Remote
Ángel
@angel@triptico.com
snac 2.96-dev
Former programmer and struggling artist
No AI was used in any of my writings, tunes, doodles, software or anything
#artwork #ShortFiction #relatos
No AI was used in any of my writings, tunes, doodles, software or anything
#artwork #ShortFiction #relatos
250 Followers
89 Following
44 Posts
Joined April 17, 2019
Blog:
LA ATALAYA RECORTADA CONTRA EL CIELO (novela):
YO NO SOY PAVEL (novela):
tilde.club:
Ann Hell Music:
I've been ROTOSCOPED!
Art by @j-g00da@donotsta.re
🥰
MAN / MACHINE INTERFACESThis is a real story.
Back in the days, I worked for a small company that built EGSEs (short for Electric Ground Support Equipment) for civil and military satellites built by Airbus, Thales Alenia, Leonardo and others. The hardware was designed by my boss, a bitter and harsh but incredibly brilliant man, and I was responsible for the software interfaces, networking and remote control systems. Basically, we built human-height racks full to the top with COTS transponders, multimeters, power supplies, RF connectors, etc, and custom-built small Linux systems that coordinated the hardware; on the other side, this monster was commanded from a GUI in a standard laptop or desktop computer, that also provided connections to other Central Checkout / Command Control systems, test procedure scripting, and such. Also, our EGSEs used to have a small touchscreen where you could do very basic things like switching attenuators on / off, switching power supplies on / off, and commanding simple things to them like setting current, voltage, PWM, etc. I designed these small screens with the FLTK (Fast Light Toolkit), which was simple and appropriate for this very small systems.
One day, on an extremely hot summer (what the fuck, this is Spain, all summers are extremely hot), I went from my remote desktop to where my boss was working near the rack, and then he said:
"Please stop fucking around with the remote control system while I'm calibrating the power supplies".
"What? I did no such thing. I was [...whatever I was doing, I don't remember what]"
"Please. I was working when I heard the CLACK of the power supply switching off. I saw the logs and it was software-triggered."
"Maybe a temperature threshold, it's hot as fuck here."
"No. Software-triggered."
"Oh, sorry, then. Maybe I broke something, I'll go check my code."
Next day, I was already there by the rack with my boss. We were discussing something, and then we both heard the CLACK of the power supply going off again.
"Holy fucking Christ", said by boss.
"The remote control is disabled right now, the desktop is not even running, so I'm not to blame", said I, slightly relieved.
There was much swearing, as we were, as always, over the project deadline.
My boss then said:
"Whatever, our client has requested some more information in the rack's screen. I've sent you an email with the details."
I moved to my desktop, checked my email, and there was no message from my boss. I emailed the client and, yes, they wanted some more telemetries to be shown in the already crammed space. So I rewrote the small touchscreen main dialog (FLTK tools are cumbersome but effective), rebuilt and deployed it.
I moved to the rack. The air conditioning was buzzing like a small hurricane, the room hot as an oven. I checked how the mini-screen looked (sometimes, what was shown in the development machine didn't always match the real one): everything was OK, the new temperature telemetries were correctly shown near the power supply on-screen buttons.
Also, there was a fly over the screen. Then I joked to my boss:
"Oh, you must look at what I have done: I put a pretty, hyperreal bitmap of a fly on the man / machine interface, come look at it".
The fly moved a little, and then stepped over the power supply OFF touch-screen button.
CLACK
#ShortFiction #RealNotFiction
Replying to
Mr. Mobilek may be an asshole but has glittering eyes
Replying to
I have no idea how the machine works, but I'll never surrender
Replying to
I've been receiving this crap about this domain for like 10 years.
Replying to
A war for your soul has already begun
I already hear the rattle of sabres
Replying to
@stefano@mastodon.bsd.cafe Oh my. What an asshole.
This is another bone-chilling story from the ongoing book "FROM THE DEEPS OF SORROW - Sysadmin nightmares come true" by Stefano Marinelli.
Replying to
You're not alone in H R Giger appreciation and understanding
CC: @reiddragon@fedi.catto.garden @coconutcannibal@misskey.fryer.net.au @jollyorc@social.5f9.de
Replying to
I see you. I also keep writing my own fiction and my own code and drawing with pen on paper LIKE A PRIMITIVE MAN, no AI on sight
THE THIRD SATELLITE OF PLANET EARTHThe press room of the World Space Agency was full to the brim. To my left there was an old man wearing small, golden glasses writing something in a notebook; to my right, a powerful woman, stiff like a stick, wearing black shades and camouflage clothes, arms crossed over her breasts. In front of me stood a young man that I knew from something.
A bureaucrat, dressed in a dull grey suit, crossed the door, moved behind a forest of microphones and began talking.
"Starting today, and after last month sad happenings, the World Space Agency nominates cosmonaut Ilya Iskanderovich Takashvili as the third satellite of planet Earth. This is a homage and this is an eulogy. God bless him. Thank you very much for your attention."
"God? What is this joke?", said the young man.
"Is that all?", said the old man, looking up from what he was writing.
"So it seems", said the woman.
The young man turned back to listen, then looked at me and smiled.
"Oh, you are Miroslav Corbett from documentation, aren't you?"
"Yes, it's me. Do I...?"
"We shared a table at the last convention of the Cinematik Ausfahrt Biotech Aréopage."
That was probably true.
"Sorry, but can any of you tell me who this cosmonaut was?", said the old man in golden glasses.
The woman in military attire started talking: "He was a member of ISS Nova's repairing staff. His umbilical link was broken while repairing the right solar panel and..."
Suddenly, a deep, nasal voice from the back of the room silenced everyone.
"Sorry, I have a question."
All of us looked back. His large silhouette opaqued the back lights; his bright red skin, black scar tatoos and pointy horns contrasted wildly against the immaculate white tuxedo he was wearing.
He was one of the demons that crossed the Seam. Many of them were shoved back or killed, but a few of them, peaceful in nature, stayed here among us and adapted to our society as especial guests. Their world view and opinions, so different than those from the humanity, were always appreciated and taken into account.
He continued his mesmerizing, gutural speech.
"First, I want to give my condolences to Ilya Takashvili's family and friends; I'm sure he will be missed. His oval orbit will produce an eclipse with the Moon every three days, so he will hardly be forgotten. But I want to remark something you all, human beings, have trouble remembering."
The silence was total, awkward, frightening.
"What is the second satellite of planet Earth?", he finally said.
I tried to remember. While doing it, my brain entered something like a cloud, a mist, a fog of dread. Simply, I was lost. The rest of the people there (excluding the demon and the mechanical butlers, shiny grey eyes like pearls) found themselves in the same trance state.
The demon kept talking.
"The damage caused by the Mind Sickers from the Great Anomaly is still here. No one of you remember what the second satellite is. You may consider it while counting, you may recall old photos and tales and drawings, but every time you try to concentrate in the details, your brains crash and reboot."
Slowly, I recovered, but my stomach was still twirling.
The old man with the notebook was lying on the floor; the woman in combat clothes was helping him. Some people were crying. Others were bleeding from their ears and nostrils.
"I wish I could help", finished the demon, "but don't know how, yet."
Invoking that memory in the middle of a massive crowd was a despicable act; but demons, even while trying to help, behave this way.
Half an hour passed before the press room was finally empty.
previously
#ShortFiction
A bureaucrat, dressed in a dull grey suit, crossed the door, moved behind a forest of microphones and began talking.
"Starting today, and after last month sad happenings, the World Space Agency nominates cosmonaut Ilya Iskanderovich Takashvili as the third satellite of planet Earth. This is a homage and this is an eulogy. God bless him. Thank you very much for your attention."
"God? What is this joke?", said the young man.
"Is that all?", said the old man, looking up from what he was writing.
"So it seems", said the woman.
The young man turned back to listen, then looked at me and smiled.
"Oh, you are Miroslav Corbett from documentation, aren't you?"
"Yes, it's me. Do I...?"
"We shared a table at the last convention of the Cinematik Ausfahrt Biotech Aréopage."
That was probably true.
"Sorry, but can any of you tell me who this cosmonaut was?", said the old man in golden glasses.
The woman in military attire started talking: "He was a member of ISS Nova's repairing staff. His umbilical link was broken while repairing the right solar panel and..."
Suddenly, a deep, nasal voice from the back of the room silenced everyone.
"Sorry, I have a question."
All of us looked back. His large silhouette opaqued the back lights; his bright red skin, black scar tatoos and pointy horns contrasted wildly against the immaculate white tuxedo he was wearing.
He was one of the demons that crossed the Seam. Many of them were shoved back or killed, but a few of them, peaceful in nature, stayed here among us and adapted to our society as especial guests. Their world view and opinions, so different than those from the humanity, were always appreciated and taken into account.
He continued his mesmerizing, gutural speech.
"First, I want to give my condolences to Ilya Takashvili's family and friends; I'm sure he will be missed. His oval orbit will produce an eclipse with the Moon every three days, so he will hardly be forgotten. But I want to remark something you all, human beings, have trouble remembering."
The silence was total, awkward, frightening.
"What is the second satellite of planet Earth?", he finally said.
I tried to remember. While doing it, my brain entered something like a cloud, a mist, a fog of dread. Simply, I was lost. The rest of the people there (excluding the demon and the mechanical butlers, shiny grey eyes like pearls) found themselves in the same trance state.
The demon kept talking.
"The damage caused by the Mind Sickers from the Great Anomaly is still here. No one of you remember what the second satellite is. You may consider it while counting, you may recall old photos and tales and drawings, but every time you try to concentrate in the details, your brains crash and reboot."
Slowly, I recovered, but my stomach was still twirling.
The old man with the notebook was lying on the floor; the woman in combat clothes was helping him. Some people were crying. Others were bleeding from their ears and nostrils.
"I wish I could help", finished the demon, "but don't know how, yet."
Invoking that memory in the middle of a massive crowd was a despicable act; but demons, even while trying to help, behave this way.
Half an hour passed before the press room was finally empty.
previously
#ShortFiction
Replying to
Many things were Turbo those days, like Judas Priest's Lover.
Replying to
Microsoft is the most open operating system and Oceania had always been at war with Eurasia.
Replying to
i'll be glad if i finish the polyphemus episode now
Please do
CC: @ozzelot@mstdn.social @lzg@mastodon.social
Replying to
Hey, @andybell@ravenation.club , are you the same Andy Bell that collaborated with Anne Clark?
Replying to
being stared back by the abyssCC: @MostlyHarmless@thecanadian.social @vampirdaddy@chaos.social
Replying to
How much gas are you importing from fascist governments right now?
Spain imports crude oil, sorted by quantity, from the USA (14.9%), Brazil (13.8%), Mexico (13.2%), Nigeria (10.2%) and other minor percentages from Africa and the Americas. Grouped, 33.4% from North America (USA, Mexico and Canada), 29.6% from Africa, and 19.1% from Center and South America.
Which of these countries qualify as "fascist governments" is up to debate.
Source (in Spanish): https://www.elperiodico.com/es/economia/20260118/petroleo-espana-compra-importaciones-125754955
CC: @MostlyHarmless@thecanadian.social
Replying to
I wish you my best for both of you. Take care, my friend.