From the sketchbook, Mitsubishi liner and acrylic ink. 9x5 centimeters. A doodle I got a bit carried away with.
A bit of an artistic composite featuring two ancient enemies back to back. On the left, a canine Confederate marine wearing a combat rated RF suit (sans helmet), equipped with a multibeam PPG carbine with underslung missile launcher, a PPG sidearm, an FBS boarding knife - and 100% abbrevation free glare tan under his eyes. Even in a future of interstellar empires, faster than light travel and intelligent robots, some tricks never get old. On the right, a Hyperorian Elektronika P1-700 (chassis type 159: Genet, female) wearing the lady's maid livery of her principality, equipped with a cryo pipe, a kizami dispenser/lighter, and a Potassium iodide tablet dispenser. The latter, while here designed and decorated to match her working environment, being a standard safety accessory included with most nuclear Elektronika robots, providing some degree of immunity in case of a fuel vessel breach.
But the carnage behind them is not one either of them is personally familiar with. It is something they have almost certainly heard of and may look back upon as a legendary middle age: A simpler time of honour and heroes, before the race against light was won and the worlds were still distant, before politics and high technology made war among the stars endless and beyond understanding. But wishful thinking is easy. When it comes to their inability to fathom the hell of being a space warrior in such an age, the trooper with countless brushes with death behind him and the robotess who rarely leaves the comfort of her owners' court have nothing that separates them.
A thousand years earlier, maybe more: In the comet cloud of a Martenclaw daughter colony some 25 light years from Sol ships of the line are locked in combat. On the left, a punitive fleet of Terra United. On the right, a fleet of haphazard Martenclaw slimliners. But whichever the side, the carnage they face is the same. As are the dangers of spaceflight, the risks of cryonics, the years lost sleeping away transit, the tedium, the wasting of muscles in zero gravity, the poor food and hygiene, radiation, dangerous technology and claustrophobia.
It will not last forever. Soon enough the bonds of lightspeed will be broken, freeing beastkind to explore the galaxy. The Terran empire will fall, and in its place the Confederacy of Democratic Worlds will rise and eventually be worthy of its own name. The scions of Martenclaw and the Sons of Atlantis will travel far beyond Orion, founding the Hyperorian Aggregate and its hundred principalities. But for the space warriors in their ships of the line all that is at best a distant dream of a better future. A dream that trooper and robotess alike are unaware they are privileged to live.
A bit of an artistic composite featuring two ancient enemies back to back. On the left, a canine Confederate marine wearing a combat rated RF suit (sans helmet), equipped with a multibeam PPG carbine with underslung missile launcher, a PPG sidearm, an FBS boarding knife - and 100% abbrevation free glare tan under his eyes. Even in a future of interstellar empires, faster than light travel and intelligent robots, some tricks never get old. On the right, a Hyperorian Elektronika P1-700 (chassis type 159: Genet, female) wearing the lady's maid livery of her principality, equipped with a cryo pipe, a kizami dispenser/lighter, and a Potassium iodide tablet dispenser. The latter, while here designed and decorated to match her working environment, being a standard safety accessory included with most nuclear Elektronika robots, providing some degree of immunity in case of a fuel vessel breach.
But the carnage behind them is not one either of them is personally familiar with. It is something they have almost certainly heard of and may look back upon as a legendary middle age: A simpler time of honour and heroes, before the race against light was won and the worlds were still distant, before politics and high technology made war among the stars endless and beyond understanding. But wishful thinking is easy. When it comes to their inability to fathom the hell of being a space warrior in such an age, the trooper with countless brushes with death behind him and the robotess who rarely leaves the comfort of her owners' court have nothing that separates them.
A thousand years earlier, maybe more: In the comet cloud of a Martenclaw daughter colony some 25 light years from Sol ships of the line are locked in combat. On the left, a punitive fleet of Terra United. On the right, a fleet of haphazard Martenclaw slimliners. But whichever the side, the carnage they face is the same. As are the dangers of spaceflight, the risks of cryonics, the years lost sleeping away transit, the tedium, the wasting of muscles in zero gravity, the poor food and hygiene, radiation, dangerous technology and claustrophobia.
It will not last forever. Soon enough the bonds of lightspeed will be broken, freeing beastkind to explore the galaxy. The Terran empire will fall, and in its place the Confederacy of Democratic Worlds will rise and eventually be worthy of its own name. The scions of Martenclaw and the Sons of Atlantis will travel far beyond Orion, founding the Hyperorian Aggregate and its hundred principalities. But for the space warriors in their ships of the line all that is at best a distant dream of a better future. A dream that trooper and robotess alike are unaware they are privileged to live.
Category Artwork (Traditional) / All
Species Robot / Android / Cyborg
Size 1280 x 720px
File Size 510.7 kB
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