Los Motoristas Locos del Diablo del BebĂ©and the death of the Nwosu Family

12 07 2009

Los Motoristas Locos del Diablo del Bebéand the death of the Nwosu Family



Though ominous clouds were assembling on the horizon for the expected 16:53 thunder storm a refreshing and brief shower seemed just the way to cool off the hot and sweaty party goers in the valley of New Pilton. The luxuriant and colourful fauna in the valley dated back to Ashenar genetic engineering but were familiar enough not to jar with the quaint Terran design of stone buildings and wooden verandas that were half submerged in the riot of hedonism and festival flair that had consumed the streets of the far colony.

Bunzl was there to visit and old friend who have moved here from the old country back in Alnair. Kara was one of the few people who knew him from his previous life as a socially awkward loner, who always dreamt of being the dashing hero but his many neurosis would thwart him at every turn. Naturally this distant period of his life was never talked of, except in the small hours of the morning and with his closest confidants but it was still good to see a familiar face after the pant wetting excitement of the previous few months in the monolithic and easily offended Mellard Imperium.

The appeal of hundreds of lithe, attractive bodies in various states of undress adorned with reactive body-paint wasn’t lost on Bunzl either, and now he was back on home soil being a starship captain from the Community would play in his favour. Expectant eyes of ladies barely out their first century would fall upon him as he would regale them with tales of his ship’s exploits in dangerous and insane foreign systems, it was almost worth the hassle of real life on-board an interstellar picket for the boost to your reputation and social standing. Almost.

At this moment in time Bunzl was not the centre of attention, Los Motoristas Locos del Diablo del Bebé had jut roared down the main street. Tracing their lineage back to Sigma Draconis the Hispanic biker gang rode around with replicant avatars of human infants adorning their antiquated hydrogen powered chopper handlebars. Anyone online could slip into the baby avatars and be taken around on the bikers romantic and masculine adventures on the haulage groundways of a hundred worlds.

The replicant avatars were top of the line, allowing skin-jockeys around the Community to feel the rush of air across the babies synthetic dermis as they hurtled down fullurene highways of distant world, and to feel the effects of the numerous legal narcotics the bikers consumed and dealt in. Though Los Motoristas themselves were usually as stoic as a Peckinpah hero/villain the babies (being controlled by tourists to this sort of lifestyle) were unable to handle the harsh narcotic regime of their full size counterparts so were the life and soul of the party when Los Motoristas Locos del Diablo del Bebé rode into town.

The avatars at New Pilton were living up to type, the background chatter of instant messaging and info posts that soaked the airwaves of the festival announced that today the Motoristas were escorting a group of quantum accountants from Epsilon Indi on the company entertainments payroll. The air was full of rowdy Hindi language and adult voiced infants reaching out for breasts as the choppers slowly made their way to beach at the end of the main street.

“Hey Barfi! How about a baby like me gets a suck on your nice Choochi, eh?” leered one particularly pink and chubby baby replicant while his mirror shaded rider looked silently on and a sparkly rainbow skinned and nude girl threw a playfully coy expression.


Suddenly an impossibly thin and precise beam of sunlight stretched down from an invisible point low in the sky to arc over Far Pilton and illuminate the village at the far side of the bay with the intensity of a star.

In the buzzing wavelengths of internet chatter the phrase “WTF” (and its equivalents) managed to get out before the waters around the impact of sunlight boiled away at an unnatural speed

like a horizontal volcanic eruption and great molten piles of land the size of buildings were thrown up into the air with an almost toy-like indifference to gravity.

The shock wave of the plasma strike soon bellowed across the formerly blue and calm bay with impending velocity towards the stunned festival goers, BBQs and beers flung aside in terror as the wave struck and the playful hedonists of village realised the situation and ran for cover.

Bunzl had come to the party dressed in his spacesuit, a genuine suit never fails to

attract wanted attention at these kind of shenanigans which is why he had the special groinal custom-build spliced into it. Partly due to the level of pharms flowing round his bloodstream to help with the night’s Bacchanalian activities and partly due to the swift reaction of

his implants in recognising danger and flooding his brain with soothing hormones Bunzl stood as rock (or a slightly dazed bear depending on your view) while the other party goers turned to run from the imminent destruction.

The shock wave struck just as he calmly pulled on his helmet (which had previously been used to collect glowing ID tags of interested sexual partners for later tonight) and knelt into the blast. Like a roar from a Lovecraftian horror, the blast barged into those still stumbling for shelter. It knocked people and objects over like an angry giant running up through the village

and over the bough of the hills to be followed by a boneshaking thunder clap repeated over and and over again with mechanical rhythm. The line of deadly sunlight stopped as abruptly as it had started with the thunderclaps languishing behind at the speed of sound. Through a rapidly sobering mind Bunzl deduced the beam had come from a ship in orbit, the low angle of the beam suggesting it hadn’t the opportunity to shoot from the most desirable and long lasting viewpoint (right above) and was confined to registered space lanes above the planet Jarjel Ochki.

Bunzl helped a couple who had been blown against a picnic table, they were wearing nothing but dreadlocks woven with LED lights and emotive body paint currently displaying patterns of shock and pain. "What was that?!" came the cry from numerous stunned and bruised survivors. "A plasma beam" came the reply from the group chat that whispered between the implants resident in the villager’s heads and dreads. More realisations quickly spread across

the unperceived waves of digital chatter,"That was the Nwosu Ranch that got struck! Why?!"

"Why" indeed, thought Bunzl with a distant air of unease and guilt. He surveyed the area to see if anyone needed help he scanned the local Pedia entry for the Nwosu clan. A

nondescript extended family of many generations who arrived from the Velorum Stella Nation forty years ago and made a comfortable life for themselves in the Large Magellanic Cloud on the former Dead World of Jarjel Ochki. Their reputation offered no clue as to why they would be burnt off the face of the planet which to Bunzl’s dawning mind could only mean one awful thing.

Kutiya ke pilley!” coughed the leery baby who had been thrown from his seat. The quality of the avatar interface had allowed the accountant hundreds of thousands of light years away to experience the full intensity of the blast.

Bunzl mused the shot could have been for Los Motoristas. They had earnt quite a reputation, especially in areas that frowned upon narcotics or inappropriate infants. But no-one they could have enraged would go to all the trouble of firing a plasma canon to end their ride once and for all, no-one in the Community at least.

Like a wild but tender beast the Motoristas for the leery baby picked him up in tanned hairy arms and put him back in his fluffy baby seat. The mirrored shades turned to Bunzl and with the biting clarity of those who speak very little he said “Caray! You think that was meant for us?”

I think that may have been meant for me” thought Bunzl, sheepishly.

Stuff and things from the 31st Century.

7 09 2008

Pascal on Altair: Vignettes from the Old Worlds

Raighleigh watched as one of the larger WD-800s helped a struggling AF Series "Little Rascal" move a cargo container. "Look," she said "that big robot is helping the little one!" Pascal seemed remarkably unmoved at this revelation of machine altruism. "I wouldn’t be too amazed by it" he mentioned, barely looking up from the screen. "On this planet the authorities made sure that all cybernetic devices capable of even a monkey like level of awareness have morals. Kinda like the Three Laws but for machines which don’t even come near being self aware…"
Pascal went on to explain, his pleasure in complaining about eccentricities of Krell now more important than the data he was watching on the screen.” You see it comes from the founders of this planet all being religious, mostly Catholics. And with their Industrial Age thinking they were never really comfortable with the idea of the Machines amongst their society so every once in a while a Board or two gets up some ridiculous meme about" , and with a derisive snort Pascal concluded with "immoral godless machines" (the irony that the 100km sphere which orbited Krell and many believed to be a mouthpiece to God was nothing but a machine itself was never lost on him.)
"So a new law is passed making sure toasters and garden-bots are programmed to kind and considerate to one another and especially their human masters."

"Pascal," sighed Raighleigh "if you hate this planet so much why do you live here? It’s not like you don’t have a choice to live wherever and with who ever you want?" Raighleigh had recited that ago old tautology in the Community, that if for whatever reason you didn’t like the society you grew up in you could always move to one you did want to be a part of , or start your own out on the frontier. Now that M-space travel and wormholes were commonplace in the affluent Community there was no excuse for whinging away on a planet you just couldn’t get to grips with. This made Pascals bitterness towards the people he shared a planet with all the more puzzling.

"I’ve got family here, amongst the Kabbalists. And strange though it may sound, this place is my home." Pascal finally looked directly at Raighleigh, the harsh blue light of the Altairian sun amplifying his piercing expression as he confessed his perplexing reasons for being on Krell.

Another Day in the Life of the Century Eagle

"Well, there is that theory isn’t there…." Victar went on to explain. "Theory?" questioned Ingstock, already suspicious of another onslaught of pop culture babble.
"Yeah, the theory that since the dawn of the Information Age all our cultural artefacts have been endlessly reproduced and regurgitated for each generation and whereas in earlier times the narrative rivers which guided the various isolated communities were prone to noise and reducing memes and led to wildly varying mindsets around the globe the homogenisation and……"
Ingstock closed his eyes as if a headache were coming on.
"…..standardisation of culture across the Earth since the 20th century has led to repetitive cycle that rarely progresses. So then, if the culture which illustrates our mindset is endlessly repeating itself then it is no wonder that memes from 1000 years ago can still
be prescient today." continued Victar who by now was on a roll and clearly enjoying himself. "If it weren’t for the injection of fresh memecomplexes from other intelligences such as the Blee and all the way across to genetically modified dolphins the narratives of the Information Age would be even more dominant in the Terran-based human noosphere!"
"Right" commented Ingstock, his face a mixture of wariness and tired bemusement. "So that’s why in the year 3008AD somebody still gets Batman?"
Ingstock turned away from Victars exalted face, clearly ending any further discussion. As he turned his worlds-weary head to calibrate the 11-dimensional fractals in the starboard M-jump nacelle he thought to himself that he much preferred Victar on his femme days, when he was masculine he was the most persistent geek.

Field Marshall Worriunt The Grand:

"and his journeys through the decadence of the Community”

The exoskeleton that encased his body was itself covered in tiny sculptures, sometimes abstract, sometimes of humanoid figures that seemed to be as alive as the man inside and expressing various emotions in much the way his natural body would. For example the anthropomorphic robot figurines that “lived” on his knees resembled a beloved childhood pet robot, all big headed and cute but capable of writhing around on his knees to emote all kinds of things. Such an intricate and ornate battledress was worn by someone who had done well in the martial rankings of the Nuur Clans. A suit no doubt earnt punishing the enemies of Humanity, from the millennia old but still marauding drone fleets of Mazdans, through to the everyday criminals that dared prey upon those populations under the “benevolent” protection of the Clans to the Ancient Enemy of the Tri’Ef’Ed the perennial bogeyman of the humans in the LMC.

Right now Worriunts’ impressive body armour was displaying a range of feelings, from his pharmologicaly inspired comfort and blissful satisfaction on the sprawling silken bed to a vague sense of restless and a need to get up.
Luckily for him that eternal battle most people feel between the drug induced bubble of warmth and an urgent need to perform the usual bodily functions was unlikely to affect his current mood. With a contented sigh he relieved himself where he lay and let the absorbent innards of this ornate red and white cybernetic suit take care of the mess and recycle it into a little flask of purified water. He would have some fun with that later with the lotus eaters writhing orgasmically around him.