jeriendhal | Entries tagged with post-apocalypse

Summary: A thousand years ago human civilization collapsed, from a combination of environmental damage and the madness of a distributed AI known as Pax Machina. The surviving humans retreating to flying cities held aloft by massive anti-gravity generators, leaving the world below to Pax Machina and a near uncountable variety of genetically uplifted animals.

Forty-five years ago one of those flying cities, Ambara, crashed to the earth, killing almost all of its inhabitants, and leaving its bones to be picked over by the zoomorphs. In response to this disaster, the fractious human cities formed the Reclamation Project alliance, to try to contain and exploit the Zoomorph population, as the floating cities find themselves growing short of food and other resources. Now both sides maneuver around each other in a cold war for supremacy of the Earth, both of them constantly looking over their shoulders for threat of Pax Machina and wasteland raiders.

Review: It's a little hypocritical for me to review this, given I've got a story in here, but I'm going to anyway. This shared world anthology edited by John "The Gneech" Robey was pitched as "Thundarr the Barbarian meets Solarpunk," and it pretty much fits the bill. Though several characters suffer personal tragedies, the overall theme is of hope and change for the better. There's a variety of styles within, from rollicking adventure, to contemplative philosophy, to determined cyberpunk style passive resistance, so there's something for everyone.

I'm not going to review the stories individually, aside from noting that while a couple of stories didn't grab me, aside from one outright clunker (fortunately the shortest story overall) the writing was ranged from competently done to engrossing. My own tale was probably one of the more conventional ones, not adding much to the worldbuilding and being a pretty standard adventure with a little mystery added. Also, despite the elevator pitch, my story was the only one with a barbarian in it. ;p [1]

Anyway, if you like furry stories with some post-apocalyptic sci-fi adventure, The Reclamation Project more than suits the bill. I'm hoping it proves popular enough that Furplanet will make it an annual publication.

The Reclamation Project, Year One is available through Furplanet, and Amazon

[1] Note to Self: Make sure Hamia shouts, "What sorcery is this?!" in his next appearance.

Crossposts: https://jeriendhal.livejournal.com/1325866.html

Now meet Hamia, one of the other protagonists in my story Silence and Sword, available to read in Furplanet's sci-fi shared world anthology The Reclamation Project, Year One.

This article originally appeared on my Patreon page. Please consider supporting me on Patreon to see this and other stories at least 30 days in advance of the public.

###

Description: Male Wazagan, 75 years old, 8'2", 450 lbs, blue scales, red hair in a hip length braid, large mobile ears, digitigrade feet, red eyes. Dressed in a white cloak and armor cobbled together from a warbot or vehicle.

Background: Hamia is a Wazagan, a race of relatively primitive draconic lizards living in the deserts far north of Ambara Down. His stated profession is that of Egg Knight, who in Wazagan culture are dedicated to protecting the temples with the precious egg pools where their young are nurtured. However, for reasons Hamia refuses to discuss, he left the Wazagan lands decades ago, and has not returned since.

Hamia wandered the Zoomorph lands for a time, working as a sellsword, until he encountered Ali shortly after she escaped a Pax Machina facility at age 6. After two years of fruitlessly searching for the young fox's family, Hamia attempted to foster her to a fox family, only to find the young vixen had grown utterly attached to him. Since that time, Hamia has dedicated himself to finding a way of removing the collar from around Ali's neck, a quest that has become considerably more urgent as the vixen has grown, and the collar become tighter.

Personality: Hamia's personality tends towards extremes. When he laughs, his laughter will echo throughout the room. When he's angry, he'll roar mightily. When he feels sorrow, he freely sobs tears. In other words, Hamia is not one to hide his emotions. And when he sees an injustice, he'll move in to correct it, preferably using his sword.

That said, he's remarkably patient and gentle with Ali. While he recognizes she sees him as her foster parent, Hamia feels utterly inadequate to the task. In Wazagan culture, egglings are raised by the entire village, rarely knowing who their parents are. For a lone Wazagan to raise a child on their own is the height of hubris. Recognizing that, Hamia has down his best to provide Ali with a decent education as they wander, though in his presence she's gravitated towards helping him with his mercenary work.

Statistics: ST 20 (-10% for Size +1) [90], DX: 13 [60], IQ 11 [20], HT 18 [80], Damage: Thrust 2d-1, Swing 3d+2. Will 14 [15], Per 14 [15], FP 20 [6], Basic Speed: 8 [5], Basic Move 10 [10], BL: 80, SM +1

Social: Unattractive Appearance [-4], Cultural Familiarity: Wazagan [0], Zoomorph [1]. TL 4 [-25]. Languages: Arabic (native) [0], English (accented) [4], Sign Language (native) [3]. Wealth: Struggling [-10].

Advantages: Acute Hearing/2 [4], Ally: Ali (50% total, 15-) [6], Combat Reflexes [15], DR 5 (tough skin -40%) [15], Extended Lifespan/1 [2], Fit [5], High Pain Threshold [10], Signature Gear: Shining Truth [1] Sharp Claws [5], Sharp Teeth [1], Striker: Tail (crushing, clumsy) [3].

Perks: Deep Sleeper [1], Penetrating Voice [1].

Disadvantages: Charitable [-15], Code of Honor: Egg Knight (Protect children and the helpless, abide no cruelty if it can be helped) [-10], Honesty [-10], Pacifism: Cannot Harm Innocents [-10], Sleepy (12 hours sleep per night) [-8], Increased Consumption/1 [-10], Truthfulness [-5].

Quirks: Avoids talking about his past [-1], Never drinks alcohol [-1], Thinks of Ali as his daughter [-1], Vow: Find a way to remove Ali's collar [-1].

Skills: Area Knowledge: Zoomorph Lands 12 [2], Brawling 14 [2], Carousing 19 [2], Cartography 12 [4], Cloak 14 [4], Cooking 11 [2], Dancing 13 [2], Fast Draw (sword) 14 [2], First Aid 12 [2], Games (board games) 11 [1], Hiking 18 [2], Intimidation 14 [2], Leadership 11 [2], Lifting 18 [2], Navigation (land) 12 [4], Parry Missile Weapons 13 [4], Running 18 [2], Singing 19 [2], Stealth 13 [2], Survival (desert) 14 [2], Survival (jungle) 14 [2], Tactics 11 [4], Tracking 14 [2], Two-Handed Sword 15 [8].

Point Total: 310

Equipment: Shining Truth, TL 11 Fine Hyperdense Greatsword $9,000, 10.5 lbs. Improvised TL 9 Heavy Clamshell Armor, DR 45, $900 18 lbs. Personal Basics $5 1 lb., First Aid Kit $50, 2 lbs. Beat Up Hoverskiff.

Show begins at 7pm sharp (hopefully)

"Fallout 76 B.E.T.A. for the PS4 ." (Watch on YouTube)

Crossposts: https://jeriendhal.livejournal.com/1314661.html

From an attempt to write a short story for an upcoming collection, that unfortunately didn't go much further than this.

This story originally appeared on my Patreon page. Please consider supporting me on Patreon to see these and other stories at least 30 days in advance of the public.

* * *

"Are you sure about this one, Veg?" I asked. Virginia glared at me from across the planning table, the topography map of the Northeast Remains laid out between us, yellowed printouts from the Archive, the old ink barely legible, laid like oversized playing cards on top it. Outside, through the open window, I could hear oxen braying as their teamsters urged them forward, drawing plows to dig out the canal leading to New Ellicott. Progress, and it would help the community grow, though it wouldn't be finished in my lifetime. Fifty miles is a long way to dig without Old World tools, even with Hopetown's resources.

"I'm sure, Mike," she replied, running her hand through the tight curls of her closely cropped black hair. Veg looked harried, as if she hadn't been sleeping much. I couldn't blame her, if the find was as good as she claimed.

"You were sure about the Columbia dig," I pointed out. "Eight months and about a thousand coin we put into that one, and in the end all we found was scrap and rust. The Reclamation Council wasn't happy about that. More to the point, they weren't happy with me."

"I'm sure about this one, Mike," Veg said feverently. "I'm sure. I think it's a shelter. Maybe the Shelter."

"Bull," I replied.

Instead of arguing, she stepped over to the windows and latched them shut, blocking out the noise from the street, and our voices from prying ears. Everybody wanted a lead on new reclamation projects. Sure you could wildcat on your own, and maybe get lucky. Only places like Hopetown or New Ellicott's reclamation councils had the resources to maintain decent Archives, so they could search scientifically and methodically for Old World artifacts that might prove useful in rebuilding tech that was lost in the Impact. "It's the Shelter," Veg insisted. "The one the Old World government built to try and preserve what they could, what they thought mattered." She pointed to the printouts on the table.

"The Shelter is a myth. Yeah, every few years someone finds some old canister where people tried to hide and survive, but most of those are out West, and they don't often have anything that's useful."

She pointed to the printouts on the table. "It's not a myth. These are work orders, supply lists. Most of it is mundane, what you'd expect for any building site. Concrete, rebar, steel, and so on. But then there's this." She picked up the delicate paper with a hand protected with a cotton glove, holding it up for me to read.

"'RTG, 10 kwh" I read, then shook my head. "It's just an acronym, Veg. There are hundreds of these from Old World papers, but without context it could be anything."

"I've got context!" she said triumphantly. Veg opened her pack lying on the floor, pulling out a large, relatively thick, Old World book. The kind called that were referred to as Coffee Table books, though how you could use one as a table was beyond me. Cosmos read the cover. She opened it carefully, turning to a particular set of pages. A spindly Old World machine, which I recognized as one of the spacecraft that used to fly above the sky, was diagrammed on one page. I squinted down at it, reading the labels carefully. Then I spotted what she wanted me to see. "RTG - Radio Thermal Generator," I read. I blinked. ""Generator'. Wait, a power source?"

She nodded. "Used to power the machines that flew above the sky, when they went too far for the sun panels to work. Some of them could work for decades. Possibly long enough for the Shelter inhabitants, if there were any, to ride out the Impact. But if it wasn't inhabited, then it might have been used to maintain an environment that would preserve whatever was inside for even longer, maybe even until now."

I was starting to see why she'd closed the windows even on this hot day. If this was real, if the Shelter was real, it could a prize bigger than even the Archive. "It's good, Veg. Tempting enough to pry more resources from the Council, I'll admit, but it's useless without a location."

"It's here," she said, pointing to the topographic map. "The work order included military coordinates. It's all… right… here…"

Crossposts: https://jeriendhal.livejournal.com/1311950.html

This post was originally published on January 19th on my Patreon page. Please consider supporting me there for an advanced peek at my original fiction.

* * *

It was a pretty substantial convoy. A troop of about thirty men in camouflage green uniforms mounted atop horses, all armed with M-16’s, escorted two humvees and a pair 2 ½ ton trucks, one with a covered cargo bed, the other a tanker, obviously for the fueling the other vehicles. The trucks weren’t that surprising. Even fifteen years after The Fall you could still find humvees operating. They were built to be tough, and could run on wood alcohol in a pinch. It was the men that caught Cleo’s eye though. They were a militia of some sort, that much was obvious. But they were cleaner than your average community militia, and the uniforms were, well, uniform. Nothing ragged, no more dirt and mud than could be expected after travelling along the old crumbling asphalt road that ran along the northern edge of New Hope. When the convoy stopped they formed up ranks in what looked like a well practiced drill, dismounting and holding their horses as they stood at the ready, their rifles held down politely.

“I count thirty,” Phil said beside her, lowering his field glasses. “Maybe ten more in the trucks. Think we can hold them off?”

Cleo tapped her teeth nervously. They had a hundred fighters in their little community, all armed with pistols and long arms, about a quarter of them drilling regularly. Organized enough to hold off the average bandit gang, sure. Organized enough to hold off people who acted like soldiers was another question. “They’re in range of the mortars,” she noted. Which were sighted, sure, but they didn’t have the ammo to test fire them more than once a year. “Jonjon got his pet 50 cal up yet?”

“I told him to stay under cover in the church tower. Might need him for close up, if they breach the gate.”

“Agreed,” she said. “I think we might be all right. They’re a mile away, right at the sign. A far stretch to go if they charged, even mounted.” The lead truck was parked right next to it actually, a neatly painted wooden sign that warned visitors to stay right where they were until they were invited to come forward.

Cleo raised her own binoculars as she saw movement by one of the humvees. A man was coming out, followed by another uniformed soldier, this one unarmed. The first fellow was skinny, blond haired, and my dear lord wearing khaki pants, a pressed white shirt and a neat black tie. “When was the last time you saw anybody in a tie?” she asked aloud.

“Not since that last speech by the President, before the networks went off the air,” Phil said, squinting into his own binoculars again. “If that guy came all this way to tell us about the Latter Day Saints, I’m gonna make him eat his copy of the Newsletter.”

“Haven’t heard a word about Utah in the past eight years,” Cleo noted. The fellow in the shirt and tie was waving a white flag. She waved back to him, and turned to Phil and said, “We’ll meet him halfway.”

( Altruism in the Aftermath )

Crossposts: https://jeriendhal.livejournal.com/1305576.html

I shall be attempting (offspring willing) to do a Fallout 4 livestream around 7:30 or 8pm EST tonight. This will be my first time playing so you can see my honest reactions to the game.