CatastrophicFailure

At first glance I thought this was Darth Vader on tiny feet.

Funny how these things tend to feed off each other, eh? Anything else I probably should neither confirm nor deny. I’m a solid 500 words into the next round and I’m aiming for a Halloween release. Because reasons. But probably not good ones.

Hmm. Maybe that’s why they’ve been so cranky lately... Of course I hear this right after I’ve gone through all the trouble of making Rald wet.

So far it’s been working out well for me with fuel cells & solar-powered hydrolysis, but I’m very careful with what I trust live crews too. Plentiful save backups are your friend.

. . . Take it off any sweet jumps?

I’m not at my computer right now and can’t verify this, but you might be able to use the scripting system to simply turn the greenhouses off at night.

So... it’s only a matter of time before we make contact with short green marsupials and their head-sucking arboreal symbiotes?

Yeah, but they had alcohol, too. Lots and lots of alcohol. Because you couldn’t drink the water. Good... question. Well, mine complain when they lack oxygen, so they must be doing something with it. They’re green so I suppose they could be some sort of amphibian that does the skin breathing thing. But I’m kinda sold on @KSK‘s whole marsupial theory too. Hmm...

Year 7, Day 309... Our intrepid crew's aquatic detour fortunately didn't last long. Immovable object in the form of 27 tonnes of Raldbase met with irresistible force in the shape of one Triti Kerman, so long story short the crew was quickly back on their way and one of the greatest theoretical debates of the ages has been unequivocally settled. The engineering team keeps looking at each other and "hmm"-ing though. That's starting to concern me.

Well, that’s an improvement. Last I hear the OctaGrabber went for a swim.

Well... that escalated quickly.

This. This is where I think the initial market for rapid point-to-point transportation is. The first such BFS’s will be painted brown, blue & orange, not airline white. My wife works in the industry, and she agrees there’s definitely a niche waiting to be filled there. There are lots of times when goods need to be there now and cost is really no object. Ie, right now there’s really no such thing as overnight cargo from Seattle to Singapore.

And before I flake out a second time, special thanks to @Ten Key and @Just Jim ‘Ware, O child, Reckoning come, Beset King call fire on him kin, Dread star rain-em poison on land, Tribes strike steel on steel, And living, they envy the dead. Chapter 11: The City that Never Sleeps Left... left... y'left, right, left... Left... left... y'left, right, left... Calford Kerman stepped along to the rhythm, hoping his tired feet would stick to the cadence despite the fact the could barely feel them anymore. True, it wasn't strictly necessary to be marching in step right now, but Sarge said it would keep minds occupied and nerves distracted. And besides, he'd added, it looked good. Sarge was usually right about these things. Not usually. Always. Charlie Platoon had been called up for something special, and it never hurt to look good in front of the brass. Even if you really had no idea what you were doing. Sarge knew what he was doing, of course. Sarge was a Career. And more over, Sarge had seen Action. That messy business with the peacekeeping force over in Andacania. And Calford knew enough to know that put Sarge ahead of most of the brass in terms of actually, well, knowing things. A random stone on the path threatened to make him stumble, but Cal somehow kept his balance. And step. He gave the rifle at his shoulder a subtle shift. That wasn't unusual, he'd done lots of marching with a rifle. Everyone here had. What was unusual was the two dozen magazines crammed into the velcro'd pockets of his tactical vest. And not paintballs or laser training rounds, but real bullets. Nasty ones. Hollowpoints. What could they possibly need with 192 rounds... yet not a single plate of body armor? His eyes darted left as a tank rumbled and squeaked past on the actual road. This was... something special, all right. And then, as the platoon came over a rise, he saw it. Despite the rigid formation and instilled discipline, there was a brief wave of murmurs and missteps from the troop. Sarge didn't seem to notice. Or care. He saw the town a few kilometers beyond, nestled next to the ink black Sea. And the dozens of columns of smoke glowing crimson from below. All around it was a ring of white lights, with more long trails of lights leading off to the west. He pulled his eyes away as the cadre reached the staging camp, or at least tried to. There had to be hundreds of people here! Thousands, even. Everyone bustling this way and that, moving equipment, setting up tents, lights... and more tanks. Why did they need so many tanks?? No sooner had the thought entered his head than night was briefly turned to day by a lance of liquid fire spewing forth from one of those tanks out in a field. It... it was like nothing Cal had ever seen. And he'd seen some bad things, before. He'd been called up and deployed to the relief force on Zaroeka, after a passing storm had virtually leveled the island. The earthquake a few years back, down in the southend. And the landslides near K2. But nothing could have prepared him for this. This... this looked a buildup to war. The troop snaked its way through the camp, three dozen kerbs among legions. They wound through ever larger piles of crates and containers, and long rows of tanker trucks with bold FLAMMABLE placards before approaching a busy group of people around a table outside of an enormous tent. "Platoon, halt!" the Sergeant took a moment to regard his squads, then continued in his unusually soft voice, "stand at ease, kerbs. Due due our current staffing issues at the moment, I'm going to receive our orders. Don't get too comfortable." He turned on his heel and made his way over to the busy little table. The platoon wasted no time in stretching and working the kinks out of their backs without actually moving their feet. Cal turned to the kerb next to him, "psst... hey... you know what's going on?" "Haven't you heard on Blabber?" he smirked, "we're invading Nefcarkaland, some general's got a hankering for rotten fish!" Cal frowned, and gave him a fitting salute. The other kerb's smirk grew into a grin, and he called over to the Corporal, "hey squaddie! You know what's going on?" "Some kinda outbreak," he said, "a virus making people crazy, like that one show." "What show?" "You know, the one about the soulless, dull-eyed ghouls driving the collapse of civilization." The mouthy kerb thought for a moment, "Keeping Up with the Kerdashians?" "No, you idiot." "Real Housekerbs of Beverly Plains?" "No!" "The Celebrity Bootlicker?" The Corporal opened his mouth, the gave up and slapped a hand to his face. Cal just rolled his eyes. Over at the table, Sarge and a pair officers were having an extremely animated discussion. Lots of pointing. To a map on the table... a large screen behind it... the city beyond... Without hearing a word, Cal thought the Sergent seemed to be advising the officers in the foolishness of whatever they were about to have him do without sounding like he was, in that peculiar way of senior NCOs. Then salutes were exchanged, and Sarge headed back to the platoon just as a trio of huge, open-bed trucks pulled up. "Alright, listen up!" he said, "our orders are to proceed into the hot zone to assist in the evacuation of two dozen civilians still barricaded in an office building before this whole mess is buttoned up. Contact in the area is estimated to be light and sporadic, so HQ is giving this evac one more go. But make no mistake," he eyed them for a moment, "this is the real thing. Use of deadly force is hereby authorized. Now, are there any questions?" Confused glances shot back and forth before a hand went up. It took Cal a moment to realize it was his own, "um... deadly force against who, Sarge?" Sarge’s face took on a new and unfamiliar cast in the dwindling light, "you’ll see soon enough." *** A dozen reserve soldiers in the bed of a truck, bumping along into the night was usually a rowdy, raucous affair, but as the three trucks moved along down the narrow country road, none of their occupants made a sound. They stared out with wide, haunted eyes at the nightmare scenes beyond. For a while, a steady jam of headlights heading the other way but not actually moving had kept company, with an occasional tank creeping in escort. But that had dwindled away, replaced, for a time, by irregular ones and twos of stalled kars in the oncoming lane, deep ruts in the shoulder revealing where the line had gone around. Finally, the line had resumed, only these were dark, silent metallic specters, cast in a disquieting monochrome by the rising Mün above. But then... there were the others. Cal could just see them, well off the pavement on his side of the road. Twisted hulks still smoldering, glowing from within a dim, hellish crimson. He told himself they were just kar fires, pushed off the path and left to burn. Not at all unexpected in a situation like this. But... Cal had once spent two weeks training at the Bahamuto Armory down south. He had seen what a tank gun could do to an old kar. Only, none of these looked very old... The truck went over another bump, jarring him back from the Münlit scape. He joined the Corporal in staring at the floor, but that almost seemed worse. Without the road to distract him, his thoughts wandered back to the mission ahead. What Sarge said, it... it didn’t sound real. ...and see the quartermaster as you load up. Every sixth kerb keeps his first aid kit, the rest of you swap out for extra magazines, also... Cal shuddered. Then with a lurch and a squeal of brakes, the trucks came to a halt, and Cal finally saw it. To either side, lit by rows of floodlights, a chain link fence ten meters high and topped with rolls of razor wire stretched out. In front of that, crews were busily welding thick steel plates into place, and in front of that, still more crews used rumbling earthmovers to position enormous L-shaped concrete barriers. “Look alive, gentlekerbs,” Sarge cried out as he hopped down from the cab. Then as the trucks shut down, and the constant stink of diesel exhaust died away, a new smell came drifting on the cold night air. It was one that Cal knew far, far too well. It was the same as after the storm... and the earthquake... and the slide... His own stomach threatened to rebel, but he clamped it down by sheer force of will. Several others near him leaned over the railing, their own battles lost. While Sarge conferred with a sentry, going over orders and maps on a tablet, sounds followed the smell as the trucks’ turbos spooled down. Noises like firecrackers, off in the distance, irregular and indistinct. Somewhere, sirens still wailed. And the muted whoop-whoop-whoop of helicopters. Yet, below it all, so soft he wasn’t even sure he was hearing it, was another sound, something beyond description, that chilled his bones and gave his knees a weakness that had nothing to do with the long march and the heavy gear slung on his back. “Alright, gentlekerbs,” Sarge bellowed, pulling himself up onto the hood of one truck to be heard by all, “this is it. We are cleared inside. Remember your training and protect the kerb next to you. Lock and load.” A clatter of rifle bolts sliding home pushed back the other sounds, and the renewed rumble from the big diesels sent them off for good. Nothing could stop the smell, though. Once it was with you, it stayed for days, even weeks. The mind was funny like that. Cal checked his rifle over one last time, cinched the strap on his helmet tight. He leaned over the railing to look ahead, and saw another tank blocking their path. As he watched, it squeaked forward, taking a huge section of the wall with it. He realized the tank was the gate, they had simply welded the steel plates directly to the hull. The trucks bumped past, and here two more tanks flanked the portal, both fitted with those flame throwers he’d seen earlier, that seemed to be cobbled together from old rocket parts. Beyond them was nothing, only an empty road and an empty field stretching the last few kilometers to the town. No, not empty. Cal could just see by the pale light of the Mün... shapes. Low, dark lumps scattered out in the field that itself seemed to be too dark, all leading up to the pair of tanks. He tried not to think about what those shapes were, he tried, but his gorge rose and his guts clenched and he wretched over the railing until he thought he might faint. Finally, he sat back down hard, wiping at his mouth with back of a gloved hand and groping for his canteen with the other. Someone else handed it to him. He wasn’t sure who. Now, all eyes were fixed on the worn floorboards, and the troop had returned to silence. Madness. This was madness. A disease that spread by touch and drove everyone it did to madness. No, this was a nightmare. The three trucks rumbled into the outskirts of the town, down dark and empty streets. The power was still on, mostly. Yet still they passed through blocks that seemed darker than any night. Fires smoldered in places, and the rigs had to snake around rubble piled like burnt offerings before the skeletal shells of dead buildings. Finally the moment came when the trucks squeaked to a halt once again, and Cal found he’d been dreading it far more than he’d realized. An unremarkable glassed-in building a few stories tall lay just ahead. The street lamps still shone but the structure was dark as a tomb, lit from within only by the ruddy glow of yet more fires. Even now, they could all hear the screams. “Move out, you mugs!” Sarge cried out, and Cal was swept up in the wave of bodies, “move, move, move! Go, go, go! Alpha squad, flank left, beta squad, flank right, guard patterns! Gamma, you’re with me!” The sudden, unfamiliar sound of Sarge’s raised voice jolted him from the daze he hadn’t realized he’d been in, and Cal found that his years of one weekend a month, two weeks a year training really did take over. He fanned out with the rest of gamma squad, just behind Sarge and the Corporal, knees bent, rifle up, head down. They scuttled alongside the looming building, stretching out into a line approaching the covered entry way. Cal could see what remained of a hastily constructed barricade just inside the shattered doors. Sarge looked back, “Corporal, you’re in first and then—“ Shattering glass high above drew all eyes up. A kerbelle fell from the ruined window, screaming all the way down and landing with noise that made Cal’s stomach twist up into a knot again. For a moment, she was still, then looked up at the soildiers, eyes wide with terror, her face smeared with something black and awful. She reached out toward them, “help me... please... help me...” Instinctively, Cal moved toward her, his rifle drooping, but Sarge grabbed him by his rucksack and pulled him back. Shocked, he looked back toward the senior kerb, and for the first time ever, he saw fear in Sarge’s eyes. A quick shake of the head was all the answer he got. “Help me... please help me...” the kerbelle tried to drag herself forward, her legs shattered, "please..." Great heaving, hacking coughs racked her body. She wretched, her breathing becoming rough and irregular. "Help me..." She reached out, eyes pleading. "Please... help..." Raw sores bloomed upon her face. "Help... help me... please... help... help.. help... help... hlep... hlep... hlorp... glorp..." Something... changed in her face. It became slack and languid, but her eyes... ..her eyes... Slackjawed, wavering, she pushed herself up. Jagged bones splayed from her legs, yet she shuffled forward. Trembling hands reached out... "Glorp... glorp..." A fear unlike anything he’d ever known bit down on Cal’s spine. ...her eyes..! They were wide, and suffering, and far, far too... aware... "Glorp... whuggle?" Cal felt a hand on his shoulder, "private..." Sarge whispered. A thousand thoughts and emotions rampaged through a mind that threatened to break under the strain. Without active thought, Cal found the rifle sights aligning in his vision. Sarge’s voice was soft, with a calmness that cut through the torrent like a knife, "put her down, son." At the last, it was fear that finally won out. Cal’s finger slid down and squeezed the trigger. CRACK! The shot echoed and reverberated through the empty streets. The young kerbelle staggered for a moment, but kept coming. "Glorp..." The fear that a moment ago had been a focused beam erupted into a fusillade of terror. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Click. His mind barely registered what Cal was seeing. Every shot had found its mark. The other’s chest was a ragged ruin, one arm dangling from a stray tendon, yet still she came, her mouth miming the same voiceless word. Glorp... Help... Helpless, Cal’s mind began to fracture. BLAM! A single dark, centimeter-wide hole appeared in the kerbelle’s head, just above her pleading eyes. They went glassy, and she collapsed like a sack of rotten fruit. Beside Cal, Sarge lowered his revolver. For a long time, no one spoke. No sound dared break the silence, save for the distant, barely-there thrumming of... something. The something that Cal had heard before. Only now it seemed... closer. “They—“ Sarge paused to run his tongue over dry lips, “they say no one really believes, until they’ve seen it for themselves.” He glanced at Cal, "reload, soldier." Cal did so, his hands and fingers moving automatically as he stared at the unmoving lump on the ground. One lifeless hand still reached for him... His eyes moved to the building looming over them. The screaming from inside seemed... diminished. "Alright, listen up!" Sarge suddenly cried out, "muster back at the trucks. There’s nothing we can do here, and I won’t risk—" Glass shattered again, closer this time. Cal caught something from the corner of his eye, something above, then the world went spinning as Sarge shoved him backwards and screamed. He struggled against his heavy pack, regaining his feet to find Sarge struggling beneath something twisted and charred. “Glorp! Glorp, hwork—“ BLAM! The shot echoed in the night... but the rumbles didn’t die away. Sarge heaved the mass off. “Sarge!” Cal cried out, moving to help but finding himself staring down the barrel of a revolver. “Evac,” Sarge said, red splotches already blooming on his face, “fall back to the checkpoint. Get the hells out of here, that’s an order!” He raised his sidearm, and one more shot echoed into the darkness. The darkness... that now seemed to be moving. All around, Cal could hear it clearly now. Shuffling... mumbling... creeping... He could see it, he could see... “We... we gotta go...” he breathed, turning. He took two steps, and froze. “Hey, Squaddie! We gotta go!” They came. Stumbling, gibbering, pouring from doorways, flooding up the street. “Corporal?” Cal crept forward, “Corporal!” His eyes... The Corporal’s eyes were a mirrored contradiction of the kerbelle who now laid in a heap near his feet. Wide, terrified... but cast over with the glazed stare of madness. “Corporal!” “This... this ain’t happening...” he mumbled, “it’s not real...” “Corporal, we have to go!” "...it ain’t happening..." The writhing darkness diverged into lucid shapes. Suits. Skirts. Robes. Even the camouflage and helmets of soldiers, mindlessly dragging their rifles behind. All with the same pleading eyes. "We gotta go now!" "...not real.." "Corporal!" Cal gave him a shove, but he might have been made of stone. Looking back to the squads, Cal felt panic hanging in the air like static before a storm, seeking only the briefest of grounds to unleash its fury. And then, something grabbed hold of him. "LOOK ALIVE, YOU MUGS!", Cal screamed at the top of his lungs. He shoved the Corporal back with one hand, firing blind into the darkness with the other, "beta, gamma, firing line! Cover pattern yankee-three, move! Move! Move! Soldiers, we are leaving!” Muscle memory and training smashed through the uncertainty the air, the tense energy becoming motion as kerbs took their positions. Fusillades of concentrated fire drove the darkness back to the flash of cordite. And for one brief, beautiful, terrible moment, it actually looked like it might work. “Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhgh!! Get it off me!” “Where?” "Behind you!" "They’re everywhere!" "Watch your flank!" "Aaauuuuugh!" "Fall back!" "Hold the line!" "Look out!" "Grenade!!!" Something shoved Cal forward, he felt the breath pulled from his lungs and his sinuses shatter. The chaos all around dissolved into a low ringing deep in his head. Reeling, he stumbled in circle. Everywhere... they were everywhere... bodies... people screaming... one of the trucks on fire... He saw an opening in the bedlam down a side street, and ran. *** Cal's throat felt like it was on fire. His chest heaved, each breath like burning desert sand. His helmet was gone, he didn't know where he lost it. His rifle and gear were several streets back, hurled at the shuffling mob when they served no more purpose. His leg burned too, and somewhere in his mind was a dim awareness that it was bleeding badly. A mind that was slowly shutting down, neuron by neuron. He stood panting in an intersection, swaying, eyes struggling to focus. All around. They were all around him, clogging the streets, crawling from windows, stumbling from doorways. Hundreds... thousands... more... And he was hopelessly surrounded. He unsnapped his holster, drawing his own sidearm. He pointed it, it didn't matter where. BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! Click. It made no difference, of course. But the mind does strange things at the bitter end. He swung the revolver back and forth as the hoard enveloped him, mindlessly squeezing the trigger until his mind was gone. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

Announced right after BO’s engine update, hmm...

Just a stupid question: is 0.7.4.0 the last version update for KSP 1.2.2?

Working for Blue Origin. Or maybe SpaceX. Sure, they’d all have to start out back on the bottom rung, but after years of hard work and determination (and horrible working conditions), they could move up to next to the bottom rung.

He shall give voice to the mute, and sight to the blind, He shall gather the outcast unto himself, He shall lead the Thrice Cursed Clan out from the wilderness, And draw the leper to his breast. Chapter 10: The Island of Misfit Toys "Easy does it, left foot... right foot... left foot... just one at a time... a little more..." A little rivulet of sweat traced its way down her neck, despite the cool air. The walker clicked forward another smidge. She hurt. Everything hurt. Which was an odd thing to be encouraging when she was supposed to be healing, but Doc was the doc. Well, sort of. Click. Trying to force her mind off the pain and exertion, the walker itself did fascinate her. She couldn't tell if it was metal or... plastic? Something else? It fit her small frame perfectly, even had a silly-looking extension that hooked under the shoulder of her bad arm, now finally out of its sling, so she could put some weight on it but not too much. Yet it was all one piece. No seams or adjustments anywhere, just a solid truss of... something. Doc said the machinist had printed it just for her. Printed? That didn't make any sense. Yet she had no idea why it didn't make sense. Click. "Come on... just a few more steps... almost there... As always, the whole time the Gas-man had been right along— Gas-man. Ed-gas. She knew that. She knew, yet some part of her mind kept reaching for that silly name. It was there in the clouds and mist, somehow shining like a beacon. But was it to draw her towards something... or warn her away? Still... odd as he was, in trying to get her to walk this far he had been a very good cheer— What was that word? Cheer... lion? Cheer... chief? No, definitely something with an L, like those peppy sports— An image suddenly appeared in her head of Edgas in a colorful pleated skirt that was far too short, instantly sending her into a fit of coughing. "Whoah, are you okay?" the fortunately un-skirted kerb in question asked, "do you need to stop for a minute?" "I fine," she croaked between gasps, trying as hard as she could just to stay upright, "swallow wrong." She still wasn't sure if she was giggling or gagging at the thought. Edgas frowned, but didn't press, instead just coaxing her onward. Click. She didn't know why the thought was absurd, only that it was. Her legs and arms burned, but it was a good sort of burn, like after a tough session at the gym. She knew what a gym was, and that she enjoyed working out there, but couldn't recall ever actually being at one. Her hair was in her face. She missed her simple, utilitarian ponytail. But couldn't remember ever having one. Somewhere... it was all in her head somewhere, but the more she reached for it, the more it seemed to slip away. She thought she might really scream, this time... until a scent caught her nose. Which seemed odd, she since she didn't have a nose, but this one she didn't bother to question. It was familiar. Familiar in that jogging way only scents are. It pulled her out of that looming dark place and beckoned her onward. Click. Click. Click. "Whoah! Hey! Slow down!" She didn't. She practically threw herself onto the bench by the little table, her eyes fixated on the source of the incredible scent. She barely registered Edgas approach, "um, are you sure about this? Cookie found them in the back of the freezer, must've been there for years, now. Probably all rubbery and freezer burned. I could get you something better..." He reached for the plate. "OMNOMNOMNOMNOM!" And snatched his hand back in the bare nick of time. "Whoah, careful there, boss, good way to lose a finger," Doc chided from a safe distance on the other side of the table. Edgas nodded... and counted just to be sure. Images... visions... but not quite memories exploded through her mind, most far beyond what she could possibly put to words. But her mouth was full anyway. "Wow..." Doc breathed, rubbing at the back of his head, "she really likes cheeseburgers." Then her eye caught the tumbler of root beer, which was, of course, ice cold. "NGLUKNGLUKNGLUKNGLUKNGLUKNGLUKNGLUKNGLUKNGLUKNGLUKNGLUKNGLUKNGLUKNGLUKNGLUKNGLUKNGLUKNGLUKNGLUK--" She set it down slowly, blinked twice, and then-- "BRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPP!!!!!" The entire structure seemed to sway back forth for several moments as the shockwaves dissipated. "Excuse me." Doc and Edgas just stared. And... about this time... she became aware of several more stares boring into the back of her neck. She looked around the large, vaguely cylindrical room, and saw a table on the other side, at which were seated perhaps a dozen kerbs. At her glance they all looked away, but... she had seen more than a little fear in those eyes, and not, she sensed, from her sudden lack of manners. Doc looked at Edgas. Edgas looked at Doc. As if sensing some unspoken cue, Edgas gave a sigh and a wry little smile before heading over to the other table. "Hey, guys!" he raised a hand in greeting, "listen, I..." "Boss!" they replied as one. Edgas took the empty seat before the others, eleven, she now saw, and in a moment the entire table was laughing and joking. "Well, that's the crew," Doc said softly, "they've been helping out behind the scenes, though as you might have guessed, they're a little wary of strangers." "I... see..." she watched Edgas smile, somehow managing eleven different conversations at once. And every so often, one of them would cast a glance her way. Sometimes curious, but mostly... something stirred in her memory, then vanished. "He looks... almost fatherly..." Doc nodded, "that's one way of putting it, I suppose. Carrying on with his wayward sons." She looked at him, confused. "Bad joke," he grinned, "Edgas has always had a tough time of it, but somehow he manages to have a lot of pull with the brass down south, when he wants to." "Er... brass?" "The Kerbal Space Administration management. He actually requested this post, a few years after that thing on the Mün, and—" She grunted, raising a hand to her temple. For... just a moment... her mind seemed to explode with images and faces, more vivid than any dream. Yet as fast as they appeared, they vanished, somehow leaving vague and formless after images on her mind's eye. "You ok?" Doc asked with concern. "Yes, I... I am fine... just.., headache..." He looked at her thoughtfully, "hmm. Maybe coming all this way was a bit too fast too soon." "No, really, am fine," she forced her eyes to focus on him "is gone now." A roar of laughter drew both their eyes back to the other table for a moment. "What were you saying? About the Mün?" visions flared and winked out again. "Well, that I don't really know, and he never talks about it. From what the papers said, I don't blame him. But somehow he got himself transferred to command up here. And then... he went out and found them." "I am not sure I..?" Doc grinned again, "the KSA's hiring standards have always been notoriously, well, notorious. It's been said they'll take anyone with a pulse. And that much is true, but what happens after..." he shrugged, "even here, people fall through the cracks." "How do you mean?" Something was trying to work its way into her mind again. She deliberately tried not to look at it, to coax it further. "Well, like... you see Lemmy there, in blue? He's an incredible mechanic, real old school. He's been with the Agency since the early days, even helped build the air handlers in the original VAB." She squinted in that direction, while trying to look like she wasn't, "he... has no hands..?" Doc nodded, "a few years back, he did something, well, stupid. He didn't need the official inquest to tell him that. He was facing the loss of his Agency pension and few job opportunities until Edgas found him." "But... how can..?" "His assistant there, Doyle. Doyle can't talk. No one's sure why, physically he's just fine. But there was an instant connection, he and Lemmy just seem to know what the other's thinking. So Doyle became Lemmy's hands, and Lemmy became Doyle's voice." She looked again. Indeed, the younger kerb next to the grizzled old mechanic wasn't saying anything, yet the two of them had no trouble keeping up with the raucous group. "Then we have Cookie," Doc continued, "he was top of his class at Le Cordon Rouge in Dachland, had a promising career ahead of him. Then he heard they were starting a space program here, and sold everything he had to finance the trip over. Says deep down he always wanted to be a spacekerb. But he couldn't pass the physical exams, and at the time there was just no demand for a five-star professional chef in that part of the world, even in Kerbin City. And after leaving that school, well, he couldn't just go back. Edgas found him in the Administration cafeteria, trying to learn how to burn coffee." He leaned in, grinning, "you may be seeing the pattern, here. That's Poindexter, our science lead. Not his real name, nobody knows that. He looks the part by choice. He doesn't say much, he's so smart, he has trouble relating to other people on their level, but he does say he embraced the cliché, so no one could use it against him. "The big guy is Lemcott, our machinist. He printed that walker for you. He's the only one who's got a family down south." Big was... well, and understatement. He was nearly as big as... Images fired off, then faded away once more. Doc continued, "despite his size as that constant frown, he's the most gentle person I've ever met. But his ex-wife is a raging— well, they had a fight. She said the right things to the right people, and they took one look at him, and now he can't go within a hundred meters of his daughter ever again. Edgas literally pulled him off a bridge." "That is... horrible," she breathed. "It is," Doc nodded, "he still writes her letters every week, and learned to knit so he could send her something useful. Though I doubt if his daughter ever sees any of it." He continued, "MacBree, he's our equipment operator. Had a nice gig going for himself at a mine in Gednalna, until he mouthed off to the wrong person. Now he's blacklisted to the entire industry, even getting a position with the Agency was difficult. Edgas brought him here. Never even seen a glacier before, yet he's got almost a sixth sense for avoiding crevasses and weak points from years of running heavy equipment through the mud. "And there're Doreyme and Fahso," he gave a subtle little nod. She blinked, "twins?" "Triplets," Doc said, "until they lost their brother in a plane crash. They say it was like losing a part of their soul. They can't function in the outside world anymore, not in any real way. Or maybe don't want to. But up here, where it's never truly day and never truly night, it's almost like time stops. Somehow, thanks to Edgas, they're able to manage, here. "Millo there is the custodian. Found he likes cleaning. It's simple and honest and, well, cleansing. He's been in and out of prisons his whole life, mostly for petty things. Has some anger issues. Up here in the ice and snow, around only people he knows, he says it cools his temper. "That’s Lumpy. He was born with a rare skin condition. It’s harmless, and not at all contagious, but people are... well, people. Here at the top of the world, no one cares what he looks like. "Finally, there’s Olaf. He just likes the cold. "And there you have it, our broken little family," Doc smiled, "it doesn't surprise me that Edgas went out and gathered us all together. He grew up as an orphan, bouncing around between foster homes until someone finally took him in, it's only natural that he would have an affinity for other lost sheep. What surprises me is that, somehow, it just works." She thought for a moment, "and what about you?" "Me?" "You did say 'us.'" Doc grinned, "nothing gets by you, does it?" then his eyes slowly drifted to the battered metal table, "oh, I had a bright career ahead of me. I was snatched up right out of high school for a new pilot program with the KSA. I graduated magna kum laude from Northern Kleptogart University on their dime, with bachelors degrees in biology and astrophysics. I was to be the vanguard of a new profession, not a doctor trained to be a kerbonaut or a kerbonaut trained to be a doctor, but someone who was inseparably both from the very beginning. "And everything was going perfect right up until my first orbital training mission. It was supposed to be a two-week stint on the new Geosynchronous Station with a dozen other cadets, only I never made it that far." Looking over across the room, he mused, "it used to be that Edgas was something of a legend around the space center for his weak stomach. Everybody barfs their first time in space, but if you miss the bag and get it all over the cabin, or do something else embarrassing, the cadets would say you 'pulled an Edgas.' Well, about an hour into the flight, after we passed through the Van Kerman belts, I did. Only I didn't stop. And when my guts were finally empty I began vomiting blood and going into seizures. "They aborted the mission, of course, but you can't just stop and turn around halfway to GSO. By the time we got back I was really in a bad way, and ended up spending a month in the hospital. "It took them a while to figure out exactly what happened to me, I'd never experienced anything like that before, even on long suborbital training flights. As it turns out, I lack the natural radiation resistance normal people have. Two passes through the radiation belts took their toll." Here, Doc paused, holding up a hand flat over the table. He let out a deep breath, closed his eyes... and the hand began to tremble. "Permanent neurological damage. If I concentrate, I can control it..." the tremoring stopped, then he balled his hand into a fist, "but it gets a little harder every year. At least informally, they called it— you're gonna laugh— they called it 'Kraken syndrome,' and— wait, are you ok?" The whole world seemed to go dark for an instant before a bright flash of pain across her mind cast it in negative. Unthinking, her hands gripped the table as if she might fall off. But once again, as quickly as it came, the sensation was gone. She rubbed at the wide, flat spot between her eyes, realizing how tired she really was, "yes, am fine... just... another headache. What were you saying?" Doc frowned at her, putting a hand to the little scar on his chin before shrugging, "well, anyways, silly name, right? But that's what it looked like, when they shot me full of ferrofluid marker and stuck my head in a nano-scale MRI machine. Like... shadows. Little squid-like shadows on all of my nerve cells. "That was the end of things," he continued, "you can't be a doctor if your hands shake. And you can't be a kerbonaut if only a few weeks in low orbit would be enough radiation to kill you." Sighing, he looked toward the other table, "Edgas ran into me as I was clearing my room at the Space Center. Like, literally. Bought me a not-drink at that funny little not-cantina down by the water. He was preparing to take over at the little polar research outpost, and needed a medic and, I guess, advisor. I needed something to do with my life before I went crazy. So, well, here I am. Been here ever since." She followed Doc's eyes to the other group, and the unassuming fellow at the head of the table. Something... something was whispering to her, telling her she should be very disturbed at the flashes of memory she'd seen, something was wrong, and yet... as she looked on at the laughing bunch, she felt an odd sort of happiness herself, as if he were radiating it... No, as if... Suddenly his eyes moved to her, concern flashing in them and she stifled a gasp. Doc didn't seem to notice, "he's probably the most genuine, guileless person I've ever met." "Indeed," she said, not really hearing. Something, in that moment Gas-man... Edgas looked at her... how he looked at her... But more importantly, she was supposed to be doing something. Something important. Right now, before any more time passed. Something to do with... She sighed and shuddered at the same time. "Er, I... need to go back to the med bay," she rose, feeling subtle tremors in her own hands, "I feel... ill..." Doc frowned, "hmm, ate too fast, I’ll bet. Do you need a hand..?" "I can... manage..." she clicked the walker toward the hall, but Doc followed anyway. She had to do something... something about a kraken... Click. Click. Click.

I’m a bus driver. I thinking it would be awesome to even watch a test like that, but the probably don’t let plebs in for those. Y’know, like because of what happened on the last test.

Well, it’s good to know the ridiculous amount of money I spend on Amazon buying crap is at least going to good use. Pity their test facility is down in Texas when their factory is up here. Not like they’d let me in, anyway, but still...

Sigh. Still working on this. Serious case of the real lifes the last couple weeks, so it’s looking more like two back-to-back chapters if only to preserve my own sanity. As a wise man once told me, better is the enemy of the good. Hoping to maybe have something up late tonight.

@Lo Var Lachland DД! @Just Jim cuz that’s how my mind works, see you & raise you:

The sudden crushing acceleration would liquify the poor guy shortly before compression heating finished the job. Still end up with powdered Kerbal.

A Kerbal going orbital speed at sea level is gonna end up extwa kwispy long before he hits the ground.

. . . Why do I get the feeling this will instead be used to instantly vaporize scores of hapless Kerbals?

So... so does this mean we get free candy?