A Series of Excellent Decisions – Part 1
The Future Was Looking Bright
Myles stood alone upon a frozen hillside, surrounded by Quarrite.
The retreat route had been cut off. Dave was down. Craig was down. Zaph, through what history would almost certainly describe as impeccable timing, hadn't even shown up.
Sir Stripes stamped nervously nearby, wearing the expression of a zebra who had finally concluded that humans were, in fact, idiots.
Myles checked his ammunition, tightened his grip on his rifle, and looked out across the battlefield.
This, it seemed, was how the Crypt Creeps would be remembered.
Not with glory.
Not with honour.
Not even with a particularly good loot haul.
Just another cautionary tale told around campfires by prospectors who ignored every warning sign they were presented with.
Twenty-Four Hours Earlier...
Everything was going remarkably well.
Which, in hindsight, should have worried us.
Given the choice between two missions—one involving the civilised act of packing boxes and delivering supplies, the other involving fighting a horde of murderous alien wildlife to rescue stranded miners—we naturally chose violence.
The decision was made easier by Zaph announcing he would miss most of the evening.
"I'll be on around ten," he promised.
Excellent, we thought.
We'll simply spend the first part of the evening doing chores.
Nothing bad has ever happened after saying we'll just do a few chores first.
Chore 1 – Coffee
The coffee plantation had finally matured.
This was excellent news.
The Crypt Creeps' economy, much like several developing nations, now relied heavily upon the export of a single agricultural commodity.
Myles gathered the harvest, packed it carefully and rode into town.
The trader looked over the sacks.
"One thousand and seventy-seven Ren."
There was a moment of silence.
Our single biggest payday.
Ever.
Myles returned to Winchester considerably wealthier than when he'd left.
Dave immediately ripped every mature coffee plant out of the ground.
"They've finished producing," he explained matter-of-factly as he replanted fresh seedlings.
The agricultural cycle of life continued.
Myles watered the new crops while wondering whether modern civilisation had really advanced much beyond farming.
Chore 2 – Bullets
Experience had taught us two immutable truths.
Firstly, horde missions consume ammunition at an astonishing rate.
Secondly, bullets have an irritating tendency not to grow on trees.
So we manufactured our own.
Myles spent the afternoon feeding brass, lead and gunpowder into the ammunition bench until neat rows of fresh cartridges began appearing.
Four hundred rounds of 9mm.
One hundred and sixty-five rounds of 5.56.
Not enough to start a war.
Probably enough to survive one.
Chore 3 – Sulphur Doesn't Mine Itself
Naturally, all this ammunition required resources.
Dave and Myles set off on what had become one of Winchester's regular maintenance circuits.
Every mining outpost had hungry machines demanding fresh biofuel.
Every water wheel needed cleaning.
Every extractor required emptying.
Every smelter wanted feeding.
It was less "space survival" and more "property maintenance with occasional wolves."
The two made the familiar circuit.
Replace empty fuel cans.
Collect sulphur.
Collect iron.
Collect copper.
Brush leaves out of water wheels.
Head home.
Refill furnaces.
Repeat next week.
Myles had begun to suspect that civilisation itself had been invented solely to create maintenance schedules.
Chore 4 – Biofuel Dependents Anonymous
For weeks now, Myles had attended regular meetings of BDA.
Biofuel Dependents Anonymous.
"Hello, my name is Myles."
"Hello Myles."
"It's been seventeen minutes since I last filled a green biofuel can."
The group nodded sympathetically.
The truth was unavoidable.
There simply wasn't enough biomass on the entire planet to satisfy the insatiable appetite of the Large Green Can.
Every week became another cycle of harvesting plants, feeding composters, manufacturing biofuel, refilling cans, and wondering where all the time had gone.
Something had to change.
Fortunately, Dave had been reading the technology tree.
Well...
Reading might be overstating matters.
He had at least looked at the pictures.
A plan emerged.
The future would be electric.
Myles constructed a charging station.
Battery-powered lanterns replaced the old biofuel lights around Winchester.
Battery cave lights were produced for mining expeditions.
An electric dehumidifier appeared...
...which, somewhat awkwardly, still ran on biofuel.
Progress, apparently, wasn't always a straight line.
Dave wandered over.
"Can you make me an empty biofuel can?"
"You can just order a full one from the station," Myles replied.
"No."
"I need an empty one."
Myles frowned.
Whenever Dave insisted on something making absolutely no sense, experience suggested there was either a brilliant reason...
...or a spectacular misunderstanding.
Unable to determine which, he crafted two empty cans and handed one over.
Dave disappeared toward the industrial complex.
A few moments later...
"...OH SHIT!!"
The words echoed dramatically across the lake.
Myles froze.
Industrial accident?
Oil explosion?
Bear?
Craig?
He sprinted toward the workshop expecting flames, devastation and possibly several insurance claims.
Instead...
Dave was standing perfectly still.
In front of the Organic Extractor.
Holding...
...a completely full biofuel can.
Myles looked around.
Nothing appeared to be on fire.
Nothing had exploded.
No wildlife was actively eating anyone.
"How did you fill that?"
Dave didn't answer.
He simply raised one finger...
...and pointed.
The Organic Extractor hummed quietly away in the corner.
Content.
Efficient.
Almost smug.
Myles walked over.
There, mounted on the side of the machine in plain view...
...was a tap.
Above it, a sign.
FILL CANS HERE
Myles stared.
Then looked at the can.
Then at Dave.
Then back at the sign.
Weeks.
Weeks.
Not days.
Weeks.
"You asked me to build and install these weeks ago," Myles said slowly.
"Did you even RTFM?"
Dave shook his head.
He couldn't.
Speech had temporarily abandoned him.
Patch wandered into the workshop just in time to witness the silence.
The zebra looked from Dave...
...to the sign...
...back to Dave...
...and somehow managed to snicker.
Myles quietly picked up the electric composter.
It had served faithfully.
It had also been completely unnecessary.
The composter was decommissioned on the spot.
Biofuel production was officially relocated to the industrial complex where it belonged.
In its place, Myles installed the large green biofuel storage tank.
From now on, filling cans required little more than walking over, opening a tap and resisting the urge to question every life decision that had led us to this moment.
Dave stood quietly, contemplating the hundreds—possibly thousands—of litres of biofuel that could have been produced this way.
Myles stood quietly, remembering every fish he had lovingly fed into a composter over the past several weeks.
Neither man spoke.
Some discoveries are simply too painful for words.
A Series of Excellent Decisions – Part 2
The Sponge Conspiracy
With Winchester now proudly marching into the battery-powered future, there remained only one outstanding maintenance task.
Finding Craig.
He had somehow managed to miss the entire biofuel revelation.
The greatest technological breakthrough in Winchester's history had occurred without him, which admittedly wasn't unusual. Craig had an uncanny ability to disappear precisely whenever useful work was being undertaken, only to reappear moments before something exploded.
Eventually, Dave located him upstairs.
Craig wasn't building.
He wasn't crafting.
He wasn't even digging a hole.
He was standing in front of a cupboard, contemplating one of Icarus' great unsolved mysteries.
"Dave..."
A pause.
"...why is my cupboard filled with sponges?"
The question echoed through Winchester.
Dave looked genuinely surprised.
"My cupboard?"
"No."
"My cupboard."
"The one full of sponges."
Dave frowned thoughtfully.
"I know nothing about that."
"You know nothing about my cupboard?"
"Correct."
"What about the other five cupboards full of sponges?"
Dave's eyes shifted ever so slightly.
"I also know nothing about those."
There was a long silence.
Patch quietly wandered past.
Sir Stripes followed.
Even the fish in the lake appeared to pause what they were doing.
Myles finally broke the silence.
"Why..."
"...do we have six cupboards full of sponges?"
Dave straightened himself with all the confidence of a government minister explaining why taxpayers had funded a twelve-million-dollar consultancy into whether rain was, in fact, wet.
"It is part of the Lake Beautification Project."
"The what?"
"The Lake Beautification Project."
Apparently, whenever Dave cleaned the water wheels, the river produced large quantities of sponge.
Rather than throwing them back into the water...
...or destroying them...
...or asking whether we might ever need six industrial cupboards filled with aquatic cleaning products...
...he had elected to preserve them for future generations.
"It's strategic."
"For what?"
"You never know."
There are many philosophies by which one may live.
Some people believe in careful planning.
Others believe in minimalism.
Dave apparently subscribed to the doctrine that every object in existence would one day become critically important.
Possibly tomorrow.
Possibly several geological eras from now.
But one day.
Myles glanced out over the lake.
Something looked...
...different.
"Why is the lake green?"
"It used to reflect Winchester."
"The mountains."
"The moon."
Dave nodded proudly.
"I repainted it."
"You..."
"...painted..."
"...the lake?"
"Australian green."
"To celebrate six months on Icarus."
There are moments when asking further questions simply increases the amount of information you wish you didn't know.
This was one of them.
Realising the conversation was drifting dangerously close to the subject of biofuel taps again, Dave executed what military historians would later describe as an exceptionally effective diversionary manoeuvre.
"Oh."
"I found Craig's secret stone stash."
"You what?"
"It has been reclaimed."
"For the good of everyone."
Craig stared.
"My stone?"
"Our stone."
"My cupboard?"
"Our cupboard."
"My..."
"...never mind."
Chore 6 – Rescue Craig
Apparently deciding that domestic politics had become tiresome, Craig wandered off to continue work on his latest engineering masterpiece.
His mountain ramp.
Nobody knew exactly where it was ultimately supposed to go.
Craig certainly didn't.
But it was steadily getting bigger.
Several peaceful minutes passed.
Then...
"Um..."
"Guys..."
"I seem to be dead."
There it was.
The phrase had become so familiar that nobody even sounded surprised anymore.
Myles sighed.
"What happened this time?"
"I have no idea."
Which, to be fair, was almost certainly true.
The previous week Craig had established a worksite directly beside an active beehive.
The bees had objected.
Craig had died.
Surely, we reasoned, nobody could possibly repeat precisely the same mistake.
Craig hadn't.
He'd invented an entirely new one.
This week's construction project had been established immediately beside an active Quarrite tunnel.
The Quarrite objected.
Craig died.
Myles arrived to find Craig lying peacefully beside the very monster spawn point that had objected to his presence.
He revived him.
"Perhaps..."
"...we should finish the tunnel."
Before Myles could complete the seal, another Quarrite burst from underground.
Craig reacted instantly.
He ran.
Not away.
Up.
The nearest staircase led to a small platform overlooking his construction site.
Craig bounded up it with great enthusiasm.
The Quarrite followed.
Unlike bears...
Quarrite have absolutely no difficulty using stairs.
Craig discovered this valuable piece of zoological information only moments before dying for the second time.
Myles sighed once more.
Killed the Quarrite.
Finished sealing the tunnel.
Revived Craig.
Again.
You might think that after countless weeks on Icarus the planet would eventually exhaust its supply of creative methods for killing Craig.
You would be wrong.
Icarus treats Craig less as a player...
...and more as an ongoing research project.
Chore 7 – Exotic Opportunities
Fortunately, not every task involved emergency resuscitation.
A recent Exotic meteor shower had scattered valuable deposits nearby.
Dave and Myles transported two electric extractors to the site.
The machines hummed quietly.
Worked flawlessly.
Produced two hundred and sixty-seven Exotics.
Nobody died.
Nothing caught fire.
Nothing exploded.
Nobody accidentally discovered another machine we'd been using incorrectly for weeks.
It was suspiciously successful.
In hindsight...
Icarus was simply lulling us into a false sense of competence.
Chore 8 – Better Tools
Back at Winchester another familiar problem had emerged.
The wood cupboard was empty.
Again.
Our appetite for timber remained almost supernatural.
Walls.
Floors.
Defences.
Repair materials.
Fuel.
Everything required wood.
Craig was therefore presented with what could only be described as civilisation's greatest technological leap since the invention of the axe.
A chainsaw.
His eyes lit up.
Dave explained the operating principles.
Myles explained the maintenance.
Craig immediately disappeared into the forest making happy chainsaw noises.
The results were...
...mixed.
The chainsaw certainly felled trees faster.
Unfortunately, it also produced less timber than a traditional axe.
Which meant that, despite all appearances, we had successfully upgraded our technology while simultaneously reducing productivity.
The machine was therefore judged a complete success by Craig.
Operation: Liberation
Eventually the chores were complete.
The house was running.
The batteries were charging.
The biofuel flowed effortlessly.
Craig was only mostly alive.
It was finally time.
The mission briefing was refreshingly straightforward.
Travel to the mining camp.
Rescue the trapped miners.
Survive the incoming horde.
Even better...
The destination was marked on the map.
No mysterious riddles.
No hidden caves.
No "look for the suspicious rock that resembles another suspicious rock."
Just a clearly marked objective.
It felt almost suspicious.
We prepared carefully.
Oxygen bottles.
Water.
Food for ourselves.
Food for the zebras.
Winter clothing.
Medical supplies.
Repair materials.
Ammunition.
Everything was checked.
Then checked again.
Myles gathered everyone together.
"The plan is simple."
"We reach the mining camp."
"We establish defensive hedgehogs."
"We deploy automated turrets."
"Then we let the horde come to us."
It was a solid plan.
Almost disappointingly sensible.
Just before departure, Myles checked in with Zaph.
"So..."
"...still joining us?"
The reply arrived.
Unfortunately.
Not tonight.
Zaph wouldn't be making the mission after all.
There was a brief silence.
Three people looked at one another.
This would normally have been the point where wiser adventurers postponed the expedition.
Unfortunately...
...those adventurers weren't us.
Myles made the executive decision.
"We're going anyway."
History would later record this as another in our growing collection of excellent decisions.
The following morning dawned bright and clear.
Perfect travelling weather.
The Crypt Creeps saddled up.
Sir Stripes and Patch seemed considerably more enthusiastic than their riders.
Together we crossed into the Arctic.
Snow wolves appeared.
Snow wolves disappeared.
The occasional Quarrite attempted negotiations.
The negotiations were brief.
We reached our little stone refuge in the snow.
A beacon was lit.
Food was cooked.
Frozen fingers thawed beside the fire.
Then we pressed west.
Through the mountain pass.
Past the recently mined valley.
Around one Quarrite.
Past an entire pack of wolves.
Around another pack.
Eventually...
The mining camp came into view beside the lake.
The destination.
The objective.
The place where everything was about to go spectacularly wrong.
A Series of Excellent Decisions – Part 3
Operation: Liberation
The Crypt Creeps rode into the mining camp just before midday.
Snow crunched beneath the zebras' hooves.
The lake lay perfectly still.
The abandoned camp looked exactly as expected.
Myles looked around approvingly.
"Right."
"Hedgehogs first."
"Then the turrets."
"Then we'll trigger the horde."
It was, by every reasonable measure, an excellent plan.
Icarus disagreed.
Before anyone had even finished dismounting, the planet reached down, tore the carefully prepared script into tiny pieces and lit it on fire.
The horde...
...was already here.
The ambush arrived with all the subtlety of a tax audit.
Cave worms erupted from the ground, immediately coating the area in streams of poisonous spit.
The Crypt Creeps scattered in every direction.
Somebody yelled.
Somebody else was on fire.
Nobody was building defensive fortifications.
So much for the plan.
The worms eventually died.
The poison wore off.
Health bars began climbing again.
There was a collective sigh of relief.
Then two Quarrite burst from nearby tunnels.
Naturally.
The zebras, displaying considerably more tactical awareness than their riders, immediately fled the battlefield.
The humans...
...stood their ground.
History has repeatedly demonstrated that, when forced to choose between copying the survival instincts of a striped herbivore or standing in front of an angry rock monster with a rifle...
...we consistently choose the second option.
Three Quarrite fell.
Then another emerged.
Then another.
Myles finally noticed the problem.
"They're coming from the tunnels!"
Two active Quarrite tunnels.
Infinite reinforcements.
Suddenly this wasn't a battle.
It was a production line.
Myles attempted to deploy the automated turret.
He unpacked it.
Placed it.
Reached for the final assembly.
Another Quarrite charged.
Construction cancelled.
He tried again.
Another attack.
Cancelled.
Again.
Cancelled.
Eventually he reached the obvious conclusion.
"We're leaving!"
Unfortunately, Dave had already reached an entirely different conclusion.
"I'm closing the tunnels!"
While Craig and Myles fought desperately to keep two Quarrite occupied, Dave sprinted toward the nearest tunnel.
He slammed the sealing charge into place.
The tunnel collapsed.
One down.
Dave looked across the river.
Second tunnel.
Still active.
He grinned.
This was doable.
Ignoring every survival instinct his body attempted to communicate, Dave plunged into the freezing river and swam upstream.
Behind him, Craig and Myles continued what military manuals generally refer to as "panic."
Ahead of him, the second tunnel waited.
Dave reached it.
Started the sealing process.
The progress bar crawled forward.
Almost there.
Almost...
Done.
The tunnel collapsed.
Mission accomplished.
Then...
Icarus cheated.
Fresh cave worms erupted from the riverbank.
Poison splashed across the water.
Dave's health bar began evaporating.
He turned.
Started swimming.
Made it several metres.
Collapsed face-first into the river.
Craig saw Dave fall.
Without hesitation he charged forward.
"Got him!"
For one glorious moment it looked as though heroism might actually prevail.
Craig reached Dave.
Revived him.
The two turned to flee.
The cave worms looked at one another.
"Again?"
"Again."
Another volley of poison.
Dave fell.
Craig fell.
Silence.
Which left only one Crypt Creep standing.
Myles.
The hill overlooked the mining camp.
Below him...
Quarrite.
Worms.
Chaos.
Two unconscious teammates.
No realistic chance of victory.
This, finally, was the moment from the beginning of our tale.
Sir Stripes stood nearby, looking distinctly unimpressed with the strategic planning that had produced this situation.
Myles checked his remaining ammunition.
Raised his rifle.
If this was where the story ended...
...it would at least be noisy.
He fired.
One Quarrite staggered.
Another charged.
A cave worm spat poison.
A third Quarrite joined the fight.
There are heroic last stands remembered throughout history.
Thermopylae.
Rorke's Drift.
Helm's Deep.
This was not one of them.
A Quarrite hit Myles with all the grace of an avalanche carrying a personal grudge.
Myles died.
Total.
Party.
Wipe.
The mining camp fell silent.
The Quarrite wandered home.
The cave worms resumed whatever cave worms normally do between massacres.
The zebras, wisely deciding the humans were beyond saving, remained somewhere in the wilderness.
We hadn't been beaten this comprehensively since the Polar Bear Incident.
Which, despite our best efforts, remains impossible to discuss without somebody laughing.
Back at Winchester, three bewildered prospectors materialised wearing little more than envirosuits and expressions of profound disappointment.
Our armour?
Gone.
Our weapons?
Gone.
Our backpacks?
Gone.
Our zebras?
Still somewhere in the Arctic wondering whether they should seek new employment.
Myles looked around.
"I vote we call it."
Nobody argued.
Dave cleared his throat.
"If we log out now..."
"...our gear might disappear before next week."
Nobody liked where this conversation was going.
Five minutes later...
Replacement armour had been crafted.
Replacement weapons assembled.
Fresh oxygen tanks filled.
Water skins topped up.
Emergency food packed.
More ammunition produced.
Backup zebras saddled.
Apparently we weren't finished embarrassing ourselves just yet.
The second expedition proved remarkably uneventful.
Which somehow felt suspicious.
We crossed the Arctic without incident.
Reached the mining camp.
Craig immediately began constructing an emergency shelter because, if there was one thing this battlefield lacked, it was real estate.
Dave deployed a defensive wall.
Then another.
Then carefully arranged a line of hedgehogs.
At last...
The battlefield looked the way Myles had originally intended.
Only now it was several hours later.
Dave cautiously descended the hill.
Recovered the abandoned zebras.
The Quarrite responsible for flattening Myles spotted him.
Perfect.
The monster charged.
Straight toward the hedgehogs.
Wooden spikes met rocky enthusiasm.
The Quarrite discovered that running through sharpened timber is every bit as unpleasant as it sounds.
The Crypt Creeps enthusiastically completed the lesson.
One down.
Myles finally unpacked the automated turret.
This time...
Nobody interrupted.
The turret unfolded.
Powered up.
Rotated experimentally.
Ready.
We lured another Quarrite into the prepared defences.
The turret opened fire.
The hedgehogs held.
The Quarrite didn't.
A third followed shortly afterwards.
The worms attempted one final surprise attack.
They were met by concentrated rifle fire.
Sometimes preparation really does beat improvisation.
It would have been nice if we'd discovered that several hours earlier.
Meanwhile, Dave and Craig swam back up the river.
Recovered every backpack.
Recovered every rifle.
Recovered every embarrassing reminder of our earlier optimism.
They returned triumphantly to the emergency hut.
The Crypt Creeps were once again fully equipped.
The mining camp was finally secure.
The mission journal...
...well...
The mission journal remembered everything.
Dave attempted to erase the evidence.
Unfortunately...
He forgot to press Enter.
Our complete humiliation therefore remains permanently recorded for future generations.
Some monuments build themselves.
Tonight's Campfire Song
(To the tune of every overly dramatic folk ballad ever written.)
Come gather close, you prospectors bold,
And hear this cautionary tale,
Of three brave souls who sought great fame,
Then watched good judgement fail.
They polished guns and packed supplies,
Their confidence stood tall,
They even made the batteries work—
Then answered destiny's call.
Oh, the drums rolled out on Icarus,
The mountains echoed wide,
The plan looked perfect on the map...
Reality replied.
They reached the camp in marching step,
Their spirits running high,
But worms and Quarrite had arrived
With other plans nearby.
Dave closed one tunnel, closed the next,
Ignoring every sting,
For heroes never stop to ask,
"Is this a sensible thing?"
Oh, the drums rolled out on Icarus,
The poison filled the air,
Craig revived his fallen mate...
Then promptly joined him there.
Alone stood Myles upon the hill,
His rifle held on tight,
He chose to make one final stand,
Instead of taking flight.
A Quarrite judged that noble choice
With one decisive blow,
And Winchester gained three new ghosts
Who had a long walk home.
So heed this tale, adventurers,
Should glory call your name:
Bring batteries, guns and plenty of food...
But never leave your scout behind.
Lessons Learned
This week we learnt:
There is, in fact, a tap on the Organic Extractor labelled "Fill Cans Here."
Dave still doesn't read instruction manuals.
Craig continues to treat monster spawn points as premium construction locations.
Better technology doesn't necessarily produce better outcomes. Especially when Craig is holding it.
Horde missions are significantly easier when your scout actually attends.
Last week our goal had been simple.
Complete the next campaign mission.
Technically...
...we did.
Eventually.
After one complete Total Party Wipe, a replacement expedition, and enough replacement equipment to outfit a small militia.
Weekly Achievements
Dave achieved: RTFM (Don't Read The Manual... Again)
Myles achieved: Last Stand (Successfully becoming the final survivor in a Quarrite ambush.)
Craig achieved: Oblivious (Constructing infrastructure immediately beside an active monster spawn point.)
Zaph achieved: Sorry, Not Sorry (Avoiding the entire Total Party Wipe simply by not turning up.)
Until next week...
...when Icarus will undoubtedly discover entirely new and inventive ways to remind us that overconfidence is a renewable resource.
No comments:
Post a Comment