Here is my first “earth is space australia and humans are space orcs” post. Have read those and got stucked on the “poisonous oxygen breather”. If other races would breath less deadly (and less energetic) gases for their cell functioning, their bodys were bound to have quite inefficient growth compared to us. So basically, oxygen breather are just fricking huge to aliens. Oh, and I think human’s and bird’s eyes are quite the thing, our eyesight goes beyond most sentinent race’s imagination, but that’s a later term. It’s planned to have several episodes, hope you enjoy it. Please don’t mind my english and leave a comment.
That puny little Planet in System Sol2487, the only one with
liquid water there, was indeed a scary one. Our ship was sent
to investigate, take some specimens, and leave. No extraordinary thrilling task. The atmosphere was breathable, enough C02 to keep our bodies
running, and nothing eminently deadly in there. The oxygen content
was somewhat high though. And the sun’s radiation, too. This planet was so
tiny in comparison to our homeworld, but much nearer to this system’s
sun. Better not risking anything and taking the full protective gear with respiratory support. And those interferences with our
ship’s navigation system bothered me. Some mysterious electromagnetic
radiation, maybe signs of a sentinent race’s culture? But here? Oddly enough there was life
on this overcooked lump of spacerock, but sentinent one? I doubted it.
Must have been the planets magnetic field.
The gravitation was stronger than expected of that little planet. Not that far off to my own homeplanet. That was at least twenty times larger, though. How was this possible? We landed on a flat,
grey and solid hard surface. At the horizon we saw near endless forests,
except for two opposing directions, where this weird grey soil reached
til the line of our sights and probably far beyond. “Is this an empty
river’s bed?” I remember asking my first mate, Xato Nexgrra. He was
Pakoralean, a race of rather slender built, but quite of the bright site
of the universe, capable of some serious multitasking with his fifteen
flexible limbs. “Negative, Captain” he had replied. “It’s stone, once liquid and now hardened again.” “A
vulcano?” “No, Sir, I examined it with my tactile knots and it feels
sort of, I don’t know, artificial to me. A Street. Of hardened tar.” “Ok, a sentinent race on this planet. Well, that’s unexpected. But who in Xaleates’ damn universe would build a street in the middle of nowhere, wide
enough to fit two of our expedition space crafts next to each other, on
this puny planet?” It wasn’t like me to use our races deity’s name that
informal, but for all that I knew, this was weird. Not even the
Morians, the biggest of the known sentinent races, would be in need of
streets that wide. “Captain!” It was Loxxar Kraes, my head of
security, an Ukraera, quite smart for his race, but his biggest trade
was his speed and agility. Must be down to the fact that they use five
of their seven limbs for running. “We secured the landing zone to the
edge of that forest, but… uhm, that ain’t no trees. It’s grass.” “Grass? You mean, like a meadow?” “Kinda.”
gathered in front of the “grass”. Nothing uncommon about grass. In one
form or another, it was fairly common on all habitable ecospheres in all
universe. But this one was fricking huge. “That is no meadow” proclaimed Dr. Proaxl,
she was a female Qzaor and with her bodyless, misty physique and her
unique mental skills she was fit to be in command for both our medical
and scientific squads. “That is a field. It is indeed a subtype of
grass, but I believe it’s a cultivated form, meant for feeding of
thousands of individuals of an organized culture. Or dozens. It
depends.” “Depends on what?” “On the size of that sentinent race’s individuals” she closed. “How big can they be? I mean, this is a teeny weeny planet.” “You
are aware there are known microbiotic life forms in explored universe,
that not like ourselfes breath carbon dioxide, but pure oxygen? Imagine there would
be higher lifeforms, even sentinent ones, breathing oxygen.” “That’s
nature’s legitimate killer, the cause of every known destruction over
time. How could a sentinent race breath that? And how’s that related to
one’s size?” “In contrary to our CO2 burning cells, those primitive
oxygen breather are capable of extracting food’s inherent chemical
energy up to four times as efficient. And in experiments it was clear,
that the higher the atmosphere’s content of oxygen, the faster the
growth of that cells. I do believe, if there is a higher life foarm
based on this kind of cells, it’s size would be physically limited by
the surrounding oxygen. And just think of the plants your race has
cultivated for food, that grows in fields. How big is that compared to
your own size?” It felt like a glass of liquid oxygen was poured into all of my six breathing holes. This planet couldn’t be for real.
There is an endless forest within my heart. An endless cosmos within my soul. If you love me, if you dare, prepare to be lost beneath leafy boughs and starry skies. Prepare to see eternity within my eyes.
The Day of Story and Song was the day the world nearly ended. It was the day that everyone in the world simultaneously remembered wars of years passed and loved ones long lost and forgotten. Even for those who never knew these people or lived through these wars, they learned everything about them. They heard countless beautiful songs, saw so many incredible works of art, and heard stories beyond their imaginations.
They also learned of a group of seven researchers and explorers and–as they’re known now–heroes who traveled through time and space to a hundred impossible worlds. They were lands inhabited by huge animals, living robots, mushroom monsters. Endless beaches, forests, deserts. Worlds filled with prosperous life to worlds devoid of any. But more important than these worlds were the ones who traveled between them.
The twins, the lover, the protector, the peacemaker, the lonely journal keeper, and the wordless one. The people learned everything about them but their names. How they lived, and loved, and died, and lived and died again and again for a hundred years while they struggled to run from the horrible entity that pursued them.
This entity the people learned of, too. The Hunger. How it hunted and killed these heroes over and over in its mad chase for the light of creation, devouring every world in its path on the way. They learned what it was, how it worked, and they learned of the man in charge: John.
Even with all of this knowledge though, what could the people do but fend the foes they could now see off? The people would only be able to persist for so long against these worlds’ worth of assailants. They had no choice but to put their faith and life into the hands of these seven heroes they now knew as well as if they had known them their whole lives and then some. They put their faith into the heroes and held off their coming deaths for as long as they had to until the heroes came through.
And in the years to pass, the story of these heroes, of this day, of the art, and music, and countless impossible worlds they learned all about is passed on between generations so that everyone who wasn’t there that day to remember would learn.
And of all the things they remembered and learned, the last and maybe most peculiar was the image of a small, crudely but lovingly carved wooden duck.