Fish Harvest, update III

Just dropped by?

Read Part One here.

Part Two is here.

Mike sat across from the craboid, its claws bound in rainbow bungee cords, in the closest thing Rowe Boat had to a conference room. Space being at a premium on a fishing boat, the area also tripled as a rec room, dining room, and kitchen. Mike had enjoyed many slapdash burritos here, and as he watched the craboid settle itself in, he wondered if ever would again.

Sure, it was ugly, but Mike had pulled stuff out of the ocean that looked just as awful, even if it didn't talk. It was the smell; that, and the leaking. Every time it spoke, a wave of funk seeped from every word, making every breath feel like it was being filtered through rotten sea weed. Viscous phlegm shot out from holes seemingly chosen at random as punctuation. In the one short exchange Mike had had with the craboid since getting it seated, it had scuzzed up the stove, the sink, and an entire tray of clean plates that would now have to be burned.

Binding the craboid's claws with bungee cords had actually been it's idea, claiming it to be a polite gesture of submission. It almost worked; the craboid looked ridiculous, restrained with those rainbow cords, but in Mike's mind the image of the steel railing bent like play-dough refused to let itself be dismissed.

The belly crab was left to itself. Its attention was focused solely on a little black box it had produced from who knows where. Deft armored fingers softly scraped the surface, coaxing it to emit occasional clicks, croaks, and flashes of light. It didn't even look up when Steve entered the room, although Mike noticed the lobster head snapped right to him.

“How bad?” Mike asked. Rowe Boat had arrived in time to pull the four coast guardsmen out of the water—alive, thank God, but only if you looked twice.

“They're breathing more than bleeding. I think,” Steve said. He picked up a rag, squinted at the goo the craboid had flicked onto it, then tossed it into the sink and wiped his brow with his hand. “Doesn't mean much. If there are any serious internal injuries they could bleed out and we wouldn't know till they were dead.”

“Still no luck on the radio?”

“Nothing but static.”

Mike rubbed his chin and considered the craboid. If it could be believed, Barsky and his crew were safely tucked away in something like a sub, awaiting a call to be released. That meant priority had to go towards getting those coasties medical attention, which meant making it easy for Dallas, the boat the helo had launched from, to find them. Which meant that the most productive thing to do was sit still and interrogate a glorified sea cockroach.

“So, what do we call you?” Mike asked.

“Any designation will do,” the craboid said.

“I kept this snow crab as a pet once,” Steve said. “Named it Chauncey.”

Mike raised an eyebrow.

“Daughter. My, uh, daughter named it Chauncey.”

“Chauncey,” Mike said. “Sure, why not? So, Chauncey, first item: why have you been screwing with the boats out here all this time?” This time Chauncey's belly crab looked up.

“We have avoided you until now.”

Mike snorted. “Oh come on. I know what's going on. I've seen movies. These mannafish show up, sea life starts to flourish—and I mean insanely flourish; there are more whales now than the Japanese can kill. Real miraculous stuff. These things are your kids, right?”

“No.”

“Fish-mates?”

“I do not—”

“No, no, you're right. I'm over-thinking it. They're yourselves in the past, and you're from the future to protect them.”

Steve shook his head. “Doesn't make sense.”

“I know! Chauncey, you really expect us to believe—”

“No, I mean about the future thing.” Steve pointed at Chauncey's belly crab and wiggled his fingers. “See, the morphology is all wrong. Shouldn't they have evolved from some kind of tool-using crab?”

Chauncey looked from Steve to the Mike and emitted a particularly thick glob that might have signified confusion.

“Is this relevant—“

“It's a fair point,” Mike said. “So, which is it?”

“We have no...direct relation. Your 'mannafish' are are an unfortunate side effect of our environmental modifications.”

Mike blinked. “Unfortunate? You ever try one?”

“Of course not. They're not for—you have been eating them?” Chauncey laughed. At least, Mike hoped that's what it was. It shook and leaked a bit more; the load of dishware that needed to be burned got a little heavier. Chauncey settled down after half a minute.

“You are harvesting food. That is fortunate, but also distressing. Here is your tormenter.”

Chauncey's black box made a fizzing sound and a hologram flared into existence, showing a view from above. Mike would say bird's eye, but he doubted there was any variety of bird that hovered in orbit. Chauncey scritched the box and the picture zoomed in until it settled several hundred feet above a dark splotch on the ocean.

Mike squinted. No, not on. In. And next to it a speck that happened to be Rowe Boat. Mike jabbed a finger at the splotch.

“What the hell is that?”

“We assumed it was yours.”

“I don't see a name tag. You just assumed the...thing attacking us was our buddy?”

“We mistook the interaction for a primitive command system.”

“Amazing how that still doesn't answer what 'it' is.”

“You ask a technical question. We speculated it was a living creature at one point, heavily modified to defend you in the event technological regression destroyed your civilization.”

“You, uh, run across that kind of thing a lot, do you?”

Chauncey let out a puff of seaweed stank that sounded very close to a sigh.

“A distressingly common precaution, yes. Typically, we would avoid such derelicts, but our arrival perturbed it out of hibernation. Its incessant probings required that we undergo frequent, complex relocation of our arcologies. We desired simplicity.”

“You tried to kill it?”

“It has some manner of shielding, and as you have seen, a selection of more energetic countermeasures.”

“Oh, well, serves you right.” Mike crossed his arms and let himself smile smugly. “Little guy wasn't doing you any harm, was he? It might take him ages to calm down again before he goes back to sleep.”

“Perhaps. But, in the meantime it has switched from passively observing to actively scanning and attacking.”

“Sucks to be you,” Steve said.

“It's ignoring our observers so far. They have been tracking it's progress.”

Mike hitched a thumb towards the horizon. “Better start scuttling.”

“It's not moving to attack us.”

There was another hard scritch from Chauncey's belly crab and the view once again zoomed out to a view encompassing the entire Atlantic ocean. Alien symbols flashed across the hologram, dots and chicken scratch that could have meant anything. There was one symbol, however, that made sense. A single, bright red line.

A line starting from Rowe Boat and heading west.

Mike felt his mouth go dry.

“It appears to be prioritizing the loudest source of 'noise.' Your civilization is less advanced than ours, of course, but it currently exists on a much larger scale.”

“Will you, uh, give us one moment?” Mike asked. He motioned to Steve and they walked to just outside the nearest hatchway.

“Well, we sure as hell need to tell the navy, or somebody,” Steve said.

“Yeah, but tell them what? Prepare for a giant monster attack?”

“We've got the proof, don't we?”

“Proof for the wrong monster,” Mike said.

“Then we can let it tell the story.”

“Think about all the weird crap we've dealt with out here, Steve, and remember what our first response was. They'll shoot 'Chauncey' before they think to ask it anything.”

“Maybe if we put it in a cage—“

Mike heard rustling coming from in the room and rushed back in to find Chauncey rummaging through a box of old navigational charts, waving its computer over each chart until the device emitted a gurgling click before moving on to the next.

“What are you doing?” Mike asked.

“Perhaps you might clarify something,” Chauncey said. A hologram flashed into existence once more, but this time showing a time-lapse animation of every bit of navigational data Mike had ever jotted down. “If you did not know what was attacking you, how were you able to track it so precisely?”

Rowe Boat didn't have anything like a regular patrol. Throughout the jumble of notes, there was only one constant that Mike could see. “That's our record of what we call the 'alpha plume.' I guess we've actually been tailing you.”

“Our arcologies have not been following this path,” Chauncey said. Alien writing appeared over the course logs, and Chauncey's belly crab began ticking off plated fingers as if running quick and dirty calculations. “Ah. Your 'plume' is merely waste heat from the processes we use to make the environment easier to harvest from.”

“So this thing was following the plume, not you?”

“Perhaps, although there seems to be no reason behind it.”

“Well, we follow it to find the largest schools of mannafish. Are you hiding anything else out there?”

“Why would it follow the fish?”

“Maybe it eats them?” Mike said.

Steve laughed. “Oh come on. This thing is thousands of years old, at least, has space-age weapons, and it's gotta eat?”

“If the behavior is a leftover artifact its creators did not bother to engineer out, it would explain the interest in your harvesting vessels,” Chauncey said. “For a creature of its size, normal groupings of fish might be too diffuse to notice.”

Mike nodded. “Yeah, I see. When our boats net them it makes a slow chunky morsel. Destroying or scaring off the boats keeps the mannafish from getting away.”

“What were you shooting at it with?” Steve asked.

“Several varieties of kinetic and direct energy weapons.”

“And nothing got through?”

“Correct.”

Mike felt something in his mind click as it finally boarded Steve's train of thought. “If nothing gets through, how does it eat the fish?” Mike asked.

“It...” Chauncey's heads looked at one another, as if mulling over the thought. “It would have to lower its shielding to do so.”

“This is starting to sound more familiar,” Mike said.

Steve snorted. “Oh, really?”

“Well, sort of,” Mike said with a grin. “Lines, bait, and such. Still need a hook, though. Something to deliver a killing blow.”

“That we can provide,” said Chauncey.

Fish Harvest, update II

Just dropped by? Read Part One here.

***

The fog lifted slowly as Rowe Boat headed east into the Atlantic. It was clear it had died many hours back, though its wispy corpse remained in defiance of the sun. Rowe Boats' deck was still; all spare hands were looking out for signs that the plume had something weird in store for them.

Mike shifted in his chair and looked up from the course log he and Steve had made for Shrimp Bandit to scan the horizon and fiddle with his heading. He hated having the crew sit on their thumbs as much as they did, but the watch was essential work. A sign could be anything: the sun might appear green, or fish might hover inches above the water until they suffocated and plunked back into the sea. Mike had personally seen a man fall overboard and then jog over the ocean to catch his boat.

Maybe this fog could count as a sign? The way it stuck to the ocean like a filmy crust was a little unnerving. Problem was, you kept an eye out for strange things so you could book it in the other direction. If this was a sign, where could he run?

And where the hell was Barsky anyway? As of their last last check-in, Shrimp Bandit was hauling a pen crammed with mannafish. With that baggage, Barsky would keep his pace at a crawl to preserve the health of his catch. So long as he hadn't cut his lines and shot off, he should be in this general area—but it was clear from here to the sky's edge.

Wait, no. There was something...but then it was gone. Just a flash of neon orange poking through the sheen, but it couldn't have been more than a dozen yards ahead of Rowe Boat. Mike threw down the log, shouted a warning over the PA and then went for the throttle. Rowe Boats' diesel engines roared.

Something was submerged out there. If he'd spotted it in time, the increased water flow over the rudders would let him turn sharply enough to avoid it; if he was wrong, they would hit that much harder. Seconds ticked by as Rowe Boat lurched ahead and to port. Had he done it? Without a point of reference he only had his gut to go by.

The shock registered first, as if every part of the boat was spasming a different direction. Then Rowe Boat's steel hull made its displeasure known with the ear tearing wail of metal battling metal. Rowe Boat rolled hard to port, dumping Mike out of his chair. For a horrible moment Mike thought they were going to capsize, but the deck stabilized back to starboard and the wailing abated, though he could still feel the back of his teeth buzzing.

When Mike found his footing he first took a headcount. Thankfully, nobody had gone overboard or been crushed. Rowe Boat herself didn't appear to be listing, so the hull was still in one piece. It could still be Swiss cheese, which spelled doom in the long run. Steve was already taking guys below to scope out the damage, leaving Mike to ponder what he'd actually run into.

Behind Rowe Boat the fog was churning. Whatever they'd run into had gotten a spin out of the crash, and it was throwing off its misty cover like a too-large blanket. The first detail to become visible was a flag showing a crudely drawn shrimp holding a badly stenciled crab at gunpoint.

Ah. There the hell was Barsky.

Shrimp Bandit was submerged up to the wheelhouse and listing so far to starboard she was practically sideways. The spin from Rowe Boats' bump was wearing off, but Shirmp Bandit showed no signs of sinking further. She just bobbed there, suspended between shipshape and shipwreck.

Once Steve had determined Rowe Boat wasn't going to sink, Mike brought them alongside Shrimp Bandit and then came down to the deck to gawk with the rest of the crew. All of the fog had been thrown off at this point, and Shrimp Bandits' empty, waterlogged deck lay before them. Caught in the rigging, just under the flag, was an empty neon orange ocean survival suit with 'B-A-R-S-K-Y' painted on the back. There was no sign of other survival gear.

Mike felt his stomach knot up as he scanned the still empty horizon. By itself, the Atlantic wasn't that bad of an ocean to be be adrift on. There were plenty of shipping lanes and enough traffic that someone was bound to stumble across you. But that plume... boats with every modern convenience had a hard enough time just skirting the edge and coming back in one piece. Alone on a raft? Nobody came back from that. If Barsky and his crew were out there, their only hope was being found. Fast.

“Steve?”

“Yeah, Mike?”

“I think this just became coast guard business.”

Steve nodded and ran back up to the wheelhouse to make the call.

Mike leaned against the railing and tried hard not to let the metal remind him of handcuffs. With his catch safely being processed back on Sundered Susan, there wasn't anything too incriminating for the Coast Guard to find, and he did have a legitimate fishing permit. Of course, that permit was for Atlantic salmon; the coasties might be a little suspicious about why Rowe Boat was poking around over a thousand miles south of where he could plausibly find any.

Mike could feel his thoughts brush against a brilliant excuse before Rowe Boats' deck shifted slightly to port and sent it careening out of his grasp. Damn. Were they snagged on something?

When Mike looked to the port side he saw two massive claws, each easily as large as his torso, clamped onto the railing. With a single heave, something sprang over the side and landed with a soft, wet thud. At first, Mike thought he was being boarded by a giant upright lobster. But no, that was crazy. Why would a giant lobster want to learn that trick?

The thing turned from side to side, scanning the deck and giving Mike a good look at its torso. Ah, that explained it. It walked upright to make room for the front half of a crab sticking out of its 'belly.' Though Mike had to admit calling it a crab was a bit of a stretch. After all, where decent God-fearing crabs would normally have pincers, this one had spindly, armored hands—complete with thumbs.

“Uh. Huh,” Mike said.

The thing seemed to regard him, the belly crab keeping its attention fixed while the lobster head shifted around the deck, though it never let its attention wander for too far before coming back.

At that moment, Steve returned from the wheelhouse.

“Coasties have a helo nearby based off of Dallas. They're diverting—the fuck is that!?”

Crew that had been busy re-securing deck equipment took note of Steve's outburst and joined Mike in stunned shock at the sight of the lobster/crab thing. Mike shook his mind back into gear. Weirdness was going down; that meant danger. He grinned in denial of his quivering instinct to put the heaviest hatch between himself and the...craboid? Yeah, craboid; he could get a handle on that. It almost sounded like something he knew how to deal with.

“Do you command this craft?”it asked.

Oh, dammit. It talks. “I do,” Mike said.

“We have taken the crew of that vessel.” It waved one giant claw at Shrimp Bandit “ We require your cooperation to ensure their safety.”

“Is that so?”

Every man grabbed a blunt object and surrounded the craboid. It shifted its stance with slow graceful movements as they approached, using one claw to shield the belly crab while the other was raised as if to smash anyone who got too close. To Mike, it looked like a calm reflex; not really what he'd expect from a creature being corralled by an angry mob.

Truthfully, he wasn't sure what he or any of the crew could do even if they got close enough to whack it. Beat it into submission? Take it hostage? Potluck? Thankfully, the issue never came up. Once they crowded the craboid back to the railing, it suddenly wheeled around as if shocked at the existence of the ocean. The Mike saw it.

The fog—all of it—was gone, and the sea was a light show.

Almost all the way out to the horizon, patches of ocean flared and dimmed. Ripples sprang from hundreds of disturbances, some of them building into swells strong enough to rock Rowe Boat.

“Steve, what direction is that helo coming from?”

“East.”

Mike looked east and could see a speck against the sky. That'd be the helo heading their way to scope out the wreck and start up a search pattern. Part of him marveled at the response time.

The craboid, or at least its lobster half, followed Mike's gaze and seemed to realize what it was. It looked from the aircraft to the water frantically, and started making a sound like a wet bush rattling against a washboard. The belly crab pushed aside the claw sheltering it, locked eyes with Mike and said—no, pleaded, “Send it away.”

Mike's mind was still trying to come up with an anatomically impossible suggestion for the craboid when a section of sea off the port bow boiled, then caught fire. A bright line burst from the ocean and blazed across the sky. Mike was forced to look away, and seconds later he felt like a hot wire had be stretched across his face.

When he looked up again it was just in time to watch the helo, now tailless, spin into the water.

Every man on deck dropped their tools and ran to collect survival gear.

Mike started forward but was yanked back by the craboid, who had scuttled over and lain one big claw on his shoulder.

“You did not command this?”it asked

Mike tried to shoot the craboid a withering glare, but to no effect. It just sat there, awaiting his reply.

“No,” Mike said.

The craboid seemed to consider this, the two heads looking at eachother and bobbing slightly. Finally it looked back to him. “We should talk.”

Read Part Three Here.

Story Times

As evidenced by this blog, it takes me a long time to write. Part of the problem is that I tend to sit on whatever I'm working on and poke it instead of moving on. If this blog could be said to have a purpose, it's to teach me how to be productive creatively instead of wallowing in one project for months at a time.

To that end, here's a story I've been working on. It's my hope that by "publishing" bits of it in some way I'll be better able to focus on finishing. It doesn't have a proper title yet; if you ever find yourself in a social situation that requires you to name it I suggest

Fish Harvest

On October 13^th , 2012, Earth was invaded. In less than an hour, 60% of the planet was taken with such force as to make the combined might of all the world's armed forces, had they been able to react at all, seem like beavers trying to dam a tsunami.

Eight years later, someone noticed.

***

“Inspector coming in,” Steve said. He lowered his binoculars and pointed west into the fog.

Mike strained his eyes, but couldn't see a damned thing. This weather was starting to grate on him. Sure, it kept the authorities from casually bumping into them, and Mike appreciated its thematic appropriateness, but it made coordinating a pain in the ass. The zodiac raft was practically on top of them before it became visible; its markings showed it belonged to Sundered Susan, which meant that he was at least in the general vicinity of the processing boat.

“Want me to handle this one?” Steve asked.

“No,” Mike said. “They’re bringing the damn paperwork with them, lately. I’ll do the initialing; you get back on the radio and find out where the rest of our boats are.”

When the little raft puttered up alongside Rowe Boat, Mike leaped in, snatched the inspector’s clipboard, and began scribbling. It wasn't until the inspector opened the throttle that Mike noticed it was a woman—her name tag said “Andrea”— wearing a business suit and clutching...leather high-heel shoes? Absolutely ridiculous. At least she'd had the sense to go barefoot instead of trying to saunter around a rubber boat with spiky feet. Still, were the government raids really leaving the fisheries so short staffed that they were sending out office temps?

Rowe Boat soon disappeared behind them. Mike's only visual reference as they sped to the catch was a line of neon orange buoys. He had almost finished the first page when the single line of buoys split into two, outlining the holding pen Rowe Boat had been dragging along. Another raft was already moored to it, but missing its pilot. He surfaced as Andrea brought them alongside; clutched to his chest was at least thirty pounds of glittering golden miracle. The mannafish didn't even struggle when the diver placed it on a scale in his boat. Andrea took one look and went green.

“Ugh, it's so fat.”

Mike hefted the fish by the tail and slapped it gently.

“No ma'am, that’s all lean muscle; packed fresh with every nutrient a body could ask for and bacon-flavored to boot.”

Andrea snatched back the clipboard and her face disappeared behind it. Mike heard stifled gags before she bothered to read what he'd written.

“Where are they rest of your boats?”

“Finishing up business by the plume.”

“Yes, well, there are fleets coming in behind you with nets to empty. We can't afford to wait.”

“My boats will be here. Promise.” .

Andrea didn't even look up.

“I can give you a day while we process what you’ve brought us. If your boats don’t show, we'll have to send you to the back of the line.”

Mike put on his best smile, but decided not to push his luck further.

After some more paperwork, Mike was dropped back on Rowe Boat. He waved goodbye to the inspector until the raft melded with the murk, then flipped it off and went into the pilot house. Steve was there finishing up with the radio, and his expression as he hung up the receiver did not portend good news.

“Barsky have a good excuse?” Mike asked.

“Couldn’t say. Nobody's seen him.”

“Did he just fall into a hole?” Mike brought out a map and traced his finger over the last known course of Dave Barsky's Shrimp Bandit. Running alongside was a thick red line denoting the best guess by the National Weather Service of the Atlantic Plumes' heading. The red line stopped while Barsky’s course continued on. Mike read some figures from a sheet and extended the red line.

“Uh-oh,” Mike said. “If Barsky didn't read the last notice, his course would've led him right into the plume.”

“You think maybe...”

Mike shook his head.

“When Dick Moore’s hull was dissolving, he called for help. When Roy Stanton fell up two thousand feet we heard him screaming on the way down. There’s no precedent for going quietly.”

Mike frowned. Of course, lack of precedent meant jack; that plume was the font of all kinds of strange—way more than a traveling warm spot of water should be capable of. If not for the ludicrous profit margin mannafish brought in, he'd gladly go back to scooping up crab in the Bering Sea. At least in that freezing hell you had a a pretty good idea of what was trying to kill you..

“Barsky knows what he’s doing,” Steve said.

“Mm. Tell the boys reel in the lines and leave the pen.”.

Steve nodded, but paused by the hatchway.

“Not to be critical, but missing boats seems like Coast Guard business.”

Mike snorted. “Hah. ‘Oh hey guys. Yeah, we lost a boat during a blatantly illegal fishing operation. Would you mind risking life and limb to find it for us? Maybe haul in our catch too?'”

“Well, aren’t we in international waters?”

“Do you really want to sea-lawyer with a cannon pointed at you?”

Steve's expression soured. “It's not fair, Mike. We can't over-fish these things. The big trawlers have tried for a year and can't make a dent. Who are we hurting?”

“Don't sell us short. We've probably ravaged at least one bureaucrats' ego.”

“Look, government's eager enough to gut my pay. I'm just saying that the least they could do is let the Coasties come to our rescue without having to bring cuffs.”

Mike nodded. “Sure, sure, in a perfect world. But we don't know that Barsky even needs rescuing. Just say we're dropping in for moral support.”

Read Part II Here.

Numerotextology

My room isn't really my room. Not anymore; not for a long time now. It's some new kind of paper-based ecosystem. Herds of non-fiction books roam the desks, straining to teach neat skills or implant rare knowledge. I read them, of course; it keeps them calm, and I pick up things. Not as much as I would like, because I'm only reading.

Ah, but I have a blog, don't I? It's a place where I can pretend to do things instead of doing things. That's almost like actually doing things, isn't it? And if I pretend to do them enough, I might actually retain what these books are desperately trying to give me. Then they can die in peace.

So, how about we start the culling with Secrets of Mental Math by Arthur Benjamin and Michael Shermer? This is a really good book, because not only does it feature easy mental exercises that make you look like a wizard but it also has a foreword written by Bill Nye The Science Guy!

While all of the tricks in the book are neat and practical, there's one in particular I'd like to focus on, and that is number memorization. Why number memorization? Part of it is that numbers are a pain in the ass to retain, but I was moved to blog about this primarily because the method advocated by the authors is to turn those numbers into words.

Specifically, you link the numerals to consonants. Here's a table outlining the ones they recommend:

1 is the t or d sound.
2 is the n sound.
3 is the m sound.
4 is the r sound.
5 is the l sound.
6 is the j, ch, or sh sound.
7 is the k or hard g sound.
8 is the f or v sound.
9 is the p or b sound.
0 is the z or s sound.

Here's a system the authors suggest to make absorbing this key easier:

1. A typed t or d has just 1 downstroke.
2. A typewritten n has 2 downstrokes
3. A typewritten m has 3 downstrokes.
4. The number 4 ends in the letter r.
5. Stick your thumb perpendicular to your other fingers; boom, there's 5 fingers in an L shape.
6. A J looks like a backwards 6.
7. A K is just two 7's laid back to back.
8. A lowercase f in cursive looks like an 8.
9. 9 is clearly a backwards p and upside-down b.
0. 0 begins with Z.

If your mind doesn't want to handle that, they say you can just memorize the name Tony Marloshkovips. I don't really get that one myself, but if it works more power to you.

Let's put this method to work. Let's say I've just been issued a new social security number because my last one was stolen and used to set up an international jewel thieves syndicate to fund a shelter for amputated farm animals spray painted to look like Bobba Fett. Let's also say that my new number is:

978 - 25 -1892

Referring to the list above, this translates to:

P/B, K, F - N, L - T, F, P/B, N

Off the top of my head, this can be written as:

Bake Ivy Neal A Dove Bun

This is certainly easier to remember than a string of random numbers. The trick, I guess, is getting those numeral-linked consonants memorized. I think I'll actually put forth the effort in this case. If nothing else, it provides a more interesting (for me) way to play with numbers.

Moar Words!

I've got quite a backlog of these. To keep it interesting, I think I'll go with a theme this time. See if you can guess!

***

Senescence(Noun): The state of being old : the process of becoming old.

Senescence was not kind to William Shatner.

Somnambulist (Noun): Someone who walks about in their sleep.

Leonard Nemoy often used the excuse of being a somnambulist to explain why he sometimes appeared in William Shatner's home to viciously kick him in the "navigational array."

Catechism (Noun): A manual giving basic instruction in a subject, usually by rote or repetition.

Dr. McCoy had an entire wall lined with vintage medical catechisms. Every one of them, with the exception of the of Dr. House novelizations, was hollowed out and bulging with bourbon.


Loupe (Noun): A small magnifying glass usually set in an eyepieces.

"Fascinating," Spock said. He removed his loupe. "It appears we have finally found Mr. Sulu's heterosexuality."

Defenestrate (Verb): To throw through or out of the window.

Dispatching your opponents through defenestration is not recommended on a starship.

Abstruse (Adjective): Not easy to understand.

Chekov's abstruse accent becomes much easier to understand after four shots of vodka.

Quotidian (Adjective): Daily.

Scotty's quotidian exercise seemed to consist of bench pressing four pallets of donuts directly into his gullet.

Prosody (Noun): The study of poetic metre and techniques.

Kirk was in the habit of flicking Spock's ears whenever he looked like he might settle down and relax with some prosody.

100 Update

Why hello there! You might remember me from such posts as "I will totally update this blog once a week as I complete The Challenge." That was about a month ago, but hear me out!

See, it turns out I severely underestimated the lingering effects my sickness would have. Even after getting over the worst symptoms, I was forced to sit on my ass while the detritus was cleared. In the past, descending into disease has spelled the end of routine exercise, because it knocks me out for so long I lose the exercise habit. I didn't want that to happen again, so instead of the Challenge I focused on doing exercise every day. It didn't matter if I was just having a walk or doing real cardio; I knew I had to keep momentum or I'd slump.

It's worked out pretty well, I think; while I can't say that my fitness shot up by leaps and bounds, I can say it hasn't deteriorated. Now that I'm safely past the danger of petering out, it's time to restart strength training and resume The Challenge!

Today was my first day back, and I picked up where I left off: Day 3 of the First Week. Here are the numbers from the final exhaustion phase of the workout:

*Push-Ups: 20

Sit-Ups: 39

Certainly better off now then when I started. Oh, right, you may notice I don't have squats listed anymore; I decided to stop doing them for the time being since all the walking and cardio give me plenty of lower body activity.

Give me a few days of getting back into the groove and I'll see about setting a day for proper weekly updates again.



*Still doing knee push-ups.

One Small Post For Me

The big news is that it's the anniversary of the Apollo 11 mission. True, I'm a day late blogging about it, but I was stuck at work most of yesterday.

Actually, no, scratch that; it doesn't sound nearly sophisticated enough.

Okay. So yesterday I couldn't blog because I was struck with heavy melancholia. As I lounged in my study, idly running my fingers over my first edition Voltaire's, I was thinking to myself how sad it was that I wasn't currently on the moon. I mean, here it's been 40 years since we landed there, a feat that, itself, only took 60 years from the first powered human flight--nearly two-thirds of the same time span, and what have we got to show for it?

No moon colonies. No major orbital presence.

Yes, we've sent out some neat robots and taken great pictures, but humankind still remains hopelessly mired to this mudball.

Okay, sinking a bit here; gotta throw on a life vest. At least there still are space programs, right? And they're making strides--small ones, yes, but strides nonetheless. I guess that will have to be good enough for now.