To Solomon

The short farewell is followed by hectic activity. The acolytes are sent to a waiting speeder, and just before the vehicle rises into the polluted skies over Hive Sibellus, a menial hands in a portable stummer – a final gift. A few hours later, the acolytes are on board of the Hand of Finn, cobra-class destroyer and part of the Saint Urthur squadron, unexpectedly and hurriedly commanded by Battlefleet Calixis to reinforce orbital defences in the Solomon system.

Mercifully, the voyage through the warp is without incident this time. The two guests are shunned by the ratings and ignored by the officers: strange cargo to be delivered safely and without fuss. They spent the time training in a disused cargo hold and familiarizing themselves with the destination of their voyage: Solomon, classified as hive world, population 13 billion, seat of the Chancellery Court. Tithe exactus maxima. Although the air on the surface is scrubbed by block sized atmosphere cleaners spread all over this dying world, visitors are advised to keep respirators and chem coats close to them at all times. Sometimes, the acolytes see signs of other passengers, locked away in the belly of the ship: forced immigrants and indentures bound for a world so polluted and used up that it is no longer able to sustain its population level, and adepts and scribblers sent to do the Emperor’s work in the Chancellery Court. Solomon is an ancient, played-out world, and the passengers on the Finn mirror its terminal tiredness.

After a few weeks in the warp, the Saint Urthur squadron drops out of the Empyrean over Solomon. The world shows the ravages of nearly a millennium of unmitigated industrial use. Its landmasses are colored red and orange, with the large hive structures and massive blast railways and pipelines clearly visible from orbit. Its seas are black and covered by roiling storm clouds. Near the hives, the seas shimmer as megatons of chemical effluvia are streaming into the poisoned waters. No polar ice caps remain. Hundreds of craft litter the skies above the planet, transports, freighters, warships of all sizes.

Drizz and Yuri are bundled into an aquila-lander bound for the Chancellery Court and have to share the craft with a dozen ashen faced subaltern scriveners, fingering their lucky charms and black books. After a drop of twenty minutes, the lander comes to rest on the huge airfield of the Chancellery Court. It disgorges the acolytes and the whimpering scriveners and howls back into the skies. To the left and right of our heroes, scores of landers drop in and blast off – Drizz cannot help but think of an orbital invasion, but instead of warriors here are brigades of sullen adepts, grimly weaving their scrolls, dataslates and records, stumbling out of the landing craft, with waves of defeated men streaming from the monumental building before the acolytes. It is this dark giant that houses the final arbiter of all questions judiciary in the Calixis Sector, a power even sector governor Hax on Scintilla has to obey – in theory. Large green stablights fail to illuminate the façade of the black behemoth, the dreaded Chancellery Court, where a legion of judges, adepts, ministerials, scriveners and data-helots weigh, compare and deliberate, often for decades, where the fates of whole worlds are decided with the flick of a quill. A whole galaxy of advisors, fix-makers, intercessors and flunkies mills before this mountain of black stone, its only ornament a huge clock face, showing the thirteen hours of Solomon’s day cycle. A flight of steps large enough to accommodate a dozen regiments of the imperial guard leads to the massive gates of the Court. On the stairs, supplicants, heirs of lesser consequence and utter beggars, to weak for the trek up ´to the gate, wait for word from the halls of the court. Some of them have been living in their makeshift tents for years, cared for by water merchants and the so-called good friars-on-the-steps, waiting for a verdict.

The acolytes hurry along, pausing only to hand over their weapons to one of the innumerable guard posts, receiving a paper slip with an astronomically high number on it in return. Then they enter the great halls of the Chancellery Court. They register the rows upon rows of typing menials, the clouds of servoskulls carrying missives, scrolls and parchments, the little clots and groups of high and low officials, filling the halls with a never-ending murmur, and their hearts sink. Finding Marr is going to be a nightmare. But the Inquisition brooks no delay. A heavily augmented adept in a slate-colored robe accosts them. After making sure of their identity, the insufferable official leads them to a rickety elevator. He answers the acolytes’ questions with barely hidden arrogance and irritating curtness - every word is a reprimand for their tardiness and ignorance, a lament for those being kept from their real tasks and duties in order to guide around boorish visitors. The acolytes learn next to nothing from him. With the briefest of farewells, the adept leaves the duo in front of room 13 on floor 39, a dusty, small balcony high over the milling, viscous chaos of the Court. Behind this little, black door under the unadorned brass marker, Marr awaits.

Pike City

Another entry in the Scorched Earth: Materials post. This time, it's Pike City, flower of the North and a town in trouble. A pdf. on rapidshare in German with a map.

Avatar: War of the Dunces

This post is full of spoilers, but you probably have already seen the movie, know that it cost about the same as a real brushfire war and that most people think that it is a good movie. Which it is. There is really a lot to see, the creatures and the forest are fantastic, the 3D works as advertised. It is a nice movie and a good time was had, but I am not going to talk about the goodness of the movie. I am going to talk about the suckiness of the warfare. Even General Custer would have done better. Just four things that came to me while watching the movie:

1. The Sky People are stupid
- So you are a spacefaring race, and you have a nice fat colony ship in orbit. There is a holy site on the ground which want to blow up badly (Ooooh, so badly).
Why not take the big fat orbital lifter, go into orbit and drop 50 tons of steel from 100 klicks up. Or dump one of the big yellow excavator/forest-murderer machines on the Na'vis' Holy of Holies, if you really want to make a point. Delivering explosives basically by hand on site is just asking for massive interference and blowed-up helicopters. At least drop the daisy cutter from a height were the natives can't breathe.
- The useless pretty-boy colonel. The stupid seeps from him like tasty, tasty molasses. He kicks open a door and opens his command center to the poisonous atmosphere of the planet, risking everyone inside, just to demonstrate his incompetence with the SMG. Instead, like, having two choppers on 24h standby, on a world that teems with aerial predators. Also, getting out of that exploding gunship was darn impressive, but the guy was basically jonesing for a knife fight all the damn movie, and that was probably the only way he was going to get one. A bowie knife on a mech? That shit would get you laughed out of even the more hand-to-hand inclined space marine chapters. Someone should have set up the colonel with a nice bar brawl or, you know, a roll in the hay. That would have nipped many problems in the bud. The guy might be able to bench-press half a ton, but the space beneath his steely hair is empty.

2. The Na'vi are useless
- Was nobody briefed about the Sky People's tremendous capability to concentrate fire on an approaching front? Or did Sully sleep in school? Was there a mistake in translation? "Just charge the firing line with your big blue horses. Just right at the three dozen goons who each have a machine gun or automatic cannon. The bad guys will turn and run. On earth, this tactic works. Every. Single. Time. History proves it, from about 1914 onwards." Of course they get their asses handed to them in a spray of blue mist. For me, it smacks of a political decision: Nobody liked the horse people that much, so they got set up in a big fat decoy/ martyr mission, and in the following massacre, they were weakened for generations, facilitating a push of the forest people into the plains. They probably do not whoop and hiss in the pure and proper way, like the good forest people do. I thought these guys were jungle fighters, bred from minute one to deal silent death in the bush. So were are the traps, the ambushes and the swift arrow into the coolant tubes?
- I know it's good for morale, but putting the leader on the big read bird, where even the useless pretty-boy colonel can identify him from three miles off is just stupid.
- So you have this chopper of the enemy and a sympathetic pilot. Why wait while all the clans make up their minds and come to the meeting place at about twenty miles a day. Stuff that sucker full of your most aggressive warriors right now and dump them in the Sky People's base. Tell them to target windows and air locks. Or hijack the orbital lifter, drive it to about 2000 meters high, turn it around and switch on the burners , transfer the infiltrators to butterfly dragons (or glorious martyrdom) and drop the ship on the station.

So, in conclusion, the two antagonistic parties flail around like toddlers in blindfolds, and sacrifice people and materiel for nothing while the mournful Horner-score blares in the background, until the planet itself gets sick of the commotion and throws the newcomers off. As I said, it is a nice movie, but if you want a film by Cameron where humans and aliens are fighting (relatively) smart, rent Aliens.

The other master

The inquisitor beckons her two servants from the cage. She wastes no time with small talk. After a short greeting, she uncovers the reason for the hasty summons, a three-word code telling Yuri and Drizz to appear with all haste and to bring all the equipment they need in the service of the Golden Throne. “Someone used his political clout to force a carta mutuum dedit. A rarely employed tool within the Holy Ordos. It pleads for the temporary use of a member’s private resources, like a warp-capable ship or a personal library, without stating the purpose of that use, citing utter secrecy and urgency. To use it on someone’s personal retainers is nearly unheard off, but certainly possible.” She coughs. “Inquisitor Marr of Solomon is in urgent need of your assistance, and he resorted to the carta to take you from me, if only for a time. It is most peculiar. The destroyer Hand of Finn is bound to the Solomon system and only waits for your arrival to leave dock. As soon as you reach Solomon, seek out Marr in the Chancellery Court. He will brief you on your duties personally. Obey him as you would obey me.”

The acolytes are shocked, although they are wise enough to hide their surprise. Drizz is the first to recover: “M’lady, two questions, if I may.” Inquisitor von Shech nods. “Who is this Inquisitor Marr, that he may command your resources in this way? What does he want of us, of all people? How does he even know that we serve you?” After a short pause, the inquisitor answers: “He is an old and powerful member of the Ordos Calixis, and as connected as one can be, although he is far away from the politics of the Tricorn Palace. Even hidden away on Solomon, he is lord of a vast network of spies and informants. Whatever his reasons to ask for you specifically: They will be well-founded on knowledge. He extended himself when he wrote this carta, and do not doubt that I will exact my price for this. The carta itself stays vague on the nature of your employ; it only states the temporary nature of it. If you survive.”

“What if he wants to employ us in some heretical scheme? He might use us instead of his personal acolytes to pull off an unsavory gambit. We would be deniable assets to him. Maybe he wants to use us to blacken your name. What should we do in this case?”

“You serve the Emperor first. I trust you to act appropriately if Marr has strayed from the path of the righteous. You will bring no shame upon me: You’ve proven to be excellent independent agents on the His Omniscience, when she traveled far from the Emperor’s light. I have no reason to suspect that your abilities decreased in the mean time. On the other hand: The carta is officially presented to the Conclave, even if only a very small number of inquisitors know of it now. If Marr uses you for heretical or radicalist aims, his responsibility would become common knowledge among his peers in short time. Finally: Marr would know of easier ways to recruit cat’s paws than to use the carta and ship you across the sector.” She smiles again, but privately, her acolytes are not persuaded of Marr’s good intentions. Drizz speaks up: “One last request, if I may: As our report clearly states, our success on the His Omniscience rested firmly on our ability to keep our communication secret even in a environment as treacherous as a Adeptus Mechanicus explorator vessel. Delian Cassano employed a powerful stummer for this purpose. At the moment, we do not have such a device at our disposal. Would our kind mistress deign to help us in this regard? I plead not for our personal safety, but only to be able to serve you in the future as a faithful servant.” The inquisitor smiles: Maybe it is Drizz’ readiness to suspect Marr of foul play, or maybe his new-found verbosity. He seems to take to the role of a minor noble with gusto, even though he stems from a rough tent on a windswept desert. “I will see to it that such a device will find its way to you. But time is of the essence. Leave now for Solomon.” With that, she points to the elevator. With a short bow, the two men leave the cold sanctum of their mistress. Behind them, in the darkness, the robotic manipulator lifts another skull from the endless pile, scans it, measures it, and takes it away.

Albirte von Shech VII

The two men stride through the mass of mourners. As they approach the ziggurat, one of the black priests holds them up and leads them to a rickety brass elevator set into a deep niche of the shadowy building. The priest’s fingers flick across a tarnished keypad and the cage opens for the acolytes. An interminable, slow descent begins. As always, the acolytes wonder why their master has ordered them to appear. A new mission? A reprimand, perhaps? Drizz thinks uneasily about the dozen red books hidden in a disused power substation, volumes detailing the life cycles, technology and tactics of various xenos races, among them the abominable Hrud. It is, of course, proscribed knowledge. Has he been found out? He knows that her eyes are everywhere.
The brass cage passes empty storage corridors, morgues and tombs. Not a single living thing inhabits these cold and silent halls. Soon, the chants and cries of the mourners and the rattling and hissing of the crematoria fade away, and only the tink-tink-tink of the descending cage can be heard. Finally, the elevator shudders to a halt in the deepest level of mortuarium VII, an ancient dissection theatre, now the lair of the acolytes’ mistress. The elevator opens into a circular room ten paces across. It is a dark and painfully cold place, its iron walls partly frosted over. Most of the ghostly blue light comes from a large observation window facing the elevator, looking out into a monumental hall, its floor covered with the skulls of the imperial dead. Now and then, a robotic manipulator lowers itself from the vaulted ceiling of the hall and picks up a single skull, studies and measures it, and takes it away. In front of this window stands a massive dissection table made from black marble, resting on two bowed, blindfolded caryatids. On its slightly indented surface lie a profusion of musty books bound in unwholesome leathers, strange and sharp instruments from silver and brass, parchments and dataslates.
A willowy figure rests her hands on the black table. She seems at the edge of forty, although the marble-like quality of her skin shows the traces of many rejuvenat treatments. One familiar with the elite of the Imperium would put her age close to a hundred. She wears a black, armored corset and piles her black hair high: a mourning garb passed out of fashion some twenty years on Hive Sibellus. Massive silver rings cover her long fingers, and long needles fasten her hair. Even a fool would notice that these rings and needles are weapons, most likely of xenos manufacture and thus a sign of incomparable wealth and influence. As the doors of the elevator finally open, the woman moves away from the table, getting into full view of the acolytes. Even if this not their first meeting by a long shot, the men shudder when they see the legs of their mistress: Just below the knees, the limbs part into four articulated silver stalks, like the legs of a spider. With low clicking and whirring sounds, they carry the woman across the room, giving her movement an unnatural elegance. She seems to glide like a dancer on ice, a beautiful and effortless motion, as long as you are able to take your eyes from her many silver legs. With a low chuckle, the woman welcomes the acolytes. She is Inquisitor Albirte von Shech VII, of the Ordo Hereticus, scion of an old and noble house and the undisputed master of mortuarium VII.

Acolytes!

In these posts I will depict what happens in our Dark Heresy: Tattered Fates campaign. Thus, there will be plenty of spoilers for people who want to play this set of adventures. You have been warned. I shall also refrain from explaining the background of Dark Heresy. I assume that you know about the Empire of Man, Him on Terra, the Warp, and the agents of the Golden Throne. The group consists of only two characters, who are at about 3500pts at this point. Their adversaries have been adjusted to this level. We started off with “The House of Dust and Ash”, a preliminary adventure to the campaign, contained in the fine sourcebook “Disciples of the Dark Gods”.

Mortuarium VII is a hallowed place, where thousands of dead are burned every day. Resting a mile beneath the surface of Hive Sibellus on Scintilla, Mortuarium VII is a tomb, a sanctum, a factory, and a laboratory. It is a hollow cylinder two hundred paces across, its walls honeycombed with tombs and coffin-holes and blackened by the soot and dust of centuries of use, its vaulted ceiling lost high in the darkness. In the middle of this dark and echoing space stands a ziggurat, crowned by huge statue of a black angel wielding scythe and hourglass. The face of the angel is hidden by a heavy cowl, but its gaze seems to fix on the visitor as he enters the mortuarium. Large iron smokestacks snake between the folded wings of the angel, blowing the ash of the burned dead up through the layers of the hive and into the atmosphere of Scintilla. The angel towers like a giant over the dead and the living. Solemn priests with long, black staves and greenish lanterns guide the mourners with their oblong bundles, wrapped into shrouds, carried on biers and in lacquered sedan-chairs, through fields of votive tablets and grave markers towards the maw of the ziggurat, where skull-faced servitors take over the mourners’ burden and the flames finally claim the dead.

Two men stand out in the mass milling in the large entrance to the Mortuarium. It is less their clothing or their weapons – nobles will take their bodyguards wherever they go – but rather the routine they exhibit while moving through the grieving masses. It seems like these two are not here to fulfill some solemn duty or to visit the dear departed, but on an errand, which, while pressing, is essentially mundane. They move in the shadow of the black angel like merchants on a busy trading floor or travelers on a well-known train station. The larger of the men is a dusky fellow with a proud face and long, black, straight hair. A short but dense beard covers his chin. On first sight one could take him for a noble from Malfi, but his skin is too dark for a son of that world. Getting closer, you would see the spider’s web of scars covering his face – even his eyelids are covered by the old traces of short, but deep cuts. And you would notice his eyes and the strange fire within them.
A dark blue cloak barely covers his silvery armor, a carapace worthy of a Kasrkin, with scenes of an ancient battle and clashing horsemen etched into the metal breastplate. A large laspistol and a sword of uncommon form and design dangle from the belt on this armor. He carries the helmet of this valuable suit under his arm: It is fully enclosed with a void seal and crowned with golden laurels.

His companion is far less conspicuous in his dark grey trousers and vest, and the leather hat drawn deep into his face. But some mourners close to him gasp and avert their gaze: His lank figure, white-grey skin and his colorless hair mark him as a voidborn, a member of those unhallowed tribes sailing the empty abyss between the worlds of the Imperium, with the poison of void and warp seeping into their genes. The voidborn is armed to the teeth, with two straight blades strapped across his back, a heavy handgun holstered at his belt and two weighty Irontalon pistols under his armpits, rapid firing sidearms usually restricted to officers of the Imperial Navy, with long barrels and weighty grips, sturdy enough to serve as clubs if their ammo runs out. His baggy, utilitarian clothes hide an armored mesh body glove – and many other items which a man of his trade might find useful. Among all this lethal hardware, the leather whip wound at his thigh seems more like a badge of office than a weapon. These two men are Drizz Al’Rahman, imperial psyker from far Tallarn, and Yuri Orlov, voidborn assassin and formerly the whip and spymaster of captain Leif Morgenstern of the Ribald Pilgrim. They are agents of the Golden Throne, acolytes of the Holy Ordos – the Inquisition, the shadowy and much-feared organization known as the left hand of the Emperor.

Schweinkram

I was eating out with my parents. The conversation turned to my spotting of Helmut Markwort just the day before in a dingy Starbucks. As I described seeing this august person in the (prodigious) flesh for the first time, my mother interrupted me. "Do write about stuff like that. People want to read about stuff like that." My father cut in "It needs a nice title. Direct. How about Schweinkram?" Back to my mother "That would be sure to be success. You'd only need to take out the secretary of a publishing house for a nice cup of coffee, she gives the manuscript to the man in charge. You sell a million books, get one euro per book, and, bang, you're a millionaire. Only a single million, but still."

And that was the career advice for today.

Benefactors

Due to recent developments I present the Benefactors. In German. I promise to post some non-scorched earth related stuff once I get through my imposing todo-list.

Tirespires

And another small community joins the Scorched Earth: some materials post. This time it is a small settlement in the Rockies: Tirespires. In German, with a map. As you see, I would rather create new stuff than translate existing descriptions...but fear not, dear anglophones, your time will come.

White Tower

The fine community of White Tower has been added to the scorched earth: materials post. In German, with a map.

Books change lives...

But not always in a good way. This article about Ayn Rand made my day and confirmed my itinerary of graves to be pissed upon before I die.

Going for the Black Flag

Leaving Mercy, the thought of running away from his newly discovered enemies gnaws at Ben. The Black Flag Mercy Company is about a day behind them, at the most. Wherever he goes, they are bound to follow. He can run until they catch up with him, or he can try something different, something a bit more…proactive. He proposes to bushwhack the mercenaries. Better to hit the enemy now than to wait for them to make their move. A roadside bomb, some sniping at the survivors, and even an outfit like Dread McQuinn’s might have second thoughts about further pursuit – at least it should severely degrade their ability to take down the explorers. The rest of the group readily agrees: maybe out of loyalty, maybe they are just spoiling for a real fight after the encounters in the darkness of Wellspring underground. Mal remembers a appropriate spot 30 clicks north of Barricade. After a hard night’s driving, they reach the site as the sun crests the horizon. In the flatness of the corridor, the spot really does stand out.

A railway line crosses the road via an old bridge. The bridge has long fallen in, but abutments form two walls. The road still passes this narrow gap – the railroad tracks could be crossed with an offroad-vehicle or motorcycles, but rigs, vans and normal cars have to go through the gap. It’s the only choke point of any kind for a long stretch which also offers some cover to would-be ambushers.

A ruin sits deserted to the west. The former motel has long lost its roof to the elements, its interior is reduced to rubble and the thin walls are full of holes. It is a good place for hiding a sniper or two.

To the south, a rusting school bus provides cover. Only a few yellow patches hint at its former function, wheels and engine have completely decayed and some hardy brushes cluster around. It lies close to the road and affords a good view through the gap and up and down the road.

Three boxcars rest on the rails east to the gap. A position here provides an excellent view all around, while the old steel containers offer good protection.

After surveying the area in the growing light, the men hammer out a plan. The cars are hidden behind the bus, covered with camouflage netting. Ben, Mal and Jose will stay with the cars, while Dan takes up position at the old boxcars on the tracks. Two bombs will be placed, one right in the gap, one a bit further north. According to Mal, the Black Flag uses two armored vans: While the explosives in the group’s stash are more than enough to blow softskinned cars to bits, a direct hit will be necessary to kill these vehicles. Thus, split-second timing will be everything.

Dan quickly rigs up two explosive devices from a few sticks of dynamite and a handful of frag grenades, severely depleting the group’s stash. He spends no more than five minutes per unit: “I did this all the time when I was younger. Used to juggle them.” The bombs are triggered via electronic signal. They are covered with some sand in one of the many potholes in the road: one just in the gap and the other about 30 meters further north.

The vehicles of the group will be hidden just behind the school bus. From there, Ben, Mal and Jose have a nice view down the road. Mal gets the trigger to the bomb in the gap, and every man gets a scoped rifle of some kind. Dan takes position between the old wagons. He will survey the road towards Mercy and give the signal when they Black Flag company comes in. He carries the trigger to the bomb further north and will snipe at anything worthwhile with his scoped M16. The plan is to blow up the first van with the bomb in the gap and block the road, and hopefully, to catch the second van with the other bomb. Dan is to harass any survivors with sniper fire, and to vanish with his dirtbike if the Black Flag mounts a counter attack – which is very probable. The others will concentrate their fire on the first van, if the bomb does not take it out, or does not go off, or something else happens. Everyone will stay very close to the jeeps, for a quick retreat might become necessary. Dan gets the first hand-held radio, Ben the second. The group will meet up in Point Transit, if they have to make a run for it and get split up.

During the day, two small trading parties rush by without noticing the group or their camouflaged vehicles.

When the sun starts sinking, a large plume of dust in the north heralds the arrival of a large convoy. It is preceded by a lone motorscout on a street machine. The man races up to the gap and takes a desultory look around, before returning to his bike. He kickstarts the machine and howls past the school bus covering the two jeeps of the group…only to stop after a hundred meters. Did he notice something? Two large shapes just behind the wreck? The group, hidden in their jeeps, does not dare to look out. After a few seconds, the engine splutters to life, and the single scout races away, towards the south. He possibly just stalled his engine. The ambush stays undiscovered.

The main convoy comes into view. Dan makes out a ramshackle jumper and a dirtbike in front, followed by an armored van flying a black flag. This van once served UPS or FedEx, now it ferries the warriors of the Black Flag across the wastes. A grin appears on Dan’s face – a happy hunt is about to begin. But then other vehicles appear in the dust: Three massive long-nosed tractor trailers, ferrying timber from the north. Their long exhaust pipes blow black clouds of diesel smoke as they labor south at fifty clicks an hour. The dull roar of their engines fills the air. Behind them a second black van, equipped with makeshift armor, and a low-slung black chase car roll along. A gaggle of bikers forms the end of the column.

Things just got complicated.

Dan uses his battered handheld to tell the others about the convoy they are facing: Clearly, these are not just the two vans they expected. Ben recognizes the rigs as timber merchants, while Mal is not sure at all – he does not voice his suspicion, but he thinks the Black Flag might have hijacked these rigs. As the convoy roars closer to the gap, Ben tells Mal not to blow up the first black van, as the following rig could rush into the wreck. The last thing he wants to have on his hand is a dead trader. Instead he wants Dan to blow up the second black van – and possibly the chase car -with the northern bomb. But this means also that the main part of the convoy will pass the gap: God knows how many riflemen, bravos and motorscouts are riding with this outfit, and the whole mob would then be able to reach the school bus.
Dan is not exactly enthusiastic about this change of plans and, clearly bent on attacking the rigs, he concocts something about the rigs being driven by black-clad mercenaries. The fib does not work, not even on the walkie-talkie. Ben decides that he won’t be able to exert his authority via the usual channels. Words might fail, so instead, he opts for a different kind of message. He raises his rifle, aims and puts a bullet in the wagon next to Dan.

Dan is impressed, but not in the way Ben intended. Ben’s walkie-talkie squeaks: “You are a dead man!”

This moment, the first biker and the beaten-up jumper pass the gap and approach the school bus. They are rough looking fellows, in makeshift armor, covering their faces with scarves and ski goggles and clutching hunting rifles. Then the first black van, clad with steel plates, its windows covered with metal lamellas, rolls into the gap. Mal presses the trigger of his detonator and the first bomb goes off, right underneath the van. The blast hammers through its soft underside and ignites the fuel tanks. Suddenly a fierce, white explosion fills the gap. The van is lifted into the air and crashes on its side. Fire and smoke shoot from the windows of the wreck, which blocks the gap completely. Oily smoke obscures everything behind it. The drivers of the rigs react with admirable speed. The brakes of the tractors squeal, and the first rig comes to stop only a few feet before the fire, with the other two large trucks piling up behind. The second black van and the chase car break to the right, away from the road and the bomb hidden there. The rearguard spreads out, away from the road – the bikers search for cover. Before the chase car is obscured behind the rigs now idling on the road, Dan puts three rifle slugs through its hood, cripples its engine and takes out the only vehicle in the convoy apart from the motorcycles that might have had a chance at pursuit. On the southern side of the gap, Jose and Mal take out the lead biker and the jumper.

The convoy seems to be in confusion, but some people keep their cool. Guards scurry for cover and search for the attackers, while the Black Flag starts to mount a well-executed defense and counter-attack. Shortly, Dan is hit by rifle fire: One of the traders’ guards gets a lucky shot in, piercing his leg. Dan keels over, screaming “I’m hit” into his radio. Mal does not hesitate: His Nissan Conquistador rumbles out of cover, up towards the wagons. On the other side, shooters belonging to the Black Flag have left the second van and taken position on the top of the tracks. They zero in on the jeep moving through the broken ground and pepper the vehicle with their high-powered rifles: Mal’s jeep takes further damage, and one of the bullets pierces the armor and hits Jose in the chest. His Kevlar vest protects him from serious injury, but he grits his teeth as the jeep labors up the incline towards Dan.

From within the school bus, Ben makes out the flashes of gunfire from the tracks to the northwest. The riflemen concentrate their fire on Mal’s bouncing jeep – possibly they don’t even know that Ben is still in the school bus. He curses and tries to get one of the snipers into the sights of his scoped hunting rifle. One of the men does not disappear fast enough, and Ben drops him. At the wagons, Dan is bundled into Mal’s jeep, losing his radio in the process: Communication between Ben and the rest of the men breaks down. Dan's dirtbike is left on the tracks. Mal decides to make a run for it, straight to the east, keeping the wagons between them and the remaining shooters on the ridge. It’s to dangerous to move back down, and one will meet up in Point Transit anyway.

Ben goes to ground and crawls towards his own car: To raise his head now would invite deadly retaliation from the ridge. Just as Ben reaches his jeep, Jose turns to the rearview window of Mal’s jeep and sees something like an expanding white line reaching for the school bus. Then, a rocket propelled grenade hits the other end of the wreck: The Black Flag is done playing around and breaks out their heavy gear. Ben starts his car and goes straight to the south as fast as he can. Bullets whistle past or ping into the chassis, then, another rocket misses him – he is the only target, and the men on the tracks seem to be eager to blast at least one attacker from the road.

The others see the muzzle flashes and the rockets streaming after Ben, while they are largely shielded by the wagons. Mal decides to blow up the second bomb to create a diversion. At the second attempt, the bomb goes off under the third rig, destroying a trailer with timber, but sparing the truck itself.

Ben drives like hell and soon reaches Barricade. The little camp seems to be in uproar. He tells something about an attack on the road and is let through. He reaches Point Transit one hour later.

The others take a long trip cross-country before they return to the road. Just as they reach Barricade, they see a large group of bikers and jumpers leaving the camp, going north. They, too, are questioned about the attack. While some parts of their story do not wash, Grant “No Mercy”, leader of the camp, is satisfied: Yes, the merchant they were accompanying and lost in the chaos came through here. Yes, he went to Point Transit. Yes, he was flustered. They, too, reach the city as the night falls.

People met:
- Three unknown timber traders and their guards
- The Black Flag Mercy company
- Grant “No Mercy” of Barricade, a petty warlord trying in vain to police his little stretch of the road
- Jimmy Marlin, distrustful guard in Barricade

People met their demise:
- At least four caravan guards
- An unknown number of Black Flag Mercy Company members: More than one, less than ten.
- Dan was hit in the leg and will need a crutch…again. Jose took one to the chest, but he wears Kevlar, and is a singularly tough hombre, so he should be fine.

The end of PR Online-24

To my dear fellow travellers these last six months...



...see you at the Christmas fair - at the latest.

Hinkommen - Vehicles in the Scorched Earth campaign

I have added a file on vehicles to the Scorched Earth: Materials post. It is meant for use with GURPS, but is quite simplified. Like the other files it is not limited to game mechanics but also depicts the attitude of the wastelanders towards vehicles and their owners.

We are all courtiers now

A comment on social sites published by Zeit Online, sketching the effects of social sites on our perceptions of privacy, intimacy and "charisma". In German. Maybe it is time to reread Baltasar Gracián's The Art of Worldly Wisdom...

Ai Weiwei's exhibition in Munich

This is an impressive show at "Haus der Kunst", but then maybe I was duped. I even bought the catalogue, which probably makes me some kind of tool. Nevermind: I liked what I saw very, very much. It is forceful, funny and surprising. More information here and here.

Scorched Earth: Some Material

This post will be updated now and then with background information concerning my GURPS: Scorched Earth campaign. Mostly, this is stuff which someone living in the wastes could know if he lived in or close to the settlement depicted, or had a high merchant, armoury or area knowledge skill pertaining to the stuff described - and it may appear quite detailed. Nonetheless, this is surface information: Things a kindly stranger could find out in a few hours. The true secrets of these places and people will stay just that - secrets.

Mostly, this stuff is in German, but I will upload English versions when I have the time to translate. All files are on google docs, in pdf.-format. I make no profit from these things - apart from the joy of bashing things together and watching where the parts land - and neither should you.

Basics

How the world came to pass: Two voices tell the legend of the Fall.

A map of the world

Ein Glossar der Einoede: A few choice selections from the many sociolects, cants and tounges of the wastes. Also explains the "normal" take on some things after the Fall, like slavery, analphabetism, money and the like. The English version is up-to-date, and will be updated in the future.

Weiße Zonen: Do not go there. Because if you do, all your guardian angels can't follow you. The cursed places of the waste. In German.

A shopping list: This list puts a price to lots of things an explorer of the wastes might find useful, services rendered and artifacts pulled from the ruins. The law of supply and demand applies with a vengeance, prices will vary wildly from settlement to settlement, and the stocks of most traders deplete really fast.

Ruestungen der Oede: A chart and description of common ways to keep a person's body from harm, be it fists, blades or bullets as well as some opinions of notorious wasters, explorators and innocent bystanders on certain kinds of armor. Intended for use with GURPS, but with slightly changed values. In German.

Guns: A range of firearms suitable for use in the wastes. The stats are for GURPS, although I have tweaked them in favor of a higher accuracy - now it is possible to hit someone from across the room with a rifle. The stats are for guns in mint condition; the weapons the characters will come across normally have a higher malf and a lower acc.

Hinkommen: A treatise on vehicles in the wasteland, what to drive and why, how to trick it out and to pimp it and GURPS-stats so that you can take it out if the situation demands it. In German.

Plündern wie die Profis: A list of tables detailing valuable and not-so valuable finds in the ruins. Can be used as described, or just as an inspiration. In German.

Some new GURPS disadvantages: If your character ain't broken, he should be fixed. Here are some brand new dysfunctions to make your character's life interesting. The list will be updated when I think of new ways to limit a figure's usefulness and likability.

The powers that (want to) be

LAW: Headquartered in the shining city of Memphis, the judges expand their power year after year. In German.

Benefactors: An order of traveling doctors. In German.

Magnum Opus: The righteous will prevail. They must prevail, before the Almighty judges them. In German.

Deathdealers: Wherever their stripped-down dirtbikes go, death and mayhem are sure to follow. In German.

Yaddaheads: They'll sell you all the drugs you need for those freakish t-shirts you found in the ruins. The next day, they'll do their damnedest to shoot you because a butterfly told them to. The batshit crazy, barking mad doctor feelgoods of the wastes, in German.

Gorgons: While no one is quite sure whether they qualify as ferales or as gangers, everybody knows a story about the Gorgons' daring attacks and their ability to melt into the wastes and to move unseen among their foes. In German, some spoilers.

Going places

Blessing: A nice town just down the Vever from Holy Flame City. Enjoy all the amenities of the big city without the usual hassle, even if you are a wanted man. In German.

Chalice: The wastes have their share of desperate places - but here, this desperation is married to a great hope. In German, with a map.

Compassion: The second settlement in the Corridor and competitor to Mercy. In German, with a map.

Drop: In the middle of the howling Great White lies a small settlement, keeping the road between East and West open. In German, with a map.

Edjera: The pious are picking clean the bones of the old world, in the name of Allah, the All Merciful. In German.

Elene: A small camp of scavengers, close to the great necropolis of Chicago. It might not have a future, but some people will make sure that it's fun while it lasts. In German, with a map.

Five Rules: If you need a new gun, or new guns, or ammo to feed you guns, Five Rules is a good place to be. It might be a bit out of the way, though. In German.

Goats: Hope you like goats, there's not much else. Unless you start to turn some stones and use your eyes. In German.

Holy Flame City: They say that there are only three cities that matter, three cities that count. Holy Flame is one of them, and arguably the richest. In German.

Huron Beach: A small community close to Detroit. Expect low tech and rampant religious mania. In German, with a map.

Little Rock: A settlement of scavvies deep in the ruins of Little Rock. In German.

Mercy: An important settlement in the Corridor, home to 1200 souls and frequently used as a base by groups of explorers. In German, with a map.

Perfect: A very fitting name for the headquarters of the Yaddaheads, the wasteland's prime suppliers of fun-drugs and not-so-fun-drugs. Some people say it is in the middle of nowhere, which prompts many people to go nowhere fast. In German, with a map.

Pike City: The hub of trade in the far North, ruled by a hereditary dynasty even before the Fall. In German, with a map.

Point Transit: This is the gateway to the Far West, or to the Desert Heart, a bastion of LAW or a hot spot of Deathdealer activity east of the Great White - depending on your perspective.  In German, with a map.

Refugium: An isolated community of knowledge-seekers, a "monastery", some say. In German, with a map.

Tanktown: A place in the ruins of Detroit where they exchange your plastic trash for high-grade fuel! In German.

Tirespires: A place you don't want to be...but sometimes, one does not have a choice. In German, with a map.

White Tower: A community in the shadow of a large broadcasting tower, at one of the most important points of the Vever. In German, with a map.

A flash game

This is a nice headfuck and will take only about 15 minutes...But take your time. There is a lot to discover.

The Scour

Our heroes are still in the dark, dank underground. After a few hours of troubled sleep, the group picks up their gear and makes their way toward the area named "Testing Range" on their map. Ben and Carlos are still suffering from their wounds, but as Carlos cracks jokes again, he, at least, seems on the mend. The testing range is deep underground, its only access tunnel is 500 meters long. Also, it is booby trapped. Dan finds the claymore mine hidden in a makeshift barricade, and is nearly blown up when he tries to detonate it from a safe distance. Another blast wave rolls through the underground. The men look at the sagging ceiling of the tunnel, but the concrete holds - for now. Dan picks himself up. He has suffered some scratches and bruises: Ben chides him for playing butterfingers while he patches him up. They move on.
At the end of the tunnel, they find a large, closed bulkhead. Its surface looks corroded. Next to it, there is small console with a keypad. Ben examines it, and the little screen flickers to life, as a voice warns of imminent power failure and permanent shutdown of the door system. Cursing, Ben and Mal break out their electronics tools and work on the lock. A few seconds before the countdown runs out, the bulkhead groans and shivers and finally inches open - then it stops forever. The opening is just big enough to squeeze through.
Behind the door, wonders await. The room is nearly as large as Command Center 1, and its ceiling vanishes up in the darkness. The steps of the men echo in the large, dark space. The bulkhead has protected this room from the rust and rot: Only some dust is lying on the floor. But that is of secondary interest. In the middle of the floor, on a cross between of an operating table and altar, surrounded by limp robotic manipulators, lies the Scour - The UAV attack drone Predator Mk VI. The predator drone shimmers white in the darkness, its pristine surface untouched by the ravages of time. The letters "USAF" are stenciled on its flank, ancient runes promising swift destruction. The predator points upwards, into the darkness, as if a single word or gesture could command it to burst to the skies. In front of this imposing artifact, a single computer console stands like a pulpit. Its monochrome screen flickers dimly in the darkness, and an ancient needle printer is attached to its side.
This is a tremendous find. The industrial robots alone are worth a fortune, the tools, containers and machines on the walls and surrounding the launch pad speak of high tech long lost to most of humanity. Ben fiddles around the workstation: Its monitor is broken, but the printer still provides a working interface to the machine. José and Mal have a look around the drone: It seems to be build for heavy combat, with multiple hardpoints and a stubby 20mm chaingun protruding from its nose. After a while, the printer stops, and the group ponders the meaning of the yellowing strips of paper. The Scour seems to be close to operative, it just needs some fuel. There seem to be some fixed options how to employ it - and during the Fall, someone tried to disable this dangerous war machine, but failed. His maudlin letter is one of the last working files on the workstation and addresses a legacy-team - whatever that may be.
The Scour presents an unique opportunity, and the explorers debate how to make the most of it. There is the temptation of cutting the beast loose, just to see what it can do and to become a warlord, a king, with this tremendous weapon enforcing one's authority. But how would one maintain this weapon? Mal's proposal is taken up - sell the thing to the judges in Memphis, as LAW would be able to use this kind of technology and tends to honor contractual obligations.
The men leave the Scour on its strange altar and search for an exit from the underground.
When they finally reach the surface, their environment has completely changed. Not only that they have appeared at a different point of the airfield: While they were exploring the depths, a thick fog rolled in. The ancient wrecks and rows of flying machines are shrouded in white mist, their shapes distorted, vanishing and appearing like ghosts. The creaking of the rusting fuselages and wings, the distant howling of wild dogs greets the group.
After getting their bearings, they tortuously make their way through the jumble of aluminum and steel and reach the lip of the depression. As they finally make out the shapes of their vehicles in the fog, Dan stops the group: Others have been here, their tracks are all over the place! The men ready their weapons, spread out and cautiously approach their cars. There is no ambush, but someone has worked over their cars with spears and crowbars - and left a skull and a necklace of human fingerbones on each hood. The Pla'thun have found the group. The solid armor plating has prevented the attackers from doing irreparable harm to the engines or entering the cars and plundering the group's stash, but while Mal's full-body tires are still whole, Ben's normal tires have been slashed.

Now what? Mal's tires would fit on Ben's car, so why not put them on, go to Mercy, get spares and return? Mal resolutely rejects the idea as crazy talk - leaving his car here to get Ben's car to safety on his own tires, tires he paid a fortune for, not to speak of the expensive modification for his car? And this while his own is slowly taken to bits by the Pla'Thun? No way, no way at all! Ben's temper flares, and for a moment he contemplates just shooting Mal or siccing Carlos after him. Mal senses the change in mood and his hands inch towards his Ingrams. The two face each other in the mist, and the threat of violence hangs heavy in the air. Dan senses that something has to give, or the expedition will end in bloodshed. He grabs a grenade from his belt an raises his voice. "Attention! Crazy man with a grenade coming through! Everyone calm down, or nobody is going home. I saw some tires in one of the hangars. Maybe they fit. I say let's go there and have a look and let's shoot each other later." This display of rabid common sense calms down the two car-owners. Ben and Carlos stay with the vehicles, while the rest stalks back to the airfield to look for those tires. (Some authorial liberty taken with the preceding section)
Two hours later, the three return with four tires. The things are not exactly up to spec, and mounting them will be be a hassle - but it beats shooting each other over four tires. Ben and Mal get to work, while the rest keeps lookout for the Pla'Thun. The mechanics are working on the last tire, when the ferales come into view. The females approach the lip of the depression, creeping from one hiding hole to the next. An attack is imminent: José and Dan rush back to the cars, where Ben fastens the last screws on his jeep. Everyone enters the vehicles, the two engines start to life, and they are off, leaving the Pla'Thun behind.

The voyage back to Mercy appears as a cakewalk: The explorers just have to move east until they meet the route of the Corridor - no need to look for vanishing landmarks. In the evening of the second day, the familiar office tower of Mercy appears in the distance. But rest is denied to the adventurers. Father Ataxerxes (who is very happy to have his chemsniffer back) tells them of two dozen mercenaries under the command of one Dread McQuinn, who came through Mercy just two days ago. The were looking for Ben, and him specifically. While the good father was able to hoodwink them into going further north, to Compassion, it is just a matter of time until the so-called Black Flag Mercy Company will return. Mal does not like the involvement of this group at all. He has met them in the past: They are dangerous professionals, as well equipped as a judge's entourage but lacking a judge's compassion and scruples. To mess with these hardened killers would invite disaster. Ben seems to have an inkling why these consummate manhunters have been sent after him, but he does not tell - and the others do not pressure him to share his suspicions.
Although the priest offers refuge to the group, at least for the night, everyone knows that the explorer's presence puts Mercy in great danger. The men wake the mechanics of Jackson's Garage and purchase working tires for Ben's jeep. After hurried farewells to the good father, the two vehicles roar off into the night, leaving the homely lights of Mercy behind them.

People met:
- none

People met their demise:
- none, although Ben is still wounded and Dan suffers from some bruises and cuts. Carlos leaves the group in Mercy, taking some of the group's equipment with him.

Man of the match:
- the crazy man with the grenade

S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Clear Sky

A short time ago I visited an old favorite of mine: S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Shadow of Chernobyl. A few days later, I rebooted S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Clear Sky. Both are great, but I want to talk about why I think that Shadows is better than Clear Sky. Clear Sky is the second game in the series and the prequel to Shadows: You play a stalker, a treasure hunter infiltrating into the forbidden zone around Chernobyl, where a strange, second incident after the meltdown in 1986 created physical anomalies, deadly radioactive eruptions and weird creatures. You haunt this desolate landscape, hoping to find a way of ending the eruptions in the zone, which become more frequent and violent. During the game, you set off the events which will take place in Shadow. And you shoot other denizens of the Zone. A lot. Also, it is mandatory to mention the following when talking about S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Strugatsky, Tarkowsky, Roadside Picknick...Let's just say that this game is rooted in Russian culture, and it shows.
In comparison to other shooters, both games offer a very dense and remarkably bleak atmosphere: The levels are vast and often you spend an inordinate amount of time wandering through the ruins and forests without meeting anyone or anything else. The levels looks gorgeous and make the most of current graphics engines. This pervasive sense of solitude informs the games and makes them unique. At times it feels more like a very well implemented simulation of urban exploration than a standard shooter. The plot supports this bleakness: There is no Dr. Gordon Freeman in the ruins of Prypiat.
The first part of Clear Sky plays a lot like Shadow, but with one difference that appears like a weakness to me. To progress the plot, you are forced to conquer various bases in a large swamp for your faction, the scientists of clear sky. This feels a bit like a large capture-the-flag scenario. Instead of carefully exploring the swamp (which is a very well designed level), you are rushing about, trying to help your buddies. This hectic style of gameplay reduces the atmosphere somewhat, and if you try to visit the swamp later on, the game will try to get you back on the rails of its plot by plastering you with eruptions: The sky turns red, a counter appears, and off you go, running for your life to gain some kind of shelter. And hopefully you learn your lesson and gratefully return to the next stop in the plot which the game has prepared for you.
The middle part of the game is very well designed, although you are forced on lots of fetch quests, and revisiting some places featuring prominently in the first game is great fun and creates the feeling that the Zone is indeed a living, changing place. Again, the main plot features much stronger than in Shadow, and thus the most attractive point of the game, exploring the large, rambling levels creating the Zone, suffers. Also, you will be running back and forth a lot if you want to maintain and upgrade your gear: Selling loot to the Zone's merchants is the definition of slaving for The Man - they'll pay you in pennies for the stuff you lug around, and demand premium prices for their services. This means scooping up every piece of equipment you find and dragging it to some base or other if you do not want to run around in thin slices of kevlar grouped around large holes. So you will move around alot but not necessarily to new places.
It's the final part of Clear Sky which bugs me the most. Suddenly, the game becomes a complete rail shooter. You travel through a vast, deserted city, but unlike the corresponding level in Shadow - the brilliant recreation of Prypiat - you are taken firmly by the hand. There are scenes where an infinite number of opponents spawn until you have solved some tactical problem. I did not like that at all - it destroys the feeling of moving in a desolate and barren zone of exclusion.
Those who know Shadow may contend that this is not quite different from the last hour of the first game, where you are also set on rails and shown around the Chernobyl reactor, while passing an interminable number of jump gates and ambushes. But this was after the point where many first-time gamers of Shadow would be confronted with the bleak endings of the game: If you bet your fate on the wish granter, the rails a thankfully rather short.
Clear Sky is a great game: But by comparing it with its predecessor (which still looks very good on high-end machines), it becomes clear that it sacrificed some unique qualities. The Zone is a unique setting and begs to be explored on its own terms - putting the player on rails to follow a plot detracts from this experience, as is the attempt to bind the player to a faction. I think the story that Clear Sky has to tell is quite good, especially as it foreshadows (ahem) Shadow. But in this case, atmosphere trumps plot.

Hunt in the Deep

The group is stranded in a large underground command center, Carlos and Ben are wounded - Ben shuffles, every step sends stabs of pain through his body. After he is done with bandaging Ben, Mal picks up a piece of paper from the floor to wipe off the blood. Turning it around, he realizes that he found an ancient map of Wellspring Underground.



The group gathers and hurriedly scans the paper under their flashlights. Dan picks up his M16 and checks out the two large corridors to the North and the South: Both are blocked by debris, but there are fissures just large enough to squeeze through. Armed with this information, the men decide to have a look at the second command center, pick up their guns and backpacks and turn to the southern corridor. Dan is the first to move through the narrow hole, followed by Jose. As Dan moves out of the fissure, he hears a tearing noise behind him. He turns around, convinced that Jose just tore his backpack on one of the edges and rusty points sticking from the rubble, when something lands on top of him.
For a second he wonders how an insect can grow so large, then he is on the floor, while an 150-pound centipede slices its mandibles across his chest armor. Jose just sees something drop on Dan and then, Dan is gone. In the ray of his headlamp, Jose can see four other huge monstrosities scuttling towards the light.
Dan is cut up a bit, but not out of the fight by a long shot. He jams the muzzle of his assault rifle into the centipede and pulls the trigger until it stops moving. Now, the rest of the group knows something's afoot. Dan screams "get back through the tunnel" while he scrambles to his feet. Jose does not understand or does not care: He pushes past Dan and rakes the whole corridor with his small Uzi. The creatures writhe under the deadly hail of bullets, and when Dan regains his composure, the two make short work of the centipedes. After they are done, the ground is littered with spent shell casings.

Soon after, the rest of the group comes through. The sudden attack has everyone on edge, and the explorers move very carefully through the decaying tunnels, listening for the sound of skittering and crawling, looking for the abominations nestling between the wires, tubes and ventilation shafts. Getting closer to command number two, Jose and Mal split and sneak ahead. They creep to the entrance and find a flooded hall, full of rusted computers and crawling centipedes, lighted by strange, glowing molds and lichens. Slowly, quietly, the scouts creep back to the others.

A short conference is called: The map designates an area called living quarters. Ben hopes to find valuable scav there - or at least some ammunition. After a short discussion, the others agree. Slowly and carefully the explorers make their way to this area of the vast underground complex. It takes them a long time to get there: Not only because they never let their guard down - Ben winces with every step. Finally, they reach the entry to the living quarters: a massive airlock, large enough for a van. The thick doors have rusted into place and lead into a spartan complex: No posters or other personal things grace the walls, only utilitarian signs pointing to the mess hall, the meeting room and other parts of this area. It seems to be drier in here, and the rot is not as manifest as in the other corridors and halls.



Again, Jose and Mal scout ahead. They find a map of the living quarters in a small showcase right after the airlock. They also hear sounds from the kitchen: The centipedes are present and active. The scouts are silent, but the rest of the group closes up, and the creatures hear them: A handful of large beasts stream into the main hall, only to be cut down by gunfire. But something is different this time: The large insects are covered by dozens of smaller bugs, which they shed like a living flood. While the big animals are easily shot with rifles and pistols, the many small creatures present unique difficulties: Jose finds out that not every problem goes away when you fire an Uzi at it. While the others run over and help Jose to trample the critters to bits, Ben's curiosity gets the better of him and he vanishes into a small tunnel leading to a room called generators. He sees the top of a spiral staircase, and just as he closes in to look down, something surges from the depth. Suddenly, the leader of the group is faced with three huge centipedes, ancient, hulking creatures of the lightless deep, each as long as two men, their armor crawling with their smaller spawn. Ben pulls up his ancient MP10 and fights for his life. He is lucky, and in the narrow tunnel even an amateur like him is able to hit the massed targets. The other explorers hear the continuous burst of gunfire. They reach the entrance just as Ben stumbles out of the tunnel, wildly spraying his last bullets behind him at the surging monstrosity. As the monster lunges out of the entrance, it is hit from all sides by all kinds of calibers. As it thrashes around in agony, its scything jaws miss Dan by inches. The explorers team up to crush the smaller animals under their boots, and then, the living quarters finally become quiet.

The group starts a systematic search of the moldy halls. The rooms are in a marginally better shape than the corridors, but the creatures of the underground had eight decades to work on the equipment, and most of it is cannot be salvaged. The generator room is no exception, although the large diesel generator looks usable. A patient mechanic might be able to get it running, if he had a few hours and a barrel of diesel - or something similar. Some tools lie around, and there is a workbench. Then, the explorers pay a visit to the office of the commander of the base. They force the door open and find Captain Polkinghorne in his posh leather chair, still in his blackened uniform, his skeletal hand still gripping the M1911 that ended his life. Books and magazines lie on the desk and on the floor of the smart office, a small cabinet holds a few bottles of expensive whiskey from the Long Ago: The room is quite distinct from the utilitarian hallways beyond and speaks of the importance of the captain. Those who are able to read eagerly start to thumb through the find. The good captain read a lot about autonomous fighting vehicles, so-called drones, and possible ways to make them more intelligent. One title reads "The rich man's suicide bomber? Drones on the sixth generation battlefield", another "From the trading floor to the killing box - Using high frequency trading programs as source for FNF grading and highly intelligent predictive (HIP) drones". There is a book about group psychology in closed settings, and a Playboy from February 1988. Finally, there is a journal, with most of its contents rotted away. Only the last pages remain, and it is a testament to the dissolution, despair and final madness of the man sitting in the leather chair, a chronicle of the last days on Wellspring Airfield, when the fever killed everyone in the facility. There are hints of mutiny and madness, and of a man keeping a valuable key with him, in death, somewhere in the fuel depots.

The explorers leave Polkinghorne to his eternal rest. They root through the other rooms, the sickbay, the bunks and the kitchen, and, finally, they find some loot worthy of the name: apart from some flight helmets, a fire retardant flight suit, filters for gas masks and two automatic pistols, they lay their hands on priceless electronic artifacts: A working Geiger counter and a set of night vision goggles - still functional and a great prize! After tossing a coin, Mal gets to wrap the goggles into his backpack. In the sickbay, Ben identifies some intact syringes filled with powerful healing drugs: The stuff might still work. But, much to their regret, the adventurers only find a a few dozen pistol rounds. Now, especially Dan is worried that they might run out of ammo while they are still in the underground and hounded by centipedes.

Ben feels that his strength is fading - for the last hours he has been operating on adrenaline alone, and he needs to rest badly. The others concur: They, too, have fought and spent long hours on edge. The group fortifies one of sleeping halls and spends 20 hours recuperating. While the men on watch think, that, somewhere in the darkness, the true inhabitants of the deep are scuttling around, the creatures keep their distance. As the second full day in the deep starts, Mal has a look on his watch: On the surface, it is early morning. He also realizes that food and water are running out: There was only an iron ration and a few canteens to begin with, but in another day they won't have anything to eat or drink.

People met:
- Captain Polkinghorne, commanding officer and suicide, via his last entries in a rotting notebook

People met their demise:
- 8 man-sized centipedes and three really large creatures
- Dan is slightly wounded, and Carlos recovered a bit during the long pause. Regrettably, Ben is still in bad shape.

New category: Man of the match
- Ben Spencer, following his destiny towards the generator room

Charles Stross: Toast

First, a short success story. I learned about Charles Stross on the internet, in fact, I found his novelette "A Colder War" there. I read that story online and was hooked. It took some time, but recently I stumbled across a collection of his short stories (Toast), and money changed hands, money that hopefully will at least in part end up in Mr. Stross' hands. Thus, handing out freebies on the web might have been the correct strategy in this case.

And the success story does not end here, as this a fantastic collection. It combines stories from the early nineties to the early noughts, and combines many different themes, although the main emphasis lies on the approaching singularity of technological and scientific progress. Stross mostly depicts this event as very interesting, and he also describes its (bizarre) fallout: People burnt out at 25 as it becomes very easy to fall behind the technological curve, high energy physics as a party gag, the inability to function without smart clothing, a world overrun by gengineered coffeeplants... Frankenstein is alive and well in Stross' short stories, but he isn't exactly a romantic. He comes across like a hallucinating prankster, a Joker on LSD. Stross' protagonists are often nostalgic old fogeys who, while they are able to interact with posthumanist people, wish for the good old days when machines were machines, people were people and technology's quantum jumps happenened every few months. For a tech-savvy reader of today, it is easy to identify with them, and Stross often seeds his stories with technological slang that might put off some readers, but ultimately adds some believability to his ideas: Even if some of his depictions are quite surreal, the stories not dealing with FTL-travel or alien gods come across as hard SF.

The best story in this collection is A Colder War - the one I found on the net. It combines his creed of human stupidity, an alternative history of the Cold War and H.P. Lovecraft's Mythos. Again, the idea of the singularity crops up, again, it seems both inevitable and ultimately dehumanizing.

This is a brilliant collection, and I can wholeheartedly recommend it.

The Descent

The explorers have dealt with the whipstars. While Mal props up Ben against a wall and José and Dan take a look at the foundation of the control tower, Carlos sprints up to the command center of the tower. At 20 meters he finds an ancient graffiti:

Polka you Pussy!
Come and get me!

As he is unable to read, he passes the inscription with a shrug and enters the top of the tower, a large circular room, with rows upon rows of rotting computer consoles and cracked screens. Fine dust is everywhere. While the rest of the group finishes off the remaining whipstars in the courtyard, Carlos searches the control tower. Most of the relics crumble to dust when touched, but some valuable HiTek might remain inside the dusty consoles. Close to the northern windows, which have long turned opaque, a mummified corpse sits wrapped in a blackened uniform, cradling a scoped rifle, now rusted. His nametag reads "Cpt. Pepper". Carlos also turns up a few booklets filled with handwritten notes which do not crumble at first touch. Bored, he prepares a surprise for his friends.
Finally, the others move up the staircase. As they walk up the last steps, the desiccated corpse of Captain Pepper flies at them - a practical joke by Carlos, with some added spice, as the stairs have no railing. No one is truly shocked, and no one is really amused. Mal even pulls a gun on Carlos, but the others just shrug. Carlos is such a cad!

The command tower yields no spectacular loot, although Ben - having recovered the use of his leg - thoughtfully pages through the old notebooks. Mal climbs through a hole in the ceiling and takes a good look at the desolate airfield lying under the cold stars of the western desert. The Pla'Thun must have heard the gunfire, but Mal does not see a single person approaching the tower. Maybe Dan is right, and this place is taboo for the ferales.

Leaving the top of the tower, the group decides to take a look at the large trapdoor in the ground floor. The wings of the door are rusty and big enough to allow a small car into the the entrance. Broad concrete stairs lead into the murky depths. The chemsniffer shows some toxins, but nothing too poisonous. The adventurers ready their flashlights, check their weapons and gasmasks and descend into the underground of Wellspring Airfield.

The ramp leads them into a corridor broad enough for a large car and three meters high. The ceiling is covered with cables, wires, pipes and conduits. Puddles of oily water stain the concrete floor, and everywhere, molds und funghi are growing. The air smells musty and dank. Detritus covers parts of the floor: rotten barrels, lumps of concrete fallen from walls and ceiling, an old forklift. Colourful stripes cover the wall in front of the travellers, showing the way to the different parts of this large underground facility: "Command 1", "Defense Grid", "Living Quarters", "Testing Range", "Fuel Depot 1" and many others. Ben's eyes light up, and the others also quietly shelve their plan to return to their camp after "one quick peek". This thing must be full of priceless artifacts and the wonderful devices of the Long Ago.

As one, the group decides to have a look at the part called "Command 1" and follows the colored band. It is quite along walk. The ceiling is sagging in places, moldy water drops from the pipes, and the flashlights are the only illumination in the inky darkness. The explores stumble across small electrical cars, and even bicycles, which the old inhabitants used to get around the huge place. After some time they reach "Command 1".

This is a large room, 50 by 50 meters, with two extra entrances on the western and eastern walls and a high ceiling. It is built like an amphitheatre, with two large steps and a groundfloor facing the northern wall. This wall is covered with large screens, the centre one being as big as a tennis court. "A screen big enough to watch the whole world," Ben thinks as he and the other enter this cavernous hall. The steps are covered with working stations, office tables and computer screens. At some places, coffee cups, note pads and clipboards remain. In the Long Ago, more than a hundred people would have been able to work here.

The members of the group mill around, looking into drawers, poking the ancient juice brains, looking for some scavv to pick up. The equipment seems to be in better shape than the stations in the control tower, apart from the equipment on the lowest floor, which is covered with brownish water. Strange, ovoid shapes float there, as large as fists.
Then, suddenly, something heavy and squirming falls on Carlos' shoulder. It is a centipede, black as night and a bit longer than his arm. Dozens of sharp little legs try to dig into his body, and sharp mandibles start to cut into his armor. All over the hall, centipedes start to drop from the ceiling, from their hiding places among the wires, tubes and valves, a black, lethal rain of chitin and clicking pincers. Some of the travelers get away, but some are hit by the attack. Ben and especially Carlos are covered by the centipedes. For a few seconds, confusion reigns, as the men try to rip and shoot the creatures off their backs. Long bursts of automatic gunfire fill the hall. Dan and José, who wandered away from the others, frantically try to regroup at the entrance of Command 1, with a host of the creatures scuttling after them. Ben and Carlos try to get rid of the insects crawling on their arms and legs, but the creatures are wriggly and strong. They burrow through leather and kevlar, the mandibles sinking deep into the flesh, grieveously injuring both men. For a moment, Carlos, weakened by his many injuries, seems to topple.
Only after Dan and José return to the others from the northern end of the large hall, the group regains control of the combat. Now single shots ring out, as Mal and the others pick off the centipedes, sometimes even shooting the critters right off Carlos' back. Even through the haze of pain and blood loss, Carlos is quite sure that these shots are somehow a comeback for his little harmless prank earlier in the day, and he thanks the gods that he wears kevlar.
Just as the group finishes the last creatures, another swarm seems to head into the hall from the corridor, their chittering filling the air. Dan curses and throws a frag grenade into the entrance. A second later, the first of the new arrivals appear in the beams of the group's flashlights, only to be cut down by accurate single shots. Then a powerful explosion fills the corridor, shrapnel whines past the heroes, then, an ominous creaking, a loud rumbling - and the entryway, weakened by decades of rot, collapses. A dust cloud billows into Command 1, the rubble rolls to a standstill and, finally, the hall goes silent. The group is cut off from the original entry to Wellspring's underground, in the growing dark, hounded by thousand-legged creeps.

people met
- none

people met their demise
- lots and lots of black, chittering critters
- Ben and Carlos are covered with deep bites and cuts. While Carlos is still able to move and fight, Ben reels from his wound and staggers along - even after being patched up.

Going West

Having spent two weeks in Mercy, our heroes began their venture to the West. After a short stop at the caves were the Pla'Thun raiders met their fate they set out under Ben's directions. But it seems that endless dunes and the closeness of the Great White affects the group - Ben and Mal lose their way, and they waste two days finding a route to their destination. Progress is slow, and there are many interruptions when the travelers anxiously check their geiger counters. But four days after they started their engines in Mercy, the adventurers gaze upon the shallow depression and within it, Wellspring Airfield.



Before them lies a vast graveyard of mothballed airplanes, some of them in orderly rows, most of them in messy jumbles of glass and metal. Huge bombers sit there, scores of ancient fighter craft, helicopters and even stranger engines of war. Four broad runways cut through the silent chaos, short rows of squat concrete hangars limit the large field which would be big enough to house a small city. In the failing light, the group makes out three buildings that stand out .

At the southern border of the gaveyard is a large control tower, rising 60 meters into the evening sky, its windows blinded by the abrading dust of the Great White.

About two clicks to the North of it a large pylon looms. It is a colossal construction, at least 80 meters high, and festooned with antennas, satellite dishes and other strange gadgets.

But in the north-eastern part of the graveyard the travelers see something that makes some of the curse: Someone tooks parts of the ancient warplanes to create an enclosure, a fortress 100 meters across. The wings of USAF bombers are used to create high walls, and within this settlement, scores of fires are burning. Our heroes are not alone.




The group makes camp away from the depression and, hidden under camouflage nets and gripping their binoculars, they spend the next morning observing the inhabitants of the fortress from the eastern lip of the depression. The people living there seem to be ferales, carrying spears and crossbows. They send out hunting parties and tend meagre fields close to the walls of the settlement. Two things stand out: Most of the inhabitants seem to be female, and once their hunting parties enter the thick of the graveyard, they are instantly lost from view - even Dan is not able to track them. They are very probably the surviving Pla'Thun.

Everybody agrees that a meeting with these people should be avoided. Taking their cars on a wide detour and settling in a new campsite, the explorers enter the site from the South. They are kitted up for a long and dangerous visit: Everyone is carrying weapons, gasmasks, flashlights, but also some food and water. Every few steps, Mal and Ben check their geiger counters. It is evening when they finally reach the border of the airfield.

First, they come upon a row of concrete hangars, monstrous things 50 meter long and 10 meters high, built to withstand the terrible weapons of the Long Ago. The hangars are empty, anything of use has been removed. Close to the hangars, at an old refueling point, the chemsniffer beeps a warning: High concentrations of poisonous gases are present. The group hurries on, towards the control tower.

The inhabitant of Wellspring have erected long metal poles in a rough circle around the tower and festooned them with skulls of humans and other animals, rusty warning signs and broken electronics. As the wind moves through the poles, strange boxes begin to chatter and rattle, mimicking the sound of a geiger counter. As the group crosses the circle, Carlos, bored and irritated from a whole day of waiting and skulking around, fingers a red cardboard tube hanging from one of the poles. Suddenly, the top of the tube pops off, and a bright red flame appears. Shocked, Carlos throws the old emergency flare on the ground, just before a red starshell can rise into the night sky. The shell races across the ground for a few seconds before it goes out, throwing its ghastly red light over the area. Did the Pla'Thun notice?

It's no use taking chances. The explorers move into the building encircling the stem of the control tower to get into a defensible position. Their original target, the tower itself, stands in the middle of a courtyard covered with fine, white sand. As Carlos steps into this courtyard, shapes explode from the sandy floor. With blinding speed, pale tentacles shoot from the sand and wrap themselves around arms and legs, and where they touch skin, the body goes numb. The group has stumbled across a nest of whipstars, bloated monstrosities of the western wastes.
The group answers the attack with a hail of gunfire and destroys the creatures, but not before one of the whipstars stings Ben in his left leg. Panicked, the traders jabs a syringe of aesculapin into his thigh. And the fine dust of the western desert seems to play havoc with the group's equipment: Two automatic weapons jam.

As the combat ends and the gunshots echo away, everyone knows that now the Pla'Thun must be aware of their visitors.

People met:
-none

People/ creatures met their demise:
- Five whipstars, shot to pieces

Jeff Huber: Bathtub Admirals

The military is a deserving topic for satire. Dumb commanders working within a dumb system telling dumb people to go off and die in frequently hilarious ways - what's not to like? Joseph Heller's Catch 22 and Kubrick's Doctor Strangelove are among my personal favorites, and when I stumbled across Jeff Huber's Bathtub Admirals, a novelized recollection of great political and military Navy fuck ups, I did not hesitate.

This is the story of one Jack Hogan, a career Navy type. It chronicles his rise and fall in an environment full of backstabbers, brown-nosers and out-and-out crazy types. ´Huber depicts the Navy circa 1990 to 2001. He takes on feminism in the armed forces as well as the "don't ask - don't tell" policy concerning gay soldiers, but the main topic of this tale is the paradoxical world of soldiers in a great army at peace, "sandbox generals and bathtub admirals" playing war. This is interlaced with Hogan's personal tragedies, making Huber's novel at times a quite depressing read.The Navy comes across as a great make-work project of the Cold War: Anything the aircraft carrier groups can do, a dude in missile command can do more thoroughly by turning a few keys. And yet the Navy steams on, doing basically useless exercises, while its admirals and captains scheme for promotion and political clout.

The politics inside the Navy are depicted as vicious. Admirals rise by backstabbing and bald-faced lying, grudges fester for decades, most members of the armed forces are depicted as harboring deep, incandescent hates for each other. The small mindedness and stupidity depicted is breath-taking: Reading this book reminded me why I did mandatory civil service instead of doing an army stint.

At times, Huber introduces terms like "Catch 69" (for the paradoxes of "don't ask - don't tell") or "fix felony" (for a illegal method to clear up some fuck up). Maybe these terms are common currency in the Navy (Google didn't find them), maybe Huber wanted to pull a Heller. I don't see these terms gaining traction any time soon, but they do a good job at encapsulating the behavior as well as the mental contortions necessary to get along in the military. The novel is populated with figures that, I suspect, are easily recognizable by readers that work in the Navy, while laymen like me just recognize them as the usual busybodies, career monsters and broken men existent in any large bureaucracy. The higher up such a figure is in the hierarchy, the more likely it is to be depicted as a caricature of a human being.

As for the situational comedy: Military fuck ups involve the easily wounded pride of old men, callow douchebags you would not trust with a McDonald's checkout counter and huge, expensive and incredibly dangerous hardware. Usually, the results are massive explosions in all the wrong places, warplanes being piloted by monkeys, ships being capsized by men without trousers etc. This, of course, is a recipe for comedy gold. Bathtub Admirals delivers on this count, but this is not its strongest point. It is much better in describing the politicking behind the screens, the narrow-minded commanders and their futile exchanges, intrigues and attempts at one-upmanship, sometimes peppered with surreal elements, like the moment where an officer pulls a readiness report literally out of his ass, not without putting on rubber gloves beforehand.

This is a good read. It paints an interesting and disturbing picture of the US Navy. It quite is amusing, and unexpectedly dark in some places. At times, I got the feeling that Huber tried very hard to create a Yossarian for the 21st century and that he fell short, but overall, Bathtub Admirals can be recommended for its surreal humor and its topic.

A Stay in Mercy

I shall not retell this chronicle from the beginning. But be assured that it was written in blood and spent shells and told to the noise of screams and gunfire. It is a tale of treason, vengeance and sudden reversals. It is a tale about the search for riches, glory and the promise of redemption. It is a tale about five very different men making their way in a desolate world.

The last session offered some respite after lots and lots of bloodshed, with the group resting in the trading community called Mercy, a small island of civilization which provides shelter to about a 1000 souls. When we left our intrepid adventurers last time, they were ready to start their expedition to the very fringes of the Great White - the deadly white zone to the west of Mercy. Ben Spencer seems to know what he is doing, and up to now, the loot has been good - so no challenges to his authority up to now. The group greedily stocked up on survival gear (gas masks, flashlights, foodstuffs and the like) and dust-proofed their vehicles. They also repaired an old Geiger counter to the marvel and astonishment of Mercy's resident juice technician. Finally, the travelers beefed up Mercy's defenses with a fake mortar and received a chemsniffer for their work.

They paid for services and goods with lots of old and damaged guns and busted armor. When shopping for ammunition, they soon found out that Mercy has quite limited resources in this regard and that they are scraping the bottom of the barrel - no one will sell them any ammo now.

When talking to Ericson one got the impression that he has been out in the wastes for far too long and that his sanity suffered for it. But he knows lots about the surrounding area and its dangers, and the travelers got a few pointers from him.

Generally everyone seems to think their voyage to the West is madness, but it is a free country, and you are allowed to cut your own throat any way you like...although it seems that earlier travelers brought trouble with them when they returned from the western desert.

While their stay was mostly peaceable, Carlos el Loco, always the impeccable gentleman, got into trouble (again) - in a brothel and, a few days later, in front of a gunshop. Hilarity ensued, but there were no fatalities. Also, someone tried to sell off damaged gas filters as "brand new" and "originally sealed" to a fellow trader - despicable behavior! When found out, this individual fingered poor Ericson, who then was visited by an enraged trader and his retinue.

After a forthnight of rest, the group is healed, geared up and ready to go!

People met:
- Father Ataxerxes, leader of Mercy. A kindly catholic priest. Would like to get his chemsniffer back.
- Ke Mai, owner of an electronics shop. Fascinated by Ben's and Mal's skill with the old soldering iron.
- Red, merchant of death. The owner of "Red's Gunshop" might be bandy-legged, skinny and balding, but mano-a-mano there is no better in all of Mercy, as Carlos found out.
- Ericson, scavvy. The only inhabitant in Mercy with some knowledge about the Great White. Borderline-crazy, but not crazy enough to guide the group into a white zone.
- Bosworth Ting. Ho'teller of the "Four Curves and a Bang". A very accommodating and understanding individual.
- Morgan Morgan. A trader who now thinks that Ben Spencer may either be a mediocre fraud but an accomplished liar or else a dupe dumb enough to buy damaged goods. He travels the Corridor between Pike City and Point Transit.

People met their demise:
- none, but some scrapes, bruises and indignities suffered

A German description of this charming little settlement is available at rapidshare in pdf. format: get Mercy.pdf