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Despite what we’ve been led to believe, outer space is a somewhat challenging environment; the no-air thing, the vacuum thing, the high-speed debris thing, the temperature thing, the radiation thing. There are different rules out there than there are in here, so we use fiction to bridge the gap. That’s fine, we all like fiction, especially the kind that extrapolates different versions of reality based on an altered set of rules. What happens, for instance, if we cobble a bunch of dead guys together into one new dead guy and then zap him with some lightning? What happens if, through a teleporting mishap, we combine a fly and a human? What happens if a plodding horde of brain-dead brain-eaters look at your brain and start licking their chops? This is all good, clean fun, but when you start calling fiction nonfiction, it starts getting a little sketchy.