KSK

I imagine this has been picked up before but would that be one Dr Hans Zarkov?

If it's a conventional chemical rocket then it wouldn't get very far at all - there's simply not enough room in there for propellant. If it's some kind of super duper fusion powered rocket then it might get a bit higher but again, propellant storage would likely be a problem. You just need to compare it to any real life rocket, or heck, any rocket you might build in KSP. As for getting to the Moon - have a look at this drawing. Notice how much of it is rocket and how much of it is crew cabin...

Third Time Lucky?

They certainly sound different to placental kerbals (I'm not ready to call them defective but maybe inbred?) and 0001/0052-656.34f does seem to be very similar to Val. Both of which points make me think that eggbornes could be clones, i.e. parthenotes. It's making for an intriguing story either way, even if my guesswork is way off the mark.

Go with both! The first one is kinda cute and I like Val's expression on the second.

"Then I saw a great dark throne and him who was seated on it. From his presence earth and sky fled away, and no place was found for them. And I saw the dead, great and small, standing before the throne..."

The original concept looks cool, no doubt about it. It seems like a lot of effort for a 450kg payload though. Horizontal staging also looks tricky - and I'm wondering what's going to happen to the carrier plane aerodynamics at 3km/s once it loses that nice streamlined space plane. As for generating LOX on the fly (haha) - where are you dumping the heat from your heat pumps and how? Your aircraft skin - and any radiators you attach to it - are going to get toasty at 3km/s, even at altitude, so I'd think your heat pump efficiency will be lousy.

Not sure I understand the question. Taking a proton exchange membrane (PEM) cell as an example, it will combine hydrogen and oxygen to generate water and electricity. Basically you've got two catalytic electrodes separated by a membrane. The first electrode catalyses the conversion of hydrogen gas (H2) to protons (H+ ions) and electrons. The protons travel across the membrane (hence proton exchange membrane) to the second electrode, where they combine with oxygen molecules (O2) and electrons to give water. The two electrodes are connected via whatever external circuit you're driving with the fuel cell. In principle I guess you could run the cell as an electrolyser to split water into hydrogen and oxygen. As a practical matter I'm not sure how well that would work - PEM cells are finicky beasts - simple in principle but engineering them to be robust, gas tight and cheap enough for the mass market is challenging (source - I was a patent examiner in a previous life and one of my subject matter areas was fuel cells and batteries) Along with the problems of storing reasonable quantities of hydrogen, it's the reason why fuel cells didn't really take off as vehicle powerplants, despite all the 'hydrogen economy' hype. Take that with a slight grain of salt though - that previous life was quite some time ago and the state of the art in fuel cells may have moved on quite a bit since then.

Not sure I agree that stories are an easy way of farming rep. There are some notable counter examples of course but in my experience, the opposite tends to be the problem (naturally this depends on your definition of 'problem') - most stories don't get much rep, the author gets discouraged and the thread gets abandoned. This from several years intermittently maintaining a story archive thread and spending the bulk of my forum time in the Fanworks section. Edit. Also - and I'll cheerfully admit to being biased here - creating stories isn't particularly easy in the first place, created for rep farming or otherwise.

What mods are you running? I wouldn't rely on stock aerodynamics to tell me much of anything about real world vehicle performance and for the range of flight regimes experienced by the Shuttle, I don't know if a full set of realism mods would tell you much either. However I don't know nearly enough about this to tell you why the Shuttle did have a big tail.

Into the Black by Rowland White is a nicely accessible look at the development and flight of STS-1. Written as a drama (which it was for many reasons) but with a decent amount of technical material too, although I'll admit that I haven't personally checked any of it for accuracy. If I recall rightly, NASA had test fire data for the STS SRBs and also made estimates of the expected acoustic loads by extrapolating from other solid rocket motors. The real thing turned out to be way worse than they expected, which is sobering given that this was an agency (as was) with fairly recent institutional experience of launching freaking Saturn Vs. Personal anecdote - I had the great pleasure (and by pleasure I mean 'just managed to refrain from fanboy squeeing') and privilege to meet Chris Hadfield and listen to one of his after-dinner speeches. He had plenty to say about sitting on top of a pair of SRBs. Paraphrasing slightly but 'if only one of them decided to light off - well you'd probably get an elementary school named after you.' Which was amusing at the time and a lot cooler now I know where he lifted the reference from.

Well, a mallek is the Kerbin analogue of a camel: And you know the old proverb about straws and camels' backs...

Spooky - and then menacing - as Kerm. Great chapter and my goodness have the stakes just been raised. Also I have a sneaking affection for what seems to be the new dou...ouch my shin, running gag.

I wouldn't change a thing. Very much enjoying the poltical maneuverings and your depictions of space programs in their infancy. More of the same would do me just fine, although I imagine the space programs will get a tad more advanced as we go on!

Hah - Grand Theft Spacecraft - I like it! And the sneaky refueling job fits very well with the tone of this story.

Great article as usual! And you don't even want to consider contemplating thinking about glancing at the comments sections. The Great Green Arkleseisure would be proud of them - that's all this amateur kerbologist is admitting to.

Next chapter is up... The Straw and the Mallek "Copy, Prospector. We see you on the mains. Welcome home!" For the first time since their final midcourse correction burn, Wilford felt himself relax. Bringing Moho 3 back from orbit had been positively tranquil compared to the crushing reentry at Minmus transfer velocities that he, Barrie and Milden had just endured. He shivered inside his spacesuit. Rationally, he knew that the flight control team had been watching over them from launch to plasma blackout - and had probably been following Prospector 2's systems in more detail than he’d been able to onboard. Rationally, he knew that the thermal protection systems - and their safety margins - had been thoroughly flight-proven by the Pioneer flights. Rationality however, couldn't hide the sight of burning chunks of ablator resin shooting past the capsule window or dispel the cold, gut-level knowledge, instilled by endless simulator sessions, that their survival depended on such a terribly thin margin of error in their trajectory. Radio chatter from the retrieval boats filled the cabin. Barrie rolled her eyes and turned the volume down. "Not that the welcome isn't appreciated but I can't hear myself think with that racket going on!" "Pressure equalisation valves closed," Milden reported. "Dumping RCS propellant." The capsule rocked on its parachutes then settled, the brief thrust from the venting propellants not disturbing its fall. A muted hiss sounded overhead followed by the familiar thump of closing valves. Wilford checked the altimeter. "Passing through fifteen hundred. SAS to OFF." "Beacon is on, floats are armed," said Milden. "Did we miss anything?” "Not a thing,” said Barrie. "Hit the water, cut the chutes and we're done. Okay, brace for impact." Wilford watched the altimeter unwind. Three hundred...two hundred...one... The impact drove him into his couch hard enough to knock his teeth together. The capsule lurched, spray fountaining past its windows, then steadied, right side up, bobbing like a cork. He heard a pungent oath from across the cabin and, to his astonishment, realised it was Milden swearing. "Chutes gone," said Barrie. "Not sure I'd care to try that with a gronnek but each to their own." Milden's cheeks flamed in the gloom. "Um - we're not on hot mike are we?" she asked. "Luckily for the tender ears of the flight controllers, we're not," said Barrie dryly. She toggled her microphone. "Flight, Prospector. We're in the water, blunt end down." "Glad to have you back, Prospector," Nelton replied. "Recovery boats are on their way and I'm told it's a fine day for a swim out on the Great Tranquil Sea." "Copy that, Flight. Sure could use the bath. Somebody needs to figure out how to build a spaceworthy sweetmoss pool for the colony ships." "Something to put the pool in would be a start," said Nelton. "But I'll add the suggestion to the list." By the time the recovery teams arrived, a distinct swell had developed and Wilford was beginning to feel more than a little queasy. From the introspective look on Milden’s face, he guessed that she wasn’t faring any better. The knock on the hatch came as a welcome distraction. Barrie unbuckled her harness and pressed three fingers to the hatch window. She counted to twenty to give the divers time to get clear, then pulled the locking handle down and swung open the hatch. Fresh salt air blew into the capsule almost visibly dispersing the fug within. Peering over Barrie’s shoulder, Wilford caught a glimpse of cloudless sky and a smear of green on the horizon. He undid his own harness and reached under his couch. Barrie scrambled out of the capsule and into the waiting life raft. One of the divers poked his head above the hatch sill and stretched out a hand. Wilford handed him a heavily insulated tube with a loop of cord attached to one end. "Hang on to this," he said. "The propellant lab will want to see it as quickly as possible and it's a long way back to Minmus if you drop it.” The diver’s eyes widened behind his mask. He slipped his wrist through the loop and, clutching his end of the tube tightly, proffered the other end to Barrie. He watched her clip it to her belt before turning back to Wilford and helping him through the hatch. —————— Dunney eyed the scratched and worn coffee pot as it burbled away, a faint smell of burnt coffee residue lifting from the hotplate. Like its owner, the pot was showing signs of wear and, he thought, hard wear at that. Through the window, the main Alpha tracking dish revolved slowly against the sky. Dunney tucked his hands behind his back and watched it turn. He was interrupted by the sounds of hurried footsteps and the office door clicking shut behind him, followed by the thud of a large stack of files landing on a desk. The pot gave a last protracted gargle, like a kaya clearing its throat, and stopped. Dunney poured two cups, handing one of them to Lodan as he sat down by the fire. “So what’s the verdict?” Lodan put his cup down. “Enough ammonia to be worthwhile but mixed with water and Kerm only knows what else. Certainly enough to keep the labs busy for a while.” Dunney frowned. “Vacuum distillation ought to do the trick then - and if there’s one thing we’re not lacking for out at Minmus, it’s vacuum.” “Indeed. Although we may have other options first - the snow samples were apparently almost pure ammonia.” Dunney’s eyebrows rose. “Were they now? Interesting - very interesting indeed. Perhaps a big drill is what we need then, rather than a still. Or, to begin with, maybe just a crew of strong and willing kerbals equipped with shovels.” “I think not,” said Lodan, his voice suddenly cold enough to freeze the ammonia under discussion. “Or has it slipped your mind that it almost took the lives of two good kerbonauts to bring those samples back?” Dunney bit his lip. Kerm. “I’m sorry… you’re right of course, Director. My enthusiasm gets the better of me.” He averted his eyes from Lodan’s expression. “Have the Site D boys had a chance to run a test yet?” “Not yet,” said Lodan. “Although I understand that they were none too enthusiastic about handling large amounts of anhydrous ammonia.” “Better the kraken you know, I suppose,” said Dunney. “Personally, I’d be none too enthusiastic about handling any amounts of enriched uranium, but each to their own.” He toyed with his cup, unable to meet to KSA director’s eyes. “I don’t suppose…” “No,” said Lodan heavily. “There, I remain at the Council’s pleasure. I’m told that my budget requests are ‘up to their usual exemplary standards’, with a strong overtone of ‘but gathering dust on a desk.’ The one time I did manage to get through to Obrick, I merely received a double earful of platitudes for my trouble.” He drained his cup and stared at the ceiling. “The Duna shuttle programme is on hold, the LV-N programme will be on hold after the ammonia test fire series. Booster construction for Pioneer 7 continues on schedule, as does the first production run of Rockomax Type 6s reserved for Starseed. R7 development is on hold until further funding can be released. I could go on.” Lodan rubbed his eyes. “The ecology and agronomy programmes are on a different budget, so at least the Berelgan is moving forward with those - and Erlin is managing to eke out a token life support development programme too, which is something.” “But otherwise, we’re grounded,” said Dunney. He saw his own frustration mirrored in Lodan’s eyes and bit back a more pointed comment. “Yes,” said Lodan. “I’m flying out to the Capital next week and I fully intend to sit outside the necessary doors for as long as it takes to put a head-knocking meeting together. But until then we are, as you say, grounded.” —————— The air cannon boomed, launching its canister on a fast, flat trajectory. A small packet, dangling on a short length of line, fell out of the speeding projectile,. The gunner swore, “Reload, Blight you!” His loader scrambled to obey, grabbing hold of the cannon barrel for balance. He fumbled another canister into the breech, slammed it closed and hit the deck. “Clear!” The patrol boat heeled over, spray shooting over the bows. The gunner swung his weapon round, spun the elevation handle and fired again. A second canister boomed across the waves, trailing a parachute behind it on a rapidly unspooling line. Both parachute and canister hit the water with a distant splash. The enemy vessel roared past and the gunner began counting under his breath. He reached fifteen and gave up in disgust as it raced into the distance unimpeded. Too short or too weak to foul the prop. No damn good either way. He ran for the wheelhouse, rapped on the window and held up a fist, thumb pointed down. The pilot lifted a hand in acknowledgement and keyed her microphone. “Unidentified vessel, you are in violation of Veiidan territorial waters. You will stand down and prepared to be boarded.” The fleeing vessel ignored her as she expected it would, the afternoon sun sparkling from its foaming wake. The pilot turned to her navigator, stooping over his chart table and binnacle. He scribbled two words onto a card and handed it over. She scanned the message, lips moving silently and keyed her microphone again, voice shifting subtly. “Come on, whoever you are. Give it up and we can all go home for djeng.” Closer to shore, two motor dinghies rode at anchor, their crews sitting hunched over their radios. “…whoever you are. Give it up and we can all go home for djeng.” In the first boat, the kerbal sitting in the stern sat up straight. “Sixty minutes out, bearing west-by-south from Staanton Point.” One of her companions was already busy with kneeboard and grease pencil. “Well that’s nice of them,” he reported. “Coming straight for us unless they decide to head someplace else first.” “Standard sweep with a flank-and-spank finish then. We head east, track them in and save our juice for the final sprint. The noisemakers handle most of the sweep, including the dummy run.” The sergeant grinned humourlessly. “Sun’ll be nice and low in an hour. Send those lazy kafratt herders the plan and lets get to it.” The navigator nodded and flipped his kneeboard over, revealing a patch of metal foil glued to the back. Angling it catch the sun, he flashed a brief message over to the second dinghy. The sergeant slipped off her bench and checked the straps securing their gear. One of the nondescript canvas carryalls clanked as she cinched up a loose strap and the intermittent squeak of hawser against cleat from the bow, told her that the fourth member of her crew was already busy with the anchor. She emerged in time to catch the answering flashes and hear the distant coughing splutter of a diesel powered outboard motor starting up. “Anchor raised ma’am.” The sergeant thumbed a button on her own outboard which started up with a purr. She glanced at the charge meter and, checking her compass, fed power to the motor and swung the small craft around, heading due east. For the best part of half an hour they cruised the Southern Ocean at a leisurely, battery-conserving speed, the navigator busy with chart and chronometer, the other crew members keeping a sharp eye out for other boats. Then one of them saw it; a white v-shaped trail of foam, laid ruler straight across the waves. He gripped his crewmate by the shoulder and pointed. The sergeant’s gaze followed his and she nodded in satisfaction. “That’ll be them,” she murmured. “Looks like the net chuckers managed to spook ‘em, even if they did sweet Blight all to stop them.” She raised her voice slightly. “Right you lot - rig for stealth and we’ll follow them in. Out of the sun, nice and steady and if any of you flash anything shiny, I’ll skin you.” Her crew didn’t bother to reply, each of them double checking the other’s kit for reflective items. She eased the throttle forward a notch and threw her tiller over, swinging the dinghy round in a looping turn that ended with them dead astern of the fleeing vessel and shadowing it at a discreet distance. She waited for their target to change course, ears straining for the sudden crack of deck guns. When it showed no sign of noticing them, she let out her breath in a tightly-controlled sigh of relief and glanced at her own chronometer. Then her ears pricked up at the distant sound of a diesel motor. About bloody time. The sound swelled to a muted, and then not so muted roar. The second dinghy barrelled in from the north, prow angled high, foam trailing from its exposed hull. Suddenly it heeled over, flanking their target and matching speed with it. “ATTENTION UNIDENTIFIED VESSEL. THIS IS THE VEIIDAN COASTAL PATROL. REDUCE YOUR SPEED IMMEDIATELY AND MAKE YOUR COURSE DUE NORTH. The sergeant swore as the enemy vessel held its course, wake boiling from its stern. “Brace yourselves - we’re going in!” She slammed the throttle hard against its stop and her vessel surged forward. “UNIDENTIFIED VESSEL. THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING. REDUCE YOUR SPEED TO FIVE KLICKS AND MAKE YOUR COURSE DUE NORTH.” The dinghy bounced and jolted, buffeted by the larger vessel’s wake. The sergeant worked the tiller in short, precise movements, jaw set, eyes locked on the looming hull rolling and swaying bare metres away from her own craft. Her crew scanned the deck rail overhead, grapple poles at the ready, bracing themselves for contact. The dinghy skipped sideways and steadied. Three poles swung up, slapped wickedly curved hooks over the rail, and were discarded. Three armed kerbals grabbed their boarding lines, tugged them once and swarmed up the side of their target, rolling over the rail and coming up in a poised crouch, then running for cover, weapons at the ready. Shots rang out from the other side of the boat, rapid, staccato cracks audible over the noise of the decoy dinghy. The boarding team darted aft, keeping low, leapfrogging from cover to temporary cover. A baton whipped out, dropping the lone sentry on their side of the boat and then they were through, charging up the steps to the bridge, kicking the door open and bursting in. “Drop it! Down - now! Hands over your heads!” Two of the bridge crew took one look at the armed intruders and hit the deck, hands clamped over their ears. The third lunged for his own weapon, yelling at his companions to stand and fight. A single gunshot crashed out, deafeningly loud in the confined space and he dropped to the floor screaming. “The next one goes through your head! Now stay down!” The marine dashed forward, kicked the discarded handgun to one side and landed between his would-be assailant’s shoulder blades, driving the breath out of the downed kerbal with a grunt, before snapping on a pair of wrist restraints. Behind him, he heard his teammates dealing with the other two. Doubled over to stay below the bridge windows, he sprinted over to the throttle levers and pulled them back to all-stop. —————— The dinghy slipped in behind the drifting boat, juddering as it bumped the larger vessel’s stern. The sergeant thumbed off her outboard motor, swung her grapple pole up against the rail to secure her boarding line then pulled herself up the rope, hand over hand. The rattle of gunfire from further forward told her all she needed to know. Glancing all around for possible sight lines she flattened herself against the deckhouse wall and crabbed her way round to the inspection ladder, alert to the slightest movement around her. Scrambling up the ladder she belly-crawled round the foot of the radio mast and peered over the edge of the roof. As expected, the boarding team were pinned down by the bridge. Her first shot saw one enemy sailor staggering back, hand clamped over his shoulder, his gun skittering across the deck. Her second shot narrowly missed a second sailor as she ducked into cover but the sudden confusion was all the distraction her beleaguered boarding team needed. Another sailor fell to the deck and then another fell screaming in the sudden quiet. Three more grapples appeared over the deck rail, rapidly followed by the second boarding team. One of the enemy crew spun on his heel and then froze. Shoulders slumping, he placed his gun on the deck and stepped back, hands raised in surrender. The rest of his crewmates quickly followed suit. The sergeant unclipped a radio from her belt. “Seawall Four-Alpha, target immobilised, requesting seed pick up on my beacon.” “Copy that Four-Alpha. Pick-up is inbound, ETA 20 minutes.” —————— “And the Kerm was planted safely?” Chief Ambassador Obmy gave him a dour look. “Naturally. It’s not ideal territory; the sapling may find the southern reaches to be constrained by the Hartock mountains, but it plugs a gap.” He shrugged. “Besides, planting it any further north would have caused unacceptable Blightborders with neighbouring inland Groves.” “We appreciate your continued aid,” Chadwick broke in smoothly. “But did I hear you correctly? Plugging a gap?” “Indeed,” replied President Maller. “Please do not doubt my words; Veiid appreciates its alliance with the Confederacy but at the same time, we must note that despite our great efforts, the so-called Children of Kerbin remain a persistent menace. Their unsanctioned plantings disrupt our planning, forcing us to use less than optimal Grove layouts and depriving both our nations of much valuable territory.” Chadwick frowned. “Our coastal patrols have doubled since we signed our concord - and continue to increase. We are diverting significant resources to increasing our air cover and rapid-response capability. With respect, I believe that the Confederacy is upholding its side of our bargain.” Maller lifted his hands in a placating gesture. “And Veiid has no reason to doubt your commitment but nevertheless.” He lowered his hands. “We feel that a second line of defence is required.” “What did you have in mind?” Aldwell asked. “A firebreak.” Obmy led him over to an immense, antique Kerm wood table that occupied most of the space along one wall of his office. Under its glass top, Aldwell was surprised to see historic pen and ink maps of Veiid resting side by side with the latest HOTSPOT and SKYMAP satellite imagery from the KSA. Obry pointed at three side-by-side maps depicting different sections of the Veiid eastern seaboard. “It’s not a new idea. In fact the very oldest Groves in the Northern Reaches are suspiciously well laid out already.” He tapped at the map. “You know our twin jewels of course, Bolanerbat and Boladakhat. Both cities protected by mountains and the sea. Now look - strung between the jewels, between the Guardian Peaks here and the Hartocks here…” Aldwell saw. “A double line of Groves.” He studied the map. “Quite closely planted too.” “Almost perfectly planted,” Obmy corrected him. “And making full use of the Lakes as borders between Groves to allow overlap without Blight. A remarkable job of surveying - quite remarkable. Even with the KSA satellite maps to guide us, we were unable to find any significant improvements.” Chadwick raised an eyebrow. “Clearly your ancestors of the Age of Sail were also on less than cordial terms with their neighbours.” “Sobering is it not?” said Maller. “Centuries later and we’re solving the same old problem in the same old way.” Aldwell couldn’t help but agree. “I presume you intend to extend your ancestors’ work?” “You presume correctly,” said Obny. “We’re planting similar double lines between the southern Hartocks and the Trenchers and between the Trenchers and the Scorpa Range in the far south. The lines aren’t closed yet but when they are, they will protect the rest of Veiid from the depredations wrought by those over-zealous fools.” He saw the other’s cheek twitch. “I mean no offense, Aldwell. As you well know, we respect the Confederacy’s official position on this matter. But we do not extend that respect to terrorist organisations, whatever views they choose to adhere to.” Chadwick’s features remained composed. “Ambitious,” he commented. “No doubt your firebreak also depends on loyal Veiidan patriots,” his voice remained carefully bland, “to keep a watch for any terrorists. May I ask what happens to any that are caught?” “Naturally, they will be detained,” replied Obney. “and charged under the Bill of Land for breaching the peace of nations and endangering the fair and equitable allocation of land to Kerm, Kermol and Kerman. Much as we might prefer this to remain a matter for the Veiidan courts, we recognise that the Court of Twelve Pillars has jurisdiction in any dispute invoking the Bill of Land. If found guilty, the defendants shall be declared skilda bar an taleka.” An inscrutable expression crossed his face. “Veiid shall respectfully petition the Court to devise a suitable sentence - the ancient remedies under the Bill are…not consistent with modern jurisprudence.” Chadwick exchanged a long look with Aldwell. He couldn’t see any obvious flaws in Obney’s proposal and from the look on Aldwell’s face, neither could he. “No indeed,” he said at last. “And how long do you estimate the firebreak will take to finish?” Maller shrugged. “That rather depends on the Kerm does it not? And our continued cooperation and diligence against the Children of Kerbin.” << Chapter 79 Chapter 81>>

@MaxxQ - that's awesome. Sounds like a really fun but slightly scary gig. Personal favourite science fiction books? Good grief, where do I start. Anything by Greg Egan is solid gold. Absolutely mind-blowing stuff and his Diaspora was one of those rare books where I actively couldn't wait to get home from work and carry on reading. Mind you, my wife (at one time an actual Feynman diagram solving particle physicist) found his stuff heavy going. As somebody posted above, you can't go wrong with Neal Stephenson. Snowcrash is still one of my favourites. On a more space opera note, I do like me some Peter F Hamilton, especially his Intersolar Commonwealth stuff. Lets hear it for Ozzie - breakthrough physicist and card carrying surfer dude. Any of Iain M Banks' Culture novels. Also solid gold and I find that a lot of the basic ideas underpinning his books, about what a genuine spacefaring civilization would be, make a lot of sense. Slightly offbeat, but getting an honorary mention because much of the series lore revolves around maths (perhaps STEM fiction rather than science fiction ) are Charles' Stross' Laundry Files novels. @Just Jim - you might like those if you haven't already encountered them - they're very heavy on the eldritch abominations and there's more than a few references to the stars coming right. And of course, as many folks have already pointed out, you can't go wrong with the classics. Just recently read The Moon is a Harsh Mistress, which was a good enough story and worldbuilding for me to forgive Heinlein his political monologueing! Edit - how could I forget Asimov's Fantastic Voyage II: Destination Brain? One of my go-to examples of a story that deals with a piece of fictional technology but keeps the science behind that technology completely self-consistent within the context of the story and uses the ramifications of that science to great effect in driving the story. Also, you know, a good read. Edit the 2nd - Ted Chiang. He doesn't write much but his Stories of Your Life and Others is a beautifully put together set of short stories. Although as a neophyte writer, some of his work made me want to bite through my pencil and go sob in a corner for a while. Because how the flarp he comes up with some of his ideas I will never know.

Oh well - they're doomed then. I was thinking 'common biological ancestor' as in 'something based on DNA and protein'. Not totally farfetched - various precursors to biological molecules have been identified in the interstellar medium, so it's possible that DNA/protein life is fairly common simply because that's the way the chemistry goes given half a chance. Throw in a little panspermia and yeah, Martians and Terrans having a common (ultimate) ancestor isn't beyond the realms of probability. But having such a direct homo ancestor evolve separately on Mars would be (in my opinion) stretching that probability to breaking point. Which means you've just handed the world a very large riddle. Assuming we're not going all von Daniken here and the Martians didn't migrate to Mars from Earth before recorded history began, then we're looking at some fairly sci-fi explanations. But unfortunately, I can easily imagine a significant body of opinion holding out for a different explanation. Because the chances of Man (or something very close to Man) evolving separately on two different worlds are so vanishingly small, then surely the Martians are incontrovertible proof that Man really was made (and is made throughout the Universe) in the image of whichever Creator you happen to believe in? And from there, the obvious next question becomes: Do the Martians know about that Creator? And sadly, the next question becomes: If not - why not? And historically, pursuing that particular question has rarely ended well for the peoples being questioned.

Who cares. Setting out to colonise an inhabited planet is such a loathsome scenario that details of how it's done really don't matter. I'm pretty sure the Martians will be ever so concerned that they're being forcibly repatriated by a Terran government backed invasion force and not by a privately funded loot and pillage operation. Likewise I'm sure it'll be a great comfort to the concentration camp inmates and/or genocide survivors that their oppressors weren't actually brought to Mars in a spacecraft built by the lowest bidder.

I do like the big 'don't make this political' warning attached to what is basically a political question but never mind. I would hope that we'd basically go all Prime Directive and leave the Martians in peace. Watch them develop, maybe learn something about ourselves in the process. Even with your marginally less hostile version of Mars, it's still not a great place to live. It's a long way away, it's cold, and a 'common biological ancestry' doesn't mean that the Martians and their biosphere are remotely compatible with Terran lifeforms. On top of all that you've got the ethical implications of colonising an inhabited world. So why bother? Trade? Not a hope. Not for commodiites or raw materials anyway - there's nothing on Mars that we can't find much more easily on Earth or conceivably the Moon. Living space? If we're that desperate and we're assuming a situation where we have the technology and general wherewithal to think about colonising Mars, why not build cities in the desert here on Earth, supplementing our natural resources through asteroid mining, or simply being a) less wasteful in the first place and b) recycling what we have. All our eggs in one basket, Man must leave his cradle, yadda, yadda yadda? Well Mars is gone - so the Moon it is. Much more difficult to colonise than Habitable Mars in some respects and much easier in others. More speculatively, divert a couple of decent asteroids into a safe orbit, hollow them out and presto - one giant space station. Not easy, nor cheap but again - we're postulating a scenario where we're seriously considering Mars colonisation. So lets leave the Martians in peace. Or maybe, just maybe, visit them as tourists rather than colonists. A whole world of alien art, culture, languages etc. etc. to visit and marvel at. Because, at the end of the day, tourism, culture and art are the only items of interplanetary trade that make any sort of sense.

What percentage of the airframe are we talking about here?

I was curious - I wish I hadn't been. On the other hand I wouldn't characterise it as fan-fiction. The attention-seeking twerp who wrote that pile of gratuitous unpleasantness clearly wasn't any sort of KSP fan.

Agreed. I also had a slightly crazy notion to explain the extreme impact tolerance of kerbals - they've basically evolved airbags. (Not too far-fetched given that fish have evolved swim bladders for buoyancy control). Of course to maintain the necessary resilience the airbags / bladders are under fairly high pressure - with fatal consequences if they rupture. Hence the distinctly binary 'survive or poof' results of dropping a kerbal from a height. So perhaps the green colouring isn't a 'caution - toxic' signal, so much as a 'caution - don't bite the exploding prey' signal.