#port chester

[safewash-tech]

Purpose Of Chassis Wash System In Brooklyn, Bronx, Westchester, Suffolk, Port Chester, And Newburgh

Heavy-duty cleaning becomes essential when one has to scrub the dirt and grease out of dirty areas such as the garage, driveway, as well as the exterior of a building. Industrial workers and farmers have to clean their equipment as well as heavy vehicles meticulously as well. It is essential to use a power or pressure washer in such circumstances. Plain water or heated water is not always enough. Instead, one should source the right pressure washer soap in Port Chester, Nassau, Medford, NYC, Brooklyn, and Bronx to improve the cleaning and reduce the time.

Ordinary laundry soap is not equipped to handle pressure washer cleaning, though. It is essential to purchase a specially formulated soap that eliminates the scrubbing and removes even stubborn stains without too much effort. One can always add the required amount of soap to the pressure washer and direct the soapy water on the dirty surfaces, thus cleaning out the accumulated dirt and grime in one go. The advantages are numerous, but the following standout as gains that are cherished by the end-user:-

· Damage Prevention- Sure, turning on the pressure washer nozzles as desired can achieve the perfect result. Unfortunately, trying to use too much power can be counterproductive. One of the best ways of successful cleaning is to use the right amount of soap that helps to remove stubborn dirt and grime effectively. The dirty water is discarded and the user may wash off the lather with plain water. There is no damage caused to the surface as the water is directed at a relatively lesser speed. Even the intricately crafted design on the structure or the fresh paint on the vehicle remains bright and undisturbed.

· Saves Time & Energy- Mixing the soap with water can work wonders. The entire procedure is over in minutes, with no strenuous labor being involved. This frees up the individual who can turn their attention to other tasks without having to bother about the quality of cleaning. Huge industrial vehicles cannot be passed through a carwash all the time. Using a combo of pressure washer soap and water is an ideal product that removes all contaminants without any exception. The energy required for having heavy-duty vehicles or agricultural vehicles squeaky clean is minuscule. This is a huge plus in comparison to manual washing, involving hours of labor and a small team of cleaners.

· Safety Ensured- An industrial area is likely to be contaminated with oils, chemicals, grease, and other pollutants that may wreak havoc on one’s health as well as the surface. The jets of water that ensue from the pressure washer can eliminate all contaminants, including pathogens, in one go. The users and workers in the area remain fully protected from harmful allergens and heath-affecting microbes. The soap that is used with water is eco-friendly as well. There is no risk to the hard surfaces or the cleaner’s body during the process of cleaning.

Powerful vehicles used for specific purposes can be cleaned thoroughly by passing them through the chassis wash system in Brooklyn, Bronx, Westchester, Suffolk, Port Chester, and Newburgh.

[the-final-sentence]

'So we, as a people, will keep fighting, whether it's peaceful or scary, until we reach justice by whatever means necessary.'

Lindy West, from "Long Live the Port Chester Whooping Cranes"

[port-chester-florist]

Floral Designs For Your Occasion

Flower Delivery in Port Chester, New York

Shopping for a red rose bouquet for your partner? Gorgeous birthday flowers for a loved one? Basket of plants as a Thank You gift for a colleague? Sympathy florals to honor a departed relative? Port Chester Florist got you covered for every occasion.

No matter the occasion, flowers express what words cannot. Our fresh flowers are perfect for weddings, anniversaries, birthdays, and even moments of sympathy. Visit us for personalized floral designs that truly convey your emotions.

Brighten someone's day with impressive flowers and gifts from Port Chester Florist!

To order flowers online, contact us.

Port Chester Florist 141 S. Regent St., Port Chester, NY 10573 (914) 939-0757 https://www.portchesterflorist.com/

Instagram link

[building-surveyors-cheshire]

Barker Surveying Ltd

Barker Surveying - Offering surveying services in Wirral, Merseyside, Cheshire, North Wales and beyond.

Visit Our Website

[fictionadventurer]

I have to talk about Chester Arthur. His story makes me go crazy. A mediocre president from the 1880s who's completely forgotten today has one of the best redemption stories I've ever heard and I need to make people understand just how cool his story is.

So, like, he starts out as this idealist, okay? He's the son of an abolitionist minister and becomes famous as a New York lawyer who defends the North's version of Rosa Parks whose story desegregates New York City's trolley system.

Then he starts getting pulled into politics and becomes one of the grimiest pieces of the political machine. He wants money, power, prestige, and he gets it. He becomes the right-hand man of Roscoe Conkling, the most feared political boss in the nation, a guy who will throw his weight around and do the most ruthless things imaginable to keep his friends in power and destroy his enemies.

Because Arthur's this guy's top lackey, he gets to be Controller of the Port of New York--the best-paying political appointment in the country, because that port brings in, like, 70% of the federal government's funds in tariffs. He gets a huge salary plus a percentage of all the fines they levy on lawbreakers, and because he's not afraid to make up infractions to fine people over, he is absolutely raking in the dough. Making the rough equivalent of $1.3 million a year--absolutely insane amounts of money for a government position. He's spending ridiculous sums on clothes, buying huge amounts of alcohol and cigars to share with people as part of his job recruiting supporters to the party, going out nearly every night to wine and dine people as part of his work in the political machine. He's living the high life. Even when President Hayes pulls him from his position on suspicions of fraud, he's still living a great life of wealth, power, and prestige.

Then in 1880, his beloved wife dies. While he's out of town working for a political campaign. And he can't get back in time to say goodbye before she dies. Because he's a guy who has big emotions, it absolutely tears him up inside, especially because Nell resented how much his political work kept him away from home. He has huge regrets, but he just moves in with Roscoe Conkling and keeps working for the political machine.

And then he gets a chance to be vice president. The Republican Party has nominated James Garfield, a dark horse candidate who wants to reform the spoils system that has given Conking his power and gave Arthur his position as Port Controller. Conkling is pissed, and he controls New York, and since the party's not going to win the election without New York, they think that appointing Conkling's top lackey as vice-president will pacify him.

They're wrong--Conkling orders Arthur to refuse--but Arthur thinks this sounds like a great opportunity. The only political position he's ever held is Port Controller--a job he wasn't elected to and that he was pulled from in disgrace. Vice President is way more than he could ever have hoped for. It's a position with a lot of political pull and zero actual responsibilities. He'll get to spend four years living in up in Washington high society. It's the perfect job! Of course he accepts, and Conkling comes around when he figures out that he can use this to his advantage.

When Garfield becomes president, Arthur does everything he can to undermine him. He uses every dirty political trick he can think of to block everything that Garfield wants to do. He refuses to let the Senate elect a president pro tempore so he can stay there and influence every bill that comes through. He all but openly boasts of buying votes in the election. He's so much Conkling's lackey that he may as well be the henchman of a cartoon supervillain. On Conkling's orders, he drags one of Garfield's Cabinet members out of bed in the middle of the night--while the guy is ill--to drag him to Conkling's house so he can be forced to resign. He's just absolutely a thorn in the president's side, a henchman doing everything he can to maintain the corrupt spoils system.

Then in July 1881, when Arthur's in New York helping Conkling's campaign, the president gets shot. By a guy who shouts, "Now Arthur will be president!" just after he fires the gun. Arthur has just spent the past four months fighting the president tooth and nail. Everyone thinks he's behind the assassination. There are lynch mobs looking to take out him and Conkling. The papers are tearing him apart.

Arthur is absolutely distraught. He rushes to Washington to speak with the president and assure him of his innocence, but the doctors won't let him in the room. He gets choked up when talking to the First Lady. Reporters find him weeping in his house in Washington. Once again, death has torn his world apart and he's not getting a chance to make amends.

Arthur goes to New York while the president is getting medical treatment, and he refuses to come to Washington and take charge because he doesn't dare to give the impression that he's looking to take over. No one wants Arthur to be president and he doesn't want to be president, and the possibility that this corrupt political lackey is about to ascend to the highest office in the land is absolutely terrifying to everyone.

Then in August, when it's becoming clear that the president is unlikely to recover, he gets a letter. From a 31-year-old invalid from New York named Julia Sand. A woman from a very politically-minded family who has been following Arthur's career for years. And she writes him this astounding letter that takes him to task for his corrupt, conniving ways, and the obsession with worldly power and prestige that has brought him wealth and fame at the cost of his own soul--and she tells him that he can do better. In the midst of a nationwide press that's tearing him apart, this one woman writes to tell him that she believes he has the capacity to be a good president and a good man if he changes his ways.

And then he does. After Garfield dies, people come to Arthur's house and find servants who tell them that Arthur is in his room weeping like a child (I told you he had big emotions), but he takes the oath of office and ascends to the presidency. And he becomes a completely different man. His first speech as president mentions that one of his top priorities is reforming the spoils system so that people will be appointed based on merit rather than getting appointed as political favors with each change in the administration. Even though this system made him president. When Conkling comes to Arthur's office telling him to appoint his people to important government positions, Arthur calls his demands outrageous, throws him out, and keeps Garfield's appointees in the positions. "He's not Chet Arthur anymore," one of his former political friends laments. "He's the president."

He loses all his former political friends. He's never trusted by the other side. Yet he sticks to his guns and continues to support spoils system reform. He prosecutes a postal service corruption case that everyone thought he would drop. He's the one who signs into law the first civil service reform bill, even though presidents have been trying to do this for more than ten years, and he's the person who's gained all his power through the spoils system. He immediately takes action to enforce this bill when he could have just dropped it. He becomes a champion of this issue even though it's the last thing anyone would have expected of him.

He oversees naval reform. He oversees a renovation of the White House. He still prefers the social duties of the presidency, but he's respectable in a way that no one expected. Possibly because Julia Sand keeps sending him letters of encouragement and advice over the next two years. But also because he's dying.

Not long after ascending to the presidency, he learns he's suffering from a terminal kidney disease. And he tells no one. He keeps going about his daily life, fulfilling his duties as president, and keeps his health problems hidden. Once again, death is upending his life, and this time it's his own death. He's lived a life he's ashamed of, and he doesn't have much time left to change. He enters the presidency as an example of the absolute worst of the political system, and leaves it as a respectable man.

He makes a token effort to seek re-election, but because of his health problems, he doesn't mind at all when someone else gets the nomination. He dies a couple of years after leaving office. The day before his death, he orders most of his papers burned, because he's ashamed of his old life--but among the things that are saved are the letters from Julia Sand, the woman who encouraged him to change his ways.

This is an astounding story full of so many twists and turns and dramatic moments. A man who falls from idealism into the worst kind of corruption and then claws his way back up to decency because of a series of devastating personal losses and unexpected opportunities to do more than he could have ever hoped to do. I just go crazy thinking about it and I need you all to understand just how amazing this story is.

[scopophilic1997]

Today we lost one of Rock music's most important musicians. Phil Lesh, bass player, for the Grateful Dead passed. He was an original member and played through its entire run (1965-1995) then with most of the post-Jerry iterations of the band.

He brought a unique and innovative style to bass guitar that complimented Jerry Garcia's leads, Bob Weir's rhythm, Pig's keys, and Billy/Mickey drums-percussion. Jam Bands would not exist without Phils influence. I was fortunate to see him play with the Grateful Dead and his later projects hundreds of times. His loss weighs heavily upon me and many other fans today.

The photos are my tshirt from October 30, 1980 at Radio City Music Hall in NYC. The Capital Theatre in Port Chester October 2021 (my last time seeing him perform live), and a Rolling Stone magazine with the Grateful Dead featured on the cover from 1976.

Such a long time to be gone and a short time to be here.

You will be forever missed. RIP Phil Lesh.

[delulluart]

Only way to make Copia's 'stache and side burns even better is adding in grey and white hairs. Like 🥵😳

Thank you anon! Agree!

Shameless self-advertisement: click, if you want more grey and more beard on him

Also, the Cardinal masks (especially the OG, the first and last ones) did have grey hair in the mustache and sideburns, too! Let me hijack this ask for a grey whiskers appreciation minute:

Sources (there are some better pics but I don't know their source, so I won't post them) in order of appearance Jeremy Saffer, 2018 (1,2,9) Shawn Wiseman, Columbus 13.05.2018 | David Zeck, Port Chester 15.05.2018 Christophe Meng, Download Festival 15.06.2018 Hughes Vanhoucke, Graspop 21.06.2018 | Ralph Arvesen, Austin 20.11.2018 Damaris Navarro, Miami Beach 24.11.2018 John McMurtrie, Paris 07.02.2019 Gretchen Smither, Hershey 24.10.2019 | Mick Burges, Leeds 23.11.2019

[memoirsofasim]

Not long after Chester moved into his new abandoned run down lot, during the night he was abducted by the Sixam High Council and his alien powers were taken from him.

Thus begins generation 3! More details below.

Occult Legacy Challenge - Gen 3

Colour: green

Aspiration: freelance botanist

Career: gardener; botanist

Live in: Port Promise, Evergreen Harbor

Spouse: yes, preferred to be an eco conscious sim

Children: one

Skills: gardening, herbalism, flower arranging, something else?

Other: have a cow plant, get neighborhood to green eco footprint, become a plant sim (once or forever)

See original challenge rules here

[undergroundrockpress]

Grace Slick on stage with Jefferson Airlplane, Capitol Theatre Port Chester (1970). Photo : Joe Sia.

[transhuman-priestess]

The follow-up to The New Flesh. Read that one first!

15 months prior to the raid on the Blair Mountain, Captain Terry Holder butts heads with her Chief Engineer as an unknown threat bears down on their ship.

This story does not contain sexual themes, however it is part of a larger work which does, therefore, this story is only for consumption by legal adults over the age of 18. It includes moderate violence, and coarse language.

January 14, 2253 1041 Earth UTC

15 months prior to the raid on the Blair Mountain

The Hildas, 550 Million Kilometers from Jupiter

“Chester, how long do you think we’re going to be stuck here?” Captain Terry Holder asked.

She and her first mate, Chester Silvera, were sitting in the mess hall of the Huntington. The ore hauler had been coasting .9 AU from 153 Hilda for 56 hours with a damaged ablator in her #2 main engine. Holder was growing restless.

Silvera, on the other hand, was in a fine mood. “Why are you so eager to get back to port?” He was downing his third slice of pizza since taking a seat 10 minutes ago. Holder couldn’t understand where his appetite came from.

“It’s creepy out here,” she said, “The nearest station is 6 days away. It takes 10 minutes for someone to even hear a distress signal. There’s nothing outside the hull. We’re alone.”

“Captain,” Silvera replied, smirking “You are aware that you can, in point of fact, choose a different occupation than deep space captain, correct?”

“Shut up,” Holder said, smiling. “You know what I mean.” She leaned back in her chair. She’d barely touched the chicken Parmesan she’d gotten from the replicator.

“You’ve been out here for 15 years, Terry,” Silvera said, slipping effortlessly into confidant mode, “You’ve been a captain for 8. You’re used to this. What’s different now?”

Holder sighed. Chester, as always, knew how to get to the heart of the matter. She sat for a moment, not wanting to say it out loud, but knowing she couldn’t hide it from her friend and crewmate. Finally, she said, “It’s Powell.”

“The engineer?” Silvera seemed genuinely surprised.

“Yeah,” said Holder, her hand idly falling to the nickel-plated pistol she wore on her hip, “I don’t like her attitude.” She rubbed her thumb on the hammer, feeling the familiar knurling, catching her thumbnail on a well-worn burr.

“You seem to get along with her just fine.” His pizza lay forgotten on the plate, he was all business now.

“Well, that’s what they pay me for, Chester.” She took a bite of chicken to buy some time before continuing, “She’s arrogant, inflexible, obsessed with rules and procedure.” She tossed her fork to the table. Chester scooted back slightly, sensing one of his captain’s moods coming on. Holder stood and began pacing.

“It’s always ‘SOP says this!’ or ‘The tech manual says that!’ always coming up with excuses why something can’t be done, except when it’s something she wants done, then procedure flies out the fucking door!” She ran her hand through her hair in frustration.

“Terry-”

“We’ve been coasting for two and a half days.”

“Terry is-”

“She told me that she has to strip the bell down to the cooling tubes for fuck’s sake.”

“TERRY!” Silvera banged his hand on the table for emphasis. Holder stopped talking.

“Yeah, Chester?”

“This is about the pistol, isn’t it?”

Holder rolled her eyes, “No, it’s not about the fucking pistol.”

“Isn’t it, though?”

The engraved, nickel-plated .45 was a family heirloom. Captains in the Civil Navy were allowed sidearms for ceremonial purposes, but they weren’t supposed to wear them outside of certain occasions. Of course, in deep space, the captain had more or less free reign, barring mutiny, and Terry liked the feeling of the heavy steel on her hip. She didn’t keep it loaded, though she did keep 2 magazines of hollow-points on her belt.

She’d never had to draw it in anger, though there had been a few close calls with pirates where she’d gone as far as to carry it cocked and locked. But that was on her old ship, the Joachimstahl.

This was her first sortie in command of the Huntington. She’d inherited the ship from a retiring captain, Jack Thorton, and the crew along with it, including the old engineer, who immediately took issue with Terry’s habit of wearing the piece. She’d actually pulled Chester aside to complain about it. It pissed Terry off.

Chester smiled gently. “Terry, I’ve known you five years. I’ve been your right hand for two. You need to get over this grudge.”

“She’s a little shit, Chester.”

“She is a fine engineer. Captain Thorton had nothing but praise for her. Has she ever disobeyed an order?”

“No, but-”

“Has she ever put the crew in danger?”

“No, but-”

“Then you need to drop this little grudge, and you know that.”

Terry was about to argue when her the radio on her belt chirped.

“Captain,” the voice of Jill Cambell, her radar navigator, “There’s something weird on the scope here.”

Terry keyed to reply “What do you mean by weird?”

“I mean I’ve never seen anything move this fast. You better get up here.”

“Be there in a minute.”

***

Captain Holder and First Mate Silvera walked onto the bridge of the Huntington. The radar station was the only one currently occupied. Campbell turned to them as they walked through the door.

“Alright, Jill,” said Terry, “What’s cracking?”

“About 20 minutes ago I got an off radar return about an AU out on the long-range band.” Campbell reported, “No exhaust signature, and it was redshifting so much I thought the scope might be broken.”

“And?”

“It’s not.” Campbell said, tossing a hand in the air. “I switched to the secondary dish. Same cross-section. Same redshift. Hit it with the high-rez, same cross section, same redshift. Whatever it is, it’s at least 50 meters long and it’s moving at O.1C.”

“So send a message to SETI’s Europa Division.” Terry was amazed but couldn’t understand why Campbell had called her to the bridge for this, “I mean, that’s incredible, really, it is, but if they’re moving away from us what’s the rush?

“Well,” Campbell seemed nervous, “Now they’re blueshifting.”

“Bullshit,” Holder dropped the word like a bag of bricks, “How is that possible? Even if something could put out that much delta-v, in that short a span, the g forces of changing direction would rip it to pieces.”

“I don’t know how, Captain,” Campbell said, turning back to the scope. “But I’d really like to have a plan when they get here.

***

“Fucking Christ, whose god damn idea was this?” Chief Engineer Genevieve Powell cursed to herself.

“Sorry Chief,” Engineer’s Mate Karl Miller said over the radio, “I uh, didn’t copy that.”

“Whoever designed the Shinkolobwe-class engine is either a sadist, an idiot, or both.” Powell replied, “This engine is pissing me off.”

She was nearing the end of a 4-hour long EVA replacing a cracked ablator panel right in the throat of the massive 10-meter fusion rocket. When the engines were active, the reactors would vent hot plasma out the back at temperatures approaching that of the surface of the sun, sending the ship moving in the opposite direction and accelerating it to a top speed of 20 million kilometers per hour.

But right now, they weren’t doing anything of the sort. The ablator shield, a layer of boronated plastic 4 meters thick meant to both protect the engine bells from melting and absorb excess neutrons, was cracked, right in the throat. With the ablator shield damaged, the plume coming out of the rocket engine wouldn’t be smooth and even, but roiling with turbulence. Turbulence that would, at best, drop the propulsive efficiency enough to put serious differential stresses on the spaceframe. At worst, it would impinge on the hull, or through to the engine bell, either way burning through and destroying the ship.

Which was why Powell had been awake for 40 hours. Why she and the engineering team had been working in shifts to painstakingly repair the panel. Angle grinders, caulk guns full of boron paste, a portable X-ray unit, and lots and lots of elbow grease.

“Miller,” Powell said, wiping her cheek on the inside of her helmet. “You ever wonder whose brilliant fucking idea was it to use ablative shielding instead of magnetic on a 100-giganewton fusion engine?”

“Can’t say I have,” Miller replied, “You’re gonna have to take that up with Tycho Shipbuilding. Captain wants to know your ETA.”

“God dammit,” The Captain was pissing Powell off. No respect for the work involved in keeping nuclear fusion going without blowing the whole ship to hell, or bombarding the crew with fast neutrons, or turning them all into sludge with 100g burns. “Is this about me not using the tether?” The umbilical tether was supposed to be worn whenever the EVA thruster pack was in use, as a backup, in case the thrusters failed. Powell hated the damn thing. It got in the way and the thruster pack was reliable enough she didn’t need it.

“Uh, I don’t think so, Chief.”

“It’ll be done when it’s fucking done. I’ve got another 3 meters of length on this bitch of a crack. It goes 45 centimeters deep. It’s going to take at least another 10 hours to fill that.”

There was a pause as Miller relayed this to the captain, then, “Uh, Chief,” Miller said, nervously, “Captain says you have an hour.”

“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN? Put her on, now.”

“She says there’s some kind of pirates bearing in on us in 60 minutes.”

Powell rolled her eyes, “That’s not possible. There wasn’t anything within 4 AU of us when I came out here. Tell her I’m not doing anything without talking to her first.”

A brief pause on Miller’s end, then, “Have it your way.”

Powell continued grinding at the crack for a moment. Then Holder’s voice came on. “Powell, I know we don’t get along,” that was an understatement, Powell thought, “But Campbell confirmed this thing is moving at one-tenth c, heading directly towards us. It’s crossed 20 million clicks since she started tracking it. It actually reversed direction to come this way. I know it sounds like bullshit, but I need you to get whatever you can filled and get back into the airlock. I sent out a distress signal but I won’t hear back from Hilda station for at least another 2 minutes”

“Captain, you can’t just rush something like this!” Powell protested, “The differential forces alo-”

Holder cut her off, “I’m aware of the structural ramifications. It’s my ship and that’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“Captain,” Powell said, “how are we going to outrun something a hundred times faster than us?”

“We’re not. But I’ll need the engines. Trust me.”

Powell gritted her teeth. She couldn’t stand Holder, but Campbell was good. She and Powell had served together under Thorton, and Campbell had helped Powell develop a couple of scanning tools for the engines that worked a hell of a lot better than stock equipment.

“If Campbell’s sure then. I can maybe get you 10 cm of depth along the rest of the crack. It won’t be good for the full trip back to Europa but I should be able to get you enough dV to get us on our way before I have to come back here and fix it again.”

Holder thought for a moment, then replied, “Make it so, Jenna.”

“Aye captain.”

For the next 45 minutes, Powell broke rule after rule for ablator repair. Instead of x-raying the crack she ground it down to 15 centimeters visually. She filled it in with ablator paste and smoothed it by hand before it had cured instead of sanding it once it was dry. By the end of the ordeal, she had used 100 kilos of ablator paste, far less than the 700 the job properly needed. She looked out at a nearby asteroid as they drifted past, and said into her mic, “Miller?”

“Chief?” came Miller’s soft voice through the headset. Powell saw a glint of something off by the big rock in space.

“Tell the captain I’m climbing out. I’ll be at the airlock in 5-” Powell was cut off by a squeel of static and a flash of bright light from the dorsal side of the ship. The shock jolted the Huntington and knocked Powell against the inside of the engine bell. She felt her shoulder crack. The screeching of static faded but was replaced by her own cries of agony. She was floating out towards the center of the nozzle, she couldn’t move her fingers to control the maneuvering pack.

Another flash and another impact jolted the ship vertically. Static filled Powell’s ears as she bounced into the bottom of the engine bell and then up, out into the vast expanse of space.

***

“Owens, damage report,” Holder barked.

Iris Owens responded, “Two detonations in the 2 kiloton range, a kilometer dorsal of us. Numbers 5 and 6 radiators showing a pressure drop. The rest are showing overheat but coming down.”

It had been an ambush. Holder didn’t know how it happened, but it couldn’t have been anything else. Somehow the two ships, 10 light-minutes away from each other, had coordinated. While the Huntington had been busy worrying about the distant ship, another had been hiding behind a nearby asteroid.

There wasn’t time to think about it though, “Miller,” Holder barked, “Pitch us up 115 degrees, roll 45 starboard.”

“Pitch up 115, roll 45 starboard.”

“Powell, what’s your status?”

***

Powell couldn’t move her right arm. The impact had shattered her shoulder blade and humerus. Her RCS system was giving her a warning that one of the quads had malfunctioned. Even if she’d been able to move the translation control, it wouldn’t have done any good.

I’m going to die out here, she realized.

Flashes of warm yellow-white light appeared behind her. The hypergolic RCS system was pitching the ship up, rolling it to the right. She watched as the huge ship seemed to breech like a whale, then pirouette. Over her radio she heard the captain’s voice, “Powell, what’s your status.”

“I’m alive!” she’d never been so happy to hear Terry Holder’s stupid fucking voice, “I’m alive but I can’t get back to the airlock! My thrusters are damaged and my shoulder’s broken.”

“Powell?” came the captain’s voice again, “Powell can you read me?”

“I can read you,” Powell shouted, tearing up from pain, or maybe from fear, “I can read you! Please respond.”

She realized that Holder couldn’t hear her. The wire for the microphone must have been damaged by the impact that broke her shoulder.

She was alone out here.

***

“Miller,” Holder said, “What’s Powell’s biomed say.”

Miller turned red in the face and stammered, “Uhhh,”

“Miller I do not have time for this, what’s her biomed say?”

“She isn’t wearing it.”

“What​?”

“She said she didn’t have time to put it on.”

“Retract her tether.”

“She’s not wearing that either.”

Holder felt ice creep down her spine. The whole scene seemed to go quiet and time stood still. In 8 years as a captain, Holder had never lost a crew member. She hadn’t even considered it a real possibility. But now, with her chief engineer missing and unresponsive, she didn’t know what to do. It felt like she was a lieutenant again, fresh out of training. She looked at Silvera, pleading.

Chester, for his part, looked as disturbed as she was. But he kept his cool, “Its your call, Captain.”

Holder knew what she should do, but that didn’t make it any easier. The fact she couldn’t stand Powell made it even harder, somehow. But if Powell wasn’t responding, and there was no way to retrieve her, then she was dead, one way or the other. Holder didn’t want to think about it.

Time started again, “Owens, get ready to dump ore bay 3. Miller, point the ventral hull at that ship and be ready with a 200m/s dorsal burn.”

***

The ship swung away from Powell, but then continued through its arc and, incredibly, came close enough to her that she was able to grab a handrail, only 20 meters from the airlock.

She scrambled to gain a foothold as she held on tight with her one good arm. This was a long shot, but it was her only hope for survival. She found purchase, and set her aim, then kicked and swung herself around, spinning head over heels. For 3 eternal seconds, she drifted through space, only inky black and stars filling her vision. Then the ship came back into view, and she grabbed at the first thing she could see and held on for dear life.

She’d grabbed one of the many high-gain antennae that dotted the hull. Carefully, she slid her hand down and pulled herself towards the hull. She was only 5 meters from the airlock. As her hand made contact with the hull, she felt a rumble through it. She looked around, and her heart dropped.

***

“Ore bay 3 open, Captain,” said Owens.

“Good. Disengage cargo restraints.”

“Cargo restraints disengaged”

“Miller, 200m/s dorsal,” Holder commanded

“200 m/s dorsal, captain.” Came Miller’s reply.

***

The roof of the ship lit up all around Powell. She could feel the heat from the thrusters. The sudden change in environment made her jump, and she lost her grip on the antenna. Relief turned, once again, to mortal dread as the Huntington sped away from her, leaving her floating, dying, in deep space, billions of kilometers from her home in Dublin.

***

“Dorsal burn complete, captain.” Said Miller.

“Good,” said Holder, “Now put that ore between us and that ship, face us away from it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She would only have one chance to make this work, but Holder was a star poker player and knew how to use a bum hand to her advantage. Hold 3 had, until a minute ago, contained 20,000 metric tons of dense iridium ore. The Huntington didn’t have any armaments, but that didn’t mean she was defenseless.

“Holder, on my mark, engage engines, full power. Skip the purge burn.”

Miller nodded, “Preparing to fire main engines.”

***

The captain had jettisoned the contents of bay 3. Powell was beyond panic now. Not calm, but something else entirely. Numb to everything around her, she watched with a detached fascination as the ship pitched downward and yawed to starboard, before translating forward slightly, and finally starboard. It settled with the #2 engine that she’d just been working on a mere 10 meters away. She could see the big regenerative cooling tubes and the mounting cavity behind them.

She watched as the bell shuddered slightly, and recognition dawned on her. She hoped she wouldn’t feel what was coming next.

***

“Ignition complete.” came Miller’s clipped voice, “Standing by for full-power burn.”

Captain Holder got on the PA, “All hands, prepare for burn in 10 seconds.”

A preternatural calm came over the Captain. She hoped that Powell’s work had been enough. With 3 seconds left before the burn, she opened a channel, hoping Powell would somehow hear her, and said, “Please forgive me, Jenna.”

The two main engines of the Civil Ship Huntington spooled up. The ship’s dual fusion reactors pumping liquefied lithium deuteride into preburners that heated the silver grey dust hot enough to push it past liquid and gas and into ionized plasma, so hot the electrons and nuclei were ripped apart by sheer kinetic energy.

That was only the beginning, though. Next, the reactor squeezed down with a magnetic field stronger than the sun’s, and as the plasma was squeezed and heated even further, strong forces in the lithium atoms broke down, creating hydrogen and tritium, the latter of which sought out another atom to join itself to and, finding deuterium, they embraced, creating helium. As they did, each of them sacrifice a small portion of its mass to ensure this wedding would endure and, in doing so, a tiny fraction of each of those atoms was transformed, vanished from existence, into pure energy. This happened billions of trillions of times in a single second, and all of that energy had to go somewhere. Knowing this, the ship’s computer opened a hole in the magnetic confinement that coincided with the opening in the engine bell. Kinetic energy and Sir Issac’s third law dictated what happpened next.

Superheated plasma existed the engine bell at a temperature unmeasurable by any mechanical means, directly at the mass of iridium behind the ship. Much of the heavy metal immediately evaporated, but some survived, now white-hot and superheated, and heading directly towards the unknown ship assailing the Huntington at nearly 20 million kilometers per hour. The kinetic energy imparted transferred itself immediately to the ship, shredding it as easily as buckshot would disintegrate a clay pigeon. The Huntington sped away under her own power as the enemy ship dissolved under the barrage.

***

There is no air in space, thus there is no convection. There is, however, thermal radiation. The bulk of the plasma had been directed behind the Huntington, but the brilliant white-hot glow of her engines carried heat as well as light. It was this heat, in a pulse that lasted only 10 milliseconds before the Huntington sped away, that struck Jenna Powell.

For 10 milliseconds, every inch of her space suit that had been facing the engine, as well as her face, were heated to incandescence. Only her flesh and hair burned. The suit’s suppression system temporarily flooded her helmet with CO2, which worked to quell it within 2 seconds, but the damage had been done. The exterior of her suit, unable to ignite due to the lack of oxygen, instead boiled off. The sudden release of energy propelling her backwards, away from the rocket blast, saving her from the quick and painless death she had expected.

She screamed. She screamed and she cried. She was alone. Alone, and dying. She thought about home. About the Wicklow Mountains, about the sound of rain on a March evening, about the warmth of her bed. She thought about all of these, and how she would never see them again.

A shadow appeared over her. She felt herself being pulled backwards. Suddenly, an unfamiliar hallway appeared around her. A door closed in front of her, and she heard the hiss of an airlock pressurizing. After the silence of space and her ordeal, the sound was like a hammer in her brain.

She felt artificial gravity engage, and fell to the floor on her broken shoulder. She couldn’t even muster the energy to scream.

A pair of strangely mechanical armored legs appeared in front of her, and she felt herself lifted off the floor by powerful hands. A twisted face came into view, covered in wires and metal.

“Do not resist,” the figure said, its voice feminine and curiously synthetic, “You will become beautiful.”

Jenna Powell blacked out.

[safewash-tech]

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[linguisticdiscovery]

Ways English borrowed words from Latin

Latin has been influencing English since before English existed!

Here’s a non-exhaustive list of ways that English got vocabulary from Latin:

early Latin influence on the Germanic tribes: The Germanic tribes borrowed words from the Romans while still in continental Europe, before coming to England.

camp, wall, pit, street, mile, cheap, mint, wine, cheese, pillow, cup, linen, line, pepper, butter, onion, chalk, copper, dragon, peacock, pipe, bishop

Roman occupation of England: The Celts borrowed words from the Romans when the Romans invaded England, and the Anglo-Saxons later borrowed those Latin words from the Celts.

port, tower, -chester / -caster / -cester (place name suffix), mount

Christianization of the Anglo-Saxons: Roman missionaries to England converted the Anglo-Saxons to Christianity and brought Latin with them.

altar, angel, anthem, candle, disciple, litany, martyr, mass, noon, nun, offer, organ, palm, relic, rule, shrine, temple, tunic, cap, sock, purple, chest, mat, sack, school, master, fever, circle, talent

Norman Conquest: The Norman French invaded England in 1066 under William the Conqueror, making Norman French the language of the state. Many words were borrowed from French, which had evolved out of Latin.

noble, servant, messenger, feast, story, government, state, empire, royal, authority, tyrant, court, council, parliament, assembly, record, tax, subject, public, liberty, office, warden, peer, sir, madam, mistress, slave, religion, confession, prayer, lesson, novice, creator, saint, miracle, faith, temptation, charity, pity, obedience, justice, equity, judgment, plea, bill, panel, evidence, proof, sentence, award, fine, prison, punishment, plead, blame, arrest, judge, banish, property, arson, heir, defense, army, navy, peace, enemy, battle, combat, banner, havoc, fashion, robe, button, boots, luxury, blue, brown, jewel, crystal, taste, toast, cream, sugar, salad, lettuce, herb, mustard, cinnamon, nutmeg, roast, boil, stew, fry, curtain, couch, screen, lamp, blanket, dance, music, labor, fool, sculpture, beauty, color, image, tone, poet, romance, title, story, pen, chapter, medicine, pain, stomach, plague, poison

The Renaissance: The intense focus on writings from classical antiquity during the Renaissance led to the borrowing of numerous words directly from Latin.

atmosphere, disability, halo, agile, appropriate, expensive, external, habitual, impersonal, adapt, alienate, benefit, consolidate, disregard, erupt, exist, extinguish, harass, meditate

The Scientific Revolution: The need for new technical and scientific terms led to many neoclassical compounds formed from Classical Greek and Latin elements, or new uses of Latin prefixes.

automobile, transcontinental, transformer, prehistoric, preview, prequel, subtitle, deflate, component, data, experiment, formula, nucleus, ratio, structure

Not to mention most borrowings from other Romance languages, such as Spanish or Italian, which also evolved from Latin.

Further Reading: A history of the English language (Baugh & Cable)

[dispelzine]

Walls / William Street, Port Chester, New York.

[building-surveyors-cheshire]

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[samkat10423]

Smokey and SV

So, I haven't been playing much because.... well, because I got stung by a wasp and ended up in the hospital. Then had an adverse reaction to the drug they gave me, and yes, it was a mess. But all is good now!

Anyway, here's a few shots from my current towns. The first 3 are from the Dickens town known as Smokey, while the rest are from hancyan's town.

This is a dive bar/tomb from Parsimonious Sims. It's an old, old lot, and I did chop off the top 2 floors to make it fit in better with its neighbors. And I grunged it up a tad. It's down by the town port. Next to it, is that barbershop owned by that Sweeney Todd dude. And then, some apartments.

This is another old lot from TSR by @murfeelee. I think the original was a residential, but here it is the town cemetery. I did mod it a tad to fit the new space, and extended the graveyard out back. Oh! And I added some broken windows by cyclonesue.

Then, back in hancyan's world, I moved the Landgraabs into this house over on 122 Wright Way. Anyway, Kermit - the patriarch of the family - has one of those new "horseless" carriages, because - unlike the Goths - he's progressive. He is currently running for town mayor, while his wife, Kitty, is taking over the family business interests until their eldest, Adrien, can step into his father's shoes. Unbeknownst to them, their eldest son has no intention of stepping anywhere- unless it's a bar. Meanwhile, their daughter Mimi - a royal brat - is trying to convince her father to let her take over. (He still believes women should know "their place." So, despite what he likes to believe about himself, he's not that progressive.) The little boy, is Chester, Nancy Landgraab's father. While their pet poodle is Coco.

This is where the Bachelor family live - over on 24 Sim Lane. They are of Romani descent. The father, Simis, is the principle at the local school, while his wife, Mahala, is the local fortune teller. I based their family history on some of the game info from earlier versions of the family. Anyway, the oldest son, is Fenric, the daughter is called Gabby (because she has the shy trait and rarely says anything), while her twin is Milton - father of the current Simis in Sunset Valley. And their cat is Jinx.

Then, where Erin Kennedy currently lives, is this house owned by the Jones family. I just grabbed them from that Roaring Heights world and brought them here. In this version of their life, she is from Champs Les Sims and married a sim from Twinbrook who decided to settle here. He was a sailor, who promised her just one last voyage, then he would quit. Unfortunately, he and his crewmates met up with a Kraken and that was it for them. Now she's here - in a foreign land where she doesn't really speak the language. Her daughter is growing impatient with the whole "woe is me!" act and just wishes her mother would move on, while the son is just tired of all the fighting. Luckily, he has a new dog - a stray he found and adopted - despite his mother's objections.