warn all my fellow married men that you should never under any circumstances go shopping for plants with your wife. It is a far better idea to huddle at home, or failing that, in the car, or ideally, Inner Mongolia (unless you and your wife LIVE in Inner Mongolia),

Okay, maybe under two circumstances it is a good idea to go shopping for plants with your wife:

1) When you are something like the chief arborist of a moderately-sized city and you know so much more about plants than she does because it is your job that she cannot possibly confuse you, or

b) She informs you that if you do not come plant shopping with you, you will devastate her soul because plant-shopping is a wonderful thing that Husbands and Wives can Do Together to Enrich Their Marriage.

Okay, that last one isn’t so much a “good idea” as it is the absence of a “much worse idea.”

My theory is that plant shopping is how wives get revenge on their husbands for having hobbies or interests outside of marriage. And it is the ultimate revenge. Because no matter what your hobby, whether it be beer-making, or professional hockey, or role-playing games, or professional cryptography, I guarantee you that it does not have a tenth of the jargon and arcane knowledge as the simple act of shopping for houseplants. I’m a semi-professional fantasy writer who has read all of Tolkien’s Middle-Earth books including The Silmarillion, which reads like a history professor decided to make up a fantasy World History textbook because he knew all of the real world’s history and had found it needlessly simple. And gardening puts Tolkien to shame. So for all the hours you have spent boring your wife about the offside rule, or oak-cask aging, or the Hand of Vecna, or one-time pads, your wife will now have her day:

Here is a sample of the kind of thing my wife says to me while shopping for plants: “We’re looking for a nightshade varietal, or it might be called Solanaceae, and I hope they have Ornamental Weatherington Hoopla. If we’re lucky, it’s a perennial, but we might have to stick with an annual. The English varieties are hardiest but they may be too sun-loving for the giardensis we have shading the back garden, in which case we’ll want a hibiscus turtleglove for the begonias.”

Every now and then, your wife will notice that your eyes are glazing over, which is the signal for her to Ask You A Question.

This is a trap.

“What do you think, should we get the Weatherington Hoopla Peppers or the Panfrunsicum Catalonia Peppers?”

This might lead to you asking what seems a perfectly reasonable question, such as “Which tastes better?”

If you are so foolish as to ask it, you will be informed, in tones so chilling that an employee may ask you to leave the greenhouse, that these plants are ornamental, which means that they produce food that is not meant to be eaten, similar to the way you have guest towels in your house that must not ever under any circumstances come into contact with water.

The experienced husbands are nodding sagely, or, in the case of very experienced husbands, reaching for their prescription medication.

The wives are already writing angry comments to inform me that there is no such thing as “giardensis.”