Radiosaurs in the Wastes

The Lottery

On September 15, 2016

How can I relate the wretched, macabre, and tragic scene I stumbled upon in San Antonio? How to describe the monstrous images burned into my memory? I suppose the best place to start is the notice ubiquitously plastered throughout the town… the Decree:

“We, the duly-elected Board of Council, recognizing that our town has depleted all possible sources of beast and radiosaur, on this day, March 23, 2075, decree that all men and women residents, and visitors of more than one week, above the age of sixteen will be entered into a lottery.

“The lottery will be held on the Friday of every week, at 8:00 in the evening.

“Everyone must be present for the lottery. Those not in attendance at roll-call will be stricken from the lottery, and their lives will be immediately forfeit, property of the Board of Council.

“During the lottery, a name will be chosen. The individual whose name is chosen will furnish a limb of their choice to the Board of Council. If the individual does not provide a choice, the Board of Council will decide on a limb.

“The individual has the choice of preparing the limb themselves, or request the assistance of the Board of Council.

“The individual’s name will be removed from the lottery until the depletion of all names in the lottery.

“Pregnancy does not preclude the inclusion of an individual’s name in the lottery. Upon birth, the product becomes the property of the Board of Council, and a lottery will not be held that week.

“Death does preclude the inclusion of an individual’s name in the lottery. Upon death, the individual becomes the property of the Board of Council, and a lottery will not be held that week.

“The distribution of all lottery proceeds equitably and in a timely manner will be the sole responsibility and prerogative of the Board of Council.”

Shocktroopers

By Archivist Umber

On September 12, 2016

In Great Pacification

Wielding a krakk staff retrofitted with a kinestatic electricity collector on the blade end, the original Shocktroopers were a hastily-formed skirmishing unit organized in response to the electromage mutation. The shocktrooper’s krakk staff discharges a single lethal blast of energy on contact, after which it is still useful as a bladed weapon until the next charge cycle is complete, and perhaps most importantly is capable of absorbing the large amounts of electricity produced by most electromages. Shocktroopers proved especially useful during the Great Pacification of NorthEq and were deployed with stunning effectiveness in Montana District against the bandit kingdom that called itself the Gauss Gang. To this day, each District maintains its own quick response Shocktrooper unit to deal with electromage marauders.

Electromages

By Archivist Umber

On September 12, 2016

In Wastelander

Electromages collect static electricity from the arid, charged landscape of the Wasteland and store it in their body. By combining this natural ability with protective, grounded clothing they are able to store up an amount of electric charge that would prove fatal to other humans. They are able to discharge this electromagnetic energy in various ways, commonly as a short range EMP burst or in rapid arcs of bolt lightning. The most powerful electromages are able to essentially turn themselves into powerful electromagnets, capable of attracting and repelling metal at will. What makes them such desirable peace officers, and such feared criminals, is their ability to both repel deadly projectiles fired at them and then immediately return them at lethal speed to their assailants – earning them the nickname “Railgunners”.

The Dervish of the Wastes

By Archivist Umber

On September 12, 2016

In Around the Radlamp

“The chiming of water… resolved itself into a Dervish of the Wastes”

The Dervish of NorthEq are nomads who wander the Wastes collecting water through giant metals staffs. These poles, which they refer to as Diving Rods, use antenna-like devices to harvest tiny particles out of the air, which are condensed and distilled in the central shaft, then fed out in drops through the branches of the rod to a collection of bottles. The exact nature of this process is unknown as no Dervish has ever been able to be induced or compelled to part with their Diving Rod.

No one outside of this insular community understands the true motivation of the Dervish but they have been mythologized by many as agents of mercy coming to the rescue of creatures stranded in the Wastes- appearing over the horizon in many stories, heralded by the tinkling and clinking of their many bottles, a vision of salvation, bringing water and salvation to those on the brink of death.

To outsiders the Dervish seem to serve those who traverse the Wastes – but what is their ultimate agenda? Where do they come from? Why do they risk their lives in this way?

Mister Red

By The Kid

On September 12, 2016

In Around the Radlamp

Mister Red, Mister Red

Half alive, he’s half dead

Some say he glows in the dark

Some say he gives off a spark

Some say he walks on all four

Some say he’s covered in gore

But no matter what you hear

Mister Red’s the man to fear

Mister Red, oh Mister Red

Hunts naughty kids till they’re dead

What kids did he kill today?

The rest of us can go play.

One…

Two…

Three…

Four…

Lunar Marines

By Archivist Umber

On September 9, 2016

In Great Pacification

As radiosaurs were not initially prepared to fight in the vacuum of space, the Lunar Marines managed to hold out against their opponents far longer than another other federated human force. Their ability to conduct unmolested ICBM strikes against radiosaur military assets and positions was a valuable asset to the human resistance efforts, notably during the Battle of Butte, but as soon as the Lunar Expeditionary Force was able to push portals up to the moon’s surface they were quickly overwhelmed.

Human folklore maintains that the Lunar Marines were not destroyed as the government would have them believe, but instead they retreated into bases carved deep within the moon, supporting a government in exile, gathering their strength, and waiting for the right moment to strike back.

The Portals of Barstow

By Archivist Umber

On September 9, 2016

In Great Pacification

This painting depicts what is largely seen as the turning point of the Great Pacification: the moment the Vanguard ripped through the sky and tore into the flank of the Eleventh UN Marine Division at the Battle of Barstow. Unaware up to that point of the Vanguard’s portal technology, the Marines were totally unprepared for the assault and they were decimated by the jaws and bullets of the radiosaurs within minutes. While the conflict would officially continue for another year, many see this as the defeat that broke the UN’s military coalition and with that any hope of a bilateral peace agreement between humans and radiosaurs.

Lewis & Johnny Across the Wastelands

By Brandon Vernon

On September 7, 2016

In Wastelander

“Was that you?”

Lewis scrunched his face and spat a brown spray of chew spit. “Naw.”

“Get off me.”

It came again: a rumble, a vibration, tickling the saddle. And then the stench.

Jonathan shook and took off in a gallop, to the extent he could sprint his hefty triceratops frame, snorting and heaving to expel the scent.

“Whoa, Johnny!” Lewis was perturbed. “It’s just a bit a beans is all!”

“You’re walking.” Jonathan’s voice was a deep rumble, unhurried, patient. He stopped.

“Now listen here,” Lewis’ thin, small voice whined, “it’s ninety miles still across this wasteland and I ain’t walkin’ it. Hey. Hey. You want them Ketz-al-coat riches as much as I do, an’ I’m the only one EQUIPPED”–that said like a trial lawyer–“to pull the trigger.” He cupped his hands like hooves around his pistol and feigned like Jonathan wrestling to handle it, deepening his voice and making pathetic “maw maw maw” sounds.

Brandon Vernon
Excerpt from The Treasure of Ketzalkotal

Farraday Bag

By Archivist Umber

On September 6, 2016

In Sutlery

A farraday bag is one of the quintessential bits of Wastelander kit; a blanket term for one of many different kinds of bags and soft-sided containers used to shield food and electronics from both the effects of external radiation and hopefully to obscure personal electronics from circuit-sensitive creatures – notably The Swarm. It’s typically made of a nanocrystalline ferromagnetic fabric on the outside with a thick lead shield on the inside.

Harold Rex

By Archivist Umber

On September 5, 2016

In Around the Radlamp

“Frances leaned in close as the Troodons scurried around Harold, clamping the exoskeleton onto his hulking frame.

“Don’t let them win,” she said, her black slits of pupils narrowing. “You are more powerful than any of them.” She stood back.

Two Troodons guided 15-foot mechanical arms toward Harold’s dwarfed appendages, and when the clamps bit down on the frame the controls were now within reach. Harold grabbed the one-button handlebars with each of his small arms, close to his tremendous green-and-brown chest, and gave a starter tug. The system gasped and shot steam across the hangar, and the Troodons — a quarter of Harold’s size, nimble, brilliant — sped off to control stations and to outfit the next warrior.

Harold clenched the controls and watched as his mechanical arms responded in kind, reaching, twisting, grabbing, swinging. To counterbalance the weight and the motion, he planted his enormous, muscular legs onto the hangar floor and stretched his tail — itself the length of the mech — far behind him. It swept a gale of dry earth in its wake as he turned, and nearby scientists and warriors, so busy preparing for battle, had to flit their lower eyelids to protect themselves from the debris.

As the dust settled, he slowed himself gracefully, took stock of his new mech, and let out a powerful sigh. Frances stepped close again. She was larger than him, and a deep purple hue darkened her crust of flesh. Harold had long avoided making eye contact with anyone, and especially her. But now his neck craned up and he nudged her long neck with his broken snout. He raised his head up to her level, his left eye connecting with her right. She pulled back, surprised by the gesture, and the flesh around his jaw became a cracked and scarred snarl. His nostrils sucked the oxygen from the air as he raised his head high and let out a roar that shook the stones and dust from the hangar walls and brought the legion to a standstill. The roar continued, and onlookers — those brave enough to do so — could see his mangled, toothless mouth; gums raw from years of gnawing without blades to tear.

Two fellow Rexes, smaller than Harold but with all their teeth, fell in behind him. A forward guard of thirty raptors marched ahead and 12 dactyls spread their wings from their perch, all screaming for the battle ahead. As Harold’s roar died down, so did the rest. His maw closed as he looked at Frances one last time. For the first time in as long as he could remember, she looked afraid. Good, he thought, and he raised his mech arms, lifted his tail, and charged.”

Brandon Vernon
Excerpt from The Thunder of Battle, Vol. 3