'AURORA FALLS' - A Subnautica story.

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• zeusdemigod131 Illinois Join Date: 2015-11-01 Member: 208897Members

  November 2015

  Please continue!

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• Bugzapper Australia Join Date: 2015-03-06 Member: 201744Members

  November 2015 edited April 2016

  Falling.
  
  That's honestly all I can remember, even after wracking my brain every haunted waking hour since. There might be a single blurred freeze-frame of Aurora taking her final fiery plunge into atmo, but my mind keeps pushing that image away. It's entirely possible that I blanked out completely during the ejection sequence. Can't say for sure. Any recall of that crucial handful of seconds was ripped clean out of my memory and left aboard Aurora as she fell from the sky.
  
  Now that I think back on it, this vague sense of mental dislocation could have been part of the full 'Lifepod Escape Experience'; something that we never actually experienced during Alterra's pre-flight induction training. Sure, they cycled everyone through highly detailed AR simulations, timed response drills and actual orbital drops as a mandatory requirement to becoming a fully-fledged Spacer, but there was something absent that separated a simulated escape scenario from the real deal: The Valkyrie Field. A process Spacers mordantly referred to as 'Uploading To The R.I.P Drive'.
  
  Not certain if you folks are using this tech yet, but Alterra likes to take care of its employees, mostly. The Valkyrie Field is a rather thoughtful addition to the latest series of Lifepods. It's essentially a clever combination of stasis field, body-scanner and a matter replicator. When you strap yourself into a Lifepod during an actual evacuation, the Valkyrie Field is immediately energised. The stasis field holds your body completely immobilized as it is being scanned, and if you are unfortunate enough to die during the descent, or anytime after landing, the Pod will happily repair and reconstruct your body according to the most recent biometric template it has stored in its memory.
  
  There are of course, certain limitations to this process. Some people may refuse to avail themselves of a quickie resurrection purely on religious or ethical grounds, some might feel uneasy about the process from a psychological standpoint. Others... Who knows? Seen from a straightforward engineering viewpoint, a Valkyrie Field is fairly power-hungry, and any quantum-level processing glitches that might arise in the replication system will make themselves known in a rather dramatic and highly unpleasant fashion. Obvious downside: There's a pretty good chance you might die when you get turned inside out the first time, but the machine will retry at least a couple of dozen times before finally giving up and permanently shutting down. If you happen to be even remotely aware of what's happening during this time, all I can say is
  "Sucks to be you right now."
  
  Sorry.
  
  Anyway, my first truly coherent sensations were that of good, old-fashioned motion sickness, coupled with the punishing after-effects of an abrupt acceleration, an extremely turbulent descent and a violently sudden deceleration upon splashdown. As my scrambled thoughts clicked briefly into focus, I noticed that JUNO, the Pod's AI was urgently repeating a warning that internal atmospheric carbon dioxide, monoxide and volatile hydrocarbon concentrations have risen to dangerous levels, and that it would over-ride the main hatch seals unless I verbally responded within ten seconds. I have absolutely no idea how long I had been sitting in the Pod after it splashed down, although I'll freely admit that some measure of staring blankly at the walls took place for an unspecified period of time. It's also possible that furious, bitter tears of grief were shed at some point. Severe physical and emotional trauma generally works that way. I cracked the hatch, slowly climbed the ladder and gratefully inhaled the startlingly fresh, salty zephyrs of an alien ocean. Alive.
  
  The Psychs talk about something called 'Survivor's Guilt'. As my mind slowly cleared, I thought long and hard on this particular condition while staring numbly at the terrible scene before me. Aurora had slammed down about two or three klicks from the Lifepod, what remained of its hull now blazing so fiercely that I could feel waves of raw heat washing over me, even at this distance. Radiant heat. Radiant... There was an irritating, insistent background noise I had been trying hard to ignore for the past hour or so. It meant something. Something important.
  
  Oh crap. Rad counter.
  
  I scrambled back down the ladder and hastily dogged the top hatch. A Lifepod's inner hull has integral radiation shielding, certified to protect the occupants from a constant exposure level of 2.50 sieverts per hour. That's a lethal dose, eventually. However, there is a finite limit to the amount of time I could safely stay buttoned up in there. Normally, onboard life support resources are only supposed to last just long enough for the Pod to touch down safely after an orbital evacuation. The lithium hydroxide canisters used to scrub exhaled carbon dioxide from the Pod's atmosphere would be almost depleted after my unusually protracted stay in the Upright And Locked Foetal Position for some hours after splash-down. This neatly explained the crippling headache I had recently acquired.
  
  Fortunately, the actual count was more like 45 millisieverts per hour. In realistic terms, I might be feeling a bit off-colour and unwell sometime over the next couple of days, but it wasn't a serious cause for concern. However, radiation exposure is a cumulative deal, as you're probably well aware. 'Right Now' was definitely a good time to relocate the pod. I activated the Pod's built-in Fabricator and perused its menu, looking for useable options. A dive suit and SCUBA rig looked particularly appealing as a potential first choice. Hmmm... No snorkel template in there. How very odd.
  
  As I had absolutely no idea how the ocean currents ran in this area, anywhere in the general direction of 'far, far away' would be a good place to be. All Lifepods are equipped with a pair of small MHD vectored thrusters, powered by a bank of self-charging PermaCells. Those thrusters can push the Pod along at ten knots to someplace other than the middle of an ocean, making the Pod a reasonably effective self-rescue device, provided that you know roughly where you are going. However, this awfully handy piece of survival kit had lost its supply of Magic Smoke sometime during the descent, taking with it the tachyon-burst transceiver, distress beacon and navigation plotter. To my practiced eye, one glance at the sputtering, smoking slag-pile was enough to convince me it would take considerably more than coconut shells, bamboo slivers and the guts of an antique AM radio receiver to set things right again.
  
  I'm pretty damned good, but not that good.
  
  Simplest fix is always the best. After fabricating a wetsuit, mask and fins, I exited the Pod, braced myself against it and started kicking. Thanks to the thoughtful addition of vague streamlining to its lower hull, the Pod moved more or less where I wanted it to go, so I was able to put at least another kilometre between me and Aurora. As I could still hear the Rad counter's tone alert quite clearly through the open roof hatch, it was easy to tell when I had finally reached a safe distance. Added an extra couple of hundred metres, just to be on the safe side. After a brief rest stretched out like a sun-bathing seal on the Pod's roof, I donned a dive tank and slipped back into the water for a more thorough investigation of the surrounding area.
  

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• The_Shark USA Join Date: 2015-08-24 Member: 207433Members

  November 2015

  As I've said before... exceptional.

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• Bugzapper Australia Join Date: 2015-03-06 Member: 201744Members

  November 2015 edited December 2015

  It was utterly astonishing. Even though the water was cold and relatively shallow, the underwater landscape seemed jarringly tropical in its appearance. I've seen plenty of images of the Great Barrier Reef and other Terran undersea locations, but this view left them all for dead. It was a riot of colour. Massive, weirdly-shaped coral tubes, organisms that looked like purple mushrooms, strange rock formations richly carpeted with seaweeds, corals and all manner of growing, feeding, darting things. There was a strange familiarity about this vista at first, but then the alien 'otherness' of my surroundings slowly started creeping in. The fish (for want of a better term) were anything but normal in their appearance, but then again, all of Terra's native life-forms look pretty damned peculiar to a born and bred Marvin.
  It took a stern reminder from JUNO to tear my eyes away from this remarkable scene.
  
  "Warning. Ten seconds of oxygen remaining."
  I surfaced, allowing the tank's auto-fill compressor to cycle and returned to the bottom of the atoll. The water clarity was phenomenal. I estimated that horizontal visibility was well in excess of a hundred metres. Good. That should be sufficient to keep a lookout for any predators in the area. It's Credits to Doughnuts there will be predators down here. Never met an ecosystem without one. Bearing that in mind, I started searching for any raw materials that I could hopefully feed into the Fabricator. Any decent-sized chunk of rock will do for starters, along with anything else that may have fallen off Aurora during the crash. Titanium alloy hull plating would be particularly useful.
  
  From this pitiful wreckage alone, mighty works doth flow.
  
  It didn't take very long at all. The sea floor was littered with large crystals of pure quartz and a wide assortment of highly useful raw metals, encased in thin concretions of limestone and shale. These nodes broke apart fairly easily, which was a stroke of purest luck for me. Prior to setting out, I had searched the Pod's survival inventory fruitlessly for a knife or something I could use as a hammer. No such luck. The one item that is absolutely essential in any survival situation was missing from the supply locker. I suspect petty larceny may have been afoot here. Someone, presumably someone other than a crew member, felt their whimsical fancy for a nice souvenir was far greater than the urgent need anyone else might have for a shiny, new Alterra Survival Knife.
  
  Hope you enjoy it, you lousy, rotten, unspeakable bastard. Whoever you are.
  
  True to my heritage of opposable thumbs, I went all Fred Flintstone on the first batch of resource nodes. Method: Take one rock and bash it somewhat briskly against another.
  Repeat as necessary.
  
  Result: Advanced Technology.
  
  Things went fairly smoothly for the remainder of the day. The very first item crafted after my initial salvage run was of course, a sturdy diving knife, followed by a Builder tool. I debated whether or not I should use some of the remaining billets of raw material in the survival locker to craft another air tank, and eventually decided against it. Always leave a little in reserve. Besides, I managed to snag some good-sized fragments of hull plating, and quickly converted them to raw titanium billets whenever I took a spell of rest in the Pod. Eventually, I had accumulated enough basic materials to start building something slightly more stylish and eminently more habitable. That business could definitely wait until tomorrow.
  
  I slept very poorly that first night. The Pod's seating was comfortable enough, but sleeping upright while suspended in a crash harness is not even remotely relaxing. Having a chaotic mess of horrific images playing behind one's eyes like a badly-edited 3V doesn't help much either. Unsurprisingly, I was also ravenously hungry and thirsty. There were some survival rations and water packs stored in the equipment locker, although I was hoping to avoid using that meagre supply for as long as was humanly possible. There is an ocean full of fish out there, and that ocean was merely salty water. I consulted the Fabricator menu again. Only two options were available: Cooked or cured. Cooking food made sense on a number of counts, and since the Pod had no refrigeration system, salt-curing was the only viable alternative suitable for long-term survival purposes. Dehydration would only be useful if there was sufficient fresh water to be spared for reconstituting the dried flesh.
  
  My next immediate task was to catch breakfast. This proved to be a whole lot trickier than I first thought. Once in the water, I soon discovered that chasing prey was an extremely counter-productive exercise. You could easily end up expending far more calories than you could ever hope to regain during a hunting session. The trick was to appear as non-threatening as possible, then simply let the fish come close to you. The hard part was to accomplish this feat without having to return to the surface every thirty seconds. Found a particularly clever solution for that, too. There is a species of purple solitary coral I've called 'Brain Coral' that regularly releases large air bubbles. With careful positioning, a diver can hover over one of these and automatically replenish the tank's air supply almost indefinitely. The greatest hack of all is finding an area that contains one or more Brain Corals, and a plentiful supply of slow-moving fish... Tasty, tasty slow-moving fish. Yum.
  
  All up, I caught about a dozen fish in ten minutes by using this strategy. When I returned to the Pod, I presented each one of the specimens to the Fabricator for analysis. "New species detected. Sample organism is compatible with human metabolic, nutritional and hydration requirements. Proceed?" JUNO enquired.
  I keyed in my selection. Nothing fancy. 'Cooked' will do quite nicely. The first fish resembled a translucent, deflated blimp. I dubbed this particular beastie and all his kin an 'Airsack', for obvious reasons. As for the flavour... Well, Kaori once persuaded me to try something called 'kurage', which was in fact, pickled jellyfish. It was most definitely a texture element rather than a taste sensation, which is the kindest thing I can say about that particular dish. Fortunately, the Airsack rated particularly high in its protein content and hydration value. Next, I tried something that I named a 'Peeper'. Huge eyes, and a rather fast swimmer. This one proved to be an absolute bugger to catch using the sneaky 'come closer, I'm perfectly harmless' method. Not too bad taste-wise, though. Cured Peepers reminded me vaguely of smoked kippers, and I had to forcibly stop my mind wandering back to its ancient Highlander heritage in search of haggis, Bannocks and oatmeal brose. Ultimately, I managed to identify a total of seven edible species of fish inhabiting the immediate area. Most illuminating, and eminently satisfying from a gastronomic point of view.
  
  This was the most dangerous phase of being marooned. If one is not extremely careful, complacency, wastefulness and sloth come creeping in the door. Now that I had identified sources of food and water, my very next step was to secure and maintain a constant supply of both items. Rather than sit idly under the only banana plant or coconut palm on a tiny desert isle, the Survivor must always look farther afield for food, water and resources.
  

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• Bugzapper Australia Join Date: 2015-03-06 Member: 201744Members

  November 2015 edited December 2015

  Since I knew practically nothing about the flora and fauna of this planet, I decided to start making careful notes about each new discovery. Deeper knowledge of creature life-cycles, behaviours and their favoured habitats was absolutely essential to survival, even though it was well outside my particular area of expertise. I also figured that creating a knowledge-base of geological and oceanographic data would work to my advantage at some later stage. If nothing else, it would keep me profitably engaged in a number of useful activities, serving to keep my mind too fully occupied to dwell overlong on the loss of my crewmates. Admittedly, I also had vaguely selfish motives for blanking them out of my thoughts at this time. Selfish, at least as defined by a need to sleep soundly on occasions, and a desire to function with some ongoing sense of purpose. There was also an obligation to survive at least long enough to let others know what happened to Aurora and her crew. If I allowed all those carefully-suppressed feelings of desolation, futility and grief to rise to the surface for too long, I might as well just give in and join them.
  
  It's indeed possible to die here. All it takes is the will to do so, and entering a unique encrypted command on the Valkyrie Field control panel. No resurrection. No saving throw. The next time I do something wildly intrepid, inherently risky or just plain stupid, there's definitely no coming back.
  
  To anyone but a Spacer, this contingency plan seems brutally harsh. In fact, it's a rare kindness.
  
  Consider a radically different situation to mine, if you will. This particular Lifepod ejects over a Black Rock. There is no breathable atmosphere, no food or water. The Pod will sustain two occupants for as long as its atmospheric processor continues to function. Roughly 48 hours. The occupants may dine royally on a month's supply of nutrient blocks and water rations in the meantime, but that's it. This is the absolute, inviolable limit of human endurance in a Lifepod. If there happens to be a deity smiling upon them at the time, those poor sods might be rescued well before then. If not, an endless cycle of resurrection and almost-immediate death would be the cruellest torment of all.
  
  Enough of these morbid ramblings. I have an undersea base to build.
  
  By my reckoning, there's not much time left before the Dark Matter containment field collapses. When Aurora's primary liquid helium coolant systems finally succumb to fire and crash damage, all of the DM drive's superconducting coils will immediately and catastrophically 'quench', resulting in a massive discharge of energy. Doesn't particularly matter that the DM drive (properly known as an Alcubierre Warp Drive, incidentally), was completely offline at the time, either. It's still a sleeping dragon. Make no mistake of that. Fortunately, the Dark Matter reaction doesn't behave in the same way as a conventional anti-matter drive. The DM reaction simply stops dead once the containment field collapses. Anti-matter is considerably less polite.
  
  Downside: There's still a huge amount of residual energy, radioactivity and oodles of heat left in the plumbing so to speak, all wanting to go somewhere else, fast. This means there won't exactly be an 'Earth-shattering KA-BOOM!' as such, although the resulting nuclear explosion will still be quite impressive. I'd estimate an explosive yield of around 15 to 25 kilotons, give or take a bushel.
  
  Figure that's a broad enough hint it's time to craft a radiation suit.
  
  The base needed to be deep enough to shield it from a gamma-ray burst when Aurora's drive systems eventually exploded, but not so deep that any tsunami generated by the shockwave exerts a dangerous overpressure on base hull components as it passes overhead. After a few rapid calculations, I found that 20 metres depth would provide sufficient radiation protection, provided that the base's total hull integrity exceeded a rating of 100.0. Add a generous fudge-factor of 50 per cent. Better make that final integrity figure 150.0. Piece of cake.
  
  Halfway through construction of the base's foundation plates, JUNO confirmed that the containment field was on the verge of collapse, with an 85 per cent probability of a prompt quantum cascade excursion event. That's Enginese for 'nuclear explosion', folks. Hurriedly, I fabricated a couple of solar panels and a standard habitation module, added an entry hatch and dived inside. Gorram it. Base hull integrity was nowhere near the design spec I wanted. This could be a painfully short tenancy in my new abode.
  
  "Welcome aboard, Captain."
  You're welcome too, JUNO.
  
  I didn't have to wait very long. Barely had enough time to move into the hab dome and lay a few reinforcement plates at intervals around the interior hull. Looked bare, cold and as ugly as sin, but I couldn't care less at the moment. I hunkered down at what I figured would be a strong point between the junction of two reinforcement panels. JUNO began a terse ten-second countdown.
  
  "ONE."
  
  I distinctly heard the first dull WHOOMP as the DM cores lit off. This was followed by a low, rumbling roar as the shockwave raced outward, travelling 4.3 times faster than the speed of sound. I resisted a primal urge to close my eyes, fixing my gaze hard upon a section of plating directly facing Aurora. If I'm definitely going to die, I'll want to know when it happens.
  
  It was like being inside a metal trash-can, whacked violently with a sledge-hammer the size of Phobos. I swear I saw the hull bulge inwards at least half a metre as the tsunami passed overhead, and if it hadn't been for the fact that the radiation suit's helmet is a hard-shell, both of my eardrums would have been dribbling out of my nose soon afterwards. The Rad counter's urgent chattering rose to a shrill crescendo, then slowly faded to silence. The hab dome groaned long and low like a wounded animal, its overstressed panels attempting to settle back into place.
  
  "Emergency. Emergency. Multiple hull breaches detected. Hull integrity fatally compromised."
  Yes. Thank you, JUNO. I have noticed.
  
  Seawater poured in from the wreckage of the hatch, as well as numerous points around the hab dome. Rather than use the Builder tool to deconstruct the dome around me (That method would have ended rather badly for me), I guessed the safest option would be to wait until the structure had completely flooded, then simply exit through the gaping hole of the ruined hatchway.
  
  Hmmm...
  I conjure I might have to look at adding bulkhead doors, secondary escape hatches and considerably more reinforcing plates for the next incarnation of this base.
  

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• Bugzapper Australia Join Date: 2015-03-06 Member: 201744Members

  November 2015 edited December 2015

  The business of Survival has come a very long way since early mariners found themselves shipwrecked and washed up on desolate alien shores. 'Survival' evokes images of stone knives, fashioning crude shelters of thatched palm fronds and bamboo poles lashed together, desperately trying to make fire or huddling together for warmth in a snow cave after an avalanche. These days, the experience is significantly closer to a jolly nice camping trip, rather than a genuine do-or-die struggle for survival against insurmountable odds. Given the huge amount of advanced technology available to aid in my titanic struggle against the forces of a cruel and indifferent Nature, I feel just a little ashamed of myself, actually.
  
  I can make atoms dance.
  
  As expected, the base was a complete shambles. Foundation plates had ripped clean away from their footings, all the solar panels were completely gone, and the hab dome looked exactly like someone had whacked it with a very large sledge hammer. Using the Builder tool, I recovered each component in turn until my inventory reached full capacity, then commenced rebuilding the entire structure in a considerably more methodical fashion. As I worked, I took some time to better appreciate the device I was using. The blunt name 'Builder' it so stoically bears damns it with extremely faint praise indeed. This handy gadget is able to convert a wide range of raw materials into nearly anything I might need, almost as if by magic. Clarke's Law definitely applies in this case. The process is technically known as 'nano-lathing'. Similar in basic principles to 3D printing systems pioneered in the early 21st. Century, but coupled with a heavy whiff of quantum entanglement dynamics, particle beam deposition technology and similarly scary Big Science stuff. Powerful juju at work here.
  
  I noticed there were a significant number of greyed-out icons on both the PDA and Builder selection menus. After I fruitlessly attempted to activate several of them, JUNO crisply responded.
  
  "Selections invalid. Fabrication templates not found. Please acquire physical samples of selected items in order to proceed with construction."
  
  Not to worry. I was bound to find no end of scrap tech items scattered for miles around Aurora after that blast. I'd need to build a Fragment Analyser first, of course. That item was definitely the next job on my list. For the moment though, completing the base was my most immediate priority.
  
  The design I'd finally decided upon was intended to be a fairly compact, low-profile affair. Sensible, given that I had no way of knowing what adverse weather conditions this planet was subject to. All seemed perfectly calm now, but that situation could change in a heartbeat. The base was a cluster of four habitation domes, centred on a heavily-reinforced spinal corridor tube with airlocks at both ends. Each hab dome was reinforced and isolated from the others via double airlocks as a precaution against further hull breaches. This was all set upon a broad and sturdy foundation plate, situated twenty metres down on what I presumed to be the lee side of the atoll. With a final hull integrity rating of 175.0, just to be on the safe side. An array of ten solar panels provided enough basic power to run life support, plus a Fabricator and reverse-osmosis water purification system. As needs be, it was more than sufficient for my immediate purposes, although the base's design and location made it possible to expand the facility to suit any foreseeable future requirements. All done and neatly dusted, just before nightfall.
  Time for a wee spot of kippers on toast, methinks.
  
  It's probably time I said something about this planet, courtesy of the charming JUNO and her performing data banks. You probably know it as 4546B or Alpha Hydrae 4, an M-Class planet orbiting a K3-Class orange giant star named Alphard, in the constellation of Hydra. Alphard is derived from the ancient Arabic name for the star 'Al-Fard', which means 'The Solitary One'. Alphard has approximately 3 times the mass of Sol, and a diameter about 50 times greater than that of Sol. It's also considerably older than Sol and a great deal cooler, having passed the main sequence of its lifecycle tens of millions of years ago. Consider Alphard as something of a cranky old stellar geezer, preparing to misbehave in a highly embarrassing and unpredictable fashion sometime relatively soon.
  Cosmically speaking, of course.
  
  I've dubbed the planet 'Manannán', quite possibly to avoid any eye-rolling and snide comments about a totally aqueous planet having the hydro- or hydra- prefix as part of its name. The irony in each one of these tiny coincidences is not entirely lost on me, I assure you. Could have been worse, I suppose. The planet could have been located in the constellations of Aquarius or Pisces. Even so, 'Manannán' is a direct reference to its watery nature. Named it for Manannán mac Lir, the Celtic sea-god, after all.
  
  I know. I'm a terrible person.
  
  Manannán occupies roughly the same position in its solar system as Sol's Asteroid Belt, possibly a shade closer to Jupiter's orbit, actually. Ordinarily, this would place it well outside the favourable 'Goldilocks Zone', although Alphard's swollen stellar mass is still able to provide sufficient light and heat energy even at this distance. Granted, the water can be bitterly cold for anyone not wearing a wetsuit, but there's no denying that this planet will comfortably support a wide variety of life forms.
  
  This raises an interesting question: 'Manannán' is already more than habitable. Sending Aurora here seems a bit like massive overkill, considering she had the resources and capability to convert even a Black Rock of sufficient planetary mass into a relatively hospitable and ultimately, habitable place. As far as I'm concerned, all this place really needs is a few modest land masses raised to use as core anchor points for a dozen or more floating arcologies, possibly a little tectonic stabilization, and that's basically it. Absolutely no need for any significant degree of terraforming on this planet, unless someone on the BOD whacked his shoe on the conference table and demanded that geothermal spa pools had to be constructed at each settlement site. Even so, this task could have been easily accomplished using a ship and crew complement one-tenth the size of Aurora. Nothing that amounted to much more than a month's steady work, in fact.
  
  Eventually, I'm going to need some solid answers. I might even discover what I need to know while exploring Aurora at some point. Crew logs, mission-specific briefings, et cetera. That won't be happening anytime soon though, as Aurora is positively honking with radioactivity and most likely highly structurally unstable as well. That's not an immediate priority right now. My next job involves securing an enhanced level of mobility and some reasonable measure of protection.
  

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• RevivedShadow Australia Join Date: 2015-07-28 Member: 206468Members

  November 2015

  Wow. Nice work man!

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• Bugzapper Australia Join Date: 2015-03-06 Member: 201744Members

  November 2015 edited November 2015

  First things first. I needed to craft a Mobile Vehicle Bay, also known as 'Shipyard-In-A-Box'. This item required lubricant as one of its basic components, so I asked JUNO for clarification and a possible hint as to where I might find some. Helpful as always, she responded.
  
  "Component lubricant is not found in inventory. Component lubricant is required for hydraulic systems of selected device. Recommend investigation of area one hundred metres due south of current location. Hydrocarbon signatures detected. Warning. Proceed with caution. Multiple life-signs exceeding two metres in size detected."
  
  Oh.
  
  Grumbling, I returned to the Fabricator station. As I scrolled through its menu, it occurred to me that there was nothing here that would serve as an effective weapon. An Alterra survival knife had a decent titanium-alloy blade, but it was only 200mm long. I queried JUNO on the subject of weapons.
  
  "Weapons unavailable. Access restricted under MARTIAL lockdown protocol. Unable to comply."
  
  Of course. Aurora had shipped out with a contingent of Marines. One company of 250 grunts, I think. They were supposed to serve as a security force for the expedition, although the Jarhead Clan perished along with everyone else on board. There was absolutely no point in searching the ship for their weapons, either. Weapons were fabricated en masse in a heavily-protected armoury vault strictly as required, then deconstructed immediately after the crisis had been dealt with. While somewhat awkward to apply in time-critical situations, this procedure has prevented a considerable number of relatively minor shipboard incidents in other companies' missions from becoming extremely unpleasant affairs. Fortunately, Alterra generally tends to run a fleet of extremely happy ships. I immediately dismissed any fanciful thoughts of hacking into the MARTIAL lockdown program. You needed God's Own Access to get into the vault even under normal conditions, and any weapon templates might already be hopelessly, deliberately and irretrievably corrupted in order to prevent them falling into enemy hands.
  
  Fine. I'm just going to have to live with this. One man and his Arkansas Toothpick against the world.
  
  This brings me hard up against the next problem. Which way is south?
  Three steps forward and two steps back. A chunk of magnetite and a computer chip was needed to Fabricate a HUD compass. I could make a dozen computer chips with materials I already have available, but for the lack of a fist-sized hunk of magnetite... Well, poop.
  
  Once outside the habitat, I mentally flipped a coin. Straight ahead it is, then. There was a shadowy area about a hundred metres away, and I guessed it might be the local version of a kelp forest. As I approached, long, slender growths rising vertically from the seafloor slowly emerged from the gloom. Faintly luminous yellow bladders were spaced at intervals along the length of the plants (?), and I guessed these held the oil source I needed to find. Apparently, they functioned as buoyancy chambers for the stalks, much like Terran kelp's air bladders. I swam slowly forward, not wanting to get myself entangled in the billowing, leathery fronds as they moved gently around me. I reached out to gather a cluster of the oil-filled capsules. They parted easily from the stalk, and I scooped them up. I also collected a few strands and leaves of the vine itself, just to see what JUNO could make of this material. Still swimming slowly, I moved on to harvest the next vine.
  

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• The_Shark USA Join Date: 2015-08-24 Member: 207433Members

  November 2015

  "You need God's Own Access..."
  
  So, you're pretty much screwed.

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• Bugzapper Australia Join Date: 2015-03-06 Member: 201744Members

  November 2015

  The_Shark wrote: »

  So, you're pretty much screwed.

  
  
  Slightly more screwed than simply being stranded 175 light years from Terra, at any rate.
  

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• The_Shark USA Join Date: 2015-08-24 Member: 207433Members

  November 2015

  Bugzapper wrote: »

  Slightly more screwed than simply being stranded 175 light years from Terra, at any rate.

  
  Good point.

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• Bugzapper Australia Join Date: 2015-03-06 Member: 201744Members

  November 2015 edited December 2015

  Consider those predators well and truly found. As I parted the fronds of the native kelp, I saw one of them lazily swimming about fifteen metres or so below me. Roughly three and a half metres long, with purple-tipped, blue-green mottled skin on top and a strikingly white underbelly that caught the sunlight, the creature bore an uncanny resemblance to the marine reptile Plesiosuchus of the late Jurassic period, save that it had a more elongated crocodilian snout and eight squared fins or dorsal processes running from a single, vertical pairing at the extreme tip of its snout to the base of its powerful, dolphin-like tail flukes. It moved sinuously, swimming with effortless ease among the kelp stalks, looking every inch an accomplished apex predator. Given its habitat and presumed predatory skills, the name 'Stalker' seemed rather appropriate for this creature.
  
  I noticed the Stalker was nuzzling something half-buried in the sand. It was a fragment of Aurora's hull plating, about a metre and a half long. Its jaws clamped shut, latched firmly onto the metal. Then it began rippling the entire length of its body, methodically worrying and shaking the hull fragment loose from the sand. Something long and white fell from the Stalker's mouth. A tooth. Unfazed by this, the Stalker swam off still clutching the plating in its jaws. This was unusual behaviour, but not entirely unexpected. Many Terran organisms exhibit this 'magpie' behaviour. Lured primarily by shiny or colourful things, creatures other than magpies (oddly enough) have been discovered collecting and hoarding a wide range of non-edible man-made items, a trait usually associated with courtship, play and nesting behaviour.
  
  While I was pondering the significance of that Stalker's peculiar antics, I completely failed to notice a previously unseen second Stalker streaking towards me. I had barely had time to register its triumphant roar before it struck my upper thigh. Crocodile jaws clamped down with the power of a hydraulic press; needle-sharp teeth tore flesh and bone apart with ease. As the surrounding water clouded with my blood, I dimly saw the rest of the pack closing in for the kill.
  
  Suffice it to say, I died. Can't rightly say that I recommend this particular experience, either.
  
  Hurts like hell, for one thing.
  
  On the plus side, I did manage to locate the Lifepod after it had been swept away by the tsunami.
  The Valkyrie Field had deposited me stark naked and shivering in one of the Lifepod's seats. Night had fallen, so it was pointless to even think of swimming back to the main habitat, let alone trying to push the Pod along as well. After taking a much-needed drink of water and wolfing down a couple of cured Peepers from the storage locker, I fabricated another radiation suit, a pair of SCUBA tanks, knife and flippers. Tomorrow bore all the signs of being an extremely long and exhausting day.
  
  Using the massive pall of smoke that still rose from Aurora as a guide, I pushed the Lifepod slowly back to its previous location. It was a gruelling swim of about two kilometres, across the surface of inky black depths that seemed frighteningly limitless. Every second of that nightmare swim was a freeze-frame taken straight from an old horror movie; hordes of half-seen alien threats lurking on the outer fringes of my vision, coupled with deep, eerie groaning sounds that seemed to come from everywhere around me. Whenever I returned to the relative safety of the Pod to rest, it took a conscious effort of will to re-enter those dark waters and continue swimming towards my goal.
  

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• CryperCowCrafter U.S. Join Date: 2015-11-07 Member: 209069Members

  November 2015 edited November 2015

  Pardon my Geekiness, but that wasn't a dinosaur. It was a marine reptile. Forgive me I you already knew that, but it gets on my OCD when someone says"water dinosaur" Wait, you don't have to be in the life pod to be revived? That explains a ton.

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• ComicalSkate Canada, ON Join Date: 2015-05-28 Member: 204993Members

  November 2015

  Amazing dude! Just amazing!

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• Bugzapper Australia Join Date: 2015-03-06 Member: 201744Members

  November 2015 edited December 2015

  CryperCowCrafter wrote: »

  Pardon my Geekiness, but that wasn't a dinosaur. It was a marine reptile. Forgive me I you already knew that, but it gets on my OCD when someone says"water dinosaur" Wait, you don't have to be in the life pod to be revived? That explains a ton.

  
  
  Good point. I used the term 'marine dinosaur' as a vague, general reference point for non-specialists.
  Also, bear in mind The Survivor in this fictional account is a maintenance engineer, not a palaeontologist.
  Anything large, vaguely reptilian and pre-Pleistocene era is a 'dinosaur' to them.
  
  Postscript: Erroneous entry duly edited and corrected.
  
  Regarding revival in the Lifepod;
  I figured the best explanation for being able to die repeatedly and resurrect in the Subnautica universe would be to have a device in the Pod ('Valkyrie Field') that simply fabricates a new copy of the deceased occupant; most probably using organic material collected from the seawater. There's bound to be plenty of 'floaty human bits' in the water following a Stalker attack.
  
  The Valkyrie Field is just my interpretation of an 'unofficial' Subnautica survival tool, and there would be limitations to its usefulness within the game's universe: Particularly replication errors, malfunctions... And the horrific 'Black Rock' scenario, where survivors die of suffocation, starvation or cellular degeneration and the Field keeps resurrecting them until its power source runs out. To prevent this, there is a manual over-ride that shuts the Valkyrie Field off permanently.
  
  In game terms, that option would be Hardcore Mode.
  
  Also, you don't have to be anywhere near the Pod to be re-spawned, resurrected, whatever, and you don't necessarily appear inside the Pod after dying.
  
  Just 'cooking the books' a little for the sake of the story.
  
  Hope you're enjoying the story so far, anyway.

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• Bugzapper Australia Join Date: 2015-03-06 Member: 201744Members

  November 2015 edited December 2015

  I spent the next three days cowering in fear inside the habitat. Most of this time was spent staring blankly out the window at the kelp forest, eating and sleeping. This pointless cycle of idiotic behaviour took me to the brink of starvation before I fully realized what was happening. Yes, I had already died once, and that would be quite enough for the time being. Total reliance on the Valkyrie Field's power of resurrection would be the worst mistake I could ever make, even if I were able to completely master my (entirely reasonable) fear of death. Sooner or later, I would run into that quantum uncertainty factor on the wrong side of the probability equations, and pay dearly for it.
  
  It was time to start dealing with this planet's threats on my own terms.
  Fortune favours the brave. Occasionally, it also favours those who wisely avoid further confrontation. I made a point of foraging as far away from the kelp forest as possible, staying out of any enclosed areas such as gullies and caves, just for good measure. At first, the pickings weren't too bad, although I found that there was a very real danger of depleting resources and sea life in the area if I went about it too zealously. Each passing day, I found I had to venture farther and farther afield to collect enough food, water and mineral resources to keep my supply lockers fully stocked. During one particularly risky sortie into the outer fringes of the kelp forest, I managed to secure a good supply of stems, leaves and clusters of the oil-filled seed capsules that I desperately needed to complete the Mobile Vehicle Bay.
  
  As a food source, the kelp-like plant I called 'Creepvine' was reasonable enough. Similar in taste, texture and nutrient values to the edible kombu or nori seaweeds found on Terra, in fact. However, it was also an excellent source of useable fibres, capable of being converted into wound dressings, dive lines and tether ropes. Previously missing pieces of this survival puzzle were finally falling into place. Speaking of missing pieces, I also managed to recover a couple of tech fragment containers that would make life considerably easier down here. These fragments were once used as standard Fabrication templates aboard Aurora, serving as encrypted shorthand examples of Terran technology. Without access to a fully operational Alterra Fragment Analyser, these items would appear to be nothing more than worthless scraps of metal, plastic or Plasteel, hopefully frustrating any deeper scrutiny by unfriendly eyes seeking to work out their design and function. As a practical security measure, it was a pretty damned clever idea.
  
  The fragments I had turned out to be for the Seamoth mini-submersible and the Stasis Rifle. All I had to do was place these items in the Fragment Analyser and wait until their respective structures, component requirements and function had been fully extrapolated by the device. If I was able to gather more fragments, this would have sped up the extrapolation process significantly, although I wasn't unduly concerned with the passage of time at this point. Time was an abundant resource. Once this step had been completed, their corresponding blueprints would appear in either the PDA, Fabricator, Mobile Vehicle Bay or Builder menus, depending on the precise nature of the object.
  
  After completing the Mobile Vehicle Bay, my next construction project was the Seamoth submersible. The PDA also contained a schematic for a considerably larger submersible of the Cyclops class, and I regarded its specifications with envious eyes. However, the Cyclops required a greater amount of resources for its construction, so this shiny new toy would have to wait until I was far better equipped and more mentally prepared to deal with unknown locations and their attendant hazards.
  

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• hugothesilverdragon canad Join Date: 2015-11-30 Member: 209620Members

  December 2015

  i love this story and that's a good reason on how you spawn in the life pod. i thought that your explanation was very cool

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• hugothesilverdragon canad Join Date: 2015-11-30 Member: 209620Members

  December 2015

  also plz contun

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• Bugzapper Australia Join Date: 2015-03-06 Member: 201744Members

  December 2015 edited December 2015

  A particularly interesting piece of kit, that Mobile Vehicle Bay...
  
  Stasis Rifle fully charged and firmly in hand, I cautiously exited the habitat's main airlock. After satisfying myself that there were no Stalkers patrolling the immediate area, I swam some distance away from the base and deployed the MVB. With a subdued 'whoosh' of hydraulics, the suitcase-sized device unfurled like a particularly clever Chinese puzzle-box, four floatation pontoons inflated rapidly and the whole thing rose to the surface. I swam to the floating platform and clambered aboard with all the grace of a drunken walrus. Note to self: In future, try removing your flippers first.
  
  With a soft whir of rotors, four emitter drones rose from their docking stations inside the MVB's casing and flew to their standby positions in mid-air, awaiting further orders. For a moment, I felt absurdly like a conductor in an empty auditorium, desperately hoping that the orchestra and an audience would remember to turn up. Fortunately, my small orchestra was already assembled and tuned to a fine pitch for today's performance. The MVB's control panel offered only two types of submersible vehicles: Seamoth and Cyclops, although I suspect that with suitable upgrades to its programming, this device could also be used to create a variety of advanced surface structures and additional types of sea-going vehicles or other specialised equipment. For the moment, the Seamoth would be quite sufficient to address my most immediate needs: Mobility and protection.
  
  I selected the Seamoth fabrication pattern on the console. Immediately, the emitter drones whirred into life and began nano-lathing the submersible in mid-air. Ion-deposition beams scanned back and forth rapidly over thin air, precisely laying down a variety of materials within the ghostly outlines of the Seamoth's final form. As soon as the construct had completely solidified, the drones shut down their emitters and smartly returned to their docks aboard the MVB. The tiny submersible hung suspended in mid-air for a split second, then majestically splashed down as the MVB's gravity suspension field withdrew. The Seamoth sank slowly to roughly five metres and stopped. I nodded and smiled approvingly. Nothing beats an old-fashioned 'Drop Test' to gauge the mettle of any freshly-minted piece of gear.
  
  I thought briefly about leaving the MVB topside and tethered to the Lifepod, which was now firmly anchored a short distance away from the habitat. Then I thought of the possible consequences of having two relatively fragile and vital devices bumping into each other under the influence of wind and waves. No thanks. The sea has been remarkably calm so far (apart from that one uncomfortably recent nuclear tsunami), so it's probably a good idea to put the MVB somewhere safe. Although I was practically itching to take the Seamoth for a spin, I retrieved the MVB after it automatically repacked itself and swam down to stow the device in a storage locker aboard the habitat.
  
  The Seamoth may be small, but oh, my... I prefer to use the term 'fun-sized'.
  
  "Welcome aboard, Captain." JUNO said crisply.
  

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• The_Shark USA Join Date: 2015-08-24 Member: 207433Members

  December 2015

  Drop test.
  That is beautiful.
  The rest of the story is too, but that just made me laugh.

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• hugothesilverdragon canad Join Date: 2015-11-30 Member: 209620Members

  December 2015

  yeah you are gifted with a act for story also pliz contun

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• Bugzapper Australia Join Date: 2015-03-06 Member: 201744Members

  December 2015 edited December 2015

  I'll admit that I was slightly dubious as I climbed through the top hatch. No airlock. Fortunately, my initial misgivings were entirely groundless, since the submersible's bilge pumps drained the cabin almost as soon as I had secured and dogged the hatch. The Seamoth is technically a 'wet-sub', meaning that the cabin floods completely during a diver's entry or exit, and all of its critical components are contained in sealed compartments deep inside the pressure hull, well protected against water intrusion under normal operating conditions. A Seamoth's pressure hull is rated to a safe depth of 125 metres and a crush depth of 225 metres. Since I had no serious intention of taking it into harm's way on the first outing, this would not pose too many problems. It's possible to fabricate a number of highly useful upgrades for the Seamoth, although it requires a dedicated upgrade console that can only be installed in a Moon Pool module. As I had not found the Moon Pool template fragment yet, this stock-standard Seamoth would have to suffice for the time being.
  
  The sub's cabin was a two-metre diameter tempered glass sphere set into a stubby, discoid hull and entirely Spartan in its appointments. No gauges, no compass (no bloody magnetite!) and no sonar. Just a simple control yoke, hull integrity indicator and a battery power readout. Reckon I should be able to figure out the controls eventually, at any rate. After adjusting its trim, I rotated the Seamoth slowly to face an open stretch of water, well clear of any reef walls, bomboras and coral tubes that might dramatically curtail this jolly little test-drive. I goosed the drive hard, and the Seamoth shot forward like a spooked whippet. The sub's pump-jet propulsion system was surprisingly quiet, barely raising its voice above a burbling purr, even at full power. Once I had mastered the fundamentals of Seamoth piloting (took almost two whole minutes, by the way), I began to experiment with the controls to fully test the sub's performance envelope.
  
  Since the Seamoth has self-righting gyros, there's not much chance of throwing in an occasional Victory Roll as you tootle merrily along. However, its ability to travel at a fairly respectable 25 knots (that's 46 km/h for all you landlubbers) and power-slide left or right at the same time means that it does have some nippy evasive moves hidden beneath an otherwise unassuming façade. Might come in very handy at some stage, considering who my next-door neighbours are... Speaking of which, I really should pay them a quick courtesy call, just to let them know that there's no hard feelings.
  
  YET.
  
  I swung the Seamoth around in a wide, slow arc. Available power reserve currently at 95 per cent and decreasing steadily. The Creepvine forest ahead looked awfully dark and foreboding, as I fully expected it to. But then again, who wants to live flinching at every shadow as it passes overhead? I have to admit, I was enjoying this ride immensely, feeling mighty and well-nigh invincible inside my... Little glass bubble?
  
  Yeah. Hold that thought, me Bucko.
  
  On further reflection, some reasonable measure of prudence might be advisable here. Rather than tearing blindly through a dense mass of Creepvine at full speed, I believe a slow and cautious approach near the outskirts of the forest would give me sufficient time to assess any potential threats in the area. If a Stalker charges me, I can simply drop a 180 and head away at top speed.
  
  Piece of cake.
  

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• Bugzapper Australia Join Date: 2015-03-06 Member: 201744Members

  December 2015 edited December 2015

  What in Hell's name is that?
  
  At first, I thought it was some local species of squid. About thirty centimetres long, with a short, segmented worm-like body, terminating in a large transparent sac. The creature swam directly towards the Seamoth, emitting short, chittering shrieks. Still swimming hard, the thing struck the pilot's bubble with a sharp thwack, giving off a distinctly unsettling impression that it wanted to get really, really friendly.
  
  On closer examination , I decided to postpone that meeting forever and aye. My new admirer wasn't exactly apple-cheeked and bonny, particularly when viewed at arm's length. At what I assumed was its mouth end, four stumpy blue tentacles surrounded an ugly set of four octopus-style beaks or teeth. As the creature floundered against the pilot's bubble, all four tentacles writhed and extended rapidly, flailing to gain a more secure purchase on the bubble's flawlessly smooth surface.
  
  Judging by what I could see, I conjured a pretty good idea of how this thing feeds. The tentacles would wrap themselves around a limb or latch onto any other handy surface, and then the beaks/teeth would come into play. That tiny mouth wouldn't be able to ingest any substantial chunks of flesh, but it could easily take in copious amounts of blood. There's no telling precisely how much that sac could hold, but I do know how much blood an average human being contains. Five litres. If just one of those things grabbed me, I could easily lose enough blood to make me black out in about thirty seconds. However, if these things are pack hunters... I shuddered, feeling a bone-deep chill of utter revulsion run through my body. Forget about giving this one an evocative name like 'lamprey squid', 'Drac Sac' or 'leech fish'.
  
  It's a Bleeder, pure and simple. Believe me when I say this. It was hate at first sight.
  
  As a Marvin, I have always tried to maintain a certain reverence for most forms of life. The relatively few thousand Terran animals that currently live on Mars are practically celebrities, even considering the significant demands they place on life support and food supplies in the arcologies that house them. In spite of what all the bottom-line naysayers keep carping on about, they do serve a useful function. Dogs and cats are basically secure in their exalted position as companion animals, although some of the more exotic species such as cattle, sheep and horses are simply there to remind us of our ancestral home world. As a species, we truly need these miraculous, living talismans to keep our thoughts and aspirations firmly anchored in reality. That same reality also serves to remind us that not all of Creation holds Homo sapiens in a similarly high regard. When something slimy and xenomorphic is aiming to burrow into one's skull, mimic one's most trusted friend or erupt out of one's chest cavity, the kid gloves will definitely come off.
  
  Sure enough, a second Bleeder emerged from a nearby tangle of Creepvine and started swimming towards the Seamoth. That tore it for me. I gunned the motor and rammed the nasty little sod, smiling with grim satisfaction as its flabby body smacked into the hull and erupted in a cloud of greenish mist. The first Bleeder hurriedly disengaged, presumably hoping to avoid being carried too far from the shelter of its happy hunting ground.
  
  Not a problem, Jimmy.
  
  I swung the Seamoth sharply around, lining up the Bleeder to catch it squarely on the sub's hull plating. Best to play it safe. The first one I struck actually caused a little damage, roughly two or three per cent, in fact. Wouldn't want to make a life-long hobby of this sort of thing, though. It all adds up, and if there's enough collateral damage sustained during these collisions, your Seamoth will lose its supply of magic smoke. And we all know that's not entirely conducive to a long and happy life, particularly in these waters.
  

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• Bugzapper Australia Join Date: 2015-03-06 Member: 201744Members

  December 2015 edited April 2016

  The Bleeder abruptly turned tail, heading back to the Creepvine forest as fast as its nasty little body could wriggle. Suddenly, the gently swaying vines parted in a violent swirl of motion. A pair of Stalkers rocketed out, jaws agape and roaring for blood. I pegged the helm hard to port and yanked back on the control yoke. The Seamoth rose at a precariously steep angle, and I instinctively knew that breaking the surface would be a very bad idea at this speed. She would probably lose way and wallow in the breach for a few seconds before coming back up to full speed, losing any advantage of distance I might have gained. The Stalkers roared in unison, undoubtedly calling on more of their kin to join the hunt. Not good. Not good at all.
  
  It was a terrifying sensation. I had no way of telling how close they were, or how many more were behind me giving chase. The Seamoth was totally maxed out, and the power level was dropping rapidly. Flatten out from the rise, and start jinking from side to side. Keep those patterns short and unpredictable. Keep them guessing. There's a cave ahead... NO! If you can get in, so can they.
  Keep running. Stay alive!
  
  Ominously, the water around me fell silent. The low whine of the pump-jet was the only sound I could hear. Agonizing seconds ticked by as I watched the power indicator drop steadily past 50 per cent. At this consumption rate, I estimated there would be about another ten minutes of life left in the Seamoth's power cell. When its last remaining erg is finally spent and the Seamoth sputters to a halt, I will die again. There is scarce comfort to be found in the brutally simple arithmetic of survival.
  
  Forty per cent.
  
  Cautiously, I steered the Seamoth in a series of sweeping S-curves, hoping to catch sight of my pursuers. I saw absolutely nothing behind me. The undersea terrain had changed from Creepvine forest to a shallow reef averaging less than 15 metres deep. Bomboras and coral tubes broke the surface in places, and I felt increasingly uneasy about the lack of sea-room this area now offered. Without enough space for a wide-reaching evasive manoeuvre when it was most needed, I was as good as dead. Grimly, I clutched the control yoke and drove ever onward.
  
  Thirty per cent.
  
  Mercifully, the terrain changed again, giving way to an area covered in vast swathes of some kind of red sea-grass. It was much deeper here. According to the directional beacon 'pipper' in my helmet HUD, my base must lay a considerable distance astern by now. I had no way of telling precisely how far, either. I felt my terror subside instantly, replaced with rising frustration at the woeful lack of actually useful information provided by my suit's systems. Must be that gorram Engineer gene expressing itself again, I guess. With a weary sigh and a foul muttered curse, I turned the Seamoth around and headed for home.
  
  On the way back, it occurred to me that the Seamoth would benefit greatly from a number of custom upgrades. A hull-mounted Stasis Cannon (or two) seemed like an excellent idea; one that might well have prevented that unpleasant episode from ever taking place, in fact. Next, I would add an external manipulator arm and a couple of inbuilt storage bays, so that I could collect resources without automatically putting myself on a Stalker's menu du jour. Add more armour, most definitely. These pleasant thoughts occupied me nicely during the return trip, and strengthened my resolve to find that elusive Moon Pool tech fragment.
  
  Oh, and some bloody magnetite.
  

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• fireboy633 america Join Date: 2015-11-15 Member: 209279Members

  December 2015

  nice plz continue AND WTF i thought the way u dis ribed the bleeder was reaper or emp XD

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• The_Shark USA Join Date: 2015-08-24 Member: 207433Members

  December 2015

  I just thought of something.
  The guy in this story, after he gets a lot of materials and stuff, enough to waste...
  Based on his reactions, once he finds the Reaper, he's going to consider the entire Aurora wreck as hell-no land.
  He'll probably want to just get rid of the Reaper, by any means neccessary.
  Cyclops.
  Nuclear power plant.
  A few kilograms of Semtex to destabilize the reactor.
  Autopilot into the land of hell-no.
  Show them the true might of Terran technology.

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• Stakhanov Join Date: 2003-03-12 Member: 14448Members

  December 2015

  But... fission reactors cannot cause nuclear explosions...
  Plus the Aurora's exploding core failed to kill any of those reapers in the first place. Well , there's no corpses of them floating around , at least.
  
  Fun story so far , can't wait for the crabsnake encounter !

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• Bugzapper Australia Join Date: 2015-03-06 Member: 201744Members

  December 2015 edited December 2015

  If I learned anything even remotely useful from that last incident, it would have to be that the Stalker is primarily an ambush predator. This was something I could safely hang my hat on. It makes perfect sense, actually. There's little point in chasing your prey beyond a certain distance, as you are burning precious calories all the while. Learned that little nugget of wisdom at a very early stage in this grand adventure, and I'm pretty certain it will serve me well in any future encounters.
  
  After repairing the Seamoth's minor hull boo-boo with a welding torch, I installed a fresh power cell and gratefully called it quits for the day.
  
  Sooner or later, I would have to enter the Aurora and try my luck at salvaging anything useful from the wreckage. This was not a prospect that I particularly relished, either. I was bound to see bodies, or at least what little remained after the ship's impact and subsequent explosion. Again, not a sight I'd like dancing behind my eyes whenever I attempted to fall asleep. However, it had to be done. It would be suicide to venture into the area around the ship without a significantly more substantial hull between me and whatever new threats this planet cared to throw in my direction. From what I can see of the wreck, the entire forward section is completely obliterated and there's cascades of molten metal still dripping into the water, judging by the huge clouds of steam that pour out of there. Personally, I wouldn't feel safe going anywhere near that inferno with only the Seamoth as protection. It has to be and can only be, the Cyclops.
  
  I spent the remainder of the evening poring over the Cyclops' schematics. This was going to be one hell of a massive build, make no mistake about it. After a thorough check of the base's raw material inventory, I discovered that I needed to secure goodly amounts of Plasteel ingots and enamelled glass. That meant searching for lithium and some useable local source of enamel. I was bound to find lithium at some stage. JUNO suggested looking in an area two klicks east of the base. Unknown territory. No problem. The real problem arose when I queried JUNO on the subject of obtaining a source of enamel.
  
  "Component enamel detected nearby. Source, discarded dentition of indigenous animal species, type unknown. Location, one hundred metres due south of current location. Warning. Proceed with caution. Multiple large life forms detected."
  
  I stared in disbelief at one of JUNO's display terminals set into the Fabricator control panel.
  
  Oh no. You cannot be rutting serious. Anywhere else but there.
  
  "Are there any alternative sources of enamel within detection range?" I enquired quietly, struggling manfully to maintain my voice stress levels at something approximating an even keel. In truth, I figured this would be a perfectly reasonable opportunity to go quietly, hopelessly insane. My heart sank faster than a bumper-stunned Bleeder upon hearing JUNO's matter-of-fact reply.
  
  "Affirmative. Several other locations detected, all dominant biome types correspond with that of original target location. Warning. Proceed with caution. Multiple large life forms detected."
  
  That sounded like a good enough reason to start searching the hab for a convenient desk to flip over.
  
  Sod it. This job can definitely wait until morning.
  

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• hugothesilverdragon canad Join Date: 2015-11-30 Member: 209620Members

  December 2015

  i love this pliz contuneu

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• The_Shark USA Join Date: 2015-08-24 Member: 207433Members

  December 2015

  Stakhanov wrote: »

  But... fission reactors cannot cause nuclear explosions...

  
  Apparently, you haven't heard of these things.
  

  Stakhanov wrote: »

  Plus the Aurora's exploding core failed to kill any of those reapers in the first place. Well, there's no corpses of them floating around, at least.

  
  And if there was a nuclear accident of the scale in the game, then there wouldn't be any corpses. They'd be too busy having been vaporized.
  Plus, it wasn't a nuclear core. It was dark matter, and I dunno how that stuff works.

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