#shipside

[poojagblog-blog]

 The global Shore Power Market size is expected to grow from USD 1.6 billion in 2022 to USD 2.8 billion by 2027, at a CAGR of 11.2% according to a new report by MarketsandMarkets™. Shore power, shore-to-ship power, or cold ironing is a technique of supplying electricity from the shore to ships to fulfill their power requirements for onboard electrical systems. This technique is also called an alternative maritime power, wherein the provided electricity can either be derived from a combination of port-owned renewable energy sources and local grids or solely from the local grids. The incoming power is fed to a substation at the port, converted into the required form, and transmitted to special power connectors, enabling the connection between the shore and ship.

Booming power sector and augmented power generation capacities worldwide offer huge opportunity for shore power market. There has been a steady increase in the global demand for power, due to which substantial investments have been made, especially in regions such as the Middle East, Asia Pacific, and Africa, to augment the power generation capacities. Investments in conventional power generation in Middle Eastern countries such as Egypt and Oman and renewable power generation in Asia Pacific and African countries such as China, India, and South Africa have been planned to meet the increasing demand for power.

[ltwilliammowett]

HMS Bristol, by Frank Winston Shipsides (1908–2005)

[fanfoolishness]

Cal Kestis headcanons, apropos of nothing:

He crash-landed in the wastes of Bracca after Order 66. Dazed and wounded, his connection to the Force suddenly painful and frightening for the first time in his life, he tried to bury Master Topal — but he couldn’t lift his Lasat master from the escape pod, nor effectively use the Force to hide the pod with stones from the wastes. He was forced to abandon his master again, a guilt he carried with him for many years.

He found his way to the Mining Guild outpost more or less by luck. The Force guided him with a vision of sparks and metal, but he could not see it more clearly, relying more on a feeling than any sense of where he was going. On the outskirts he saw holos about the Jedi’s “betrayal” and cut his Padawan braid with Master Topal’s lightsaber, the last time he would ignite it for several years.

Prauf took one look at the shellshocked kid with muddy, scraggly robes and a fresh blaster wound to the face, and marched him straight to the guild outfitters for new clothes and a job. When the guild rep asked who the kid was Prauf told them he was a distant relative. Very distant. By marriage.

The Scrapper Guild tattoo was mandatory after a week on the job, when it was clear Cal probably wasn’t going to die immediately from the work, and was worth claiming as an worker. A droid stamped the image out onto his forearm in a matter of minutes. It hurt, but it was a distant, muted pain that barely registered. It startled him for weeks when he would catch sight of it. As an adult, the tattoo is an afterthought. He’s considered removing or embellishing it - plenty of backwater tattooists out here on the Rim - but he always winds up leaving it. He’s not ashamed of the time he put in on Bracca, nor the skills he learned there.

He didn’t realize he had a scar for weeks after the fall of the Albedo Brave. They didn’t keep mirrors in the scrappers’ quarters and there was nowhere else to go. He caught sight of his face in a shipside stretch of hammered durasteel on a rare sunny day, and the harsh red line rippling from his neck to his cheek shocked him. He stared at it until he got yelled at, and he got back to work, cheeks flushing with shame.

The scrapper uniform shop included heavy durable ponchos that stood up to the rain and repelled sparks and oil. When the outfitter droid plonked one over his head Cal didn’t argue, even though it was enormous on him. It was far enough from his robes that Cal felt safe and hidden, but close enough that he felt at home. He’s kept one in his wardrobe ever since, and wears them when memories press closer than he’d like.

Cal doesn’t sleep well, even into his twenties; shadowy dreams, sleep talking, night terrors. By the time of Survivor, it’s much better than it used to be: Cere taught him specific meditations he could use to help clear his mind, Greez kept the Mantis stocked with tea that helped him fall asleep faster, and Merrin used to sit up with him if he woke up in a panic. But it’s still his most vulnerable time, and when things are especially hard or emotional, he’s more likely to slip back into the fractured sleep he had throughout his teens.

As a new scrapper he once fell asleep while at a dangerous post, and the foreman screamed at him over it. (Not out of worries for his safety, but because it’d be annoying to find another worker as small and agile on short notice should he plummet to his death.) Prauf found him headphones and a little track player a few days later, told him to blast the music when he needed to stay awake. Every few weeks Prauf just happened to find another track to add to his collection.

[delta-pavonis]

July Kinkfest Day 20: Star Trek AU

The Sandman (Star Trek human AU) || Dreamling (Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling) || Rated E || 4k words

Prompts: Lingerie | Domming from the Bottom | “We need to leave right now.” (maybe the middle one if you take a different direction with it?)

Warnings (in addition to the prompts above): Star Trek AU, Star Trek Discovery seasons 1 & 2 minor references (you don't need to know any Star Trek to enjoy!), mostly I just love an excuse to put Ash Tyler in anything, Getting Together, Dirty Dancing, Dirty Talk, Face-Sitting, Rimming, Cowgirl Position, Idiots in Love, they are both unhinged for each other

Author's Notes: Inspired to finally do a Star Trek AU because Dr_Lecteur wrote this

Read below or on AO3.

He has officially reached his breaking point. He has been in love with the Chief Security Officer on his ship for a total of one thousand nine hundred eighty nine days.

Yes. He has been counting. 

It is time, as his friend Matthew would say, for extreme measures. 

Because he has it on the word of at least a half dozen other friends and crewmates, people whose opinion he actually trusts, that no, Dream is not imagining it, and yes, Hob is interested, and no, Hob doesn't consider everything Dream has done so far as enough of a 'first move' to overcome his anxiety about being Dream's superior officer, even if they are in different departments.

So when the crew finally gets a week of shore leave at Starfleet HQ because the ship is being refitted with updated nacelle architecture, Lieutenant Commander Morpheus Endless, known as Dream to his friends, decides to draw of a new definition of extreme in terms of seduction techniques.

Dream is nursing a brandy at the bar of the 602 Club just on the outskirts of the Academy. He knows that Commander Gadling will meet his friends here after he stops by to say hello to one of his old professors. He knows that in nineteen minutes, when the dancefloor in the basement opens up, one of Gadling’s friends from his Academy days is going to be the opening DJ. And he knows that Hob has a very specific kink that happens to fit under a tailored suit. All of these things he has learned not from his Section 31 connections – which he damned well could have used, you're welcome for the restraint – but from being a close enough friend shipside to get invited to parties where Hob lets his hair down.

He watches as Hob arrives without much fanfare, meets up with some friends who work at HQ, people who he hasn’t seen in a long time, clapping shoulders and giving hugs and offering cheers for being on leave. Laughing, they head downstairs. The rumble of the bass is just starting to make it up through the floor.

Downing the last of his drink in one swig, Dream follows.

As he slides through the crowd to head to the stairs Dream unbuttons the top two buttons of his black shirt and rolls up the sleeves to his elbows – not only is he going to be sweating while he is down there, but he is quite sure that Hob has never seen so much of his skin. Just one more weapon in his arsenal.

Dream prowls along the edges of the dancefloor, already thrumming with a small group of people that is getting bigger by the second. He can see Hob’s head bobbing amongst them, flashing lights making his hair gleam with amber and brass. He gives the man a few minutes to enjoy his friends, because Dream has every intention of thoroughly distracting Hob away from them. He will figure out how to make it up to Hob later. Much later.

He is a predator waiting for his opening. He feels terribly alive in this moment, aware of his blood and his breathing and his skin and his saliva. The crowd grows. The three fingers of liquor buzz pleasantly in his veins. The crowd grows further. The room gets hotter with the warmth of bodies. Dream starts sweating. The music is resonating in his chest and he is all coiled muscle and ready. Then he sees Hob with his head thrown back, lost to the music, and Dream pounces.

It is easy to slide through the writhing bodies when he is so focused on his target; physical contact with strangers is the least of his worries right now. He circles around to come up behind Hob, puts his hand gently on Hob's bicep and leans in to speak next to his ear. “Might I have this dance?”

Dream knows his expression is smug as Hob nearly jumps out of his skin, twisting around at the same time that he yelps “Dream!” Then the Commander takes in his friend and colleague with an obvious look up and down. To Dream's thrill, he watches as Hob blushes. “Holy shit! Dream? What are you…”

He puts his bare forearms on Hob’s shoulders and looks at him through his lashes. “I am asking you if you want to dance with me.”

“Dream!” Hob chuckles, nervous, but does not back away. “Christ, are you wearing eyeliner?”

“Yes.” He dismisses the question quickly as he steps in, maybe an inch between their bodies now. “Do you. Want to.” Hob is watching his lips and he has to stamp down a smile. “Dance. With me.”

“Fuck.” Hob hisses and wraps an arm around Dream’s waist, pulling them flush. It is like an ocean wave crashing into his body, a force of nature, flowing into and up his torso, eroding away any barriers Dream has left. “Yes. Of course I want to dance with you, you absolutely irresistible, gorgeous personification of hedonism. I have wanted to touch you from the moment we met.” 

So long? Dream shivers with the excitement that his feelings are reciprocated. And the anticipation of what awaits them. “Then touch.”

Hob moans and buries his face in Dream’s neck, grinding their hips together in time with the beat. He doesn’t kiss or bite, just breathes and presses them close. But he doesn’t touch. Not like Dream wants him to.

Dream drops his hands to Hob’s wrists. “I said,” he moves one hand to grope his chest and the other to grab his ass, “touch.”

“Fucking hell,” Hob swears into Dream’s ear, breath heavy. “Who are you and where did you put my friend Dream?”

“This version of your friend has always been here. Waiting for you.”

Hob chuckles and it vibrates through Dream’s chest, a rush of warmth. “So you are saying I have been an idiot.”

Dream smiles. He pulls on Hob’s hair, pulling him back so that they are nose-to-nose, breathing on each other’s lips. “You are only an idiot if you stop.” 

Hob melts into Dream’s kiss, paws at Dream where his hands were placed, and Dream feels the exact moment that he realizes it – Hob’s entire body stutters and he pulls back from the kiss with a gasp. “Oh no. Oh fuck. Did you? Are you?”

He responds with a smirk and unbuttons more of his shirt, enough to bare his shoulder and one pectoral. The black lace and red satin of the bra stand out in stark contrast to his alabaster skin, pale from a life almost entirely on starships. 

For a moment Hob just stares at the garment, mouth agog. Then he is dragging Dream by the hips through the crowd growling, “We need to leave. Right. Now.”

They are in Dream’s temporary dirtside quarters so fast they might as well have beamed over. Hob slams him into the wall as soon as the door whooshes shut, the impact hard enough to cause the digital picture in the wall to flicker. Dream snarls and shoves back, driving Hob into the wall opposite and knocking a vase and flowers off the small table. 

“Fuck me.” Hob gasps, pulling Dream’s shirt hem from being tucked inside his charcoal trousers. The motions are jerky and frantic and the last button just zings across the room as he reveals Dream’s torso and pulls the shirt off of his arms. Hob’s hands burn as they stroke from shoulder to hip, down once, then back up. “Fuck me.” 

Dream fists both hands in the sweat damp umber hair and yanks Hob’s head back so that he can look into his eyes. “Actually, I was thinking the other way around. Would you let me strap you down? Could I tie you to my bed and ride you, Hob?”

Hob’s kiss is biting, a pact made in blood. “Yes. Fuck yes.” Dream may be taller but Hob easily lifts him and maneuvers further into the apartment. “Anything. I will do anything for you. You perfect fucking dream.”

Suddenly the bed is beneath them and Dream is straddling Hob’s lap and he can only smirk as he shimmies his trousers down. Beneath the charcoal wool is more black lace and red satin – garters, thigh-high stockings, and panties. Hob makes this nasal, desperate noise, so Dream backs away, stands up and lets the pants drop as he kicks off his boots. Then he turns around to show Hob his ass.

“You glorious minx, Holy Christ.” Hob’s large hands are bracketing Dream’s hips pulling him in between Hob's knees. Fingers travel over the exposed skin of his ass, not pushing in between but almost, confirming that yes, he is exposed from waistband to balls. “You are gonna ride me with all this on, aren’t you? Is that your plan?"

"Have to get your clothes off first but y-aah!" Dream is flung to the bed on his back and Hob is shucking off clothes as fast as a cadet getting out of full formal dress. Then he is over at the replicator and back with lube before Dream finishes laughing.

"I'm gonna leave you to getting any tying down supplies, since you sound like you know what you are doing and I decidedly don't."

Dream watches, soaking in the view of Hob naked as he kneels beside him on the bed. "Are you asking if I am an experienced dom?" He trails his own hand from collarbone to thigh, back up, preening under the rapt attention from Hob. "Yes, I am, which is why I won't be tying you down tonight. We can negotiate that at another time. I am too desperate to get your cock in me to have a proper talk." 

Hob drops down onto all fours over Dream, cups his jaw and plunders his mouth. "How can you just say shit like that?" He is trailing little bites and kisses down Dream's neck and he arches into it, holds on to Hob's shoulders like a lifeline, fingers sliding in the sweat building there. "You are going to be the death of me."

"Can we please leave my sister out of this?" Dream growls as he pushes himself up, wraps a leg around Hob's hips, and twists, rolling the other man under him. Hob grunts as he is pressed onto his back and drags Dream into another round of kissing. "Now pay attention, this question is important,” Dream says, pulling away even when Hob whines with the loss, “Will you let me sit on your face so you can open me up with your tongue?"

The moan Hob gives is something out of pornography; Dream would have thought it faked if he wasn’t watching as his lover’s eyes went hazy and his whole body shook. Hob can’t even get out words, although his throat seems to try. Then more kissing, getting sloppier and more uncoordinated by the second. 

“Is that a yes?” Now Dream is just being a brat. He knows it. That isn’t going to stop him. If for some reason this is the only time he gets Hob in his bed he is going to damned well enjoy every second of it, smug bastard that he is. "Use your words, lover."

"Yes. Yes, get up here. Yes." Hob starts scrabbling at Dream's thighs, tugging him up the bed and snapping the garters in the process. 

Dream has a moment where he considers turning around so that he might more easily touch Hob, bring him pleasure – but no, he hasn't earned his pleasure yet. When Dream settles his calves parallel to Hob's ears, Hob makes an inquiring sound, nudging Dream's feet with his biceps. 

"Give me a proper rimming and maybe I will deign put my hand on your cock." Hob whimpers beneath him, but brings both hands up to cradle Dream's hip bones. "And keep your hands there, pet. No touching yourself and ruining all the fun.”

Hob sounds like he wants to respond but doesn't get a chance to because Dream grabs the top of the headboard and drops his body down onto Hob’s mouth. 

Hob takes the cue and dives in, zero hesitation, neck arching so that he can get a better angle, fingers digging around Dream’s hips so he can pull himself up and in. A few long flat swipes of his tongue over Dream’s hole then he is stabbing inwards, twisting and curling his tongue to pet and stroke where the skin turns smooth and wet and sensitive.

Dream cries out, grasps at words, trying to encourage, but finding only vowels can escape. Oh fuck, Hob knows well what he is doing, has clearly had practice in this type of sex, and sweet Christ he wishes that he had Hob’s cock in his mouth. It would sit heavy on his tongue and he could drive it deep enough to close off his airway, make himself even dizzier using Hob’s body. Instead, Dream grinds down onto Hob’s chin with an ecstatic, drawn out “Aaaaaaa!” 

A pleased moan rumbles from Hob’s throat up Dream’s spine, making him snap his head back and sob to the ceiling. And still Hob pulls him down further, pushes himself deeper. Dream’s grip on his hair is no doubt painful, and the way he has started fucking himself down onto Hob’s tongue might bruise his nose, but this is what they have advanced medicine for. Death no longer even asks when he shows up in medbay, him or his partner looking fucked five ways to Sunday and asking for a quick heal-up. 

Fuck it. Dream wants to come like this, Hob’s tongue and lips and teeth buried in his ass, rutting down onto his face slick with spit. It feels too goddamned good not to. So he shoves the panties down, grabs his prick in his fist, and fucks up into it as he rocks down onto Hob’s tongue and yes, there just like that. He comes all over the headboard, multiple spurts creating tangled stripes of his seed across the metal, and then he is empty, so empty, it is an ache he needs to fill and suddenly Hob’s tongue is nowhere near enough.

With a growl Dream is crawling backwards and now here is the benefit of this position because can grab the lube from where it has rolled to sit against Hob’s waist, continue backwards and he only needs to slather Hob’s cock liberally before he can sink down onto it and yes, oh yes. That. There.

Hob has barely caught his breath when Dream impales himself and he sounds like he has gone six rounds of bareknuckle boxing in three seconds. Looks it, too – all wide-eyed and sweaty, jaw slack and hair mussed to all hell, gaze unable to quite focus as his chest heaves. It takes a moment, but then Hob closes his eyes and smiles, laughing breathlessly as he swipes his fingers across the headboard and then brings his cum-smeared hand to his mouth. “Mmmm, you came riding my face.”

Now fully seated, Hob’s cock buried to the hilt, Dream stretches forward, sliding his hands up Hob’s belly and into his chest hair and over his shoulders. “That wasn’t my original plan, but yes. Felt too good not to.” 

He pushes a hand into Dream’s hair, pets him. It is soft and affectionate and makes warmth bloom again in Dream’s pelvis. “Glad to know all that practice I got during my Academy days didn’t go to waste.” 

Dream smiles, truly smiles, not something snarky or smug, and runs his fingertips over Hob’s lips. Hob nips at them once and Dream flicks his nose in return, both of them huffing out laughter. He is happy here, Dream realizes, stretched around Hob’s cock and across his chest, so, of course, his mouth goes and tries to do something exceptionally, extraordinarily stupid. “I luh–” 

Dream slaps his hand over his mouth so hard it makes his teeth rattle and freezes. Too much. Always too fucking much. And now he’s gone and ruined it again and maybe he should just give up and go full spy like Ash is always trying to convince him – just disappear into the ether never to be heard from again. The Section can always use innovative neuroengineers like you, Dream. Ash says as he smiles that fucking charming ass smile. And I can always use a good deep dicking to keep my head on straight during tense missions. First Officer with benefits?

He closes his eyes and shoves the image of Commander Tyler away. Big brown eyes and a roguish smile always were his biggest weaknesses.

Hob wraps an arm around Dream and levers them both up, up until Dream is sitting in his lap and he is reminded that yes, he still has Hob’s fucking lovely cock inside him. He keeps his eyes wrenched closed, can’t bear to look at him as he whispers, “I’m so–”

“So help me god if you apologize right now Dream...” Dream’s eyes slam open and his mouth snaps shut. Hob gently removes Dream’s hand from his mouth and threads their fingers together. “Do you have any fucking idea how many of your friends and exes I have talked to while trying to figure out how to catch you for myself? Now who is too much, eh?”

Dream blinks about a hundred times in rapid succession. “You…”

“Please,” Hob presses their foreheads together, “please don’t stop. Just let me make love to you once. Then we can put all of our cards on the table and see if our baggage matches up.”

Make love to you. Dream cups Hob’s sticky face with his free hand and smiles. “That metaphor makes no sense.” 

Hob’s relief is palpable as he presses their lips together in a soft, chaste kiss. “I am so worked up you are lucky I am even vaguely coherent.”

A smirk is back on Dream’s face, “So I shouldn’t do this?” Dream clenches down with his pelvic floor muscles.

“Fucking hell.” Hob lowers himself back to the bed and rolls his hips up into Dream, whose eyes flutter with the sliding sensation. “Only do that if you want me spent in 30 seconds. But if we play this just right,” Hob rolls up again and forces a soft unf from Dream, “I can fuck you into another orgasm so we can go together.”

They are rocking into each other, slow gentle movements that set Dream’s nerve endings on fire. “And what do you know of my refractory period?”

“Darling, I’ve spoken with both Calliope and Ash. Who send their blessings for us, by the way.” 

“Traitors.” Dream says with exactly zero heat behind it, speeding up slightly and then leaning back. He puts his hand below his navel, snaps his hips down and imagines he can feel Hob’s dick buried in him. The image, of Hob filling him, thrusting deep into the guts of him, shoots arousal into every limb and he starts fucking himself harder, but with a steady slow pace. 

He loves this, the ebb and flow of a lover into and out of his body, could do this for hours if given the chance. Once, years ago, a relatively unobservant dom tried to use this as torture when Dream got it in his head to sub for her, only to find him coming for the fifth time, completely dry, not a drop of liquid left in his cock or balls, screaming in ecstasy. 

Hob’s hands are everywhere, petting every inch of skin he can reach, running over the lingerie and sliding beneath it, but never even grazing Dream’s half-hard cock. Speaking of traitors. 

"So beautiful." Hob whispers, almost reverent. Dream can feel the flush bloom on his cheeks, but sitting astride Hob leaves him no place to hide, so he looks away. Only to have a firm hand turn his face back to forward. “No. None of that. You are. Come on, dove, let me see you.” He tugs at the band of the bra. It is quick work for Dream to unlatch it, shrug it off and Hob is grinning stupidly by the end. “You did that real fast. Like you do it all the time.” His hands roam up Dream’s thighs and snap the garters. “How often are you wearing these while on duty, Dream?”

Dream doesn’t answer, just starts moving faster, breathing puffing with exertion now. He caresses his stomach and chest again, pinches one of his nipples with his fingers until Hob bats him away to do it for him. He keeps tugging and twisting, harder and harder, alternating between them, until they are deep pink and Dream is crying out above him. 

Finally, he is bouncing himself in earnest, hard cock bobbing with it, and Hob grabs one of his hips to hold on as he starts thrusting up to meet him. The slapping of their skin is loud in the small room – Dream can hear it even over the sound of his own moans and wails. It is so good. Better than good. It feels like Hob goddamned well belongs there, stuffed inside Dream, laid out between his legs, moaning his name from scream-chapped lips. 

Hob goes to grab for Dream’s dick and he smacks his hand away. “Absolutely not. Wait until I tell you.” 

“Oh fuck.” He watches as Hob’s eyes close and he starts gripping Dream’s hips hard enough to bruise. “I’m close. You better… soon…”

Dream leans back again, changing the angle and ramming his prostate directly onto the head of Hob’s cock. “Yes! Yeessss. Just let me… oh fuck yes.” Again. And again. And again. And again. And, “Now Hob!” 

Hob grabs Dream’s cock, too tight and perfect and Dream fucks up into that calloused fist just once before he is screaming out his orgasm, hands reaching back to claw up the backs of Hob’s sweaty, furred thighs. Streaks of white shoot onto Hob’s chest, across his neck and collarbone and chest hair.

His cock stops spurting and twitching but Dream does not stop moving, fucking himself through the start of the aftershocks and shouting, pleading with Hob. “Come in me. Want your seed dripping down my thighs. Fill me, Hob.”

One more snap down of Dream’s hips and Hob is obeying, body going taut and arching and he damned well looks like some ancient painting of a person succumbing to a lustful demon, skin shining with sweat in the dim lights of the room. And then Hob’s moans turn into sobs when Dream keeps fucking himself well into Hob’s oversensitivity, until Hob’s cum is being pushed out of him around the softening cock, making an obscene squelching noise that has Dream smiling and almost purring as he slows to a stop.

Dream collapses like his strings have been cut, flops down gracelessly next to Hob, chest a heaving bellows. He lets his eyes close under the weight of the pleasure had. There is an absolutely dopey grin on his face and he cannot bring himself to care. 

Silence, warm and comfortable, settles between them. Eventually Hob’s hand finds its way to tangle with one of Dream’s. He squeezes once. Dream squeezes back. 

When Dream finally gets around to opening his eyes he finds Hob watching him, a soft smile on his face. “You are so fucking beautiful.” Hob turns onto his side so that he can bring one hand up and trail gentle fingertips across Dream’s cheekbone. “You are stunning, Dream. And if someone hasn’t told you that every day of your life then I damn well volunteer to finish the job, whether I ever have you in my bed again or not.” 

Dream gets up just enough to bring his lips to Hob’s so that they can kiss, leisurely and languid, savoring taste and texture. Dream feels like he could fit here, make a home for himself in Hob’s body. He wants to. “How about we start with a shower?”

[iviarellereads]

Artificial Condition, Chapter 2

(Curious what I'm doing here? Read this post! For the link index and a primer on The Murderbot Diaries, read this one! Like what you see? Send me a Ko-Fi.)

In which Murderbot may or may not have made a grave mistake.

Once the lock closes and MB detects no alarms, it starts exploring the ship, accepting a schematic from the shipside feed and offering a condensed media packet for the transport to use as it will.

MB doesn't need any food or water, or to eliminate any waste. It barely needs air. But, the transport has made things comfortable for it, which is nice.(1)

MB wanders, both making sure the ship matches the schematics, and fulfilling its habit of patrolling, which it knows it will have to break to fit in better with humans. It's going to have to get over a lot of things. It makes an aside about how pre-sentient level program-minds don't have enough complexity for something like security, so the engineers made SecUnits smarter, with the anxiety and depression as unfortunate side effects.(2)

In the deployment center, when I was standing there while Dr. Mensah explained why she didn’t want to rent me as part of the bond guarantee agreement, she had called the increase in intelligence a “hellish compromise.”(3)

MB thinks this is a nice ship, and is curious why the owners don't leave a few humans on board as security. It keeps patrolling until it feels a rumble indicating the ship has left the ring, and a tension eases, expressing itself even in its performance assessment. It thinks it will be a long time before it's comfortable moving through human spaces without armour or a mask of some sort.

It settles in a crew meeting area with padded chairs, a luxury it's not accustomed to as cargo, and gets to work sorting its media. It's never had leisure time before, and being able to give its media its full attention is novel. It's just about to sit back with the first episode of an extragalactic exploration show, when something says, in the feed, "You were lucky."

MB's organic bits release adrenaline in its shock. Transports don't typically have the programming for words. It pokes through the feed, and realizes the presence is too big for a human connection, so MB asks in response why it was lucky. The presence says, that no one realized what it was. MB asks what it thinks it is, defensively. Not that it has any recourse, being stuck on the ship now until the next destination.

The presence says MB is a rogue SecUnit, obviously, with a disabled governor module. It pokes at MB in the feed, and MB flinches. Then, it asks that MB not try to hack it, and drops its defenses. MB can perceive how big this intelligence is, since it's designed to crunch extragalactic astronomy and analyze it. It's big enough to crush MB and strip its memory by force without even stretching itself.

MB realizes it's made a terrible mistake, but in its defence, how could it have known there are "transports sentient enough to be mean?" The evil bots on the serials are just fantasies to add drama. Or, so it thought.(4)

In response, MB says "Okay" to the transport AI, then shuts down its feed, and huddles in the chair, terrified. It's not scared of things humans are scared of, typically, but it IS accustomed to the inside of its head being its own, safe, protected, and inviolable, and it wants to keep it that way. MB considers how it might take out the transport's intelligence, how it might retaliate against further intrusions. It wonders whether it should go fully into standby for the duration of the trip, even though that would leave it vulnerable to the transport's drones.

At least it finally understands the lack of human security. Though, that raises the question of why the transport opened the hatch for MB in the first place. It seems to want the company. This is confirmed when it suggests that MB might continue playing the media. MB huddles warily in the chair, but the transport tells it not to sulk. MB snaps back that SecUnits don't sulk, it would cause punishment from the governor module.

Several more seconds pass, and the transport apologizes for scaring MB. MB, for its part, doesn't trust that apology at all, and assumes the transport is playing games with it. MB says it doesn't want anything but the ride. The transport retreats behind its wall.

MB waits, as its system purges the fear-generated chemicals. Then it gets bored. It decides to start rewatching some older Sanctuary Moon as it awaits its certain doom. A doom, however, that never comes. After three episodes, it can actually see the transport's point: rogue SecUnits aren't known for their stealth or lack of troublesome behaviour.

I didn’t understand why it had let me aboard, if it really didn’t want to hurt me. I wouldn’t have trusted me, if I was a transport.(5)

MB wonders if, like itself, the transport took an opportunity of convenience. Regardless, it still thinks the transport is an asshole. Six episodes of Sanctuary Moon later, it feels the presence in the feed again, lurking on the edges. MB ignores it, even though it's like ignoring someone leaning their chin on your shoulder and breathing in your ear.

Seven more episodes of Sanctuary Moon later, MB receives a polite ping from the transport, with a request to go back to the new adventure show it had interrupted in the first place. MB says it provided a copy when it boarded, and goes back to Sanctuary Moon. Two minutes later, the ping and request repeat. It can't watch the media itself, because it has no personal context, as a galaxy brained transport, for the human lives in the serials. And, humans don't leave their reactions as traces in the feed, even when they watch their shows when they're aboard. It wants to catalogue MB's reactions and interpretations to help it understand.

MB is curious that the transport is more interested in the show about an exploration ship. It would have thought the transport would feel like it was watching its own work, since MB itself avoids serials about mining and surveying. But, it would be familiar enough to add context to the transport's experience.

I was tempted to say no. But if it needed me to watch the show it wanted, then it couldn’t get angry and destroy my brain. Also, I wanted to watch the show, too.

MB clarifies that it's not supposed to be realistic, or a documentary, and it will stop if the transport complains. It promises not to complain, sarcastically. So, they watch Worldhoppers. The transport gets unsettled when a minor character dies after three episodes, and in the twentieth MB has to pause for seven whole minutes while the transport processes its feelings about a major character death. Four episodes later the character comes back to life, and the transport is so relieved it wants to watch that one three times before it lets MB move forward.(6)

By the time they get to the end, the transport spends ten full minutes in silence, then asks to watch again. So, MB starts the show over. After watching it all twice more, they watch every show MB has about humans on ships, though it filters out any based on a true story after one of that sort with a catastrophe distresses the transport too much. At that point, for something different, MB suggests they watch Sanctuary Moon.

Four episodes in, the transport asks if there are no SecUnits on this show, assuming MB liked SM for the same reason the transport enjoyed Worldhoppers so much. MB explains that SecUnits don't appear in most shows, and are only ever villains or villain minions anyway.(7)

There's a long internal aside about depicting SecUnits as having sex parts or desire to engage in intercourse being unrealistic, but realistic SecUnits would stand around most of the time in mind-numbing boredom which isn't very interesting to watch.

After this, the transport says, again very sarcastically, that the depiction is unrealistic.

“There’s unrealistic that takes you away from reality and unrealistic that reminds you that everybody’s afraid of you.”(8)

The transport observes that MB dislikes its function, and finds that unusual. MB defends that it likes parts of what it does. It thinks how it likes protecting people and things, and figuring out smart ways to do that, and being right.

The transport asks why MB is here. MB is caught off guard, but sends it the newsburst about its purchase. The transport says it's not allowed unauthorized passengers or cargo, and has modified its logs to hide MB, so they both have secrets. MB says it left without permission, because it's not sure it wants to live on a world that doesn't need it, with a guardian who's just an owner with a nicer name.

MB then, for its part, asks why the transport let it onboard. It says it was curious, and cargo runs get tedious. It counter-asks why MB wants to go to this particular station. MB admits that it has research to do there. The transport suggests library feeds and planetary archive exchanges, and its own onboard archives, might have answers. MB chooses not to respond.

It waited thirty whole seconds, then it said, The systems of constructs are inherently inferior to advanced bots, but you aren’t stupid. Yeah, well, fuck you, too, I thought, and initiated a shutdown sequence.

=====

(1) It's so interesting that, even with organic bits, it has no metabolic needs in that way. I'm not the sort who needs an explanation of every bit of a world's setup, I just think it's a neat idea. An aspiration, even. (2) It's… sort of comforting? to me at least, to think that some of the imbalances could be tied to function, rather than human biology. It doesn't necessarily make much sense, since the best knowledge we have right now are that anxiety and depression and a host of other disorders are a result of body chemistry and neural reinforcement gone wrong, but it's a nice thought that we're not alone in the universe with it. (3) Ain't that the truth, but… one still worth making, I think. (4) Isn't it interesting that MB leaps immediately to the other consciousness being a threat simply by virtue of its size? It still could be. As MB says later it could be playing games. But, it could have denied MB passage, it could have wiped it and replaced its memory and personality with anything, it could have turned it into the happy construct it claimed to be. And MB comes with its own bias. After all, when all you have is a hammer, every obstacle looks like a nail. When all you have is SecUnit programming and training, well, every encounter with someone bigger and stronger than you looks like a potential threat. What did you think? (5) And finally it comes to a more useful conclusion, with the power of empathy. (6) I've never been quite this deep on a show myself, but I absolutely know people who are, and it never stops making my heart melt that the intelligences in this universe are Like That too. (7) Like, it's no wonder it doesn't seek out representation in media, when its only options are telling it that it's evil. Representation is important! Even for hypothetical and/or fictional murderbots! (8) I really do feel like someone did research on representation in media before writing this, or at least consulted on the details. Because it's so true. There's the unrealism that lets you immerse and forget, and there's the unrealism that ties you too deeply to the present and reality, and those aren't the same for everyone.

[oni-official]

Mission Log: The Woods [File 1.1]

[The following audio has been transcribed from the retrieved helmet footage and secondary mics of two ONI operatives, codenamed Raven-1 and Raven-6, as well as various external sources.]

Mission Brief:

On xx-xx-25xx, Covenant forces moved into the [x] system and, over the course of the coming days, started their standard procedures for establishing a permanent presence. The system in question consists of a G-type main-sequence star, one gas giant, four unremarkable rocky planets and one potentially habitable planet (hereon referred to in these files as ‘Eyrie’). Covenant craft took station over all of the above. They remained in place at all but Eyrie, where the ships broke orbit after 46 hours, leaving a suspected 200 troops behind.

During the early days of occupation, Raven-1 (leading Raven squad ground ops as a whole as well as Raven Team A) and the newly promoted Raven-6 (lead of Raven Team B) were assigned to recon the landing zone and gather information on the nature and purpose of the Covenant's presence on the planet. As usual, Raven-1 would be leading on the ground. Their mission would be overseen by Raven squad's handler, Raven Control, who would remain shipside - alongside the rest of Raven squad (Raven-2 through to Raven-10, excluding 6).

The team would travel to the planet aboard the ‘Darker Days’, a Sahara class heavy prowler and use a Black Cat class sub prowler for deployment. The Darker Days would remain in-system, using the asteroid belt to remain undetected, to provide exfil upon mission completion and gather further data on Covenant forces on other planets.

Transcript Start

T[-02:34]

[Aboard Darker Days, Observation Deck]

R6: Well, would you look at that? Looks like a garden world.

R1: Mm.

R6: Reminds me of Earth, kinda.

R1: Prelims indicate that most landmasses are covered in tropical forests. We’re deploying to a more alpine area, but vegetation will still be dense.

R6: Hmph. Good thing I brought my bug spray.

R1: Mm.

[A brief period of silence]

R6: So, any idea what the Covies want down there?

R1: It’s impossible to know with them. Superweapons, religious artefacts, hell, maybe they’re just taking a day trip. You can ask them when we’re there, kid.

R6: Odd that they’re sending just the two of us, no? I mean, the briefing said there're 200 of them down there. Might be a job better suited to Spartans, or at least the entire squad.

R1: Most Spartans lack a certain… tact.

R6: Pfft. You can say that again.

R1: And we can't have the entire squad down there, they're needed on board to deal with the data we get on the other planets. We go in quiet, recon and leave. If plasma starts flying, we’re doing our jobs wrong.

R6: Copy that.

[Silence]

R1: Go on, go get ready. I'll meet you down at the dropship. Be on time, we only have a 15-minute window where we can deploy and guarantee we aren't seen.

T[-00:48]

[Hangar Bay]

R6: You down here already?

R1: Just doing some preflight checks.

R6: Sounds good.

R1: Listen, you know what I said earlier? About never knowing with the Covenant?

R6: Yeah?

R1: Well... [sigh] I don't know. This one feels off. They pulled out way too quickly. You never see Covies break like that unless something goes wrong.

R6: So-

R1: So, what I'm saying is that down there, we play it straight. No heroics, no going off on your own, no-

R6: Wait a minute, I never-

[crosstalk]

R1: -no - shut up. And no second guessing my or Control's orders, is that understood, Six?

[Pause]

R1: Six, c'mon, the two of us have been on a dozen deployments alone and I haven't asked for much. You know I trust you. But this one time-

R6: Nah, nah, I hear you. I'll play it straight, boss.

R1: [sigh] Thank you. Beyond that, there's nothing to worry about. We'll be staying in contact with the Days throughout anyways, Control will be keeping an eye out for us. Here, the chin gun's a bit slow to track, see if you can get it recalibrated before the pilot gets here.

T[+00:00]

[Engines start]

T[+00:02]

[Drop craft exits hangar bay, life signs: 3]

T[+00:28]

[Drop craft enters Eyrie's atmosphere]

T[+00:36]

[Drop craft touches down, Raven-1 and Raven-6 disembark]

[Drop craft lifts off]

[Comms check with Darker Days and Raven Control: all green]

T[+01:03]

[Drop craft returns to hangar bay, life signs: 1]

T[+01:05]

[All communications between Darker Days and Raven-1 and Raven-6 cease abruptly]

[Pinging... Attempting to reestablish contact...]

T[+01:06]

[Pinging... Attempting to reestablish contact...]

[Comms Officer informs XO and Raven Control]

T[+01:08]

[Pinging... Attempting to reestablish contact...]

[XO informs CO]

T[+01:15]

[Pinging... Attempting to reestablish contact...]

[Raven Control states the mission can not continue without contact, attempts to exit the bridge in order to descend planetside with remainder of Raven squad, is ordered to stand down by CO. Ordered to be detained upon refusal.]

[Injuries suffered by bridge crew detailed in File 1.4]

T[+01:17]

[Pinging... Attempting to reestablish contact...]

[Raven Control detained and taken to her quarters.]

[CO ordered event to be struck from official record and Raven Control's personal record; refused to file complaint, reason given: "No one's dead up here and both of her team leads have gone quiet in a hot zone, can you blame her?"]

[Raven squad is informed of the situation]

T[+01:20]

[CO acknowledges contact loss, begins plans for recovery next orbital window at T+31:40]

[Contact loss confirmed]

[Log continues in File 1.2 here]

[thesconesyard]

Wherever You Are, I Am

Part 43

An unhurried shift passed and McCoy was happy to be walking home. Scotty was there and they’d have the rest of the day together. Though when he entered his quarters and called hello he went unanswered. McCoy frowned but went to sit his work bag on the end of the table and saw it.

Scotty had left him a note. McCoy scoffed and pulled out his comm. Nothing. Where had Scotty even found pen and paper? McCoy had none in his quarters. He shook his head thinking of his husband fondly. The engineer had a strange penchant for actual writing and paper.

The note said Scotty would be back soon, so McCoy went to change.

He was relaxing on the couch with his research when Scotty came in.

“Sorry mo ghràdh,” Scotty said, bounding over to him and wrapping his arms around McCoy from behind the couch. “I hope you haven’t been home too long.”

“Not long,” McCoy said and turned his face to kiss Scotty. “Where’ve you been?”

“Out at the engineering labs,” Scotty said.

He released his embrace, then moved around to settle on the couch next to McCoy. The doctor set his PADD aside and put an arm around Scotty to pull him close.

“I haven’t been here in so long; just wanted to see if anything had changed,” Scotty continued.

“And, have they?” McCoy asked with amusement.

“Nae. Well, yes a wee bit. But nothing drastic. They could use some updating.” Scotty sighed. “If it weren’t for the new lady, I’d ask for a posting here with you and make those changes.”

“I…” It was good to have ground beneath his feet again and the only thing better would be Scotty with him McCoy thought to himself.

“It wouldn’t keep you happy Monty,” McCoy said slowly.

“What do ye mean?” Scotty asked. He turned to look at McCoy with a puzzled look.

“I mean,” McCoy spoke slowly, “you belong up there.” He gestured towards the sky far above them. “You’d be happy for a brief time here, but you’d miss being out there. Your heart is out in the stars.”

“Nae love,” Scotty said, staring at him. “My heart is where you are.”

McCoy smiled gratefully at Scotty.

“I mean that you’d tire of not having your hands on a ship. I can practice medicine anywhere, but you… Your heart is with the Enterprise too.”

McCoy watched the thoughts forming on Scotty’s face. He knew Scotty was right and that he held the engineer’s heart, but he knew he was right too about Scotty’s love for the ship.

“When the ship is done,” McCoy continued before Scotty could say anything, “I… I’ll stay out there with you as long as you want.” He reached over to cup Scotty’s face with his hand. “I know you have two loves and that’s ok with me.” He smiled. “As much as I love earth under my feet… I love you more.”

“You’d stay out there… for me?” Scotty said quietly.

McCoy nodded.

“I couldn’t let ye Len…”

“It’s my choice,” McCoy shrugged. “I’d rather be in space with you, than here and apart. We met there; we belong there.”

“Mo ghràdh…”

“Don’t ever tell Jim I said that though,” McCoy grinned.

Scotty laughed. “Of course not.” He settled in closer to McCoy. “You’d stay shipside just for me?” he asked in a hesitant tone.

“Only for you. Not for Jim or anyone else. Just you. Because that’s where you’re happy, and I’m happy where you are.”

“Have I told ye how much I love ye lately?” Scotty asked with awe in his voice.

“Yes,” McCoy smiled, “But you can tell me again.”

He let out a content sigh as Scotty snuggled in close and kissed him. McCoy wrapped his arms around Scotty and held him tight. The hurt of Scotty having to leave the next day was there, but this moment would get him through until they saw each other again.

[return-of-the-unicorns]

they did. We will take about it in person.

There are many moving parts right now.

@return-of-the-unicorns Finn!!! Is Beetle okay??? Sin said people got hurt!!!

[master-harker]

My homemade Diddley Bow/ One string Blues Slide Guitar

[theresas-sound-world-blog]

Track of the Day: Nocturnal

Artist: Robert Clarke

From the Album: Romance & Resolve

Country of Origin: England 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿

Genre/s: Indie; Indie-Rock; Indiepop; Britpop; Sadcore; Alternative Rock

Reviewer: James Shipsides

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Theresa’s Sound World (@theresassoundworldmusicblog)

[ltwilliammowett]

HMS 'Bristol', by Frank Winston Shipsides (1908–2005)

[the-firebird69]

* and he had Julian and our son out there several times and we didn't hear anything about it now I'm gonna have to have teams go take a look'cause nobody can pinpoint who owns it and he put it up the guy might own the whole place and it's time for him to leave and it looks like he's attacking new Vegas which is a rebel headquarters and he is not empire or pseudo empire. We don't appreciate his efforts he is a disgusting creed in and he is a loser we are going after him soon with arrest warrants and yeah he just got back from the hospital he's a freak there's a lot of people that are losing their hair and they're losing their teeth because of a small amount of radiation large part they have some in them already and this extra radiation is too much for them some of them can't handle the additional toast some of them can't handle the initial dose. What I'm noting is our friend is absorbing the radiation and it disappears and it's no longer on the scan at all we have to understand he's going to get bigger and his people much stronger than they are now and it's an issue but he says we are going to downplay it unless they're as strong as the Hulk and with him too even though we keep getting old and **** doesn't happen to me that often but this is terrible so we will have to understand it's the Empire Dillion but he gets so little sympathy now I can understand why he's upset and panicking. We have a few things on the We have a few things on the horizon and they're going to be terrible but he says all that radiated swamp land disappearing is going to make Florida healthier. True this place is a swamp it's disgusting down south will affect our air quality it will get much better and shipside moving so this will help but we're probably declare war on the clones it does look like them doing that in the videos and it does sound like they're MO and people fight over the new port or harbor and it's gonna be very deep deep enough for half mile container ships so this is gonna be a Newport and it will also help get products out and they would join it up with the 75 which is south of Lake Okeechobee

And actually we did study it and we think the water will be south of 75 and if that second one will be like Lake Okeechobee and just sit there underneath its water is why so he agrees He says the 75 goes right over where the water is gonna be and that's the inlet for Newport

WE HAVE AN EMERGENCY WE ARE SPEAKING ABUOT A CATASTROPHE AND MAC PROPER KNEW OUR FREIND SAYS NO NO I THINK NEWPOERT WILL BE A NEW PORT AS WELL AND LARGE AND THEN THIS THE WHOLE SOUTH OF FLORIDA....MIAMI IS HIGHER AND NOT ON A BALL OR CIRCLE NO HE THINKS IS IT AND I DO TOO HALF THE CITY WILL BE GONE WE WORK NOW

MAC DADDY

[poojagblog-blog]

The global Shore Power Market size will grow to USD 2.8 billion by 2027 (forecast year) from USD 1.6 billion in 2022 (estimated year), at a CAGR of 11.2% during the forecast period.

[lsttcs]

The storm was all the talk all over. Bringing terrible winds by nightfall. The tree behind their house was definitely ill and weak. The storm couldn’t find, perlapse it reconsidered it’s structure’s last dime, built by a lass, at least, as gift, and certain the overbare to not fall nor detract, when games and chivalry, as these storms would smack. If lost by denizen, to when and cost of a number, still aparcel quantalized, moving shag vessle spider as unit as neat, as neat as unkempt, as hoarding in magno propulsion should ever never shipside no court vessel. Hang long, dad joke culinary, makeshift in the rope, long hangs spider money, long hangs artifact, tone in cut, long sag morrowly. Last repulse of cutter gem craft not in ear of wick stone idle five tantra nome and five lugs behind to eat up and quick be respiratory known, the scholar craft or hunch lore. So vestige a salt air, same hands chain rang, all medalion lane, set crust so fair. 

A chap a lot of, rests small, same buckle shacks, lack of the rivet long you sir, dangles of paths, grafts on the locks. Lot of that. Same lop that ate med lot notes up so ate med notes lop side flop sure. A real yarn? No but same jot that same bat is get toward and same year date hits butter bam and serge metaloid steering at that ram and it’s all but two be done between utensils and what any or none see fit in man. So the likely yarn and worn of them. So jannters out smoke belly from all twood near, yester losses slowly only taft ear. So lakes and shandy bake em. Taking our rakes and frequently restake them!

Tom Boy antler at the sod nodding chance friend and then a few more. That’s why we delt year herbice, no longer our tabe or felt lawn. We squash around. We squash around some more more. Going to reach through the rear done. Help, you so forth, a hallier so sour. At least to doom while our selctions take the nine nord straight from all coke and no accused, no forth men, no storm led red toolbit. At last sworn we take rips and then we let low our fatter warren. Just half ub’s to straights sow though we’re riding at nero. There’s no taft that’d make us pallor than. Our retcrab runs pelish zinc.

So why you e bay the crew barbs and oscile the street garb it’s denzing time san the rich craft. It’s so lang lost it’s speech herm. It’s running lost last langaroose like the top men all fell out of the witch hand and fell the trolly reverb amb, last dillicute, ate no hen but ten opals said it’s the sink forth. Sink forth scamps like lite. Eats ell of it. Recruitter dying, save my life! It’s only ambles an. Not your common man. Skinkdrift the fastest, all tonsages’ flung. Laugh fast. The field around the house is hit with an artillery of asymmetrical lightning strikes. The earth lit’s up a private match glow, then charges, and releases the might of a storm that would end all in site should it befall you. Ends the tree. Falls right on it.