One of the things I truly love is landing the Explain Star in front of people who don't expect it.
The Star has a very recognizable silhouette from a distance. Most people when they first see her actually think she's one of her more famous cousins. This has worked to our advantage once or twice, spooking folks who think the 'danelaw is approaching and bugging out fast. It's gotten us into a few impromptu firefights, too, but that's a story for another time. Still, the resemblance from a distance is striking; the distinctive black and white markings and double-delta wings are instantly recognizable to anybody familiar with the History of Spaceflight, 1961-2000.
The closer you get, the resemblance starts to fade a bit. The Star's lines are sharper, her nose a little more pointed, the big engine pods missing from the aft fuselage. Most people who don't know her history think that she's a mockup, a thrown-together copy built by fanboys without a proper reference guide. Which I suppose is true, from a certain point of view. She *is* a copy, but she's the *finest* copy 1986 Soviet aerospace technology could build of the finest rocketplane technology 1974 America had to offer.
Yeah, she can be a bit balky at times, and repairing stuff usually means whanging on it with a crescent wrench until it starts working again, but I swear to you that the combination of Soviet hardware and concentrated handwavium that is the Explain Star (nee Ptichka, formerly Buran airframe #1.02) is damned near inde-fucking-structable.
She also makes one hell of an impression upon arrival. We passed into the main hanger deck and the double-takes made the extra five hours hanging out in the entry queue all the more worthwhile. Phobos Control knew us already, so they had a good parking slip already lined up.
We also had a couple of fans waiting for us. For reasons that I will never understand, the Explain Star has become something of a minor legend amongst certain fannish fractions. It probably has to do with our successful libertation of the Star from the mundane authorities. Most folks buy or build their own hulls; *stealing* one, especially one with the history and mystique of the Last Soviet Space Shuttle, tends to attract some notice even in Fenspace.
Everything from there moved more or less like we expected. We popped the hatch, greeted our adoring public, got ourselves and our shit out and ready to move, and grabbed the next turbolift up the hab levels. Once we'd hit the main level, we spent some of our hard-earned JPL money (plus a little bit of our JPL footage) on accomodations, got our stuff moved into the rooms, then hit the convention space drinks in hand, ready for action.
The first little bit was nothing more than peoplewatching with a bit of light networking. Saying hi to fen we hadn't seen in a while, talking to folks who knew us or knew the Star, generally just taking a look at how the Nation had changed since the last time we'd been in the inner system. On the far pavillion the Pirate fraction were busy setting up their recruitment center. Thankfully it looked like station security or the organizers were keeping the various ninja clans far away. The floor was starting to fill up, and stagehands were getting the big central stage ready for our benefactors, the mysterious SOS Brigade.
"So," I muttered to Calc, the Star's sysadmin and legal counsel, "we ever figure out who these SOS guys are?"
Calc frowned. "Not exactly. They're Japanese, but they're not affiliated with the Otaking or any of the other major fractions." He took a sip of his Martian faux-Glenlivet and continued. "As far as I can tell, they only just out here a few months ago."
"Huh, and they're already calling a Convention?"
"Yeah, and they've got a pretty definite agenda too." I would've replied to this bit, but just as I was about to ask what the SOS agenda was, chief engineer KJ interrupted with more pressing business.
"Hey, isn't that Gristle McThornbody from Fox over there?" Gesturing in the general direction of the press booth, where a pack of mundane newsmuppets (as opposed to the fan newsmuppets, who tended to be, well, *actual* muppets. But I digress.) were busy jockeying for the best angle of the reception area to serve as background color. There in the thick of it, looking a bit green around the gills from all the gravity shifts between the hangar decks and the main living areas, was the blandly handsome face of the mundanes' finest Space Correspondent.
Excellent.
I handed my drink off to KJ. "Hold this, man. Be right back." I threaded my way through the crowds, getting closer and closer to the press area. As I drifted closer to the booth, I saw that McThornbody's camera light had just went on. Perfect. The booth was surrounded by gawkers, some waving into the cameras, others looking for the world like they wanted bags of popcorn to throw at the reporters. McThornbody was almost in reach, and I could hear him blathering into the camera about the Convention and the far-reaching implications.
Just as he got to the point in his script about "political backlash," I grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. "Oi! McThornbody!" I yelled cheerily as I proceeded to deck him with my free hand live on international TV. "That's for running out on the tab in St. Louis, you prick!"
Naturally, this caused a bit of a disturbance. Between the consternation of McThornbody's fellow reporters, the cheering of my fellow fans and McThornbody's bleating cries on the floor, the press booth suddenly got a *lot* livlier. I took advantage of the confusion to slip back into the crowd and back to my compatriots, who had apparently watched the whole thing unfold judging by the way they were nearly doubled over laughing.---
Mr. Fnord
http://fnord.sandwich.net/
http://www.jihad.net/
Mr. Fnord interdimensional man of mystery
FenWiki - Your One-Stop Shop for Fenspace Information
"I. Drink. Your. NERDRAGE!"
The Star has a very recognizable silhouette from a distance. Most people when they first see her actually think she's one of her more famous cousins. This has worked to our advantage once or twice, spooking folks who think the 'danelaw is approaching and bugging out fast. It's gotten us into a few impromptu firefights, too, but that's a story for another time. Still, the resemblance from a distance is striking; the distinctive black and white markings and double-delta wings are instantly recognizable to anybody familiar with the History of Spaceflight, 1961-2000.
The closer you get, the resemblance starts to fade a bit. The Star's lines are sharper, her nose a little more pointed, the big engine pods missing from the aft fuselage. Most people who don't know her history think that she's a mockup, a thrown-together copy built by fanboys without a proper reference guide. Which I suppose is true, from a certain point of view. She *is* a copy, but she's the *finest* copy 1986 Soviet aerospace technology could build of the finest rocketplane technology 1974 America had to offer.
Yeah, she can be a bit balky at times, and repairing stuff usually means whanging on it with a crescent wrench until it starts working again, but I swear to you that the combination of Soviet hardware and concentrated handwavium that is the Explain Star (nee Ptichka, formerly Buran airframe #1.02) is damned near inde-fucking-structable.
She also makes one hell of an impression upon arrival. We passed into the main hanger deck and the double-takes made the extra five hours hanging out in the entry queue all the more worthwhile. Phobos Control knew us already, so they had a good parking slip already lined up.
We also had a couple of fans waiting for us. For reasons that I will never understand, the Explain Star has become something of a minor legend amongst certain fannish fractions. It probably has to do with our successful libertation of the Star from the mundane authorities. Most folks buy or build their own hulls; *stealing* one, especially one with the history and mystique of the Last Soviet Space Shuttle, tends to attract some notice even in Fenspace.
Everything from there moved more or less like we expected. We popped the hatch, greeted our adoring public, got ourselves and our shit out and ready to move, and grabbed the next turbolift up the hab levels. Once we'd hit the main level, we spent some of our hard-earned JPL money (plus a little bit of our JPL footage) on accomodations, got our stuff moved into the rooms, then hit the convention space drinks in hand, ready for action.
The first little bit was nothing more than peoplewatching with a bit of light networking. Saying hi to fen we hadn't seen in a while, talking to folks who knew us or knew the Star, generally just taking a look at how the Nation had changed since the last time we'd been in the inner system. On the far pavillion the Pirate fraction were busy setting up their recruitment center. Thankfully it looked like station security or the organizers were keeping the various ninja clans far away. The floor was starting to fill up, and stagehands were getting the big central stage ready for our benefactors, the mysterious SOS Brigade.
"So," I muttered to Calc, the Star's sysadmin and legal counsel, "we ever figure out who these SOS guys are?"
Calc frowned. "Not exactly. They're Japanese, but they're not affiliated with the Otaking or any of the other major fractions." He took a sip of his Martian faux-Glenlivet and continued. "As far as I can tell, they only just out here a few months ago."
"Huh, and they're already calling a Convention?"
"Yeah, and they've got a pretty definite agenda too." I would've replied to this bit, but just as I was about to ask what the SOS agenda was, chief engineer KJ interrupted with more pressing business.
"Hey, isn't that Gristle McThornbody from Fox over there?" Gesturing in the general direction of the press booth, where a pack of mundane newsmuppets (as opposed to the fan newsmuppets, who tended to be, well, *actual* muppets. But I digress.) were busy jockeying for the best angle of the reception area to serve as background color. There in the thick of it, looking a bit green around the gills from all the gravity shifts between the hangar decks and the main living areas, was the blandly handsome face of the mundanes' finest Space Correspondent.
Excellent.
I handed my drink off to KJ. "Hold this, man. Be right back." I threaded my way through the crowds, getting closer and closer to the press area. As I drifted closer to the booth, I saw that McThornbody's camera light had just went on. Perfect. The booth was surrounded by gawkers, some waving into the cameras, others looking for the world like they wanted bags of popcorn to throw at the reporters. McThornbody was almost in reach, and I could hear him blathering into the camera about the Convention and the far-reaching implications.
Just as he got to the point in his script about "political backlash," I grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. "Oi! McThornbody!" I yelled cheerily as I proceeded to deck him with my free hand live on international TV. "That's for running out on the tab in St. Louis, you prick!"
Naturally, this caused a bit of a disturbance. Between the consternation of McThornbody's fellow reporters, the cheering of my fellow fans and McThornbody's bleating cries on the floor, the press booth suddenly got a *lot* livlier. I took advantage of the confusion to slip back into the crowd and back to my compatriots, who had apparently watched the whole thing unfold judging by the way they were nearly doubled over laughing.---
Mr. Fnord
http://fnord.sandwich.net/
http://www.jihad.net/
Mr. Fnord interdimensional man of mystery
FenWiki - Your One-Stop Shop for Fenspace Information
"I. Drink. Your. NERDRAGE!"