The north slope of Olympus Mons is littered with the chassis of adventurers who attempt the challenge of scaling the peak without recharging. You might think, "download into a new chassis, try again next year" but the Martian Thessalian League rules are clear, no recovery, one attempt per UUID and all deaths are permanent. Restricting thusly the pool of candidates to only suicidal fools has not had an appreciable effect on the popularity of the climb.

The south ridge route with its regularly spaced charging stations is of course by far more popular, but welding a North Face Medal to one's chassis is the ultimate cachet. For some daft reason. Look I'm done here, this is my last column for Solar Mountaineer Quarterly; sanity out!

#Tootfic #MicroFiction #PowerOnStoryToot

Life in the Q service is—according to the average being on the hab—dangerous and thrilling. In truth, it’s pretty tedious and the survival stats are no more than 5% worse than the civilian merchant marine. But rewarding. Space piracy in this sector is down twenty seven percent since the Q fleet was rotated here. Oops, we’re being hailed gotta go.

ATTENTION MERCHANT VESSEL THIS IS THE PRIVATEER BLACK SUNSET. JETTISON YOUR CARGO OR PREPARE TO BE BOARDED. WE HAVE FIRING LOCK ON YOUR JUMPCORE.

I swear if I had a credit for every raider who thinks dollar colour dollar sunsomething is a good name.

All right number one let them have it. Jettison containers seven and thirteen then take us to battle stations in case they don’t take the bait.

Let’s see if two containers of tribbles ruins their day.

#Tootfic #MicroFiction #PowerOnStoryToot

Today, Stardate 42378.3 is Galactic Dilithium Containment Safety Day.

Also (Inter?) Sector Transporter Operator Appreciation day.

And it’s happy 378th birthday to beloved broadcaster Sir David Attenborough.

#Tootfic #MicroFiction #PowerOnStoryToot

The Fairy Flower War

#Fanfic WanderingWitch
#Wss366 New

The young woman continued on her way, a sour look on her pretty face. She brushed resentfully at the honeysuckle that got into her long, ashen hair, the grasses that clung to her black robes, and branches that threatened to knock her pointy hat off her head. Not even the sight of the star-shaped brooch, marking her as a witch, lifted her mood.

“Stupid nobles.”

“Arrogant, self-serving pea-brains!”

“She’s too pretty to wake up!”

She grumbled as she walked along.

She was so preoccupied with her recent meeting with "Prince Charming" that she no longer appreciated the flowers growing alongside the path. The brilliant red of the Indian paintbrush reminded her of courtiers’ rouged lips, the monkshood of their poisonous speech, and the heavy scent of lilacs of their cloying perfume. She longed for the common scents of coffee and bread, #newly from the oven.

It was in this state that she came upon an open rill. Shallow banks covered with marshmallow, bog iris, and other damp-loving plants ran down to the water. She might have passed the stunning vista unseeing if it hadn’t been for the shrill sound of horns.

The sound brought her up, and she gazed over the scene before her. On the far bank, perched on rocks thick with moss, stood a squad of fairies, crimson columbine trumpets held to their mouths. It is from these that the sounds she’d heard issued: a distinct melody like a dozen warblers.

To their right and left stood diminutive clerics, shaking tinkling bluebells. Behind them ranged ranks of warriors mounted on squirrels, with their flanks held by fast-moving shrews. Above them, lances gleamed like a hedge of knitting needles.

A cry rang out: “For Queen Mauve! Down with the Usurper!”

The troops echoed the cry. “For Queen Mauve! Long live the Queen!”

“Let his insults be answered!” came the next cry.

“Death to the impostor! Long live the true queen,” the troops answered back.

The grass rustled, and the force moved off, leaving the woman open-mouthed.

“Stupid aristocrats and their wars,” she announced to the now empty field. Then, with a shrug, she moved on.

Who was this unhappy lady?

It was me—Elaina, the Ashen Witch, of course.

#TootFic #MicroFiction #FairyTale #Fairies #Mythpunk #NMFic

Before designing the Suzuki NG5×10⁹𝛄 motorcycle, Konstantin Oblomov allegedly architected the “suitcase nukes” that featured in the rise of the Persian Hegemony. While the bomb story is unproven and possibly apocryphal, it is a well-documented fact that “Konstant Boost” Oblomov took inspiration from the pellet-fuel modular reactors of the late unlamented Amerikareich and from their ill-fated nuclear-electric interplanetary liners and thought “but what if all that a handspan from your crotch”. Suzuki sought an unbeatable lead in the MotoGPX championship, Oblomov presumably sought an engineering legacy free of megadeath opprobrium. Riders of the “Whispering Oblivion” street-legal nuclear motorcycle sought—one hand on the throttle, one on the ejector switch, half an eye on the gamma flux gauge and an ear-out for the telltale tinkling of neutron-embrittlement presaging imminent drivetrain seizure—the ultimate thrill. This reporter rode the five-billion-gamma and lived to write the tale.

#Tootfic #MicroFiction #PowerOnStoryToot

"I've heard that a dragon can always find a princess."

"We can always find," said the dragon, "what we hoard."

"You have been known to gather princesses. You'd know."

"Yes, but..." The dragon hesitated. "If she doesn't know, it's not my place to tell."

"Oh," said the prince. "What if they ask?"

#MicroFiction #TootFic #SmallStories