The universe is full of highly improbable things,
its very existence being one of them. Certainty,
it turns out, is far more aloof than most people
like to admit. So it's frankly astonishing that
I'm here on this podcast thingy once again, this
time introducing episode two, Ghosts of the Past.
Even more improbable is we're about to step inside
the battle memory of a seven -foot war panda
named Remus, who is having a Saturday morning
nap in a pleasant but unremarkable town, just
a hop, skip, and a jump from the English -Scottish
border. Please, sir! Permission to speak, sir!
Yes, Trooper Ajax. Make it quick. Those in Gold
Squad are saying we are all going to die! It's
putting the wind up me and the others! Is that
so? Well, I thought I told you not to listen
to them. They love putting the frighteners up,
you rookies. But... Calm down, trooper, or I'll
put you on a charge. Ajax, don't you have a line
to enforce? Leave Sergeant Remus alone. How's
it fair in Corporal Ryu? Well, we've softened
up the front line and they are beginning to pull
back, but I suggest we stay put as they are still
chucking some nasty stuff our way. I agree. With
all these jumpy rookies, we need to play a waiting
game until we have their snipers and heavy guns
under control. Yes, sir. Let them fire themselves
empty. Exactly. We will attack when they are
at their weakest. Eradicate that nosy Tuskar
spy center. and be home for bamboo fries and
a ice -cold bamboozer. Sounds wonderful, sir.
Incoming! What the? Remus, sir, wake up. No,
he's dead, isn't he? I knew we'd all die! Shut
up, you bloody fool. Come on, Remus. Remus. Remus.
Are you all right? You were twitching in your
sleep like a washing machine on Super Spin. Oh.
It's you. What did you want? I came to inform
you that as soon as Aric returns, either with
supplies or, more correctly, biscuits for you,
he wants us back in the garage. Sorry. Studio.
Apparently he's ready to record another episode
of the podcast. Another? Oh my. He really is
keen. Or mad. I think it's both. Statistically
speaking, 47 % of podcasts don't make it past
episode three. That's nearly half who drop off
before they even find their rhythm. 75 % quit
by episode 25, usually within 12 months. So,
doomed to failure then? Possibly. But maybe he
can beat the odds, if only by stubbornness. And
let's face it, we owe him the attempt. Yes. He's
a good lad. But I fear, despite all he says to
the contrary. He still puts far too much worth
in what others think, whoever those others may
be. Then perhaps our task is to remind him that
value isn't measured in numbers or strangers'
approval. Sometimes it's just in showing up.
I, that, and biscuits. Well, hi there, guys.
Take a seat, hold on tight. This ride's off the
rails and sanity's out of sight. A warrior panda.
A bot full of sass And a man with a brain That
shattered like glass Don't pity, don't panic
Don't run off and hide We may be misfits But
there's hearts inside If you're sick of the news
The facts and the glum We fight off the darkness
With weirdness and fun A warning, a warning Proceed
if you dare AI work and a podcast With chaos
to spare It's late in the afternoon when Arik
finally returns home after a biscuit run and
settles down in the studio to hear McWherty report
on the first episode of the podcast. So I've
run all the numbers in my usual meticulous statistical
manner. That's a fake word, Wordy. Okay, hyperprocisiometric
then. Also fake, but carry on, otherwise we will
be here all day. Okay, so please engage in an
anticipatory downgrade of all projected outcomes.
I think he means the numbers are going to suck.
Yes, I figured that. Well, I've already decreased
my expectations. What, maybe a couple hundred
streams? Hmm. Kindly deflate your optimism modules
a bit more. More? Oh dear. About a hundred then.
I advise an even bigger reduction in aspirational
bandwidth. Let's just rip the band -aid off,
Wordy. How many people listened? Approximately
20 humans. And according to the analytics, one
sloth in South America, who attempted to switch
it off but moved so slowly, it still registered
as a full listen. Are you sure, Wordy? As sure
as Heisenberg was about the uncertainty of a
particle's position and momentum. Blimey, that
really is an uppercut to my general cheerfulness.
What cheerfulness? It is indeed a pathetic attempt.
You should be profoundly ashamed. Not helping,
Remus. Sorry, I was trying to be motivational
via trash -talking they. Do it in American sports,
apparently. That technique only works on those
with a strong mental constitution. Arik's cognitive
fortitude, however, is about as resilient as
a cardboard box in a tsunami. Oh, do you always
have to be so bloody honest, Wordy. But you're
right. I am beginning to feel a bit mentally
soggy. In fact, I think a moment's coming on.
After half an hour of Auric staring at the ceiling,
letting out strange primeval groans and saying,
oh no, over and over, Remus decided to deploy
the emergency biscuits and a cinnamon bun covered
in pink icing. Oh, that looks nice. Thanks. Sorry
lads, I went into a bit of a meltdown. Oh, we
hadn't noticed! You're a bad liar. That's why
I initiated Operation Duncan Munch. Thanks. Oh
dear Remus, it's always like this. I try my best
and everything ends up well being a damp squid.
Are not squids meant to be damp? Ah, you're not
wrong. It's just an expression. See, the problem
is I don't have many online friends to rally
to the cause. Oh, don't be silly, Arik. You don't
have any online friends. Again, not helping.
See, I've always enjoyed my own company. So I
never bothered with social networks. I've never
been comfortable with the whole look -at -me
thing. Hmm. And I suppose it's rather tragic
you're so shy you even use an AI to do your voice.
Wasn't that meant to be a secret? No, it wasn't.
The real me couldn't stand listening to his own
voice, and neither could the audience. At least
this way he can say what he really thinks. I
think it's a wise move. He does sound like a
nasally London wasp with crippling self -doubt,
but at least he's honest. Did we just break through
the security fence? I think you mean the fourth
wall. Four walls. Hmm. That does sound secure.
Anyway, getting back to the podcast. I doubt
it can get any worse. I'm talking about listenership
before you two say anything. Indeed, Arik. Statistically
speaking, the only way is up. Unless, of course,
people start unlistening. Unlistening? That's
not a thing. Well, not yet. But with your luck,
who knows? Every Friday night we hop in our ship
Fly through the stars on our weekly trip We don't
need maps, just follow the light Cause we're
coming to Earth for a Friday Friday We'll hover
by your window, give a friendly grin Then beam
up your favorite grant, occur safely in We scare
star gazers With our neon lasers Zap, zap cosmic
phasers So when you see a flash in the Friday
night sky It's just your friendly grays dropping
by Beep bop, boop bop Beep bop, boop bop Beep
bop Aye, well, I'll tell you what's not bloody
funny. Them singing greys hovering over me field
again, barbershop harmonies at two in the morning,
scaring the cows half to death, daisy near jump
the dry stone wall, and don't get me started
on the barley, flattened like a carpet after
a sailing. If they don't sod off back to their
mothership soon, I'll be chucking the pitchfork
skyward, see if I can't stick one of the boogers.
Right, last thing, I want to talk about those
intergalactic adverts. Ah, yes, people have also
noticed them. Not in a good way, I guess. Not
in any way one would consider good. Words such
as cheap, off -putting and possibly the work
of the devil were used. That moon unicorn droppings
one was particularly strange. Wait, is that really
what they were saying? I phased out. What exactly
does one do with moon unicorn droppings? Apparently
you can use it as a garden fertilizer and also
a dessert topping. That ambiguity disturbed three
listeners. But we did get one order from an old
lady in Ryslip who thought they said new uniform
stockings and placed an order. Fine, so no one
likes the ads either, but I still don't really
understand how these ads are even getting into
our show. Oh, that's my doing. I constructed
a multi -phase quantum resonance receiver tuned
through three layers of temporal filtration.
anchored to a gravitational stabiliser and aligned
with the pulsar drift of Zeta Sulcaris. This
allowed me to lock onto a grey Empire wormhole
broadcasting a premium shopping channel from
six galaxies away. That actually sounds quite
impressive. I used a metal coat hanger and hung
it from the tree in the garden. Not so impressive,
but it's very 80s Blue Peter review. Who is Peter
and why is he blue? Well, you see, Blue Peter
was a... Oh, shut up, Wordy. Just shut up. Well,
that's rude. That was really very rude, but I
can see you're stressed. So let's just move on
to an advert about hover quad bikes. Now that
sounds cool. You ready, babe, to take your ride
from dirt track to no track at all? Introducing
the HX9 Hover Quad from Sick Thruster Designs.
Four anti -grav thrusters, which will lift you
higher than a zapperoo can jump in mating season.
Whether you're racing across the dunes of Mars,
herding bouffel yaks, or just popping for supplies
and style, the HX9 gives you speed, control,
and that smug feeling you can't get from boring
old wheels. Order today and we'll throw in a
flaming skull protector, because sometimes the
ground happens faster than you think. The HX
-9 Hover Quad. If it's not hovering between your
legs, you're doing it wrong. of a candy flossed
bell. Moon unicorn droppings fresh from outer
space. They'll fertilize your garden or put a
smile upon your face. Baked into a sponge cake
or sprinkled on the lawn. They're magical, they're
practical and slightly or smell like Magic's
yours to take. We got decorative buckets, family
tubs, and the galactic sack. Buy three, get one
free, or we'll just throw them at ya. And now,
dear listeners, it's time once again for Story
Corner, where tales are told, minds are expanded,
and biscuits are probably eaten. This week's
story comes courtesy of the one and only Professor
Highbrain, scholar of the Deadheart Realm, relentless
seeker of knowledge, and owner of possibly the
largest hat in three galaxies. So, pull up a
chair, settle your tea, and prepare your ears
for... What will no doubt be a fascinating lecture.
Today, we will discuss the vast misunderstood
enigma that is our dead heart realm, an ancient
structure of civilization whose sheer scale,
stability and stubbornness have baffled scholars
since the fifth curve of thought. Allow me to
begin with a matter of scope. The dead heart
realm stretches approximately 87 billion Regis
lengths from edge to edge. Equivalent to 66 billion
kilometers. It is a distance so profoundly impractical
to traverse that even Remus, one of our more
percussive creations, once commented, it's a
very long walk, even if you're dead keen and
packed sandwiches. He's not wrong. At the heart
of our realm lies the world upon which memory
itself is built, the planetsoid. The planetsoid
is constructed, sealed, and stabilized beyond
the reach of natural classification. It does
not orbit. It does not decay and it certainly
does not explain itself. It houses the cronious
sanctum and within that the omninolex. A structure
of collective knowing etched across time -locked
strata and sealed in crystalline mnemonic latticework.
A knowledge archive so dense it makes the entire
writings of Earth look like two short graphic
novels and a pocketbook map of Scunthorpe. The
Omninolex preserves everything. Treaties, tactics,
art, war logs, obscure drink recipes, forgotten
languages, even contradictory truths. This continuity
of recorded memory is what has allowed our realm
to remain stable across millennia. Where other
civilizations forget and fall, we remember and
remain. Now to the Deadheart family. The Deadhearts
maintain this empire. They are its keepers and
its curators. Their guiding principle is practical,
if a little earthy. If it's not broken, don't
break it trying to fix it. The Deadhart family
are industrialists in the same way I might be
described down the pub as a bit of a clever clogs.
They made their obscene fortune mining a metal
known as carillian, light. and strong. So strong,
in fact, it became the backbone of nearly every
intergalactic craft, from modest pleasure cruisers
to the Darfala Zika, a war machine so deadly
that entire planets have been known to shudder
when it flies past. Corillian is extracted from
asteroid fields by vast starships like the legendary
Dawnstar. Among the few remaining bloodline members,
three command specific attention. Kovos Deadheart,
the reigning patriarch, cold, deliberate, and
brilliant. His control over Carilion mining defines
much of our realm's rhythm. He is both feared
and obeyed, often simultaneously. Saravonic Deadheart,
his bonded partner, graceful, incisive, and dangerously
affectionate. Her devotion to her child is legend.
Some argue it borders on irrational attachment.
Others suggest it is the only warmth remaining
in the family line. Lady Deadheart, born Tormalain,
and now something else entirely. After a violent
ideological fracture with her father, she chose
the forbidden path of transmutation, the illegal
process of transferring one's neural essence
into a crafted organic mechanical shell of their
own design. Some say she did it simply to defy
him. The body she chose was no accident. Deadheart
fused herself into a battle armor bio suit, styled
after the exiled queen of X7 pop, Ms. Vansia
Moors, an icon of defiance, beauty, and fear.
The result is neither machine nor flesh, but
a living weapon with the elegance of royalty
and the rage of rebellion. Now she walks the
Dead Heart realm as both exile and symbol, a
son who became a daughter that refused to bow,
and a warrior no one dares to ignore. Next, the
tuskas, the fly in the Dead Heart ointment. For
all its scale and splendor, the Dead Heart realm
is not without its wonky bits, and few bits are
wonkier than the tuskas. The tuskas are towering
volatile humanoids, thick -bodied brutes with
colossal heads. From the neck down, brute force.
From the neck up, something between ancient bone
magic and bioanatomical absurdity. Their tusks
are monstrous, decorated with rings, glyphs,
embedded flags, and occasionally trophies. They
are not a subtle species. Perpetually angry,
pathologically unreasonable and allergic to joy,
the Tuscars are a cosmic parody of the schoolyard
bully, smashing what others build, looting what
others love, and offering a black eye as a thank
you note. You might ask, why haven't the Dead
Hearts eliminated them? The answer is Kovos.
He persuaded the ex -Tylos to engineer a new
species to keep the Tuscars in check. A force
bred for war, built for precision. the war pandas,
the tuskars rage and ruin, the war pandas control
and contain. It's a grim balancing act, like
fitting a volcano with a thermostat. Many across
the stars view this destructive cycle, the back
and forth of tuskar raids and war panda retaliation,
as a sick game, a cosmic tug of war with lives
as rope. But in the Dead Heart realm, it's seen
as something else. Normal, like weather. Terrible,
predictable weather, with tusks. It won't take
long You might just find someone If it link your
like minded soul Through static screens and lonely
tones We still make galaxies feel like home Okay,
thoughts on the dead heart realm? You first,
Remus, seeing as you're the only one of us who's
actually experienced it. Did Highbrain do it
justice? Well, it was a very brief overview,
as everything seems to be nowadays, and only
part one. But yes, perfectly correct. My body
armor is made of Corillian, and I can confirm
it's both lightweight and incredibly strong.
I knew all the Dead Hearts mentioned, and I can
say they're all far more complex than they sound.
I watched Tormulain grow up. I consider him a
friend. You mean her. Well, yes, but only in
the last few years. I tracked him, and then her,
for Kovosh. It put me in a difficult position.
Duty bound to be loyal to Kovosh, since the war
pandas were created by the ex -Tylos to serve
the royal family. But as a friend of Lady Deadheart,
I was never going to betray her trust either.
So I danced a very complicated and very dangerous
dance. So you were another of history's dancing
bears? Cute. Show us your moves. Can you do the
moonwalk? Very amusing, wordbot. I happen to
be excellent at real dancing and the diplomatic
sort. Being light on your feet is always a warrior's
best asset, even in full body armor. You say,
another of history's dancing bears. but we still
don't really know where in the timeline I am.
Wormholes don't just move you through space,
they can zip you through time. I assume everyone
I knew is long gone, but there's an outside chance
they haven't even been born yet. Indeed. Even
Einstein's equations showed that massive objects
can warp or curve space -time, what we experience
as gravity. In extreme cases, those distortions
could, in theory, form wormholes, or Einstein
-Rosen bridges, shortcuts through space and potentially
time. If one end of a wormhole were accelerated
to near light speed and then returned, time at
that end would pass more slowly than the stationary
end. In theory, you could step through and emerge
in the past. But for humans, the stability of
such wormholes remains entirely hypothetical.
Yes, hypothetical for them. For me, fact. Otherwise,
how did I get here so quickly, relatively speaking?
Well, I don't know, and honestly it makes my
brain hurt just thinking about it, as does the
seven times table. Anyway, we've probably lost
our one remaining listener. Hello? Hello? Who
is it? God, I hate it when the phone rings. Well,
it appears to be no one, but I feel a... Presence
on the line. Yes, you could put it like that.
Thank goodness. I thought I was going mad. The
phone's been ringing more and more and when I
pick it up there's no one. But I sense something's
trying to talk to us. Wordy, did you hear those
faint tones in the background? Yes, like a comms
bot trying to calibrate a signal but missing
the tune in. Could be a long distance call. Or
just one of the kids in town pranking us. Let's
take a quick break. Housekeeping after this.
It's the future in your home. Keeps your veggies
fresher longer. Keeps your ice cream on its throne.
Why settle for yesterday's ice box when you can
have tomorrow's marvel of mechanical convenience
today? It swivels left. It swivels right. A 360
to delight. Rolls to meet you where you stand
With recipes close at hand No more shame for
midnight cake Or last night's pie you just had
to take It won't judge your cravings big or small
The Robo Cooler loves them all Recommended dishes
to the surprise Don't forget, this Carilion Forge
Day, you'll get 117 credits off the Mark Lark
Robo Cooler and be entered into a realm -wide
chance to win all five Marklark home appliances.
Marklark, hot and cold tech appliances you can't
live without. And we're back. We've never gone
anywhere. No, but the listener did. How do you
know that? Oh, never mind. It's just an old thing
left over from radio broadcasts to let the listener
know they were now listening to the main program
after the commercials or news. Oh, more human
verbal redundancy then. If you say so. There's
no if about it. I just said it. It's another
turn of phrase. Anyway, getting back to the podcast.
We know. You just said we were back less than
a few seconds ago. Oh, do be quiet. There's a
good chap. You're messing up my train of thought.
I fear that particular train has well and truly
left the station. Yep, decades ago. Right. What
was I saying? Oh yes, I just wanted to tell you,
dear listener, that I've made an executive decision
to upload the podcast every three weeks, not
two. I think less is more. Wow, that is literally
impossible. Oh bloody hell, what now? Calm down,
I'll get it. Hello. Oh, it's you. That didn't
sound good. That's just your negative mindset.
It's fine. My negative mind is usually a perfect
judge of situations. Trust me, this is not good.
And that, as they say, is a cliffhanger. Sure,
it's frustrating, but what are you gonna do?
Tune in for episode 3, who is calling, and all
will be revealed, I guess. Then again, no one
tells me anything around here. If you enjoyed
what we did today, leave a review, tell a friend
or a co -worker, if, however, you hated it, tell
someone you don't like, and your least favorite
relative. Hell, just tell anyone, anytime, for
any reason, because this bunch of delusional
losers need as much help promoting this thing
as possible. And I, frankly, need this job. So
till next time, I've been your announcer, Reginald
D. Dazzlemeister, and you've been listening to
the AI War Panda Podcast. And remember, take
your litter home, drink plenty of water, and
don't attempt to appeal to a Tuscar's better
nature, as they simply don't have one. Cheerio,
all, or Toodlepip if you're posh. It's the end,
the end, the end of the show Not the world as
far as we know We talked, we rambled, we tried
our best We confused one guy in a sequin vest
This is the end Tell your nan, tell your dog
Tell a girl in a boat If you don't tell someone
We'll never stay afloat Right! That's quite enough
of that bloody noise! Hello, Ethel? Oh my, Master
Wordy! What are you doing? You'll give me a bloody
heart attack! Oh, sorry. Just editing the latest
podcast, I don't need lights. What did you think
of it? Well, you're such a lovely bunch of boys,
but I have to be honest. I think it's a load
of old claptrap, don't you?