StarDestroyer.Net BBS

Moosecow

Moosecow, was ablaze in the forces or riots. After the mysterious death of Shroomanski, and the deaths of those who were fighting against him, there was confusion everywhere. And where there was confusion, there came violence and rallying of people under their own banners.

Ivan Trolling Tretiak rallied the people under his banner, wishing to gain the power of the people.



His appeals to the peoples of Zenobia, that he would bring them light, heat and power, no matter the cost. This was met with great enthusiasm, as the peoples were tired of cold nights in the dark, while the nation wasted all their corn on making the rocketskis fly into space, only to lose to the Murcan pigdogs who spat on their names when they landed on the moon. He took the time to kiss every baby in the crowd, having to take breaks every hour to drink more water so as to have more spit. By the time the night was over, every baby in the Gremlin had been kissed, licked, or lathered upon. He rallied the people, and they ran throughout the city of Moosecow, bringing him to bring comfort into Zenobia.

What they did not know was that Tretiak was hoarding the supply of whale oil in his basement, to keep the Zenobians cold, so they would do anything to fight for him, and be warm again. He knew he was a clever man, and would rule all of the Onion, but now he was quite a thirsty one, for the babies kept coming, and he was getting tired of having to kiss them.

While Tretiak appealed to the people, Anatoly Cherdenko appealed to the military. "This is my timeline", he said, and Zenobia would bloom under his reign. No more would they spend their money on useless projects of space travel and trying to beat the Murcans with prestige. They would now focus on increased weapons, to better kill the Murcans and bring the dream of Commenoids true. The boot on the face of the masses, for all eternity. They would be that boot, that's what Cherdenko promised to the generals if they helped him. With his military support and legion of women cossacks, he had the power to achieve military victory now that the current coup was leaderless.



These two forces met head on. They were but two of the factions that were springing up to bring Zenobia under its heel.

Fires raged, corn husks were being thrown, bottles of vodka were used as weapons. It was madness. And in the midst of this, was Secret Squirrel, trying to find his contact to escape back to Murca. He had managed to hide aboard a train, but when he awoke, Secret Squirrel found that he had arrived in Moosecow. He ran through the streets, looking for the address of where Mole was supposed to reside. Little did Squirrel know, that Mole had been compromised and was already in interrogation. He had nowhere to go, and could only hope to escape the madness of the Onion. He continued running, but eventually he was put into the mob of mothers holding babies. He soon found himself carried to Ivan Tretiak, who grabbed his head and reached for a kiss. But the Zenobian leader was no fool. He saw the Murcan beneath the squirrel costume, and recognized the liberal amount of lubricant that was covering the man's body.

"MURCAN SPY!" he yelled.

Secret Squirrel's training kicked in, and he jumped onto the roof of a building, avoiding the vodka bottles thrown his way. One hit him, severely wounding him. He cried, for this could be the night he died, and Ivan was all the way in Murca, waiting for him. Did the man even remember him? He had been gone so long. He had changed so much. What was he to do? Then he saw it. The airport, with all the chaos, might have low enough security for him to escape. He ran, jumping from rooftop to rooftop. There was the fence, he jumped it, scraping his knees in the process. His lower body felt cold liquid pouring out. He had to see Ivan, just one last time. There was a plane, a cargo one heading somewhere. He ran up the open cargo ramp as the crews worked to empty it of it's interrogation wine and cheeses. Squirrel didn't notice, for he was tired. He slipped himself into a crawlspace, and fell asleep. The cargo doors closed, and several hours later, the plane landed.

Secret Squirrel woke up when the cargo ramp opened. He used all his stealth and cunning to sneak out, when he noticed where he was. It was Stenchia. There were people walking around, in berets and carrying bread, which they used to throw at the new Baris Tower, it was terrible. The culture was everywhere, refinement filled the streets. If Squirrel wasn't careful, he would become like the Stenchians. Making sure to look only at the cobbled streets, for their was a minimum of culture to be found in pavement, he made his way to the Murcan embassy. He feared for the worst, as he heard people offering him wines and expensive cheeses. It was horrible.

He ran into a NcDonalds and ordered a burger, Murcan fries, and a large coke. No Stenchian would ever make such an order. They knew who he was, and they took him to a backroom, where other Murcan operatives were resting. He was at the Murcan safehouse, and could take it easy, they would take him home.

It took three weeks, but he made it to Murca. The man in grey debriefed him, and then told him to remove the costume. He did, he was no longer Secret Squirrel, that would go to someone younger, someone who could still play the game. His bloodied, bruised, wrinkled body could no longer pilot, no longer spy, and no longer farm. He was old now, he was done. They sent him home.

He arrived at the ranch. Ivan was there. They looked at each other. Ivan Drako had gotten old as well. The man had waited. They embraced, they could both rest now, Murca and Zenobia were done with them, and they were done with both of them.

FaxModem1 wrote: He did, he was no longer Secret Squirrel, that would go to someone younger, someone who could still play the game. His bloodied, bruised, wrinkled body could no longer pilot, no longer spy, and no longer farm. He was old now, he was done. They sent him home.

Spoiler

“So we won. We beat them. And now it’s over... it’s all over. We won’t be talking about going back for another twenty years, at least. Congress giveth, and Congress taketh away - and so, too, does Wehrner von Shapp, apparently.”

Unnamed MASA Engineer opened the bottle, the one he’d been saving. “But we won, and that’s what matters, right? We did the right thing in the end, didn’t we?”

“There is no end,” Mira said, “but, for the moment, yes. We did the right thing. Not many will know, for a while, but we did the right thing.”

“But what now? I sank my career into this - what we’ve got is better than what’s going on in Zenobia, but still... what am I going to do now? MASA’s my middle name, and now I won’t be able to prove it anymore...”

“Why not go private? Maybe that’s - “

“Yes, yes, YES! That’s it! That’s what we should have done to begin with - do it the real Murcan way! Commercial spaceflight will be the way of the future, the good, capitalist, Murcan way! We fought for that, too, and we won, and now the gates are open - we won’t have to compete with the commienists now. Only the best will succeed, though - we’ll have to move fast. I’ll get the Hermes engineers back, now that Congress has dropped Boing’s SST like a live grenade, we’ll buy Oddyssey and Pioneer for pennies on the dollar, hire the astronauts who’ll have no other way to fly yet - rent out launch facilities, put in orders for rockets at Martin Marietta - damn, that’ll be a lot of money, but we’ve got the nine million in the safe, might be enough to get some investors on board so we can start doing cargo flights...”

“I’ll find money for you,” Mira said, grinning widely. “I do know some people who’d be interested in a stake...”

“Brilliant - if we can get that, then we can start working on new things as well - the Hermes is good for now, but the rockets are going to cost us. We might be able to bring the price down over time, but I’ve got a better idea - we’ll build new spaceplanes, better ones, cheaper to operate, maybe one day even take off from a runway under their own power, and then fly all the way to the Moon... bigger, faster, more magnificent than anything ever before...”

“Right...” Engineer looked up to see Mira emptying the contents of her desk into a cardboard box - pens, binders, a box of ammunition -

“You told me you didn’t have a gun!” Engineer said.

“Never said that.” Mira smiled innocently as she took the revolver from her top-left drawer and put it in the box.

“What else have you not actually lied to me about?”

“A lot. Mostly everything, really.”

“Oh. Hmm... oh, we’re going to need office space, too - you are going to keep working for me, right?”

For the first time that day, his secretary looked downcast. “No. I... did what I came here to do, and that was to make sure the moon landing was a success. I’ve got a lot of other things to do now that that’s done, and as much as I’ve enjoyed working with you, I can’t stay.”

“Well - where are you going? I know Trentson’s got a job at Republic Aerospace - you’ll be around somewhere, right?”

“Maybe sometime - but otherwise, I’ll be far away... though if you send me a letter care of Republic they’ll see that it gets to me... eventually. Otherwise, though, I think this is goodbye, Dr. Engineer. It was a good ride. Better than Space Mountain, definitely.” She hefted the box in both hands, and looked at the door. “Fuck,” she said, and stared at the door for a moment until the handle turned and the door swung open by itself.

U.M. Engineer looked at the bottle of scotch. It was empty - and then the illusions fell away.

“You,” he said, “you were a mutant space witch all along! But -”

“No,” she said, as she stepped out into the corridor, “don’t be silly.”

Then from down the corridor he heard her say, “I’m not a mutant!”

“Your - But -” but she was gone.

Damn, he thought, What else didn’t she lie about? Worked out in the end, I guess... but nothing ever ends. Anyway, if I’m going to start a company, I need a name - something good, something kinda futuristic, something that says we’re flying high - like airborne, altitude, something...

Then he had it, and scratched the name out on the back of the scrub order he’d refused to sign, just before he passed out.

Altea Aerospace.

How long after the Fall (ie, Murcan victory) is this? A few weeks?

Needs moar Digaditch. And cowbell.

---

Bonnfire, West Thanasia

Well, it may have taken thirty odd years, but Werhner Von Shapp was home - well, about as close as he could get without living under the Zenobian thumb in Kemnits - he refused to use the Commienist name of Marcksstadt. In Murca, he was a rocket engineer, the mighty, dimension-bending, Von Shapp. Here, now, he was just an older man being taken for a walk by his dog.

And yes, said dog had stopped to relieve himself, making sure the lamp post was well watered.

Von Shapp grinned to himself at how he had knocked off the entire Murcan VAB and Saturn V stocks - perhaps that drunken fool U.M. Engineer might wake up now.

He continued his aimless, Maximilian-directed, stroll, the big dog stopping to investigate roughly every third smell that caught his nose, and piddle on every seventh lamp post, until he came to a park.

By something that is so totally coincidence, Von Shapp lobbed up to a park where an old friend was waiting.

If you had asked the engineer to list the top 200 people he'd expect to be waiting for him on a random park bench in Bonnfire, the one actually waiting there wouldn't be on that list. Maximilian gave a puzzled bark as Von Shapp recognised a friend from forty years ago, Heinz-57 Guderian, recently retired from the army.

"Wehrner, I see you've kept yourself busy. What with sending Murcans to the moon, stealing buildings and rockets, you haven't let old age slow you down."

Von Shapp had sat down and was about to protest when Heinz-57 steamrolled him and continued, "You couldn't just bear to see fine, Thanasian, work so casually thrown away to satisfy unwashed Murcan voters, could you?"

Von Shapp nodded dumbly.

An almost conspiratorial grin grew across Heinz-57's face. "You're not the only one. Are you doing anything, say, two nights' time?"

"Nothing too pressing."

The grin grew bigger. "There's a couple of people I'd like you to meet. If all goes well, your work would have only been... unavoidably delayed."

"WOOF! WOOF!"

"Will you be there too?"

"WOOF!" Dammit "WOOF!!"

Heinz-57 pressed a card into Von Shapp's hands.

---

THREE DAYS LATER

Hotel outside Zaarbricken, West Thanasia, overlooking Stenchia

Wild horses couldn't have kept either Von Shapp away.

They met Guderian again, who ushered them full tilt into a side room.

"Ach, tell me Heinz-57, is West Thanasia going this alone?"

Guderian shook his head. "It's a joint venture with the Stenchians. They have the equatorial launch sites, we have the expertise."

Werhner shrugged. "It's an imperfect world."

Guderian showed him into the room. Von Shapp didn't bother muffling the oath.

Waiting for him, apparently, was one Nikolai NIkolayevich Nikov, almost equally surprised. His Zenobian features marked him out among a room of Western Europeans, with the ever-present security goons flanking him.

Guderian grinned. "I see you two recognise each other."

In halting Thanasian, Nikov replied with a grin, "Poyekhali indeed, Heinz Heinzovich."

After a rapid exchange in Zenobian, Guderian turned back to Von Shapp. "It appears Herr Nikov felt exactly the same way you did. He took advantage of the chaos, apparently copied the Zenobian space program's archive, and, at personal risk probably as great as when he flew into space, defected."

Von Shapp wasn't sure about the risk statement, but let it pass. The combined knowledge of the two programs.... Werhner's mind ran on ahead of himself and his mouth.

It felt like the dawn after a very long night, thanks to that never-to-be-sufficiently-damned Shroomire.

Guderian grinned again. "Your rocket science, his knowledge of the right stuff... well... "

Von Shapp cut him off. "Where the hell do I sign?"

"WOOF!" Maximilian had a paw raised, in apparent search of inkpad.

Undisclosed Location
August 1975

Like a miniature white dwarf, the bare light-bulb hung in the dark void of a room deep in the bowels of a facility so secret that even much of the NKVDVDROM did not know where exactly it was- only that it existed, and that it was where the greatest failures of the Onion were taken. What happened to them there, no one knew.

The old potato bag was at last removed from the tired figure of Syrgy Pavylyvych, revealing the dim illumination of the bulb at last. The light cast twilight visibility over a simple wooden table before him, upon which rested several small mountains of paperwork. The tip of the regulation beating-stick was visible, running off into the shadows under the desk. There was also an empty chair across the paper filled table from him. The rest of the room remained wrapped in shadow. The black-painted walls prevented any accurate guesses of how large (or small) the room actually was or how many NKVDVDROM agents lurked in the shadows.

The silence was broken by the heavy footsteps of commissarial stomping boots, making slow deliberate steps away from their position behind the tired engineer and into the dim light at his side. The man's arm extended, surprisingly not with the loaded pistol that had so often been used to force compliance or disappear rowdy flight controllers, but instead with the offer of a cigarette.

“For old times’ sake,” came the verbal offer, in the gruff tone that was as close as Commissar Omeganski had ever been heard to come to ‘friendly’.

Srygy reached up with his thankfully unbound hands. Apparently they did not think he would be able to escape. At his age, they were right.

He turned the cigarette over in his hands a few times, considering his doctor's warnings about his health before finally holding it out for the commissar to light, taking a slow drag as Omeganski moved to sit opposite him. Syrgy knew the NKVDVDROM, after all that had happened, was bound to be far worse for his health then any cigarette.

Srygy’s train of thought was interrupted as the commissar spoke again.

"I'm sorry, comrade. I truly am. But this is the way it has to be."

"I ask only one thing, that I be allowed to make a deposition before the end."

"...Da. Of course. Naturally, there must be an interrogation."

Pavylyvych felt the blood leave his weathered face. He had bitter, painful memories of the days after his denunciation to the NKVDVDROM under Ztalin. The stickbeatings, the menacing bears, the gulags, the stickbeatings by menacing bears in the gulags...

Omeganski’s eyebrow rose a fraction. “I suggest you cooperate, old friend. There are others who would be less sympathetic.”

The rocket engineer’s jaw clenched, painfully. Good commissar, bad commissar... And, in all honesty, he wanted there to be some record, even if it would probably all be under so many classification seals that the General Secretary himself would have to burn it and compost the ashes before reading it.

The commissar’s mouth twitched a millimeter upward. “But I think we need not bring them in just yet, so long as you do cooperate of course. Now, shall we start at the beginning, where you joined the glorious peoples spaceflight program under Director von Evilstein?”

Pavylyvych muttered “That fucker of the devil’s horse... da. When I joined, things were... not good. Some of it- well, we all had a lot to learn, but some of it could have been avoided or done more efficiently. You remember. Everything blew up on the pad, and von Evilstein kept ordering more blowups. The Murcans had their own problems, but frankly we were lucky to get one of our first four launches into space at that rate. Much of what I pushed for then seemed only sensible- development before launches, things that both we and the Murcans have been doing all these years since, from the reports.”

“You pushed?”

The old rocket engineer slumped a little, waving his hands slightly as if in gestures of expiation. His head hurt. “I saw the program in peril. In those days, we did not even think of the moon, we thought of rockets and satellites, and perhaps manned capsules. Do the Strategic Rocket Forces today not rely on what we built then at Baikonurek? So I will not lie. I pushed. I argued for changes to von Evilstein’s plans, for more testing, forethought, and responsibility. All this is in writing, I assume the files are still around somewhere. It came to a head in ‘59, after pad B blew up for the first time.”

“Da, I recall the time, there was much tension, and power feuds were starting to cut into our ability to do anything, and so I stepped in and sided with you. Was that the right choice, comrade? Von Evilstein’s proposal stated we would be on the moon before the end of the last decade with him in charge, did I make the wrong choice in selecting you? Would he have done it better?”

Pavylyvych shrugged. “Would Evilstein have done a better job? Call it bias, but I don’t think so. The program was already getting too complex for him to comprehend the dangers. We found a lot of failure modes that he would have ignored, over the years. Probably saved some cosmonauts, though that’s impossible to prove. And being humiliated over and over... we’d have been shut down years ago.”

“Perhaps, but for all von Evilstein’s failures, he never cost us the lives of some of our finest pilots, did he, comrade? Or is it so easy to forget that fateful Zond flight we put all our hopes into?”

“Zond.” The word was a curse. “Yes, comrade, I think that was my greatest mistake, and my greatest regret. Unmanned, as a test program, it would have been worth something. But to do it manned, with the skip-reentry?” Pavylyvych shook his head. “It was different then. I was overconfident. Voskhod and Voskhod-bis had worked so well, and the Murcans were still fumbling around like adolescents. So...” the engineer shuddered. “I approved the flight. And Comrades Klimuk and Brzęczyszczykiewicz paid for it.”

“As opposed to being on the moon in 1968.”

Pavylyvych couldn’t help himself. A thin, dark, impossibly bitter chuckle escaped his lips. “That was a dog-and-pony show for the Central Committee- he was as bad as Liestinko in those days. His scheme never would have worked on schedule, and he hadn’t gotten anywhere close to figuring out what would be involved. Don’t take my word for it, either. There’s no shortage of experienced engineers and program managers about; ask any of them.”

The- former, no doubt- Chief Designer ached. His arms, his legs, ached, his battered joints groaned. His head pounded under the spike of terrible light from that bulb, his guts churned and his chest felt like a troop of dwarves were battering it from the inside with hammers.

“Oh we will be asking all of them, comrade, I thought you knew us better then that. What use is for all of them now that our space program is over, da? Just a case of finding out where we went wrong, and applying appropriate punishment.”

“It doesn’t have to be entirely over, you know. We have the shuttles, we have the rocket- we could do it ourselves, soon enough, and save a lot of face. Though I don’t really expect the Politburo to agree. We could launch space stations with the rockets we have, likewise; capitalize on our probe-botski experience to do more planetary missions. But... well, I know it’s not going to be me doing it.” Sound rushed in his ears, almost drowning out the commissar’s voice.

“No, decisions relating to any future spaceflight plans will certainly not be made by you. We are here today to decide what use to the Onion you are or can be. Perhaps we can reinstall you at your old work camp?”

The rushing in Pavylyvych’s ears seemed to pulsate, to be modulated. He heard something like the whisper of a heartbeat, but not quite. Not a heartbeat, an anti-heartbeat, draining all life and denying all progress, like some horrible, sinister echo.

“NEIN... NEIN... NEIN...”

Pain happened.

Comrade Commissar Omeganski, chief security officer of Baikonurek cosmodrome for the long years, watched the old rocket scientist clutch at his chest, mouthing silent words. Ideas? Plans? Some last request that would now go unheard? Perhaps even prayers? Who could say? Pavylyvych shuddered and toppled out of his chair, twitching on the floor. An NKVDVDROM minion stepped up to the commissar.

“Shall I call in a physician?”

Omeganski looked down at his old friend. “No. No, I don’t think we’ll do that.” He muttered, almost beneath the threshold of hearing. “It’s better this way...”

I heard about this error, and hunted it down in the game files:


I also like this failure mode:
Apparently they planned to include rescues in the game -- the lines are still there, but they were never implemented -- some original BARIS boxes had references to rescues on the back covered up with stickers.
for mission types, and there are some 'rescue' failure modes:

Yeah, I had the LM Guidance computer one. It killed my best crew.

Eternal_Freedom wrote:Yeah, I had the LM Guidance computer one. It killed my best crew.

Of course, it makes no sense. The crew would just flip a circuit breaker to kill fuel flow to the engine, then either separate the stages and go back, or wait for the CSM to approach and either dock or transfer via EVA.

But then again, a lot of BARIS failure modes make no sense

Like my maxed R&D lunar mission blowing up on the fucking pad. Humbug.

Incidentally, why is it called Buzz Aldrin's Race Into Space? Was he involved with it in some way?

Eternal_Freedom wrote:Like my maxed R&D lunar mission blowing up on the fucking pad. Humbug.

Incidentally, why is it called Buzz Aldrin's Race Into Space? Was he involved with it in some way?

What do you think?

Marketing gimmick?

He was involved. That picture was taken for the box art.

MKSheppard wrote:I heard about this error, and hunted it down in the game files:

Code: Select all

DUE TO STIFFNESS IN EVA SUIT JOINTS, CREWMAN SLIPS AND FALLS.  THE FIRST IMPRINT IN THE LUNAR SURFACE IS IN FACT MADE BY A HELMET VISOR. CREWMAN OKAY. 

OK, that's just hilarious.

MASA BIG JOHNSON CENTER

With Maximillan von Shapp's dead hand over the selection of Astronauts released (just in time for the whole MASA program to be cancelled) due to his disappearance; MASA's last astronaut had no problem being chosen.


Can H. Haiz.

MKSheppard wrote: Apparently they planned to include rescues in the game -- the lines are still there, but they were never implemented -- some original BARIS boxes had references to rescues on the back covered up with stickers.

Code: Select all

RESCUE IN EARTH ORBIT
RESCUE IN LUNAR ORBIT
RESCUE HISTORICAL LUNAR LANDING

for mission types, and there are some 'rescue' failure modes:

Code: Select all

ERRATIC BURN, ONBOARD COMPUTER SHUTS DOWN. CORRECTIONS ARE MADE WITH COMPUTER, BUT RESCUE ATTEMPT IS CANCELED.

BARIS is in substantial part an adaptation of the board game Liftoff!, which has rules for attempting a rescue under certain limited circumstances.

Slightly-disused warehouse
Glazegoo, Haggistan
9 months after the Fall

"Everything plugged in?"

A pause. "Da."

"Amp settings?"

"Odinnadtsat"

"What the bloody 'ell?"

"Da, sorry, eleven."

"Guitar?"

"Da. Eleven."

"Bass?"

"Byunzcek! Ten! It only go to ten - this one no good!"

"Can't be 'elped. Treble?"

"Ten." The word came out like a curse.

It was a relaxation - Fillyereski breaking the routine of debriefing with this little side jaunt. With a grin that would do justice to Jebediah "Thrillmaster" Kerman himself, he hefted The Guitar.

Hearing protection appeared from various hiding places - Fillyereski used earplugs then earmuffs, himself. Suitably attired, he picked up the pick, and poised it, ready for action, above The Guitar.

The pick came down. With the first contact against a string, a veritable wall of sound crashed outwards from the amps - even affecting the earmuffed party assembled behind them. Up ahead, a much-abused partition wall surrendered under the sonic onslaught as a couple of cracked windows blew out.

Not waiting for the destruction to even get started, Fillyereski launched into the riff from something that so totally bore absolutely no resemblance to "The Majesty of Rock". The remains of the partition wall were reduced to splinters, as the sound shook the warehouse, booming from its portals into the surrounding streets.

A sound so loud that the surrounding community sounds stopped, as if to ask what in the hell was that?

Indefinite Dimensional Coordinates
GOD-DAMNED SURREAL TIME



Syrgy Pavylyvych Kyrylyv awoke to a most strange and disturbing sight.

“Comrade Ivanov... is that, that can’t be... why did you just bite the head off that bird? I remember, I think I remember, from years ago...”

“Da, it is I, Syrgy. Things are... different here.”

“Different...” The rocket engineer cast his eyes about. A rocky, barren landscape, badlands of hot ash, sand, and plumes of smoke. A great jagged ridge rose ahead of him, barring his view. He looked back at the eerie and disturbing shade of his old comrade.

“Let me guess. I’m dead, and this is Hell.”

“...Da.”

Then everything blew up.

There was a tremendous explosion from over the ridge. It seemed to obliterate the very concept of sound, in favor of a hammer of brutal overpressure that sent boulders skipping across the plain like tumbleweeds. Pavylyvych and Ivanov were flung hurtling through the air against a nearby cliff, with a sickening crunch that made even bear-stickbeatings seem gentle in comparison. Yet almost before his injuries were inflicted, the chief designer could feel his bones beginning to knit. The pain was slower to fade, but with the iron will that had driven him through to the very brink of the moon through two decades of ill health, the Zenobian forced it down and shifted his head to see something other than the ash-laced dust of the plain.

A mushroom of smoke and fire rose beyond the ridge. Syrgy groaned, peeling himself off the ground and staggering to his feet. “Do they test atom bombs in Hell now?”

“No, comrade! That is why you are here in particular- that was a rocket. The program has been in... formidable disarray."



"Formidable indeeds."

"Da. It was first used as punishment detail for apparatchiks of all sorts, it seems, but now they want someone to whip things into shape.”

“What, a pack of bureaucrats trying to build rockets? I can see, a terrible punishment for them- see how they like it...”

“Oh no, many rocket men, from Baikonurek and the Cape alike, are here too! Their punishment, you see...”

“Their punishment is the bureaucrats? That sounds just like Earth! The Devil must be running out of imagination.”

The dead cosmonaut leaned over and whispered. “Between you and me, da. I am told that he had a hand in Stasograd during the Revolution, thinking it a cruel joke to play on us Zenobians... but Gospodin Demonoid has underestimated the ingenuity of the New Zenobian Mang!”

“Explain.”

“Well, classically the torments of Hell include beatings, endless paperwork, fear, listening to nonsensical and blasphemous speeches by unnatural creatures...”

“Why does this sound familiar?”

“Exactly! The demons are complaining about ‘low-quality souls, already acclimated.’ There are even rumors of professional tormentobeasts going on strike!”

“So we are exporting the Revolution to Hell? I find myself feeling sympathy for the devil.”

“He should not summon that which he lacks the strength to send away then, eh?”

Syrgy chuckled darkly, reminded of the dread Triple Stas Bush test. Then broke into outright Badenovian laughter. “You make a good point... Seriously, am I to reorganize the program? With what? Depose the bureaucrats, promote the rocketeers, but what is all this in aid of?”

“Apparently, they think they can get to Heaven on rocket-ships.”

“That... could be a challenge.”

“Well, I never saw it up in orbit. I looked and looked, but I didn't see God.”

“If there is a Hell, who knows? Maybe it is possible, maybe not. Either way, if they can build rockets here, it beats eating hot coals or the like.”

Ivanov broke out into laughter. He fucking laughed.

“What?”

“It reminds me of two of the technicians at the cosmodrome, over the ridge. They had spent some time among the... general population, shall we say, and they were talking. A Murcan, and a Zenobian. When they died, Satan asked them, ”Which hell do you prefer, the Zenobian one or the Murcan one?"”

Syrgy’s eyebrow twitched. "What's the difference?"

“That’s what Comrade Stepanovich said. And of course the devil answered, "In the Murcan hell, you will be forced to eat one bucket of burning coals every day; in the Zenobian, two." The Murcan decides to go to the Murcan hell, the degenerate. But the Zenobian is a true patriot, so he chose the Zenobian hell.”

“I see. That is impressive determination.”

“Da. So after they were plucked out for the cosmodrome project, the two men ran into one another. Stepanovich asked, "How was life in Murcan hell?”. "Can't complain," the Murcan says. "I eat a bucket of coals every morning, and then I'm free for the rest of the day. How about yourself?"”

Ivanov reached out and slapped the rocket scientist on the back, grinning. “"It couldn't be better!" he said. "Just like back on earth! They're either late with coal deliveries, or they're having bucket shortages and coal is available only to senior party members!””

“Ahhhh, now that sounds like home.”

“Da!”

“But material shortages...”

“It will be a problem. On the bright side, we have nearly unlimited reserves of trained pilots.”

“What?”


A fiery meteor plummeted to the ground, bowling Syrgy from his feet. It was a Kerbalistani. The rotund little fellow staggered to his feet, clad in the smoking remnants of a flight suit and shaking his fist at the roiling ruddy sky above.

“DAMN YOU, JEB KERMAN!”

“The Kerbalistani program is still going, you see.”

“Ah. Somehow, I am not surprised."

"Want a smoke?”

“Cigarettes, in Hell?”

“They are atrocious, and they make your eyeballs turn green, but they grow on you. My goodness but they grow on you...” Ivanov stared into the distance.

“Thank you, but I think I’m afraid to find out what they’re like.”

“Suit yourself.” Ivanov lit his on a nearby rock and wafted smoke out his nostrils.

Syrgy sighed. “One thing. While I’m whipping things into shape, give my regards to that most proletarian and laborious of comrades, a man I think I understand very well after my last years of life.”

“Who?”

“Sisyphus.”

“Tell him yourself- he’s the command module pilot.”

“Oh, joy. The man condemned to push a rock up a gravity well for eternity, and now what, I am to push him up a gravity well for eternity?” He shook his head. “For my sins, we will all vanish without a trace.”

“But maybe we build a rocket first, da?”

For the love of Saint Bob...

JEB BLOODY KERMAN is heading up the Kerbalistani program?

Well, the IDC program, as Ivanov said between fucking laughs will not run short of trained pilots - pity about the Kerbalistani one.

I'm not sure he's running it, but apparently a lot of those dead kerbalnauts hold him responsible.

A bit more cavalier with his astronauts than the still-nascent Stenchian/W. Thanasian program, by the looks of things.

Their first spaceplane was a modified ZiG-25-and-a-half, bolted onto an asymmetric cluster of stolen JATO boosters taken from Murcan airbases.

Fuck yeah! they're more cavalier than a bunch of gutless Stenchians and Thanasians!

[hums Kerbal national anthem]

Of course, it is implied that at some point in the mid to late '70s, the North Kerbalistanis successfully reconquered South Kerbalistan. I find myself picturing Vietnam, only with Kerbals...

now you need to continue the story of jeb's attempts at a moon landing, using KSP.

it's not so hard to get to the moon in ksp, it's surviving the landing with enough fuel to get back.

Marko Dash wrote:now you need to continue the story of jeb's attempts at a moon landing, using KSP.

it's not so hard to get to the moon in ksp, it's surviving the landing with enough fuel to get back.

I can manage that.

The trouble comes when it turns out that the engine is about ten to fifteen feet thataway.