With the tanker transfer platform and well-head neatly ticked off my to-do list, Héloise and I returned to Kaori-san no-shima to scout out a likely spot for the planet's first (and hopefully, only) holiday resort. The major prerequisite for this site is that it should be close to the water's edge, but far enough removed from the main colony to ensure a measure of privacy for both groups. That could be tricky, since the colony's structures are evenly distributed around the entire circumference of the island, primarily for stability reasons. Bear in mind that Kaori-san no-shima is a floating island. Building a new housing complex on the main colony's foundation is a no-go, right from the start.
Looks like the island's lagoon has drawn the short straw. I've calculated that the resort's cluster of hab domes will fit comfortably inside this natural feature, without affecting the fine balance of forces currently keeping this island afloat. Of course, all of these structures are ultimately temporary. Once Borealis has been made habitable, everything we've attached to this island will be deconstructed and the materials reused elsewhere. If nothing else, I intend to make good on my promise to Father of Tides. Only the Aurora monument and The Broch will remain after we're gone.
In the final analysis, every small detail is worth the effort expended upon it. There is a sense of quickening in the air, one so palpable that even the colonists are feeling it. Halvorsen sent down six tankers this morning, and all made the return trip safely. Margaritaville's observation deck has been packed to capacity with colonists watching the tankers come and go since dawn, and the general feeling of anticipation running down here has lifted morale considerably. We still have a fair trot ahead of us before we're ready to launch, but the gears of industry are most definitely in motion.
Regarding small details... That mysterious little Cutefish revealed his greatest secret today. We've finally found out where the rest of his mates are hiding, and no-one was more surprised than I. After constructing a comfortable web-foam harness, I attached a miniature camera and tracking beacon to Minou, then turned him loose for his usual nightly constitutional. He wasn't overly fond of wearing this rig at first, but after taking a couple of bites from a soya-lentil crunch bar, he obligingly forgot all about it. Until now, Minou has been swimming around in a network of specially designed aquaria aboard Kaori-san no-shima, generally delighting folks and coming and going as he pleases. Where he went each night became one of life's minor mysteries for all concerned.
There was a decent crowd in Margaritaville that evening, and I conjured Minou's journey might be worth putting up on the big screen. After all, that wee fellow has made quite an impression on the colonists, and there's a fair number of folk who'd like a Cutefish of their own. Mind you, I'm dead against keeping Minou or any of his pals in a closed aquarium, so I had to get creative with the basic design. Although he spends most of his time with Héloise, Minou has free reign of a network of high-strength glass tubing threading a path through some of the colony's common areas and entertainment zones. This tubing connects to an underwater access lock that allows non-hostile species to enter and leave the network at will. A pair of repulsion cannon turrets ensure that the local nasties maintain a respectful distance from this facility. Beats traditional aquaria, hands down.
There's an archipelago of floating islands roughly northwest of Pyramid Rock, and that's apparently where he's heading. After skilfully avoiding the myriad hazards of Creepvine thickets and the 'safe' shallows, Minou descended into a realm where we've never willingly set foot, or tarried any longer than was absolutely necessary.
For one thing, that area is practically heaving with Bonesharks.
Minou stopped dead in the water. According to sensor data transmitted from his body harness, the Cutefish is currently sitting at a depth of 82 metres. He's obviously waiting for the right moment to make his end-run to safety, as he's keeping a close watch on a pack of three Bonesharks cruising around the crown of the floating island. Minou moved forward cautiously, seemingly drifting under the influence of a particularly feeble current. When I switched to his rear-view camera, an almost imperceptible rippling of his tentacles appeared to be the sole source of his forward motion. Since Cutefish aren't equipped with siphons like terrestrial cephalopods such as octopuses, cuttlefish and squids, they lack water-jets as a mode of propulsion. It's tentacles all the way, unfortunately. However, Cutefish are clever enough to make the best possible use of what they do have.
Margaritaville's patrons watched Minou's steady progress in silent fascination. I had to manipulate the video feed in real-time to keep his surroundings visible. He was now close enough to the island to have fallen into its shadow, and I couldn't use the light sources on his harness for fear of giving away his position. A minute or so later, he began swimming normally, his apparent destination one of the larger stalactite-like structures scattered over the pockmarked underside of the island.
Suddenly, Minou darted into a fissure in the stalactite. There was a dizzying flurry of motion as the small creature twisted and turned its way through the convolutions of a pitch-black tunnel, following a path bored through solid rock by the larval stage of Floaters. The planet's floating islands are riddled with these holes. Naturally, IANTO was in full Sir David Attenborough mode at this point, enthusiastically describing the life-cycle of these bizarre growths and their role in Manannán's complex ecology. Admittedly, we haven't studied Floaters quite as thoroughly as we should have, although in our defence, we have been far too busy dealing with Manannán's other life forms.
The tunnel led into a spacious chamber, softly lit by a colourful profusion of bio-luminescent plants and algae. Minou swam over to a nearby patch of veined nettle and browsed on its foliage, obviously ravenous after his epic swim from Kaori-no shima to the Floating Islands. Given his small size, that trip would have involved a considerable expenditure of effort. There were other Cutefish in the chamber, although none of them were paying any particular attention to Minou at the moment. I confess that I had some misgivings about attaching that harness to him, since these contraptions usually disrupt a creature's natural movements and behaviour patterns. Worse still, some species of animals openly ostracize or even attack tagged individuals. Obviously, humans aren't the only pack of absolute bastards Nature has on its payroll. That's not a comforting thought.
Fortunately, Minou's mates turned out to be totally unfazed by his added 'extras'. After feeding, Minou swam over to a small group and began mingling with them. His skin pigmentation began to shift and swirl, so I switched to the reverse camera to give the audience a better look. His tentacles moved gracefully, almost seductively. This display triggered a similar response in some of the other Cutefish, although I'm uncertain whether this is some sort of greeting, a challenge to other males in the area or good old courtship behaviour. Even our life science brainbox IANTO is flying blind here.
Héloise clutched my arm, giggling delightedly. "Maybe Minou is looking for his mam'selle, no?"
"That's my best guess, Dear Heart." I admitted. "Our lad's most likely on the prowl. Lassies beware."
Eventually, one of the female Cutefish eagerly responded to Minou's suave advances. I'm not entirely certain whether pheromones were involved, or a more basic 'that looks like fun' attitude prevails among Cutefish. Suffice it to say, the orgy that ensued could only be described in terms of a rather dubious sub-genre of manga, one that caters for a particular taste in pictorial erotica. Margaritaville's patrons roared with laughter as the Cutefish coupled with chaotic abandon. The tavern's air rapidly filled with bawdy comments, cheering and cat-calling, scattering all semblance of decorum to the winds. As for the crew, JUNO and DIGBY were also having a quiet chuckle, although I suspect Héloise's colourful side commentary may have had something to do with that. Naturally, I also had trouble keeping a straight face.
Only IANTO seems to be taking this spectacle seriously.
The number '5' appeared in the lower right corner of the tavern's video screen.
I looked enquiringly over at IANTO. "You're not keeping tally of all that bonking, are you?"
"Yes, Captain. I am. That figure represents the number of successful Cutefish couplings so far."
"All in the name of Science, naturally." I murmured sarcastically. "I count at least ten mated couples, although other Cutefish are entering that chamber. The party's already started, but they're still only fashionably late. Not to worry, though. There's still plenty of tentacles to go around."
IANTO shook his head slowly, entirely without condescension. "Correction, Sir... Cutefish males have a penis, or a physical structure analogous to one. You are mistaken in your assumption that specifically modified tentacles called spermatophores are involved in their mating process."
I nodded, casually acknowledging my error. "Fair dos. I stand corrected, then... Hmm. Wonder how our lad Minou is faring in this love-fest?"
IANTO grinned broadly. "Do you see that number on the screen, Sir? - I am exclusively tracking Minou's progress during this event. Five successful copulations within twelve minutes, forty-five seconds. A most impressive performance by terrestrial standards, wouldn't you say?"
"Bloody hell." I laughed. "He's a randy wee devil, that's for sure. Look, he's reached seven now!"
"As have the others, Sir. On average, their totals are strikingly similar, plus or minus 1.25 couplings."
There were now more than two hundred Cutefish churning around inside the chamber, with even more eager participants entering by the minute. No human eye could follow what was happening in there, and it became increasingly difficult to track the motion of any particular subject, let alone figuring out what Minou was doing by visual cues alone. Fortunately, his harness is still sending a steady stream of sensor data, and that should provide us with more coherent information on Cutefish mating behaviour.
As a consequence of this unexpected breeding swarm, the event lost most of its visual appeal for the colonists in fairly short order. The images transmitted from Minou's harness-cam now showed little more than a disorientating blur of grey and white flesh, interspersed with wildly flailing tentacles. When I cut the video feed to the tavern's main monitor, nary a soul uttered a word of complaint.
Even so, IANTO and I remained tapped into the video feed, mainly to keep a close eye on Minou's well-being. With his current tally sitting on nine, I was starting to feel the first twinges of concern. Even rabbits need to take a breather, but our lad was still hard at work, along with everyone else.
This can't be good for one's constitution.
Hang on. There's something screwy happening here. According to our observations so far, all of the participants should have mated successfully by now. Even taking late arrivals into account and assuming an approximate 1:1 male to female ratio, this should indeed be the case. However, the Cutefish breeding swarm is still going strong. Proximity readings from Minou's harness sensors indicate that he is currently working his way to the outer edges of the mass, apparently retiring from the game, it seems. With twelve notches on his pistol tonight, he has acquitted himself admirably.
Sure enough, Minou emerged from the churning mass of Cutefish. He swam over to the far side of the chamber and began nibbling on a large patch of veined nettle. Five minutes later, he plunged back into the fray, apparently re-energised, obviously revved-up and raring to go. IANTO and I exchanged a look of stunned surprise.
"Well, this probably explains why Cutefish are always smiling." IANTO observed drily.
Interesting. Normally, this would be a negative evolutionary behavior, as it would make who gets to reproduce almost random. I would guess that the fertilization chance is very low, meaning that most of the males in the swarm will not sire any offspring, but the ones with greater agility and stamina will successful couple a greater number of times, giving them greater odds of fathering offspring and thus passing on their positive genes.
I still don't like the cutefish though, conceptually or in terms of it's model.
Ok, @sayerulz , I have a question for you: Do you like Borealis Rising? If yes, then that's great! Just, please stop critiquing little details like reproduction among alien species or Bugzapper's writing style. He's sarcastic and snarkey at times, and that's fine! But if you DON'T like Borealis Rising, well then, what are you doing here?!
Alright, that's all. Carry on, Bugzapper!
Ok, @sayerulz , I have a question for you: Do you like Borealis Rising? If yes, then that's great! Just, please stop critiquing little details like reproduction among alien species or Bugzapper's writing style. He's sarcastic and snarkey at times, and that's fine! But if you DON'T like Borealis Rising, well then, what are you doing here?!
Alright, that's all. Carry on, Bugzapper!
You didn't answer the question. I'm sure we all want to know. Do you like Borealis Rising, or not?
As for earlier, it just sounded a bit judgy (Yes I am using improper grammer here.) in my opinion, and I would like to not see that on a story someone is working very hard on. Plus, I just don't like conflict.
(Ps: Bug, there's a small spelling error in the last sentence of your latest post. You spelled dryly with an i as the first y.)
You didn't answer the question. I'm sure we all want to know. Do you like Borealis Rising, or not?
As for earlier, it just sounded a bit judgy (Yes I am using improper grammer here.) in my opinion, and I would like to not see that on a story someone is working very hard on. Plus, I just don't like conflict.
(Ps: Bug, there's a small spelling error in the last sentence of your latest post. You spelled dryly with an i as the first y.)
Well, I've liked some parts. Others less so. I think that Auror Falls was better. I continue reading in hopes that it will improve. Obviously me trying to give advice, constructive criticizim, or even just commenting my analysis of what something in the story might mean is not appreciated, but I don't feel it's fair to ostracize me or treat everything I say as a personal insult to the author.
Interesting. Normally, this would be a negative evolutionary behavior, as it would make who gets to reproduce almost random. I would guess that the fertilization chance is very low, meaning that most of the males in the swarm will not sire any offspring, but the ones with greater agility and stamina will successful couple a greater number of times, giving them greater odds of fathering offspring and thus passing on their positive genes.
I still don't like the cutefish though, conceptually or in terms of it's model.
Ok, @sayerulz , I have a question for you: Do you like Borealis Rising? If yes, then that's great! Just, please stop critiquing little details like reproduction among alien species or Bugzapper's writing style. He's sarcastic and snarkey at times, and that's fine! But if you DON'T like Borealis Rising, well then, what are you doing here?!
Alright, that's all. Carry on, Bugzapper!
I didn't read any negativity in that comment at all. And I was even looking for it, so... relax. This could have been an opportunity for Bugzapper and sayerulz to actually have a decent non-confrontational discussion, but it's got a cloud over it now, please don't attach weights to lines thrown in troubled waters. Obviously Bugs and sayerulz have a hard enough time getting along without any additional testiness added.
Ok, @sayerulz , I have a question for you: Do you like Borealis Rising? If yes, then that's great! Just, please stop critiquing little details like reproduction among alien species or Bugzapper's writing style. He's sarcastic and snarkey at times, and that's fine! But if you DON'T like Borealis Rising, well then, what are you doing here?!
Alright, that's all. Carry on, Bugzapper!
The only thing he said he didn't like was the cutefish's concept and model, which is a criticism at Subnautica and not Bugzapper.
Ok, @sayerulz , I have a question for you: Do you like Borealis Rising? If yes, then that's great! Just, please stop critiquing little details like reproduction among alien species or Bugzapper's writing style. He's sarcastic and snarkey at times, and that's fine! But if you DON'T like Borealis Rising, well then, what are you doing here?!
Alright, that's all. Carry on, Bugzapper!
The only thing he said he didn't like was the cutefish's concept and model, which is a criticism at Subnautica and not Bugzapper.
Not even, it's only criticism of a specific, non-central part of Subnautica.
As a science fiction writer myself, and having designed a fair number of alien or otherwise fantasy species with great detail assigned to researching all manners and aspects of their biology and history, I can assure you that as a creative, there's always a way around any claims that something wouldn't make evolutionary sense.
Take this example. We don't have a deep physiological analysis of the cutefish, so to explain away the copulation, one could always be provided (though this would only be necessary if critique on this minor detail was overwhelming). This could easily be brushed away by saying that females kept separate pouches of seed from each copulation, and using an internal process only the strongest results of each orgy would be selected from the various pouches.
Another example could be that this orgy is a once-a-year occurrence, and the results were saved by the females and ALL of the specimens would be used eventually as the females laid eggs in batches over several months.
It could also be a selection process, not all males NEED to spread their traits, only the strongest, weeding out weaker males. It could even be far crazier, where only a SINGLE sperm is selected by the female, then by some far-out biological process is internally cloned by stem-cells and utilized to fertilize ALL eggs for the rest of her life.
There's a near infinite amount of biological hand-waving that could be accomplished to explain away a relatively simple page in the story. The result is that, @sayerulz , you've once again broken the chain of uninterrupted narrative to have your say in the story. And when it comes to the biology of sci-fi aliens on a different planet, you have very little experience to say what is or isn't a negative behavior for a species that you have no information on. Not to mention that in all reality, this is such a minor creative detail that derailing the thread to bark at it only disrupts the continuity and serves to likely cause @Bugzapper to at the very least sigh heavily, if not have a worse internalized response, toward your comments.
Seriously, it's a work of fiction. Let the man have some creative freedom. Critique is best served for grammar, continuity, or overall ideological issues(like if suddenly Selkirk was hyper-religious without explanation). As for the artistic underpinnings of the biological aspects of a creature, the only people I would accept critique from in this particular instance would be the devs, and even THEN since this is a work of fan-fiction, they aren't the gods of this story, only @Bugzapper is. If you want to critique, keep it useful. If you want to argue the fictional aspects of a fictional work that itself is based off of another fictional work, take it to a separate thread where you can fire away, and please stop interrupting the flow here.
Thanks,
Someone who's been watching this happen far too many times to sit silently any more.
(PS. I will not comment further on this subject. @Bugzapper , I love your work. Keep it up and dont let any of this get to you).
The following morning, IANTO and I trawled through the previous night's video feed, hoping to make some sense of this bizarre mating behaviour. If similar bacchanals take place every night, this does not bode well for the long-term survival of Cutefish as a species. Reproduction consumes a significant portion of an organism's physical resources, and a marathon performance such as that would have been an extremely costly exercise in terms of caloric expenditure alone. Furthermore, there's no way of knowing what survival benefits (if any) might be gained from such indiscriminate mating, particularly when it's carried out on this scale.
As a possible consequence, physically weaker Cutefish may have significantly increased chances of contributing genetic material to the community, a situation contrary to the usual order of things. Cutefish seem to be one of the more notable exceptions to this rule.
Teeth, spines and claws are Nature's weapons of choice. Unfortunately, Cutefish appear to have drawn an extremely short straw, survival-wise. As they are neither aggressive or even particularly well equipped for survival, Cutefish rely heavily on clever behaviour to overcome obstacles and avoid danger. According to IANTO, this innate cleverness extends to such things as their choice of habitat, some finer details of their social structure and an ability to form alliances with larger, non-hostile life forms. IANTO is convinced that their choice of the floating islands may have been a conscious decision on their part, as the safe shallows would be an extremely hazardous biome for Cutefish to colonise.
For one thing, Bonesharks are practically sluggish when compared to Stalkers. There are obvious benefits to sharing a biome with a highly territorial predatory species, particularly when your species has worked out how to safely avoid them. Bonesharks also provide effective population control. Any Cutefish venturing outside the safety of a floating island would be entirely at their mercy. As last night's mating frenzy reached its peak, I inevitably found myself imagining their true nature revealed as tentacled Tribbles, giving rise to a nightmare of grinning, giggling Cutefish swarming into our bases. Not an entirely implausible conclusion, given the evidence presented so far.
However, IANTO and I are more inclined to believe that we may have only witnessed an unusually intense social bonding ritual. There are definitely aspects of this event that require a more detailed investigation. If my hunch is correct, the chemical properties of veined nettles might be the key to this mystery.
To be absolutely certain, every aspect of their biome will be going under the microscope. Until we can pin down precisely what makes Cutefish tick, relocating any significant numbers of these creatures to Kaori-san no-shima or anywhere else could be a very, very bad idea.
Let's get their natural checks and balances identified, before we start messing with the natural order of things.
I thought I had waited long enough before starting to read this thread, assuming it was finished lol. I am one of those people that has to wait for a TV series to finish so I can watch it all at once, waiting a week for an episode is my hell.
Bug you remind me a lot of a writer named Morgan Rice. I never read a book in my life until google play had a free day, got one of her books because it was free and ended up reading like 12 of them in the series after getting hooked. At about book 9 I had caught up to the releases and had to wait months at a time, torture.
Big day ahead of us today. There's a Percheron freighter inbound from Carl Sagan, and she's carrying our first batch of tourists. Fortunately, we're not given to last-minute jitters around here. We've already completed our final walkthrough of their accommodation, and everything appears to be Bristol fashion and shipshape in there. All galleys are stocked, the Valkyrie field is operational and the kettle's on. We've named this place 'The Last Resort', although I had a mind to call it 'Fawlty Towers'. JUNO's suggestion won by unanimous vote, although I suspect that her shrewd use of logic may have interfered with the crew's final decision. Actually, I'm certain that most folk would 'get' that obscure reference, although she did raise a valid point about the name possibly lowering expectations among the facility's guests.
In fact, The Last Resort should be a pleasant surprise for all but the most finicky of Sagan's jolly Jack-tars. Class-B berthing, single occupancy. A communal dining room and rec lounge with two autogalleys, unrestricted access to underwater recreation equipment, including AI-equipped Gen III dive suits and SeaGlide DPVs to keep our guests well out of harm's way.
Overall, we've aimed to capture the essence of a typical Club Med holiday, minus the cheesy seashell necklaces, luaus and other faux-Polynesian frippery, and added a distinct possibility of a close encounter with a Reaper Leviathan, among other equally memorable experiences. Incidentally, your jovial maître d'hôtel is a dead Martian cybernaut, and the resort's key staff are self-aware androids.
Enjoy your stay.
Manannán is an extremely dangerous place for the unwary. We've put together a comprehensive in-flight briefing package for our guests, complete with (frankly unsettling) depictions of what to expect if anyone decides to stray off the beaten track. Captain Halvorsen particularly enjoyed JUNO's catchy version of 'Dumb Ways To Die', a morbidly cheerful sign-off message to any rugged individuals who failed to pay attention during our modest safety briefing.
You might be wondering why we're expending so much effort on Carl Sagan's behalf. First off, there's not much effort involved in assembling and equipping the few temporary buildings required to house our guests. One day's work, in fact. This project has been completed without causing any significant disruptions to our work on the Borealis, and it's ultimately beneficial for both parties involved. Carl Sagan's crew get all the shore leave they could possibly need, and we eventually get to reap the benefit of having a happy and completely focused team working on our free ticket out of this system. Captain Halvorsen certainly appreciates our active participation in this venture, as it frees up a great deal of material and administrative resources at his end. Undoubtedly, Carl Sagan's shore parties would soon be taking casualties if left to their own devices. Our assistance planet-side has already advanced construction of the phase-gate by a whole week. Current projections indicate that we should be ready to jump at least six weeks ahead of the original completion date.
Not bad.
"Skull Island ATC, this is Phantom Three-Zero-Niner turning on final approach."
"Roger that, Three-Zero-Niner. We have you on visual. Your approach vector is confirmed clear of all traffic, landing pad is clear. You may commence landing. Welcome to Skull Island." I replied.
"Copy that, Skull Island. See y'all in five. Three-Zero-Niner, out."
The massive Percheron freighter came in slowly at one hundred metres, the muted thunder of its turbines rising to a shriek as VTOL exhausts swivelled into their landing configuration.
Presented with profuse and abject apologies to John Mescall (lyricist) and Emily Lubitz (vocalist)
Steal a Stalker's favourite tooth
Add a hatch to your hab dome's roof
Dive into a wreck with a lightweight tank
Grab a Boneshark by his crank
[Refrain:]
Dumb ways to die
So many dumb ways to die
Dumb ways to di-ie-ie
So many dumb ways to die
Poke your head inside a small cave
Swim at night if you're feeling brave
Wear Peepers like they're costume jewellery
Play tag with Crashfish if you're into foolery
[Refrain:]
Play hopscotch across a roaring river of lava
Wear a Floater just like a cute balaclava
Enjoy a bowl of acid mushroom stew
I wonder what that Warper will do?
[Refrain:]
Charge your batteries with an Ampeel
Use Biters to get a cosmetic face-peel
Climb the cannon to check out the view
Ride a Reaper because you really want to
[Refrain:]
Moon a cranky Dragon from an unmodified Seamoth
Dock a PRAWN inside a Cyclops with its parking brakes off
Swim through Aurora wearing strips of bacon
Goose a Gasopod to see what might possibly happen
Tickle a Sandshark where it shouldn't be tickled
They may not rhyme but they're quite possibly
The dumbest ways to die
The dumbest ways to die
The dumbest ways to di-ie-ie-ie
So many dumb
So many dumb ways to die
This seems like a good time to be hospitable, not just another disembodied voice on the comm-link. I conjured our guests wouldn't be expecting anything near this elaborate, especially since most frontier world stopovers take place in fairly dubious surroundings. Mining camps, sealed arcologies on black rocks and survey camps aren't exactly ideal tourist spots. Besides, I wanted to be present when Phantom Three-Zero-Niner's hatch opens, if only to catch the latest gossip from Terra. Captain Halvorsen has been forwarding Terran news updates regularly, although it's obvious that nothing much has changed over the last century or so.
When spacers meet and one asks the other how things are back on Terra, the traditional reply is "Still there. Still spinning."
As Carl Sagan's tourists disembarked, I noted with amusement that some of them practically bounced down the ramp with undisguised enthusiasm, while others took a considerably more cautious approach to their new surroundings. I'll bet some of them have taken our safety briefing entirely at its word, carrying on as if every life form on the planet was about to leap out of the water and latch onto some sweet Terran flesh. Rather than publicly ridicule these folks and dispel all sense of self-preservation, I silently applauded their common sense. Manannán's not exactly a Hell World, although you do have to keep your wits about you.
While JUNO, IANTO and DIGBY processed our tourists through the Valkyrie field, I spent some quality time examining the Percheron freighter. A few minutes into my inspection, I became aware of someone walking up behind me. I turned around slowly, since I'm probably in the wrong here. Best not to make any sudden movements at this point.
"How do, mate. I'm Al Selkirk." I said amiably, offering my hand to the solidly-built fellow standing before me. He wore blue Alterra orbital fatigues with flight ops shoulder insignia and a non-regulation black trucker's cap, so it's a fair bet that the Phantom 309 is his baby. As we shook hands, his suspicious expression mellowed almost immediately.
"A'hm Mack Beaudine. Saw y'all giving 309 a real deep eye there. Held mah tongue 'til I figured out what y'all was playin' at, but ya didn't seem to be doin' 'er any harm. Conjured ya as a flyer or a fixer... So, what's ya basic story, Cher?"
Judging by his lingo, I'd guess Mack's a genuine Cajun. Born and raised in Louisiana, back on Terra.
"It's a long one, Mack." I admitted. "Don't know what your Captain's told you about Aurora, but I'm the only survivor. Used to be Third Engineer aboard the Aurora. Been marooned here since 2171. Died three times since, but that was more than enough for the lesson to sink in. Made myself some new friends." I nodded in the crew's direction. "Found a few more under a rock, literally speaking. Belter colonists, originally brought here by Torgaljin Corp. There's about 75 of them at present, although that number's steadily on the rise. And there's our latest project over yonder... Borealis."
Mack whistled appreciatively. "Coo! Y'all bin beaucoup busy heah, m'sieur. Ain't seen a pee-stop dis fahn since Tannhäuser Gate." Suddenly, Mack's stomach gurgled loudly. He chuckled at his intestinal indiscretion, swatting his tattle-tale belly with the cap. "Hush yo' mouth in dere!" After a few seconds of awkward silence, Mack spoke his mind.
"Don't s'pose y'all kin spare a bro p'tit cafe?"
I grinned. "Sure can. Reckon you could use a bite tae eat too, by the sound of it. Turnaround on the 309 will take at least a couple of hours, so you might as well take a gander at our facilities. The ferry to Kaori-san no-shima should be leaving soon. We can hitch a ride over with your mates."
The motor-launch Sleipnir is a recent addition to our fleet. Since we have no need for another submersible personnel transport, she's designed for surface travel. With a top speed of 40 knots, Sleipnir isn't particularly fast, although her MHD drive system makes her an extremely quiet surface vessel. A most desirable feature when you're passing near Reaper territory on a regular basis. When things start to get ugly, Sleipnir simply makes a run for it. If absolutely necessary, Sleipnir can defend itself with a stasis field array and a pair of repulsion cannon turrets, but only as long as it takes for a Cyclops to arrive. Obviously, I nixed the idea of giving her a glass bottom right from the start.
Nothing says 'Smörgåsbord' quite like giving a Reaper a clear view of what's on the menu.
Fortunately, our local weather forecast looks fairly pleasant for the next couple of days. There's some nasty weather brewing about 600 klicks to the west, although our Argus satellite cluster is keeping a close watch on its progress. In a month or so from now, the weather will take a definite turn for the worse. After that, the best that we can hope for is a few clear days between each major blow. It's going to play hell with Borealis' construction schedule, not to mention making these visitor transfers a somewhat hairy business, at least until The Last Resort is equipped with its own submarine docking collar. That was a deliberate omission on my part, since I thought we could transfer our visitors on the surface and do away with the usual hoo-ha associated with travelling submerged in potentially hostile waters. Looks like I might have to rethink this procedure after all.
Borealis has reached a particularly awkward stage in its construction. I could make the outer hull absolutely watertight right now if I wanted to, but with perihelion just around the corner, this might prevent the submersion of its construction platform. Borealis should be okay, although the construction dock wouldn't even survive a Category II cyclone if it remains in its current location. This means that the whole shebang will have to be moved into deeper water and the sealed ship's hull heavily ballasted to counteract most of its buoyancy. Rather than pump aboard a couple of hundred thousand tonnes of seawater to submerge Borealis, it might be a more practical idea to store all construction materials aboard her and install a gravity compensation system to keep the dock and hull firmly anchored to the seafloor. A foul-weather anchorage has already been prepared in 200 metres of water, so it's just a matter of relocating our wee Meccano set 1.5 kilometres northwest of its current position. Best to get this one done while we still have semi-reasonable weather. At least it will give our guests something vaguely interesting to watch while they're here.
We disembarked at The Last Resort's docking platform, then proceeded along the glass corridor connecting the port facility with the hotel's main foyer. Cave crawlers remain a constant nuisance on this island, although we've managed to secure a number of decently-sized open spaces against their incursions. Anyone wishing to explore other locations on the island are welcome to do so, provided that all guests travel in groups of four or more persons, and carry at least one propulsion cannon and/or stasis rifle, plus sufficient food, water and first-aid kits. Any intrepid individuals will have to swallow their pride for the duration of their stay. Solo adventures are expressly forbidden.
I offered a few words of welcome to our guests, then headed over to Café Krakatoa with Mack in tow. He confided that he wasn't officially scheduled for R&R for at least another two weeks, so I felt particularly sorry for this chap. Might as well make it worth his while in the meantime, although I'll have to install some decent amenities at Skull Island for the convenience of Carl Sagan's other pilots. It's not much fun kicking around out there, particularly when everyone else is whooping it up.
"Looks like we've got the place all to ourselves, at least for the time being." I said cheerfully.
Café Krakatoa has scrubbed up quite nicely after all, a far cry from the traditional company-issue break rooms found aboard most Alterra vessels. We want Carl Sagan's crew to feel like they can unwind properly while they're staying on Manannán, minus all those incessant reminders that they're still technically on The Company's clock. Nothing kills a good time faster than being reminded that Monday is always lurking around the corner.
'Monday' doesn't exist here.
Never will.
The café's decor borrows heavily from every islander cliché in the book, I'm pleased to say. The main entrance is flanked by an imposing pair of Easter Island moai, laser-cut from three-metre high blocks of nanocrete. Entirely out of place, of course. Inside, there's enough woven thatch, flickering holographic torches, grimacing He-Tiki and fake bamboo furniture to provide Café Krakatoa with an unashamedly cheesy ambience, although there are also some subtle reminders that Manannán itself should be taken somewhat more seriously. Necklaces of Stalker teeth, several potted Tiger Plants (holograms, of course) and the occasional set of gaping predator jaws have been scattered about as decorative notes, an effective counterpoint to the surrealism of the underlying metaphor.
Apparently, this 3D joke was not lost on Mack. He immediately burst into a fit of delighted laughter.
"Gilligan's Island! Incroyable! Ah loves dis place already!"
At a conscious level, Café Krakatoa has been played strictly for laughs, a good-natured parody of a lone castaway's attempts at makeshift hospitality. Naturally, as I had access to immensely superior technology the entire time I've been marooned, the reality of my survival situation is vastly different to what has been presented here. Still, it wouldn't hurt to germinate a few wildly inaccurate stories about my first few months on this planet, would it?
"So, Mack... What can I get for you today?" I said, activating the autogalley.
Mack leaned on the galley's counter and examined the menu, stroking his stubbled chin pensively. "Mais, got me a gros envie for a Po'Boy sammich, any kin' will do. But y'all don't seem to have one heah." He murmured sadly. "S'pose ah kin come at a burger an' chips, tho' it won't be the same."
That sounds like a heartfelt cry for help. Only too happy to oblige.
I grinned, cracking my knuckles purposefully. "Not a problem, mon ami. Just give me the basic specs of your favourite Po'Boy, and I'll whip one up for you, toute de suite."
The beatific expression that dawned on Mack's face was priceless. I can tell that this fellow enjoys proper food with an honest gusto, one that transcends the base act of shovelling generic fuel into a body that has long ceased to care. Not a gourmand by any stretch of the imagination, but one of those rare folk who still derive genuine pleasure from eating. These days, an actual Chef is rarer still.
Mack leaned forward urgently, almost conspiratorially.
"First off, there's yo' basic Po'Boy. Fill 'em wit' de fried swimps, fish, poulet, porc, boeuf, whatevah. It's de bread that matters. Un baguette. Crusty on de outsides, but she sof' inside. Got that, Cher?"
"Sure have." I chuckled, entering Mack's description into the terminal. "Sounds pretty damn good."
"Oui. Better dan de awful bag-nasty ah ate afore leavin' Carl Sagan, near six hour ago. Some kin' a salad. No gorram body to it, and def'nitely no ackshul meat ah recognized. Honteux, dat's fo' sure."
"Shameful indeed." I commiserated. "So, what else is involved? What sort of fixings are included?"
Mack grinned wolfishly. "Ah, dat's where she gets très intéressant... Whatevah de hell y'all wants. A nice hot boudin, remoulade, sauce piquante, chargrilled bell peppers or jes' plain ol' gravy. Go nuts."
"I can work with that." I said, compiling the recipe. "Okay, let's see what happens. Stand back."
"To ta ge im! Detim imim finyish du wa ting, im ye fo sémpere."
("You got it! Once a thing is made, it is forever.")
Mack is speaking in a variant of Louisiana Cajun patois.
Liberally sprinkled with French words, although I'm trying to keep his dialogue intelligible without losing too much of that Cajun flavour in the process.
Expanse Belter (Lang Belta) is a mite trickier to understand, since most of the words have deformed considerably over time.
At first, I thought Lang Belta was based on Tagalog, but it's actually closer to Pidgin English. Interesting.
My Belters usually speak a general mish-mosh of European and Asian languages, held together with a rickety frame of Standard Anglic.
(With an occasional helping hand from Joss Whedon's Firefly Universe)
...I hate to be that guy, as he's made an appearance far too often in this thread, but as a native New Orleanian, I gotta. Po-boys originated in New Orleans, which is not Cajun country! There's a difference between Creole and Cajun. Furthermore, the bread is not technically a baguette; it's like a baguette, but French Bread from NOLA is different, and it doesn't travel well (owing either to the year-round near 100% humidity, depth below sea level, or the combination of the two).
I'm not gonna get into the difference between "dressed" and "Whatevah de hell y'all wants," except to say that one is traditional.
Having said all that: the average reader in an international audience would not know any of this. But having grown up in the city, this jerked me right out of the story.
I apologize for having been that guy because I really am enjoying the story.
@baronvonsatan Fair comment. As an Aussie, I may have made certain assumptions and some concessions to our International readers.
This may require a small suspension of disbelief, since I haven't revealed what parish Mack is originally from. He can still enjoy a Po'Boy, though.
And yes, it will be dressed in the traditional manner.
I have to admit, Mack's passionate description of these sandwiches also gave me a mad case of the hungers. There's nothing particularly fancy about these sandwiches, although Mack assures me that everything depends on a harmonious assembly of specific traditional ingredients. Pure comfort food, by the sound of it. The autogalley pondered long and hard over the selections I'd made, then began constructing its first two prototypes of the legendary New Orleans Po'Boy sandwich.
When the autogalley chimed to announce it had completed its cycle, Mack solemnly removed the platter and cast a critical eye over the towering pair of overstuffed French rolls. One contained beef. The other, a generous serve of lightly breaded fried shrimp. My moment of truth is at hand.
Mack nodded curtly. "Y'all got the bread right. Thin, crispy crust outside, all sof' inside. Dressin's look good too. Got de mayo, sliced tomato, lettuce, pickles and gravy laid in de raht orda, an' ah kin smell un p'tit hot sauce. So far, so good, mon ami. Yo' boeuf debris looks and smells fahn. Ain't some kin' a sloppy, ovah-boilt mess a body wouldn't put in tacos. Trés bon... Now fo' de real test."
I watched with polite interest as Mack skilfully worked his way though this precarious mass of bread, meat and condiments. His serious expression gave nothing away, and I felt it grossly impolite to ask what he thought of the meal so far. I returned to the autogalley and punched up a duplicate serve for myself, adding two tall glasses of iced lantern fruit juice. I returned to the table and placed one of the glasses alongside Mack's plate before sitting down. He nodded gratefully, pausing to take a small sip of the juice. This time, his inscrutable expression slipped, albeit briefly. Clearly, our local jungle-juice was something that his palate hadn't quite expected. Score one to me.
"Mais, that's some damn tasty stuff raht dere... Qu' Est-ce que c'est?"
"It's called lantern fruit, one of this planet's more enjoyable delicacies. Its taste reminds me of kiwifruit, but there's a hint of mango in there as well. Took a gamble, thought you might like it."
As I was about to take my first bite, Héloise sauntered in. Mack goggled in alarm, hurriedly mopping his gravy-smeared lips with a napkin, while attempting to stand up at the same time. Fortunately, he was able to accomplish this feat with a fair degree of panache. Héloise smiled sweetly, obviously flattered by Mack's charming display of gallantry, accepting his compliment with good grace.
"Ah, there you are, my Captain." Héloise said briskly. "Khorosho. After you've introduced me to your bon ami, you can help get this place set up. Our guests will be arriving any minute now."
Upon hearing this, Mack practically braced to attention. "Maxim Philippe Beaudine... À votre service, mam'selle. Since it's mah fault dey's a mess in heah, ah'll lend a hand also."
"I like this one, Chérie. Can we keep him?" Héloise giggled.
Reluctantly, I took a quick bite from each of my Po'Boys and fed them into the galley's recycling chute. Mack appears to be made of sterner material, resolutely hanging onto his shrimp sandwich with one hand and re-arranging furniture with the other. Didn't spill a single crumb of it, either.
Halfway back to Skull Island, Mack finally delivered his verdict. As expected, he was brutally honest.
"Le'mme see... De beef was damn fahn. She an 8 or 8.5, easy. Dose swimps was a tad rubbery, but dey still good an' spicy. Ah gives yo' a straight-up seven." Picking up on my obvious disappointment, he added, "If dat soun's too harsh, y'all 'member mah Carl Sagan salad was a lousy One."
Comments
Looks like the island's lagoon has drawn the short straw. I've calculated that the resort's cluster of hab domes will fit comfortably inside this natural feature, without affecting the fine balance of forces currently keeping this island afloat. Of course, all of these structures are ultimately temporary. Once Borealis has been made habitable, everything we've attached to this island will be deconstructed and the materials reused elsewhere. If nothing else, I intend to make good on my promise to Father of Tides. Only the Aurora monument and The Broch will remain after we're gone.
In the final analysis, every small detail is worth the effort expended upon it. There is a sense of quickening in the air, one so palpable that even the colonists are feeling it. Halvorsen sent down six tankers this morning, and all made the return trip safely. Margaritaville's observation deck has been packed to capacity with colonists watching the tankers come and go since dawn, and the general feeling of anticipation running down here has lifted morale considerably. We still have a fair trot ahead of us before we're ready to launch, but the gears of industry are most definitely in motion.
Regarding small details... That mysterious little Cutefish revealed his greatest secret today. We've finally found out where the rest of his mates are hiding, and no-one was more surprised than I. After constructing a comfortable web-foam harness, I attached a miniature camera and tracking beacon to Minou, then turned him loose for his usual nightly constitutional. He wasn't overly fond of wearing this rig at first, but after taking a couple of bites from a soya-lentil crunch bar, he obligingly forgot all about it. Until now, Minou has been swimming around in a network of specially designed aquaria aboard Kaori-san no-shima, generally delighting folks and coming and going as he pleases. Where he went each night became one of life's minor mysteries for all concerned.
There was a decent crowd in Margaritaville that evening, and I conjured Minou's journey might be worth putting up on the big screen. After all, that wee fellow has made quite an impression on the colonists, and there's a fair number of folk who'd like a Cutefish of their own. Mind you, I'm dead against keeping Minou or any of his pals in a closed aquarium, so I had to get creative with the basic design. Although he spends most of his time with Héloise, Minou has free reign of a network of high-strength glass tubing threading a path through some of the colony's common areas and entertainment zones. This tubing connects to an underwater access lock that allows non-hostile species to enter and leave the network at will. A pair of repulsion cannon turrets ensure that the local nasties maintain a respectful distance from this facility. Beats traditional aquaria, hands down.
There's an archipelago of floating islands roughly northwest of Pyramid Rock, and that's apparently where he's heading. After skilfully avoiding the myriad hazards of Creepvine thickets and the 'safe' shallows, Minou descended into a realm where we've never willingly set foot, or tarried any longer than was absolutely necessary.
For one thing, that area is practically heaving with Bonesharks.
Margaritaville's patrons watched Minou's steady progress in silent fascination. I had to manipulate the video feed in real-time to keep his surroundings visible. He was now close enough to the island to have fallen into its shadow, and I couldn't use the light sources on his harness for fear of giving away his position. A minute or so later, he began swimming normally, his apparent destination one of the larger stalactite-like structures scattered over the pockmarked underside of the island.
Suddenly, Minou darted into a fissure in the stalactite. There was a dizzying flurry of motion as the small creature twisted and turned its way through the convolutions of a pitch-black tunnel, following a path bored through solid rock by the larval stage of Floaters. The planet's floating islands are riddled with these holes. Naturally, IANTO was in full Sir David Attenborough mode at this point, enthusiastically describing the life-cycle of these bizarre growths and their role in Manannán's complex ecology. Admittedly, we haven't studied Floaters quite as thoroughly as we should have, although in our defence, we have been far too busy dealing with Manannán's other life forms.
The tunnel led into a spacious chamber, softly lit by a colourful profusion of bio-luminescent plants and algae. Minou swam over to a nearby patch of veined nettle and browsed on its foliage, obviously ravenous after his epic swim from Kaori-no shima to the Floating Islands. Given his small size, that trip would have involved a considerable expenditure of effort. There were other Cutefish in the chamber, although none of them were paying any particular attention to Minou at the moment. I confess that I had some misgivings about attaching that harness to him, since these contraptions usually disrupt a creature's natural movements and behaviour patterns. Worse still, some species of animals openly ostracize or even attack tagged individuals. Obviously, humans aren't the only pack of absolute bastards Nature has on its payroll. That's not a comforting thought.
Fortunately, Minou's mates turned out to be totally unfazed by his added 'extras'. After feeding, Minou swam over to a small group and began mingling with them. His skin pigmentation began to shift and swirl, so I switched to the reverse camera to give the audience a better look. His tentacles moved gracefully, almost seductively. This display triggered a similar response in some of the other Cutefish, although I'm uncertain whether this is some sort of greeting, a challenge to other males in the area or good old courtship behaviour. Even our life science brainbox IANTO is flying blind here.
Héloise clutched my arm, giggling delightedly. "Maybe Minou is looking for his mam'selle, no?"
"That's my best guess, Dear Heart." I admitted. "Our lad's most likely on the prowl. Lassies beware."
Only IANTO seems to be taking this spectacle seriously.
The number '5' appeared in the lower right corner of the tavern's video screen.
I looked enquiringly over at IANTO. "You're not keeping tally of all that bonking, are you?"
"Yes, Captain. I am. That figure represents the number of successful Cutefish couplings so far."
"All in the name of Science, naturally." I murmured sarcastically. "I count at least ten mated couples, although other Cutefish are entering that chamber. The party's already started, but they're still only fashionably late. Not to worry, though. There's still plenty of tentacles to go around."
IANTO shook his head slowly, entirely without condescension. "Correction, Sir... Cutefish males have a penis, or a physical structure analogous to one. You are mistaken in your assumption that specifically modified tentacles called spermatophores are involved in their mating process."
I nodded, casually acknowledging my error. "Fair dos. I stand corrected, then... Hmm. Wonder how our lad Minou is faring in this love-fest?"
IANTO grinned broadly. "Do you see that number on the screen, Sir? - I am exclusively tracking Minou's progress during this event. Five successful copulations within twelve minutes, forty-five seconds. A most impressive performance by terrestrial standards, wouldn't you say?"
"Bloody hell." I laughed. "He's a randy wee devil, that's for sure. Look, he's reached seven now!"
"As have the others, Sir. On average, their totals are strikingly similar, plus or minus 1.25 couplings."
There were now more than two hundred Cutefish churning around inside the chamber, with even more eager participants entering by the minute. No human eye could follow what was happening in there, and it became increasingly difficult to track the motion of any particular subject, let alone figuring out what Minou was doing by visual cues alone. Fortunately, his harness is still sending a steady stream of sensor data, and that should provide us with more coherent information on Cutefish mating behaviour.
As a consequence of this unexpected breeding swarm, the event lost most of its visual appeal for the colonists in fairly short order. The images transmitted from Minou's harness-cam now showed little more than a disorientating blur of grey and white flesh, interspersed with wildly flailing tentacles. When I cut the video feed to the tavern's main monitor, nary a soul uttered a word of complaint.
Even so, IANTO and I remained tapped into the video feed, mainly to keep a close eye on Minou's well-being. With his current tally sitting on nine, I was starting to feel the first twinges of concern. Even rabbits need to take a breather, but our lad was still hard at work, along with everyone else.
This can't be good for one's constitution.
Hang on. There's something screwy happening here. According to our observations so far, all of the participants should have mated successfully by now. Even taking late arrivals into account and assuming an approximate 1:1 male to female ratio, this should indeed be the case. However, the Cutefish breeding swarm is still going strong. Proximity readings from Minou's harness sensors indicate that he is currently working his way to the outer edges of the mass, apparently retiring from the game, it seems. With twelve notches on his pistol tonight, he has acquitted himself admirably.
Sure enough, Minou emerged from the churning mass of Cutefish. He swam over to the far side of the chamber and began nibbling on a large patch of veined nettle. Five minutes later, he plunged back into the fray, apparently re-energised, obviously revved-up and raring to go. IANTO and I exchanged a look of stunned surprise.
"Well, this probably explains why Cutefish are always smiling." IANTO observed drily.
I still don't like the cutefish though, conceptually or in terms of it's model.
Alright, that's all. Carry on, Bugzapper!
How was that a critique? It was an analysis.
As for earlier, it just sounded a bit judgy (Yes I am using improper grammer here.) in my opinion, and I would like to not see that on a story someone is working very hard on. Plus, I just don't like conflict.
(Ps: Bug, there's a small spelling error in the last sentence of your latest post. You spelled dryly with an i as the first y.)
Well, I've liked some parts. Others less so. I think that Auror Falls was better. I continue reading in hopes that it will improve. Obviously me trying to give advice, constructive criticizim, or even just commenting my analysis of what something in the story might mean is not appreciated, but I don't feel it's fair to ostracize me or treat everything I say as a personal insult to the author.
I didn't read any negativity in that comment at all. And I was even looking for it, so... relax. This could have been an opportunity for Bugzapper and sayerulz to actually have a decent non-confrontational discussion, but it's got a cloud over it now, please don't attach weights to lines thrown in troubled waters. Obviously Bugs and sayerulz have a hard enough time getting along without any additional testiness added.
The only thing he said he didn't like was the cutefish's concept and model, which is a criticism at Subnautica and not Bugzapper.
Not even, it's only criticism of a specific, non-central part of Subnautica.
Take this example. We don't have a deep physiological analysis of the cutefish, so to explain away the copulation, one could always be provided (though this would only be necessary if critique on this minor detail was overwhelming). This could easily be brushed away by saying that females kept separate pouches of seed from each copulation, and using an internal process only the strongest results of each orgy would be selected from the various pouches.
Another example could be that this orgy is a once-a-year occurrence, and the results were saved by the females and ALL of the specimens would be used eventually as the females laid eggs in batches over several months.
It could also be a selection process, not all males NEED to spread their traits, only the strongest, weeding out weaker males. It could even be far crazier, where only a SINGLE sperm is selected by the female, then by some far-out biological process is internally cloned by stem-cells and utilized to fertilize ALL eggs for the rest of her life.
There's a near infinite amount of biological hand-waving that could be accomplished to explain away a relatively simple page in the story. The result is that, @sayerulz , you've once again broken the chain of uninterrupted narrative to have your say in the story. And when it comes to the biology of sci-fi aliens on a different planet, you have very little experience to say what is or isn't a negative behavior for a species that you have no information on. Not to mention that in all reality, this is such a minor creative detail that derailing the thread to bark at it only disrupts the continuity and serves to likely cause @Bugzapper to at the very least sigh heavily, if not have a worse internalized response, toward your comments.
Seriously, it's a work of fiction. Let the man have some creative freedom. Critique is best served for grammar, continuity, or overall ideological issues (like if suddenly Selkirk was hyper-religious without explanation). As for the artistic underpinnings of the biological aspects of a creature, the only people I would accept critique from in this particular instance would be the devs, and even THEN since this is a work of fan-fiction, they aren't the gods of this story, only @Bugzapper is. If you want to critique, keep it useful. If you want to argue the fictional aspects of a fictional work that itself is based off of another fictional work, take it to a separate thread where you can fire away, and please stop interrupting the flow here.
Thanks,
Someone who's been watching this happen far too many times to sit silently any more.
(PS. I will not comment further on this subject. @Bugzapper , I love your work. Keep it up and dont let any of this get to you).
As a possible consequence, physically weaker Cutefish may have significantly increased chances of contributing genetic material to the community, a situation contrary to the usual order of things. Cutefish seem to be one of the more notable exceptions to this rule.
Teeth, spines and claws are Nature's weapons of choice. Unfortunately, Cutefish appear to have drawn an extremely short straw, survival-wise. As they are neither aggressive or even particularly well equipped for survival, Cutefish rely heavily on clever behaviour to overcome obstacles and avoid danger. According to IANTO, this innate cleverness extends to such things as their choice of habitat, some finer details of their social structure and an ability to form alliances with larger, non-hostile life forms. IANTO is convinced that their choice of the floating islands may have been a conscious decision on their part, as the safe shallows would be an extremely hazardous biome for Cutefish to colonise.
For one thing, Bonesharks are practically sluggish when compared to Stalkers. There are obvious benefits to sharing a biome with a highly territorial predatory species, particularly when your species has worked out how to safely avoid them. Bonesharks also provide effective population control. Any Cutefish venturing outside the safety of a floating island would be entirely at their mercy. As last night's mating frenzy reached its peak, I inevitably found myself imagining their true nature revealed as tentacled Tribbles, giving rise to a nightmare of grinning, giggling Cutefish swarming into our bases. Not an entirely implausible conclusion, given the evidence presented so far.
However, IANTO and I are more inclined to believe that we may have only witnessed an unusually intense social bonding ritual. There are definitely aspects of this event that require a more detailed investigation. If my hunch is correct, the chemical properties of veined nettles might be the key to this mystery.
To be absolutely certain, every aspect of their biome will be going under the microscope. Until we can pin down precisely what makes Cutefish tick, relocating any significant numbers of these creatures to Kaori-san no-shima or anywhere else could be a very, very bad idea.
Let's get their natural checks and balances identified, before we start messing with the natural order of things.
I thought I had waited long enough before starting to read this thread, assuming it was finished lol. I am one of those people that has to wait for a TV series to finish so I can watch it all at once, waiting a week for an episode is my hell.
Bug you remind me a lot of a writer named Morgan Rice. I never read a book in my life until google play had a free day, got one of her books because it was free and ended up reading like 12 of them in the series after getting hooked. At about book 9 I had caught up to the releases and had to wait months at a time, torture.
In fact, The Last Resort should be a pleasant surprise for all but the most finicky of Sagan's jolly Jack-tars. Class-B berthing, single occupancy. A communal dining room and rec lounge with two autogalleys, unrestricted access to underwater recreation equipment, including AI-equipped Gen III dive suits and SeaGlide DPVs to keep our guests well out of harm's way.
Overall, we've aimed to capture the essence of a typical Club Med holiday, minus the cheesy seashell necklaces, luaus and other faux-Polynesian frippery, and added a distinct possibility of a close encounter with a Reaper Leviathan, among other equally memorable experiences. Incidentally, your jovial maître d'hôtel is a dead Martian cybernaut, and the resort's key staff are self-aware androids.
Enjoy your stay.
Manannán is an extremely dangerous place for the unwary. We've put together a comprehensive in-flight briefing package for our guests, complete with (frankly unsettling) depictions of what to expect if anyone decides to stray off the beaten track. Captain Halvorsen particularly enjoyed JUNO's catchy version of 'Dumb Ways To Die', a morbidly cheerful sign-off message to any rugged individuals who failed to pay attention during our modest safety briefing.
You might be wondering why we're expending so much effort on Carl Sagan's behalf. First off, there's not much effort involved in assembling and equipping the few temporary buildings required to house our guests. One day's work, in fact. This project has been completed without causing any significant disruptions to our work on the Borealis, and it's ultimately beneficial for both parties involved. Carl Sagan's crew get all the shore leave they could possibly need, and we eventually get to reap the benefit of having a happy and completely focused team working on our free ticket out of this system. Captain Halvorsen certainly appreciates our active participation in this venture, as it frees up a great deal of material and administrative resources at his end. Undoubtedly, Carl Sagan's shore parties would soon be taking casualties if left to their own devices. Our assistance planet-side has already advanced construction of the phase-gate by a whole week. Current projections indicate that we should be ready to jump at least six weeks ahead of the original completion date.
Not bad.
"Skull Island ATC, this is Phantom Three-Zero-Niner turning on final approach."
"Roger that, Three-Zero-Niner. We have you on visual. Your approach vector is confirmed clear of all traffic, landing pad is clear. You may commence landing. Welcome to Skull Island." I replied.
"Copy that, Skull Island. See y'all in five. Three-Zero-Niner, out."
The massive Percheron freighter came in slowly at one hundred metres, the muted thunder of its turbines rising to a shriek as VTOL exhausts swivelled into their landing configuration.
Touchdown.
This would be epic to see lol.
Presented with profuse and abject apologies to John Mescall (lyricist) and Emily Lubitz (vocalist)
Steal a Stalker's favourite tooth
Add a hatch to your hab dome's roof
Dive into a wreck with a lightweight tank
Grab a Boneshark by his crank
[Refrain:]
Dumb ways to die
So many dumb ways to die
Dumb ways to di-ie-ie
So many dumb ways to die
Poke your head inside a small cave
Swim at night if you're feeling brave
Wear Peepers like they're costume jewellery
Play tag with Crashfish if you're into foolery
[Refrain:]
Play hopscotch across a roaring river of lava
Wear a Floater just like a cute balaclava
Enjoy a bowl of acid mushroom stew
I wonder what that Warper will do?
[Refrain:]
Charge your batteries with an Ampeel
Use Biters to get a cosmetic face-peel
Climb the cannon to check out the view
Ride a Reaper because you really want to
[Refrain:]
Moon a cranky Dragon from an unmodified Seamoth
Dock a PRAWN inside a Cyclops with its parking brakes off
Swim through Aurora wearing strips of bacon
Goose a Gasopod to see what might possibly happen
Tickle a Sandshark where it shouldn't be tickled
They may not rhyme but they're quite possibly
The dumbest ways to die
The dumbest ways to die
The dumbest ways to di-ie-ie-ie
So many dumb
So many dumb ways to die
Challenge accepted.
because you really want to
Check.
When spacers meet and one asks the other how things are back on Terra, the traditional reply is "Still there. Still spinning."
As Carl Sagan's tourists disembarked, I noted with amusement that some of them practically bounced down the ramp with undisguised enthusiasm, while others took a considerably more cautious approach to their new surroundings. I'll bet some of them have taken our safety briefing entirely at its word, carrying on as if every life form on the planet was about to leap out of the water and latch onto some sweet Terran flesh. Rather than publicly ridicule these folks and dispel all sense of self-preservation, I silently applauded their common sense. Manannán's not exactly a Hell World, although you do have to keep your wits about you.
While JUNO, IANTO and DIGBY processed our tourists through the Valkyrie field, I spent some quality time examining the Percheron freighter. A few minutes into my inspection, I became aware of someone walking up behind me. I turned around slowly, since I'm probably in the wrong here. Best not to make any sudden movements at this point.
"How do, mate. I'm Al Selkirk." I said amiably, offering my hand to the solidly-built fellow standing before me. He wore blue Alterra orbital fatigues with flight ops shoulder insignia and a non-regulation black trucker's cap, so it's a fair bet that the Phantom 309 is his baby. As we shook hands, his suspicious expression mellowed almost immediately.
"A'hm Mack Beaudine. Saw y'all giving 309 a real deep eye there. Held mah tongue 'til I figured out what y'all was playin' at, but ya didn't seem to be doin' 'er any harm. Conjured ya as a flyer or a fixer... So, what's ya basic story, Cher?"
Judging by his lingo, I'd guess Mack's a genuine Cajun. Born and raised in Louisiana, back on Terra.
"It's a long one, Mack." I admitted. "Don't know what your Captain's told you about Aurora, but I'm the only survivor. Used to be Third Engineer aboard the Aurora. Been marooned here since 2171. Died three times since, but that was more than enough for the lesson to sink in. Made myself some new friends." I nodded in the crew's direction. "Found a few more under a rock, literally speaking. Belter colonists, originally brought here by Torgaljin Corp. There's about 75 of them at present, although that number's steadily on the rise. And there's our latest project over yonder... Borealis."
Mack whistled appreciatively. "Coo! Y'all bin beaucoup busy heah, m'sieur. Ain't seen a pee-stop dis fahn since Tannhäuser Gate." Suddenly, Mack's stomach gurgled loudly. He chuckled at his intestinal indiscretion, swatting his tattle-tale belly with the cap. "Hush yo' mouth in dere!" After a few seconds of awkward silence, Mack spoke his mind.
"Don't s'pose y'all kin spare a bro p'tit cafe?"
I grinned. "Sure can. Reckon you could use a bite tae eat too, by the sound of it. Turnaround on the 309 will take at least a couple of hours, so you might as well take a gander at our facilities. The ferry to Kaori-san no-shima should be leaving soon. We can hitch a ride over with your mates."
Nothing says 'Smörgåsbord' quite like giving a Reaper a clear view of what's on the menu.
Fortunately, our local weather forecast looks fairly pleasant for the next couple of days. There's some nasty weather brewing about 600 klicks to the west, although our Argus satellite cluster is keeping a close watch on its progress. In a month or so from now, the weather will take a definite turn for the worse. After that, the best that we can hope for is a few clear days between each major blow. It's going to play hell with Borealis' construction schedule, not to mention making these visitor transfers a somewhat hairy business, at least until The Last Resort is equipped with its own submarine docking collar. That was a deliberate omission on my part, since I thought we could transfer our visitors on the surface and do away with the usual hoo-ha associated with travelling submerged in potentially hostile waters. Looks like I might have to rethink this procedure after all.
Borealis has reached a particularly awkward stage in its construction. I could make the outer hull absolutely watertight right now if I wanted to, but with perihelion just around the corner, this might prevent the submersion of its construction platform. Borealis should be okay, although the construction dock wouldn't even survive a Category II cyclone if it remains in its current location. This means that the whole shebang will have to be moved into deeper water and the sealed ship's hull heavily ballasted to counteract most of its buoyancy. Rather than pump aboard a couple of hundred thousand tonnes of seawater to submerge Borealis, it might be a more practical idea to store all construction materials aboard her and install a gravity compensation system to keep the dock and hull firmly anchored to the seafloor. A foul-weather anchorage has already been prepared in 200 metres of water, so it's just a matter of relocating our wee Meccano set 1.5 kilometres northwest of its current position. Best to get this one done while we still have semi-reasonable weather. At least it will give our guests something vaguely interesting to watch while they're here.
We disembarked at The Last Resort's docking platform, then proceeded along the glass corridor connecting the port facility with the hotel's main foyer. Cave crawlers remain a constant nuisance on this island, although we've managed to secure a number of decently-sized open spaces against their incursions. Anyone wishing to explore other locations on the island are welcome to do so, provided that all guests travel in groups of four or more persons, and carry at least one propulsion cannon and/or stasis rifle, plus sufficient food, water and first-aid kits. Any intrepid individuals will have to swallow their pride for the duration of their stay. Solo adventures are expressly forbidden.
I offered a few words of welcome to our guests, then headed over to Café Krakatoa with Mack in tow. He confided that he wasn't officially scheduled for R&R for at least another two weeks, so I felt particularly sorry for this chap. Might as well make it worth his while in the meantime, although I'll have to install some decent amenities at Skull Island for the convenience of Carl Sagan's other pilots. It's not much fun kicking around out there, particularly when everyone else is whooping it up.
Café Krakatoa has scrubbed up quite nicely after all, a far cry from the traditional company-issue break rooms found aboard most Alterra vessels. We want Carl Sagan's crew to feel like they can unwind properly while they're staying on Manannán, minus all those incessant reminders that they're still technically on The Company's clock. Nothing kills a good time faster than being reminded that Monday is always lurking around the corner.
'Monday' doesn't exist here.
Never will.
The café's decor borrows heavily from every islander cliché in the book, I'm pleased to say. The main entrance is flanked by an imposing pair of Easter Island moai, laser-cut from three-metre high blocks of nanocrete. Entirely out of place, of course. Inside, there's enough woven thatch, flickering holographic torches, grimacing He-Tiki and fake bamboo furniture to provide Café Krakatoa with an unashamedly cheesy ambience, although there are also some subtle reminders that Manannán itself should be taken somewhat more seriously. Necklaces of Stalker teeth, several potted Tiger Plants (holograms, of course) and the occasional set of gaping predator jaws have been scattered about as decorative notes, an effective counterpoint to the surrealism of the underlying metaphor.
Apparently, this 3D joke was not lost on Mack. He immediately burst into a fit of delighted laughter.
"Gilligan's Island! Incroyable! Ah loves dis place already!"
At a conscious level, Café Krakatoa has been played strictly for laughs, a good-natured parody of a lone castaway's attempts at makeshift hospitality. Naturally, as I had access to immensely superior technology the entire time I've been marooned, the reality of my survival situation is vastly different to what has been presented here. Still, it wouldn't hurt to germinate a few wildly inaccurate stories about my first few months on this planet, would it?
"So, Mack... What can I get for you today?" I said, activating the autogalley.
Mack leaned on the galley's counter and examined the menu, stroking his stubbled chin pensively. "Mais, got me a gros envie for a Po'Boy sammich, any kin' will do. But y'all don't seem to have one heah." He murmured sadly. "S'pose ah kin come at a burger an' chips, tho' it won't be the same."
That sounds like a heartfelt cry for help. Only too happy to oblige.
I grinned, cracking my knuckles purposefully. "Not a problem, mon ami. Just give me the basic specs of your favourite Po'Boy, and I'll whip one up for you, toute de suite."
The beatific expression that dawned on Mack's face was priceless. I can tell that this fellow enjoys proper food with an honest gusto, one that transcends the base act of shovelling generic fuel into a body that has long ceased to care. Not a gourmand by any stretch of the imagination, but one of those rare folk who still derive genuine pleasure from eating. These days, an actual Chef is rarer still.
Mack leaned forward urgently, almost conspiratorially.
"First off, there's yo' basic Po'Boy. Fill 'em wit' de fried swimps, fish, poulet, porc, boeuf, whatevah. It's de bread that matters. Un baguette. Crusty on de outsides, but she sof' inside. Got that, Cher?"
"Sure have." I chuckled, entering Mack's description into the terminal. "Sounds pretty damn good."
"Oui. Better dan de awful bag-nasty ah ate afore leavin' Carl Sagan, near six hour ago. Some kin' a salad. No gorram body to it, and def'nitely no ackshul meat ah recognized. Honteux, dat's fo' sure."
"Shameful indeed." I commiserated. "So, what else is involved? What sort of fixings are included?"
Mack grinned wolfishly. "Ah, dat's where she gets très intéressant... Whatevah de hell y'all wants. A nice hot boudin, remoulade, sauce piquante, chargrilled bell peppers or jes' plain ol' gravy. Go nuts."
"I can work with that." I said, compiling the recipe. "Okay, let's see what happens. Stand back."
(i am so sorry i have been reading too much expanse lately forgive my shitty attempt at belter)
"To ta ge im! Detim imim finyish du wa ting, im ye fo sémpere."
("You got it! Once a thing is made, it is forever.")
Mack is speaking in a variant of Louisiana Cajun patois.
Liberally sprinkled with French words, although I'm trying to keep his dialogue intelligible without losing too much of that Cajun flavour in the process.
Expanse Belter (Lang Belta) is a mite trickier to understand, since most of the words have deformed considerably over time.
At first, I thought Lang Belta was based on Tagalog, but it's actually closer to Pidgin English. Interesting.
My Belters usually speak a general mish-mosh of European and Asian languages, held together with a rickety frame of Standard Anglic.
(With an occasional helping hand from Joss Whedon's Firefly Universe)
I'm not gonna get into the difference between "dressed" and "Whatevah de hell y'all wants," except to say that one is traditional.
Having said all that: the average reader in an international audience would not know any of this. But having grown up in the city, this jerked me right out of the story.
I apologize for having been that guy because I really am enjoying the story.
This may require a small suspension of disbelief, since I haven't revealed what parish Mack is originally from. He can still enjoy a Po'Boy, though.
And yes, it will be dressed in the traditional manner.
When the autogalley chimed to announce it had completed its cycle, Mack solemnly removed the platter and cast a critical eye over the towering pair of overstuffed French rolls. One contained beef. The other, a generous serve of lightly breaded fried shrimp. My moment of truth is at hand.
Mack nodded curtly. "Y'all got the bread right. Thin, crispy crust outside, all sof' inside. Dressin's look good too. Got de mayo, sliced tomato, lettuce, pickles and gravy laid in de raht orda, an' ah kin smell un p'tit hot sauce. So far, so good, mon ami. Yo' boeuf debris looks and smells fahn. Ain't some kin' a sloppy, ovah-boilt mess a body wouldn't put in tacos. Trés bon... Now fo' de real test."
I watched with polite interest as Mack skilfully worked his way though this precarious mass of bread, meat and condiments. His serious expression gave nothing away, and I felt it grossly impolite to ask what he thought of the meal so far. I returned to the autogalley and punched up a duplicate serve for myself, adding two tall glasses of iced lantern fruit juice. I returned to the table and placed one of the glasses alongside Mack's plate before sitting down. He nodded gratefully, pausing to take a small sip of the juice. This time, his inscrutable expression slipped, albeit briefly. Clearly, our local jungle-juice was something that his palate hadn't quite expected.
Score one to me.
"Mais, that's some damn tasty stuff raht dere... Qu' Est-ce que c'est?"
"It's called lantern fruit, one of this planet's more enjoyable delicacies. Its taste reminds me of kiwifruit, but there's a hint of mango in there as well. Took a gamble, thought you might like it."
As I was about to take my first bite, Héloise sauntered in. Mack goggled in alarm, hurriedly mopping his gravy-smeared lips with a napkin, while attempting to stand up at the same time. Fortunately, he was able to accomplish this feat with a fair degree of panache. Héloise smiled sweetly, obviously flattered by Mack's charming display of gallantry, accepting his compliment with good grace.
"Ah, there you are, my Captain." Héloise said briskly. "Khorosho. After you've introduced me to your bon ami, you can help get this place set up. Our guests will be arriving any minute now."
Upon hearing this, Mack practically braced to attention. "Maxim Philippe Beaudine... À votre service, mam'selle. Since it's mah fault dey's a mess in heah, ah'll lend a hand also."
"I like this one, Chérie. Can we keep him?" Héloise giggled.
Reluctantly, I took a quick bite from each of my Po'Boys and fed them into the galley's recycling chute. Mack appears to be made of sterner material, resolutely hanging onto his shrimp sandwich with one hand and re-arranging furniture with the other. Didn't spill a single crumb of it, either.
Halfway back to Skull Island, Mack finally delivered his verdict. As expected, he was brutally honest.
"Le'mme see... De beef was damn fahn. She an 8 or 8.5, easy. Dose swimps was a tad rubbery, but dey still good an' spicy. Ah gives yo' a straight-up seven." Picking up on my obvious disappointment, he added, "If dat soun's too harsh, y'all 'member mah Carl Sagan salad was a lousy One."