This is a DIY operation. If I want the computer to have a sexy voice that coyly informs me of impending disaster, I'd have to hook it up myself. And Bjornix has insured that not only is this possible, but incredibly difficult. However, if you know what you're doing, it works. Me, I don't know what I'm doing.
Disaster is the rule and not the occasional event here. The crew, under my example and spiritual guidance, has made an art out of slacking off. The bridge looks like the basement room of a house where the teens don't allow the parents to enter. The Snark Drive is the essence of imprecision, and prone to boojums to boot. The only thing that works with any reliability is the compost reactor.
The compost reactor is a slow starter. You can't use it to run away from anything. The gentle sounds of the compost reactor murmurs its humble purpose, like the gastric activity after a satisfying meal.
Different fuels create different paths through time. For example, a cocktail of chicken livers from a poultry factory raid, and spent nuclear fuels produces a catalytic reaction that leads to a unique chain of events. You would not arrive the same being than the one who travels by way of stained Hustler magazines and portapotties from construction sites in Texas. When the compost reactor converts this matter into energy, it lends the fuel characteristics to the Snark Drive as a bonus.
In contrast to the clean-your-plate servility of the compost reactor is the rule-breaking, steady stream of profanity from the Snark Drive. The Snark Drive is the loud, big sister to the squat, meek garbagegut. If the present is a zipper which closes the fly of the future, the Snark Drive is a stray pube that remains both inside and outside the leather that separates the two worlds. We like to call that using an extremely optimistic set of algorithms. Ride 'em, Snarkurl.
The Snark Drive impels us by collapsing possible futures in which we do not move against the background of matter. It uses causality errors upon the assumption that nothing will get you moving like a whole heap of trouble. We slip on a decaying banana peel into starry nought. Deriving torque from the compost reactor is like being up shit creek without a paddle anyways.
Why does it make that unbearable noise like the sound of shrieking banshees? Because some of the futures do not want to die.