Today on "things I stumbled across on the web": giant motherfucking snake!
(Soon to be appearing alongside Samuel L. Jackson aboard a giant motherfucking plane!)
Thursday, 5 February 2009
Commanding The Kingfisher (Part 4)
7th March
“Hop complete,” reported the navbot formerly known as PNR-74189. It now bore the moniker “Cottontail”; the name was now crudely daubed on its chassis in yellow paint. Renaming the three navbots had been one of “Captain Keigh’s” first orders. “Mopsy” stood on one side of the bridge, powered down, a green light on its torso blinking as it recharged. “Flopsy” was tending to the Navcore.
Jessa shifted her weight as the Kingfisher decelerated. She could feel servos whirring inside her as they strove to keep her organs stable through the shift in dimensions. Despite their efforts, she still felt nauseous. It was once a common symptom for interstellar travellers; breaking and entering into a parallel universe with similar but by no means identical physical laws was bound to upset your physiology a bit. Right now, though, she suspected her current condition had little to do with the hop.
“There she is,” stated Ryugi unnecessarily. The second moon of Helioshea 4 filled the viewscreen, a jagged ball of mountains and canyons, all fashioned from green-tinted ice. The parent planet was little more than an ochre penny stuck to the picture.
“Jam any transmissions,” Keigh said from her chair, “We don’t want any visitors dropping by.”
“Aye, Captain,” replied Sugarbaker from Comms. “Captain, we’re picking up a transmission from the colony.”
I’ll bet, Jessa thought. The R’Dokken in the research installation would be screaming for an explanation. An alien warship arriving unannounced would cause panic on a defence platform. For a more-or-less civilian colony, it was liable to be closer to full blown terror.
“So what now, Captain?” asked Jaime carefully, putting the slightest stress on the final word.
Keigh smiled, but it seemed to Jessa there was strain behind it. Maybe more than strain. For an instant, it almost looked like fear.
But then it was gone.
“What else? We attack, Mr Dale.”
Jaime’s face darkened. His fingers tightened on the arms of his chair. Jessa could feel what was coming; she imagined the entire bridge crew could.
“Captain,” Jaime began, “I’m afraid I must ask you for an explanation.”
Another smile. She can’t see, Jessa realised, she can’t see what’s coming.
“Certainly, Mr Dale. The objective of our mission here is to ensure that by the time we depart, not one R’Dokken remains alive in the system.”
“No, Captain, I’m sorry, but I still don’t understand,” Jaime said, a note of pleading in his tone, desperately searching for a reasonable justification, anything that would give him a reason not to do what by now he must have realised had to be done. “Why this research base? What makes it so special?”
Keigh shrugged.
“We’ve got to start somewhere.”
Jaime surrendered.
“I’m truly sorry, Captain Merriman. I really had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but as of this moment, I am relieving you of command, and confining you to-“
“No,” said Keigh simply. She didn’t sound angry, or afraid, simply determined.
“I’m afraid I’m not offering you any option, Keigh,” Jaime said firmly, but not unkindly. “Vaber, Bannerman; please escort Miss Merriman to the Captain’s Quarters. And make sure she stays there.”
The two black-clad security guards nodded, and moved forward slowly, perhaps unsure of exactly how to proceed.
It didn’t matter. Suddenly Keigh leapt to her feet.
“Cottontail!” she called, “Defend your captain!”
Cottontail responded with a rev of its engine, and began to roll inexorably forwards.
The guards span to face this new threat, each drawing and aiming their Gorgons almost simultaneously.
“Stand down, navbot!” Jaime ordered.
Cottontail ignored him.
“That’s an order, “Cottontail”,” Jaime said, his voice riddled with concern, “Stop moving now!”
Jessa felt her blood run cold. Keigh must have altered the voice-print files. Or be operating them by remote somehow, or something.
The beleaguered security guards must have reached the same conclusion, because both of them opened fire. Not at what might be considered the robot’s “vitals”, navbots were far too precious to risk under any circumstances, since they were the only way to travel interstellar and have any clue as to your eventual destination.
Instead, they concentrated on Cottontail’s tracks.
Streaks of yellow-white energy flung themselves against their target. Thin smoke clouded the air, and Cottontail’s tracks began to blacken, but that was all. Both guards leapt in different directions as the errant robot bore down on them.
Vaber’s jump took him to safety beside the conn. He rolled, rose on one knee, and continued to fire at Cottontail.
Bannerman was less fortunate. He never even landed; instead he was plucked from the air by Mopsy’s massive fist. Jessa hadn’t even seen it reactivate. Certainly there had been no visible signal from Keigh.
Holding Bannerman with its left hand, it slapped away Bannerman’s weapon with its right, before closing it around its captive’s throat. Bannerman started screaming as Mopsy began to pull, a scream that rose in pitch and was cut off as the guard’s windpipe was first pulled taut, and then ripped apart. Mopsy continued to pull until its victim was entirely decapitated, before throwing both pieces of Bannerman emotionlessly to the floor.
All of this had taken less than twenty seconds. All the bridge crew had managed until now was to watch in total disbelief at the unfolding events. The death of Bannerman galvanised them into action, however. Every crewmember leapt to their feet, a few fleeing for their lives, but most seemingly intent on helping out Vaber and Jaime.
Vaber was still firing, now splitting his fire between the two robots, without any noticeable effect. Jaime drew a weapon of his own from his jumpsuit, and aimed it at the captain.
“Everyone STOP!” he bellowed. The crew froze, and Mopsy and Cottontail ground to a halt.
“You won’t shoot a child.” Gabe might have meant that as a sneer, but Keigh’s terror was horribly obvious. She burst into tears, and a dark stain began to grow between the legs of her dungarees.
The look on Jaime’s face suggested that his heart was breaking, but he kept his pistol raised.
“For pity’s sake, Gabe; let it go. Leave the kid be. There’s no way in Hell I’ll let you open fire on the colony down there, or hurt anyone else on my crew. This has to stop, Gabe, you can’t-”
Jaime was interrupted by three staccato bursts of gunfire from beyond the bridge’s hatch. For the briefest instant, his concentration was torn, and his eyes flicked toward the noise.
It was all Keigh needed. She threw herself to one side, and by the time Jaime had returned his attention to her, she was using Mopsy’s considerable bulk to shield herself.
The hatch to the bridge slid open, and Flopsy rumbled through, swivelling its angular head from side to side. The navbot was drenched in blood and viscera, and peppered with burn holes, still glowing dully around the edges. Jessa had time for the briefest of glances past the advancing machine. Several bodies in thick, matt-black body armour lay in the corridor outside, some clutching rifles; all with limbs at impossible angles.
Then Flopsy grabbed the nearest crewman to the door, and lifted him from his feet.
“You bastard!” Jaime screamed, his pistol shaking from his fury, “You fucking monster!”
“It seems Flopsy ran into some potential gatecrashers,” called Keigh from behind her cover, “Your idea I presume, Mr Dale?”. Her voice was still shot through with fear, but less so; it seemed Gabe was reining in control of his daughter.
Jessa could surmise what had happened. Jaime must have known, or at least suspected, more than she had realised. He must have stationed the now-butchered security team outside the bridge, as a trump card in the event of a confrontation. Unfortunately, they failed to notice Flopsy’s arrival, or didn’t recognise its significance, until it was too late.
The scene on the bridge had become a tableau. The crew stood frozen, gaze oscillating between Jaime and Vaber, and Keigh and the robots.
“I suggest you put those down, Mr Dale, Mr Vaber,” now Keigh’s voice was cold and precise, although the expression on her face was still one of terror, “You can see I have sole control of the my navbots. The same is true of the computer, I promise you. I have already lost five crewmen in this confrontation; I would rather avoid losing more.”
Flopsy’s captive suddenly cried out in pain as the machine applied a fraction of its strength.
“Of course, I will have no hesitation in increasing the body count if you force me to. Put the guns down.”
Neither Jaime nor Vaber made a move.
“PUT THEM DOWN!” Keigh screamed; the terror that rode alongside it made it clear which Merriman was speaking.
Keigh was one hostage too many. Bitterly, Jaime tossed his Gorgon aside, and motioned for Vaber to the same.
“What happens now?” Vaber spat as he through away his weapon.
“Now we get back to normal,” said Keigh. “With some exceptions, of course. All crewmembers will turn in any firearms they may have squirreled away. We don’t want any more… disagreements. And all access to the crew quarters is now denied; they’re a breeding ground for mutiny.”
“And the installation?” Jaime’s voice was leaden with defeat.
Keigh’s face twitched into an unwilling smile. The effect was monstrous.
“Battle stations, everyone. We have a species to exterminate. We’ll start with the infestation below, and then we’ll wait awhile, and see what turns up. If we have to wipe out these bastards one ship at a time, then that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
17th March
“You picking me up, bridge?” said Harlan. The mic of his suit gave his voice an air of disinterest.
“Yeah, we got you, Summers,” replied Hennis.
Rat-faced and spindly, Hennis was the current duty officer. Under Gabriel Merriman he had been the Third Officer, but with Jaime dead and Harlan out on the hull, he was the highest rank available for bridge duty. For now, Keigh was asleep, which is why they had chosen this moment to push their plan into motion.
“You see the problem?” Hennis asked from the captain’s chair. It was a little too big for him, his arse slid from side to side whenever he turned to bark an order. The whole thing looked ridiculous, but Hennis was one of a minority amongst the crew who saw the new order as an opportunity rather than a nightmare, and as such was a dangerous man.
“Yeah, I got it. Christ, I can see it from here; we’ve got atmosphere venting like hell.”
“Roger, that. Summers, best get to work.”
The viewscreen showed Harlan, enclosed in a lithe white spacesuit. Jessa hated the new suits, especially seeing her husband in one. They all seemed so thin and flimsy, surely no protection at all against the endless, unyielding cold of space. Harlan walked steadily, his limp a little less evident today, across the pitted grey surface of the Kingfisher; still stalked by the hulking navbot. The slightest sign of “betrayal” from Harlan, and Flopsy would tear open that protective suit like so much paper.
Unless Jessa could pull off her part of the plan; that was exactly what was about to happen to her husband.
Not yet, she reminded herself. She had to wait, worrying at her fingernails, until Harlan reached his destination.
Geiss had already fulfilled his role in the proceedings. The hole in the hull was his doing; a repeat of his previous trick with the nanobots, but on a far larger scale. It had taken the senseless deaths of dozens of the little robots to create a breach of sufficient size to make fixing it an immediate priority. The arrogant engineer had also managed to convincingly fake a failure in the nanobot network, leaving an EVA repair the only option. It had been a clever plan, but Jessa was still uncomfortable with so much of it in the hands of Geiss.
“OK, bridge; I’m at the breach. Ah; crap, Geiss was right, there’s a dataline torn in half here.”
That was her cue. Trying not to look like she was creeping, Jessa headed for the exit.
“Any idea what caused it, Summers?”
“Looks like an asteroid impact.”
“Again?” There was the faintest hint of suspicion in Hennis’ voice
Harlan shrugged on the viewscreen. “Never rains but it pours.”
“Fair enough, Summers. Nose to the grindstone, eh? Doctor?”
Jessa froze, hand halfway to the door pad. “Lieutenant-Commander?”
“Where are you scurrying off to?”
Shit. She couldn’t afford to arouse any suspicion, or they were both dead. She felt her brain begin to heat from pressure, felt each moment of silence slip by as it gave up waiting for her to answer. Then:
“I want to prep sickbay. If Harlan has an accident out there, I’ll need everything in place.”
Please, please don’t ask why I haven’t done it sooner.
“Fair enough,” Hennis smirked. “We wouldn’t want to split up the happy couple.”
Fighting the urge to sigh with relief, she slapped the pad, and escaped the bridge.
Once in the endless system of blank metal corridors, she ducked into a nearby storeroom. Surrounded by blankets and scratchy toilet paper, she fished one of Geiss’ pocket conversations from her coat. Placing it on the floor, she set it off. Thus masked by a forged monologue (Geiss had told her it ran a ferociously accurate imitation of her bringing herself to climax, but surely he was joking), Jessa raised her communicator to her mouth.
“Doctor Lambert to Flopsy.”
“Yes Doctor?”
“Flopsy, give me a hop vector from here to… Achstein.”
Keigh might have made the robots into her puppets, but the conspirators were gambling that something as innocent as a calculation request wouldn’t be blocked. And given the enormous amount of processing power the navbots needed to put into figuring out vector, with luck it would slow down Flopsy’s processor just enough to give Harlan an opening to make his move.
“Apologies, Doctor. Achstein does not lie upon the approved destination list.”
Damn it, the captain had put up blocks after all.
But how many?”New calculation, Flopsy. Hop vector to Gateway Kappa.”
“Apologies, Doctor. Gateway Kappa does not lie upon the approved destination list.”
Jessa began to sweat with panic. Any moment now Harlan would make his move, and if Flopsy was still on full alert…
Choosing at random was never going to work. Keigh wouldn’t have blocked specific destinations; she would have listed those locations she might need, and denied any others.
Where would she need to go? Well, Helioshea, but that might not do; what if Flopsy could just reverse their current vector. Where else?
She could only think of one place.
“New calculation. Hop vector to Sken’Dokka.”
The R’Dokken homeworld, or so XI believed. Or claimed to believe.
Jessa bit her lip and held her breath.
“Stand by for vector,” Flopsy said tonelessly.
Yes! Jessa was so relieved she leapt in the air, almost landing on Geiss’ toy as she landed.
So what now? Originally she had planned to slip back onto the bridge, watch Harlan’s triumph, and maybe try to cover up any slips he made whilst on display (Geiss had offered to sabotage the viewscreen, but it had been decided that so many simultaneous malfunctions would stir up too much suspicion). Given what she had told Hennis, though, perhaps it would be better to-
“Doctor Lambert?” asked her communicator, in Hennis’ nasal, uneven tones.
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“I need you on the bridge immediately.”
What was this about?”Can it wait, only-”
“Perhaps I made a mistake using the word “immediately”, Doctor. Would you prefer a shorter word? I understand “now” has much the same meaning.”
“No need for your rapier-sharp wit, Lieutenant; I’m on my way.”
Picking up and pocketing Geiss’ device (shit, it had been left on during the conversation with Hennis! Still, too late now.), she made for the bridge.
Hennis rounded on her the instant she arrived.
“That was quick, Doctor. Saving your husband lost its appeal, did it?”
“Exactly how far did you think I’d get before you called me back?” she responded, hoping to bluff her way out with anger, “I hurried here, Hennis, because you told me there was an emergency. Or is emergency too long a word? Perhaps “cock-up”?”
She broke off her assault. Hennis had an odd look on his face, a smile that promised someone a most unpleasant experience. Jessa had the horrible feeling the experience was reserved for her.
“What’s going on?” she asked nervously.
“Well, if that isn’t the question of the day,” Hennis said, pointing at the viewscreen.
Jessa followed his finger.
At first glance, she couldn’t work out what was being displayed, other than what was presumably the local starfield. Then she saw it. A white shape in the very centre, small and getting smaller. Not so small that she couldn’t recognise it, though.
It was a navbot.
Oh, hell.
Hennis’ evil grin grew wider. “I take it you recognise your handiwork?”
Jessa shook her head to clear it. It didn’t work. “My handiwork, what do you-?”
“Oh, please, Doctor. Once Flopsy lost her grip, I checked her log. You ordered a hop calculation to Sken’Dokka, didn’t you?”
Jessa didn’t know what to say.”I’ll take the pause and horrified expression as a yes. You knew the captain had disabled the navbots’ safety routines; you knew once she was happily boiling her circuits calculating she wouldn’t keep hold to the hull any more.”
She had known nothing of the sort, of course, but there was little value in pointing that out now. Instead, she glanced behind her, gauging the distance to the hatch.
“Forget it, Doctor,” crowed Hennis, “The captain’s already on her way.”
As if on cue, the door that led to Gabe’s quarters whispered open, and Mopsy rumbled out, followed by Keigh, rubbing her eyes and wearing her “horsy” pyjamas.
The hatch behind Jessa opened as well, and Cottontail’s massive form entered the bridge.
“What is it,” Keigh asked, running her small fingers through tussled brown hair.
“Sorry to wake you, Captain,” Hennis said, swivelling his chair to face her, “But I thought it best you were here for this.”
He turned back to face Jessa.
“It appears it’s time for another trial.”
“Hop complete,” reported the navbot formerly known as PNR-74189. It now bore the moniker “Cottontail”; the name was now crudely daubed on its chassis in yellow paint. Renaming the three navbots had been one of “Captain Keigh’s” first orders. “Mopsy” stood on one side of the bridge, powered down, a green light on its torso blinking as it recharged. “Flopsy” was tending to the Navcore.
Jessa shifted her weight as the Kingfisher decelerated. She could feel servos whirring inside her as they strove to keep her organs stable through the shift in dimensions. Despite their efforts, she still felt nauseous. It was once a common symptom for interstellar travellers; breaking and entering into a parallel universe with similar but by no means identical physical laws was bound to upset your physiology a bit. Right now, though, she suspected her current condition had little to do with the hop.
“There she is,” stated Ryugi unnecessarily. The second moon of Helioshea 4 filled the viewscreen, a jagged ball of mountains and canyons, all fashioned from green-tinted ice. The parent planet was little more than an ochre penny stuck to the picture.
“Jam any transmissions,” Keigh said from her chair, “We don’t want any visitors dropping by.”
“Aye, Captain,” replied Sugarbaker from Comms. “Captain, we’re picking up a transmission from the colony.”
I’ll bet, Jessa thought. The R’Dokken in the research installation would be screaming for an explanation. An alien warship arriving unannounced would cause panic on a defence platform. For a more-or-less civilian colony, it was liable to be closer to full blown terror.
“So what now, Captain?” asked Jaime carefully, putting the slightest stress on the final word.
Keigh smiled, but it seemed to Jessa there was strain behind it. Maybe more than strain. For an instant, it almost looked like fear.
But then it was gone.
“What else? We attack, Mr Dale.”
Jaime’s face darkened. His fingers tightened on the arms of his chair. Jessa could feel what was coming; she imagined the entire bridge crew could.
“Captain,” Jaime began, “I’m afraid I must ask you for an explanation.”
Another smile. She can’t see, Jessa realised, she can’t see what’s coming.
“Certainly, Mr Dale. The objective of our mission here is to ensure that by the time we depart, not one R’Dokken remains alive in the system.”
“No, Captain, I’m sorry, but I still don’t understand,” Jaime said, a note of pleading in his tone, desperately searching for a reasonable justification, anything that would give him a reason not to do what by now he must have realised had to be done. “Why this research base? What makes it so special?”
Keigh shrugged.
“We’ve got to start somewhere.”
Jaime surrendered.
“I’m truly sorry, Captain Merriman. I really had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but as of this moment, I am relieving you of command, and confining you to-“
“No,” said Keigh simply. She didn’t sound angry, or afraid, simply determined.
“I’m afraid I’m not offering you any option, Keigh,” Jaime said firmly, but not unkindly. “Vaber, Bannerman; please escort Miss Merriman to the Captain’s Quarters. And make sure she stays there.”
The two black-clad security guards nodded, and moved forward slowly, perhaps unsure of exactly how to proceed.
It didn’t matter. Suddenly Keigh leapt to her feet.
“Cottontail!” she called, “Defend your captain!”
Cottontail responded with a rev of its engine, and began to roll inexorably forwards.
The guards span to face this new threat, each drawing and aiming their Gorgons almost simultaneously.
“Stand down, navbot!” Jaime ordered.
Cottontail ignored him.
“That’s an order, “Cottontail”,” Jaime said, his voice riddled with concern, “Stop moving now!”
Jessa felt her blood run cold. Keigh must have altered the voice-print files. Or be operating them by remote somehow, or something.
The beleaguered security guards must have reached the same conclusion, because both of them opened fire. Not at what might be considered the robot’s “vitals”, navbots were far too precious to risk under any circumstances, since they were the only way to travel interstellar and have any clue as to your eventual destination.
Instead, they concentrated on Cottontail’s tracks.
Streaks of yellow-white energy flung themselves against their target. Thin smoke clouded the air, and Cottontail’s tracks began to blacken, but that was all. Both guards leapt in different directions as the errant robot bore down on them.
Vaber’s jump took him to safety beside the conn. He rolled, rose on one knee, and continued to fire at Cottontail.
Bannerman was less fortunate. He never even landed; instead he was plucked from the air by Mopsy’s massive fist. Jessa hadn’t even seen it reactivate. Certainly there had been no visible signal from Keigh.
Holding Bannerman with its left hand, it slapped away Bannerman’s weapon with its right, before closing it around its captive’s throat. Bannerman started screaming as Mopsy began to pull, a scream that rose in pitch and was cut off as the guard’s windpipe was first pulled taut, and then ripped apart. Mopsy continued to pull until its victim was entirely decapitated, before throwing both pieces of Bannerman emotionlessly to the floor.
All of this had taken less than twenty seconds. All the bridge crew had managed until now was to watch in total disbelief at the unfolding events. The death of Bannerman galvanised them into action, however. Every crewmember leapt to their feet, a few fleeing for their lives, but most seemingly intent on helping out Vaber and Jaime.
Vaber was still firing, now splitting his fire between the two robots, without any noticeable effect. Jaime drew a weapon of his own from his jumpsuit, and aimed it at the captain.
“Everyone STOP!” he bellowed. The crew froze, and Mopsy and Cottontail ground to a halt.
“You won’t shoot a child.” Gabe might have meant that as a sneer, but Keigh’s terror was horribly obvious. She burst into tears, and a dark stain began to grow between the legs of her dungarees.
The look on Jaime’s face suggested that his heart was breaking, but he kept his pistol raised.
“For pity’s sake, Gabe; let it go. Leave the kid be. There’s no way in Hell I’ll let you open fire on the colony down there, or hurt anyone else on my crew. This has to stop, Gabe, you can’t-”
Jaime was interrupted by three staccato bursts of gunfire from beyond the bridge’s hatch. For the briefest instant, his concentration was torn, and his eyes flicked toward the noise.
It was all Keigh needed. She threw herself to one side, and by the time Jaime had returned his attention to her, she was using Mopsy’s considerable bulk to shield herself.
The hatch to the bridge slid open, and Flopsy rumbled through, swivelling its angular head from side to side. The navbot was drenched in blood and viscera, and peppered with burn holes, still glowing dully around the edges. Jessa had time for the briefest of glances past the advancing machine. Several bodies in thick, matt-black body armour lay in the corridor outside, some clutching rifles; all with limbs at impossible angles.
Then Flopsy grabbed the nearest crewman to the door, and lifted him from his feet.
“You bastard!” Jaime screamed, his pistol shaking from his fury, “You fucking monster!”
“It seems Flopsy ran into some potential gatecrashers,” called Keigh from behind her cover, “Your idea I presume, Mr Dale?”. Her voice was still shot through with fear, but less so; it seemed Gabe was reining in control of his daughter.
Jessa could surmise what had happened. Jaime must have known, or at least suspected, more than she had realised. He must have stationed the now-butchered security team outside the bridge, as a trump card in the event of a confrontation. Unfortunately, they failed to notice Flopsy’s arrival, or didn’t recognise its significance, until it was too late.
The scene on the bridge had become a tableau. The crew stood frozen, gaze oscillating between Jaime and Vaber, and Keigh and the robots.
“I suggest you put those down, Mr Dale, Mr Vaber,” now Keigh’s voice was cold and precise, although the expression on her face was still one of terror, “You can see I have sole control of the my navbots. The same is true of the computer, I promise you. I have already lost five crewmen in this confrontation; I would rather avoid losing more.”
Flopsy’s captive suddenly cried out in pain as the machine applied a fraction of its strength.
“Of course, I will have no hesitation in increasing the body count if you force me to. Put the guns down.”
Neither Jaime nor Vaber made a move.
“PUT THEM DOWN!” Keigh screamed; the terror that rode alongside it made it clear which Merriman was speaking.
Keigh was one hostage too many. Bitterly, Jaime tossed his Gorgon aside, and motioned for Vaber to the same.
“What happens now?” Vaber spat as he through away his weapon.
“Now we get back to normal,” said Keigh. “With some exceptions, of course. All crewmembers will turn in any firearms they may have squirreled away. We don’t want any more… disagreements. And all access to the crew quarters is now denied; they’re a breeding ground for mutiny.”
“And the installation?” Jaime’s voice was leaden with defeat.
Keigh’s face twitched into an unwilling smile. The effect was monstrous.
“Battle stations, everyone. We have a species to exterminate. We’ll start with the infestation below, and then we’ll wait awhile, and see what turns up. If we have to wipe out these bastards one ship at a time, then that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
17th March
“You picking me up, bridge?” said Harlan. The mic of his suit gave his voice an air of disinterest.
“Yeah, we got you, Summers,” replied Hennis.
Rat-faced and spindly, Hennis was the current duty officer. Under Gabriel Merriman he had been the Third Officer, but with Jaime dead and Harlan out on the hull, he was the highest rank available for bridge duty. For now, Keigh was asleep, which is why they had chosen this moment to push their plan into motion.
“You see the problem?” Hennis asked from the captain’s chair. It was a little too big for him, his arse slid from side to side whenever he turned to bark an order. The whole thing looked ridiculous, but Hennis was one of a minority amongst the crew who saw the new order as an opportunity rather than a nightmare, and as such was a dangerous man.
“Yeah, I got it. Christ, I can see it from here; we’ve got atmosphere venting like hell.”
“Roger, that. Summers, best get to work.”
The viewscreen showed Harlan, enclosed in a lithe white spacesuit. Jessa hated the new suits, especially seeing her husband in one. They all seemed so thin and flimsy, surely no protection at all against the endless, unyielding cold of space. Harlan walked steadily, his limp a little less evident today, across the pitted grey surface of the Kingfisher; still stalked by the hulking navbot. The slightest sign of “betrayal” from Harlan, and Flopsy would tear open that protective suit like so much paper.
Unless Jessa could pull off her part of the plan; that was exactly what was about to happen to her husband.
Not yet, she reminded herself. She had to wait, worrying at her fingernails, until Harlan reached his destination.
Geiss had already fulfilled his role in the proceedings. The hole in the hull was his doing; a repeat of his previous trick with the nanobots, but on a far larger scale. It had taken the senseless deaths of dozens of the little robots to create a breach of sufficient size to make fixing it an immediate priority. The arrogant engineer had also managed to convincingly fake a failure in the nanobot network, leaving an EVA repair the only option. It had been a clever plan, but Jessa was still uncomfortable with so much of it in the hands of Geiss.
“OK, bridge; I’m at the breach. Ah; crap, Geiss was right, there’s a dataline torn in half here.”
That was her cue. Trying not to look like she was creeping, Jessa headed for the exit.
“Any idea what caused it, Summers?”
“Looks like an asteroid impact.”
“Again?” There was the faintest hint of suspicion in Hennis’ voice
Harlan shrugged on the viewscreen. “Never rains but it pours.”
“Fair enough, Summers. Nose to the grindstone, eh? Doctor?”
Jessa froze, hand halfway to the door pad. “Lieutenant-Commander?”
“Where are you scurrying off to?”
Shit. She couldn’t afford to arouse any suspicion, or they were both dead. She felt her brain begin to heat from pressure, felt each moment of silence slip by as it gave up waiting for her to answer. Then:
“I want to prep sickbay. If Harlan has an accident out there, I’ll need everything in place.”
Please, please don’t ask why I haven’t done it sooner.
“Fair enough,” Hennis smirked. “We wouldn’t want to split up the happy couple.”
Fighting the urge to sigh with relief, she slapped the pad, and escaped the bridge.
Once in the endless system of blank metal corridors, she ducked into a nearby storeroom. Surrounded by blankets and scratchy toilet paper, she fished one of Geiss’ pocket conversations from her coat. Placing it on the floor, she set it off. Thus masked by a forged monologue (Geiss had told her it ran a ferociously accurate imitation of her bringing herself to climax, but surely he was joking), Jessa raised her communicator to her mouth.
“Doctor Lambert to Flopsy.”
“Yes Doctor?”
“Flopsy, give me a hop vector from here to… Achstein.”
Keigh might have made the robots into her puppets, but the conspirators were gambling that something as innocent as a calculation request wouldn’t be blocked. And given the enormous amount of processing power the navbots needed to put into figuring out vector, with luck it would slow down Flopsy’s processor just enough to give Harlan an opening to make his move.
“Apologies, Doctor. Achstein does not lie upon the approved destination list.”
Damn it, the captain had put up blocks after all.
But how many?”New calculation, Flopsy. Hop vector to Gateway Kappa.”
“Apologies, Doctor. Gateway Kappa does not lie upon the approved destination list.”
Jessa began to sweat with panic. Any moment now Harlan would make his move, and if Flopsy was still on full alert…
Choosing at random was never going to work. Keigh wouldn’t have blocked specific destinations; she would have listed those locations she might need, and denied any others.
Where would she need to go? Well, Helioshea, but that might not do; what if Flopsy could just reverse their current vector. Where else?
She could only think of one place.
“New calculation. Hop vector to Sken’Dokka.”
The R’Dokken homeworld, or so XI believed. Or claimed to believe.
Jessa bit her lip and held her breath.
“Stand by for vector,” Flopsy said tonelessly.
Yes! Jessa was so relieved she leapt in the air, almost landing on Geiss’ toy as she landed.
So what now? Originally she had planned to slip back onto the bridge, watch Harlan’s triumph, and maybe try to cover up any slips he made whilst on display (Geiss had offered to sabotage the viewscreen, but it had been decided that so many simultaneous malfunctions would stir up too much suspicion). Given what she had told Hennis, though, perhaps it would be better to-
“Doctor Lambert?” asked her communicator, in Hennis’ nasal, uneven tones.
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“I need you on the bridge immediately.”
What was this about?”Can it wait, only-”
“Perhaps I made a mistake using the word “immediately”, Doctor. Would you prefer a shorter word? I understand “now” has much the same meaning.”
“No need for your rapier-sharp wit, Lieutenant; I’m on my way.”
Picking up and pocketing Geiss’ device (shit, it had been left on during the conversation with Hennis! Still, too late now.), she made for the bridge.
Hennis rounded on her the instant she arrived.
“That was quick, Doctor. Saving your husband lost its appeal, did it?”
“Exactly how far did you think I’d get before you called me back?” she responded, hoping to bluff her way out with anger, “I hurried here, Hennis, because you told me there was an emergency. Or is emergency too long a word? Perhaps “cock-up”?”
She broke off her assault. Hennis had an odd look on his face, a smile that promised someone a most unpleasant experience. Jessa had the horrible feeling the experience was reserved for her.
“What’s going on?” she asked nervously.
“Well, if that isn’t the question of the day,” Hennis said, pointing at the viewscreen.
Jessa followed his finger.
At first glance, she couldn’t work out what was being displayed, other than what was presumably the local starfield. Then she saw it. A white shape in the very centre, small and getting smaller. Not so small that she couldn’t recognise it, though.
It was a navbot.
Oh, hell.
Hennis’ evil grin grew wider. “I take it you recognise your handiwork?”
Jessa shook her head to clear it. It didn’t work. “My handiwork, what do you-?”
“Oh, please, Doctor. Once Flopsy lost her grip, I checked her log. You ordered a hop calculation to Sken’Dokka, didn’t you?”
Jessa didn’t know what to say.”I’ll take the pause and horrified expression as a yes. You knew the captain had disabled the navbots’ safety routines; you knew once she was happily boiling her circuits calculating she wouldn’t keep hold to the hull any more.”
She had known nothing of the sort, of course, but there was little value in pointing that out now. Instead, she glanced behind her, gauging the distance to the hatch.
“Forget it, Doctor,” crowed Hennis, “The captain’s already on her way.”
As if on cue, the door that led to Gabe’s quarters whispered open, and Mopsy rumbled out, followed by Keigh, rubbing her eyes and wearing her “horsy” pyjamas.
The hatch behind Jessa opened as well, and Cottontail’s massive form entered the bridge.
“What is it,” Keigh asked, running her small fingers through tussled brown hair.
“Sorry to wake you, Captain,” Hennis said, swivelling his chair to face her, “But I thought it best you were here for this.”
He turned back to face Jessa.
“It appears it’s time for another trial.”
Wednesday, 4 February 2009
At Last: Sports News I Can Give A Shit About
It seems a shame to have created a sports tag and then never use it, for no better reason than all sports everywhere are shit. With this in mind I present this: the letter Michael Phelps should have written after being caught smoking pot. It's a pretty good assault on drug laws, institutional injustice, and hypocritical busy-bodies, which is an impressive amount to cram in. And I have to admit, the "dangers of professional athleticism" isn't really something I've thought of before.
There are a few things in the letter I might take exception to, if I sat down and parsed it all, but as a rant it holds together pretty well.
h/t to LGM.
There are a few things in the letter I might take exception to, if I sat down and parsed it all, but as a rant it holds together pretty well.
h/t to LGM.
Felix Gaeta's Sad, Sad Song
As always people, look away unless you're up to date Galactica-wise. I don't want any wailing or gnashing of teeth going on over this stuff.
.
.
.
So, there I was, checking up on people's responses on tonight's episode, and everyone's all like "Gaeta is a dick!" and "Adama should space Gaeta!" and so on.
These people are fools! Well, not entirely; I'll grant that spacing Gaeta is going to be necessary, since he's committed mutiny and all. But c'mon, people; Felix has some pretty damn persuasive reasons for all this Mutiny on the Bounty shit! Don't be a Gaeta hater!
Look at it from his position. He got burned by an Eight on New Caprica who had promised to help release people from detention but was actually doing the vast majority of them in. And now a whole bunch of Eights have shown up, promising this time they'll be good. Yeah, sure. They would say that, though, because they only have one Basestar left, and it's bollixed. They're just one big floaty target, if the Loyalist Cylons find them they're dead. Right now they need us, but only as extra targets. A fighter pilot probably values the chaff they can use to distract incoming missiles, but that's not an alliance, because at the end of the day the chaff is still going to get a missile to the face.
What the rebels really need isn't the humans at all, it's their ships. That way they can spread themselves out a bit, have their eggs in more than one basket. How to get them, though? Machines sit and think, their cogs whirring.
The answer comes: "How about we go aboard the ships, fit shiny new FTL drives to "help out", and then just jump basestar and civilian vessels simultaneously!" That would be pretty easy, what with the awesome Cylon tech we already know they have! Even if Galactica could track them, puny colonials travel at a third of the speed, leaving plenty of time to massacre the civilians and swipe their rides.
Nah, they wouldn't do that, would they? They're allies now.
Plus, let's not forget that Gaeta was almost flushed into the void because he couldn't prove he helped the resistance. Now the actual machines that wiped out fifty billion people need help, and Adama's all like, "Yeah, sure, have a cigar. Remember when you exterminated humanity? I'm so glad we can all laugh about it now."
So it's not like Gaeta's position makes no sense. Other people are more hung up on the idea that someone as nice and fluffy as Felix would never dream of starting a coup d'etat. I can see why it would come as a surprise to anyone who knew him, but it's not like the seeds weren't planted for this long ago. Think about it: Gaeta did the right thing by reporting the election fraud and ended up working for the worst president imaginable. He risked his life dealing with the resistance and still almost got spaced. He tried to help save people from the detention centre and apparently managed to get most of them killed. He voiced opposition to Kara's lunatic plan to help the Cylons, and his leg is now quite some distance from where it's supposed to be.
I think, somewhere in Gaeta's subconscious, there's a voice telling him that every time he tries something, he fails at it, because he didn't go far enough, or he didn't break the rules enough. No-one is giving points for fairness, or for restraint, or for trying.
Well, frak them, then. This time he's going all the way. Because nothing else has worked, and he's sick of it. Look at Zarek, for Gods' sakes. Whilst Gaeta has taken blow after blow, Zarek has gone from convicted terrorist to Quorum member to Vice President to (briefly) President. How are the rules working there? And sure, Roslin offered a blanket amnesty to everyone who collaborated with the Cylons, but pardons and forgiveness aren't the same thing, and in any case it would have come to late to save him had a chance comment from earlier on not happened to save his ass.
Lee's speech during Baltar's trial about forgiveness was obviously about Gaius himself, but I wonder if a little light didn't come on in Felix's head too. Felix wasn't forgiven, he was tolerated. Allowed to live and walk free (though these days "walking free" is probably something he's come to appreciate a good deal more) as the cost of keeping the fleet together. Helping Zarek is the final irony, the last middle finger to this ridiculous idea of "fairness" that people only ever quote when they've already gotten what they wanted. If you're going to break the rules, then who better to have on your side?
And there's more. Remember that little scene last week when Gaeta was pissed that the Cylons were getting medical attention before he was? I wonder whether there was a subtext. Maybe he was just thinking "Damn, how come those Cylons get cutsies", (see Kimmy, not knitting a sweater, honest!), but it's at least arguable that he was remembering (even subconsciously) that the reason they didn't return to the fleet in time to save his leg was that Starbuck was too busy helping the Cylons. And what did they get out of that? Earth. A shattered ruin that killed Dee, one of the only people on Galactica Gaeta had ever given any indication of caring about (along with Hoshi, obviously, a man so wet it's a miracle he doesn't evaporate). He lost his leg, his best friend, and his hope, only to have more hope retroactively stripped from him, and meanwhile a bunch of people who were never really people reveal themselves to be Cylons and everyone's going "Hey, how's that kid of yours? He has the cutest little RAM drive!".
Help the Cylons: get spaced. Fight the Cylons, but not obviously enough: get spaced. Be a Cylon: get a sonogram for your Cylon girlfriend.
Start a mutiny? I'm amazed Gaeta didn't personally eviscerate the Admiral.
At least, that's how I think Gaeta sees it. I don't necessarily agree with his methods, but it's not like it's at all hard to understand how he ended up in this position.
Update: Kimmy reminds us in comments of that little matter of perjury back during Baltar's trial. I'd forgotten that when I wrote this last night, but I think it ties in with my larger point. Help Baltar: almost get spaced by six psychopaths. Be Baltar: get a proper trial with lawyers and witnesses and "exceptions". Which can't possibly work, because the only real witnesses to Baltar's actions were the Cylons, who aren't available for comment (well, Caprica is, but calling her in would be a fairly boneheaded move). It's down to Felix to to what has to be done.
So he does, and it still doesn't make any difference. Gaius gets off, and the next thing anyone knows he's buried in more space-totty than he knows what to do with. Gaeta goes back to watching the DRADIS screen. Yay.
.
.
.
So, there I was, checking up on people's responses on tonight's episode, and everyone's all like "Gaeta is a dick!" and "Adama should space Gaeta!" and so on.
These people are fools! Well, not entirely; I'll grant that spacing Gaeta is going to be necessary, since he's committed mutiny and all. But c'mon, people; Felix has some pretty damn persuasive reasons for all this Mutiny on the Bounty shit! Don't be a Gaeta hater!
Look at it from his position. He got burned by an Eight on New Caprica who had promised to help release people from detention but was actually doing the vast majority of them in. And now a whole bunch of Eights have shown up, promising this time they'll be good. Yeah, sure. They would say that, though, because they only have one Basestar left, and it's bollixed. They're just one big floaty target, if the Loyalist Cylons find them they're dead. Right now they need us, but only as extra targets. A fighter pilot probably values the chaff they can use to distract incoming missiles, but that's not an alliance, because at the end of the day the chaff is still going to get a missile to the face.
What the rebels really need isn't the humans at all, it's their ships. That way they can spread themselves out a bit, have their eggs in more than one basket. How to get them, though? Machines sit and think, their cogs whirring.
The answer comes: "How about we go aboard the ships, fit shiny new FTL drives to "help out", and then just jump basestar and civilian vessels simultaneously!" That would be pretty easy, what with the awesome Cylon tech we already know they have! Even if Galactica could track them, puny colonials travel at a third of the speed, leaving plenty of time to massacre the civilians and swipe their rides.
Nah, they wouldn't do that, would they? They're allies now.
Plus, let's not forget that Gaeta was almost flushed into the void because he couldn't prove he helped the resistance. Now the actual machines that wiped out fifty billion people need help, and Adama's all like, "Yeah, sure, have a cigar. Remember when you exterminated humanity? I'm so glad we can all laugh about it now."
So it's not like Gaeta's position makes no sense. Other people are more hung up on the idea that someone as nice and fluffy as Felix would never dream of starting a coup d'etat. I can see why it would come as a surprise to anyone who knew him, but it's not like the seeds weren't planted for this long ago. Think about it: Gaeta did the right thing by reporting the election fraud and ended up working for the worst president imaginable. He risked his life dealing with the resistance and still almost got spaced. He tried to help save people from the detention centre and apparently managed to get most of them killed. He voiced opposition to Kara's lunatic plan to help the Cylons, and his leg is now quite some distance from where it's supposed to be.
I think, somewhere in Gaeta's subconscious, there's a voice telling him that every time he tries something, he fails at it, because he didn't go far enough, or he didn't break the rules enough. No-one is giving points for fairness, or for restraint, or for trying.
Well, frak them, then. This time he's going all the way. Because nothing else has worked, and he's sick of it. Look at Zarek, for Gods' sakes. Whilst Gaeta has taken blow after blow, Zarek has gone from convicted terrorist to Quorum member to Vice President to (briefly) President. How are the rules working there? And sure, Roslin offered a blanket amnesty to everyone who collaborated with the Cylons, but pardons and forgiveness aren't the same thing, and in any case it would have come to late to save him had a chance comment from earlier on not happened to save his ass.
Lee's speech during Baltar's trial about forgiveness was obviously about Gaius himself, but I wonder if a little light didn't come on in Felix's head too. Felix wasn't forgiven, he was tolerated. Allowed to live and walk free (though these days "walking free" is probably something he's come to appreciate a good deal more) as the cost of keeping the fleet together. Helping Zarek is the final irony, the last middle finger to this ridiculous idea of "fairness" that people only ever quote when they've already gotten what they wanted. If you're going to break the rules, then who better to have on your side?
And there's more. Remember that little scene last week when Gaeta was pissed that the Cylons were getting medical attention before he was? I wonder whether there was a subtext. Maybe he was just thinking "Damn, how come those Cylons get cutsies", (see Kimmy, not knitting a sweater, honest!), but it's at least arguable that he was remembering (even subconsciously) that the reason they didn't return to the fleet in time to save his leg was that Starbuck was too busy helping the Cylons. And what did they get out of that? Earth. A shattered ruin that killed Dee, one of the only people on Galactica Gaeta had ever given any indication of caring about (along with Hoshi, obviously, a man so wet it's a miracle he doesn't evaporate). He lost his leg, his best friend, and his hope, only to have more hope retroactively stripped from him, and meanwhile a bunch of people who were never really people reveal themselves to be Cylons and everyone's going "Hey, how's that kid of yours? He has the cutest little RAM drive!".
Help the Cylons: get spaced. Fight the Cylons, but not obviously enough: get spaced. Be a Cylon: get a sonogram for your Cylon girlfriend.
Start a mutiny? I'm amazed Gaeta didn't personally eviscerate the Admiral.
At least, that's how I think Gaeta sees it. I don't necessarily agree with his methods, but it's not like it's at all hard to understand how he ended up in this position.
Update: Kimmy reminds us in comments of that little matter of perjury back during Baltar's trial. I'd forgotten that when I wrote this last night, but I think it ties in with my larger point. Help Baltar: almost get spaced by six psychopaths. Be Baltar: get a proper trial with lawyers and witnesses and "exceptions". Which can't possibly work, because the only real witnesses to Baltar's actions were the Cylons, who aren't available for comment (well, Caprica is, but calling her in would be a fairly boneheaded move). It's down to Felix to to what has to be done.
So he does, and it still doesn't make any difference. Gaius gets off, and the next thing anyone knows he's buried in more space-totty than he knows what to do with. Gaeta goes back to watching the DRADIS screen. Yay.
Tuesday, 3 February 2009
Extreme Measures
SpaceSquid: I've broken my debit card.
C: Through total incompetence?
SS: Through sheer manliness.
C: You snapped it in half whilst pulling it from your wallet?
SS: I sat on it.
C: So it was the sheer manliness of your arse, is what you're saying.
SS: Essentially. I'll have a new one in three days, but until then I can't get any money out.
C: Is a cunning plan in effect?
SS: Is mooching off my parents a cunning plan?
C: No. Emasculating, not cunning. You need to be self-sufficient.
SS: Specify.
C: You could plant crops, like in The Good Life.
SS: Exactly what type of harvest are you imagining can be grown in under three days? And for free?
C: I guess you could always forage in the forest, searching for nuts and berries.
SS: It's the middle of winter, for God's sake.
C: There are berries in winter. How else could Sainsbury's assemble a Winterberry Squash?
SS: Except that they're under three feet of snow. How will I see them?
C: Sight isn't the only sense, grasshopper.
SS: You know I don't have a sense of smell, you bastard. You think I'm going to hear the berries?
C: Ribena berries go "WOO!"
SS: I'm exiting the conversation.
C: You're just going to sit there and think about Felicity Kendal, aren't you?
SS: Pretty much.
C: Through total incompetence?
SS: Through sheer manliness.
C: You snapped it in half whilst pulling it from your wallet?
SS: I sat on it.
C: So it was the sheer manliness of your arse, is what you're saying.
SS: Essentially. I'll have a new one in three days, but until then I can't get any money out.
C: Is a cunning plan in effect?
SS: Is mooching off my parents a cunning plan?
C: No. Emasculating, not cunning. You need to be self-sufficient.
SS: Specify.
C: You could plant crops, like in The Good Life.
SS: Exactly what type of harvest are you imagining can be grown in under three days? And for free?
C: I guess you could always forage in the forest, searching for nuts and berries.
SS: It's the middle of winter, for God's sake.
C: There are berries in winter. How else could Sainsbury's assemble a Winterberry Squash?
SS: Except that they're under three feet of snow. How will I see them?
C: Sight isn't the only sense, grasshopper.
SS: You know I don't have a sense of smell, you bastard. You think I'm going to hear the berries?
C: Ribena berries go "WOO!"
SS: I'm exiting the conversation.
C: You're just going to sit there and think about Felicity Kendal, aren't you?
SS: Pretty much.
Monday, 2 February 2009
Nice To Have A Heavyweight On-Side
Dan Larison has an interesting post up regarding those criticising donors of aid to Gaza on the grounds that they are propping up Hamas. I'm in general agreement with his main arguments(although I'm less skeptical about international aid as a general concept than perhaps he is), the nickel version of which is that withholding aid is liable to strengthen Hamas by increasing the populations reliance on their supplies and providing them with the opportunity to stir up the anger and resentment that Hamas essentially feeds off.
I also wanted to point out that while the argument that long-term dependence on foreign aid is a bad idea for Gaza is well-taken, absent major changes in the political landscape in the region it is difficult to concoct a plausible scenario under which cutting the aid will help anyone bar the grave-diggers. To oversimplify tremendously, if Gaza really has become an addict it does not follow that cold turkey is a sensible next step.
I also wanted to point out that while the argument that long-term dependence on foreign aid is a bad idea for Gaza is well-taken, absent major changes in the political landscape in the region it is difficult to concoct a plausible scenario under which cutting the aid will help anyone bar the grave-diggers. To oversimplify tremendously, if Gaza really has become an addict it does not follow that cold turkey is a sensible next step.
Sunday, 1 February 2009
Crisis Blogging
Am typing this post up in the middle of working through a pile of undergraduate scripts the height (and frankly quality) of one of those piles of triceratops shit from Jurassic Park. Hence my plan to ruthlessly mock Richard Littlejohn has fallen by the wayside [1]. Instead, I present the long-delayed second part of "Musicians You Are Too Stupid To Know Exist."
This time round we worship at the altar of James Yorkston. I put up one of his songs way back during the Radio Ljubljana sessions, but I think he's worthy of another look.
This is Yorkston playing "St Patrick" with his original backing band, a bunch of his mates working under the name "The Athletes" (generator of one of my all-time favorite Wikipedia quotes "None of them, however, are actually athletes; indeed, the accordion player... has been seen smoking a pipe").
And this is the title track from his latest album, When The Haar Rolls In.
Obviously my continual descent into the bowels of folk music is as much a surprise to me as anyone, but in Yorkston's case at least, I suspect the explanation is pretty simple: these are songs about the broken heart post-whine, which I guess is the next logical step for my music taste.
Also, the guy started out in a punk band, which we all know is awesome, as proven by Frank Turner, who may be showing up in one of these posts sometime soon.
[1] Feel free to do it yourself if you want. He takes a perfectly reasonable question (did Social Services dismiss the grandparents of a child taken away from her mother as potential foster parents), and spins it into an article that suggests the social workers involved received bonuses for their choice (due to a homosexual quota system Littlejohn is convinced must be in place, for some reason), and that they resemble professional kidnappers hired by paedophiles to snatch children from their families.
This time round we worship at the altar of James Yorkston. I put up one of his songs way back during the Radio Ljubljana sessions, but I think he's worthy of another look.
This is Yorkston playing "St Patrick" with his original backing band, a bunch of his mates working under the name "The Athletes" (generator of one of my all-time favorite Wikipedia quotes "None of them, however, are actually athletes; indeed, the accordion player... has been seen smoking a pipe").
And this is the title track from his latest album, When The Haar Rolls In.
Obviously my continual descent into the bowels of folk music is as much a surprise to me as anyone, but in Yorkston's case at least, I suspect the explanation is pretty simple: these are songs about the broken heart post-whine, which I guess is the next logical step for my music taste.
Also, the guy started out in a punk band, which we all know is awesome, as proven by Frank Turner, who may be showing up in one of these posts sometime soon.
[1] Feel free to do it yourself if you want. He takes a perfectly reasonable question (did Social Services dismiss the grandparents of a child taken away from her mother as potential foster parents), and spins it into an article that suggests the social workers involved received bonuses for their choice (due to a homosexual quota system Littlejohn is convinced must be in place, for some reason), and that they resemble professional kidnappers hired by paedophiles to snatch children from their families.
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