Mothership: Two Classes, One Creature, And An Adventure Hook

Mothership is a really good game. And the excellent Throne of Salt blog has been putting out some equally excellent ideas for a Mothership setting.

I've always been a big fan of science fiction, and very interested in how it seems to change completely nearly every other decade. Contrast Asimov's robots to the Alien's androids to Eclipse Phase's TITANs. Mothership, and in particular Throne of Salt's setting, seems to be able to do this all at once. Computers are big and blocky but PC androids are completely normal. There are lasers and fusion engines, but people still use firearms and quickly draining batteries. There are cybernetics, but no downloading yourself into a new body. Alien life is as common as dirt, but to steal a line from one of my favourite videogames, intelligent life taunts with pointed absence.

Anyway, I love the game and setting so much it got me to actually write something for once, so I figured I'd put it up here. More specifically, it got me to write four things. Enjoy!

The Vatborn

The Vatborn are genetically engineered to fill the roles that are too dangerous or degrading for a human, but too open-ended or creative for an android. They're the deathworld labourers and disposable shock troopers of the future. Each and every one is grown in an exowomb, and kept in gestation until late adolescence (about three years in total). Once birthed, Vatborn are given carefully curated education and conditioning to mold them into pliable, obedient servants with little concern for their own conditions.

Physically, they are no stronger than a strong baseline human, but are all that strong or stronger. As personal freedom is suppressed wherever possible and appearances are far from important, Vatborn are grown with inhumanly pale skin, hairless bodies, and no sex – they are not even treated as gendered creatures, in order to eliminate individuality.

From Alien: Covenant

Every Vatborn is given the same creche-based childhood, one which constantly espouses loyalty, obedience, industriousness, and efficiency. They are taught they were made to serve, which is true, but also that this is good and right and something they should be proud of. Vatborn are taught only the bare minimum needed to survive before moving on to learning everything they need to know about the job they have been grown for.

The only true psychological difference that isn't just a result of their youth has to do with self-preservation. To keep them from committing suicide or taking too many risks they have the same fear of death and destitution that baseline humans have, but they have no fear or discomfort regarding bodily harm. A Vatborn can have their hand cut off without flinching – the pain is still there, they just can't force themselves to care about it. Their sense of fear is dulled as well, but far from absent.

Vatborn are commonly found on isolated planets with dangerous environments, or in military divisions that require soldiers that are extremely difficult to break. It is not uncommon for wealthy worlds with serious population shortfalls to purchase large "harvests" of Vatborn to supplement their existing population. They're good for when you need loyal, able bodies now, and not twenty years later or for a much higher price.

There are rumours of a civilization composed entirely out of Vatborn out there in the deepest reaches of the human sphere, an experimental society gone wrong when the subjects overthrew the researchers. The Hive, it is called, and it is very real and very frightening, for its cruel efficiency cares only about expanding. It grows stronger and stronger every year, and as its leader caste learns more and more about leadership (being untrained Vatborn themselves), they start to realize it's a lot easier to take what exists than to make something new. Entire colonies have disappeared in their first tentative raids, but so far, no one's put the pieces together.

The Hive by Paul Kirchner - Very good comic. I learned about it from the PorPor Books blog. Go and read it.

Stats: +10 Strength

Saves: Sanity 20 / Fear 40 / Body 50 / Armour 30

Stress: Vatborn suffer no Stress gain from suffering injuries or failing Body saves.

Skills: Athletics, +2 Points

Hellhounds

In a better age they'd be a gross violation of every right we give to animals, but in the dark future, even humans are only somewhat protected by international law. Each is an augmented dog of a breed descended from the stock of bloodhounds and mastiffs, filled to the brim with cheaply made cybernetics.

Deus Ex Concept Art

Most of the augments are just there to make them tougher and faster, and even then are mostly just stimulant injectors set to trigger when the hound enters a fight. Every sense is heightened, to make them better trackers, and the moment the augments sense fear they pump them full of anxiolytics. They're bred to be ugly, frightening figures of muscle, patchy fur, and bared teeth, with customizable colours to match any corporate aesthetic. Their effectiveness in combat is dubious, but they make good trackers and work wonders in terms of degrading enemy morale.

Higher-end models have a row of small subdermal bombs set to trigger when the Hellhound dies. After anarchist social networks made "shoot the dog first" a household phrase, the Company started assigning their houndmasters with failsafe implants of their own, designed to prevent Hellhounds from detonating within unsafe distances unless the houndmaster is dead themselves. Some give handlers the ability to trigger the bombs themselves, but this fell out of favour after studies found that most handlers would use the slightest excuse to justify setting them off.

The average dog lives 10 to 13 years, but Hellhounds have a life expectancy of 4 to 6. Due to the high chance of them dying in the field, their implants are not made to last, and Hellhounds that are rescued or purchased for non-combat use are sorry sights indeed. Not that those in Company packs are any better, but at least the Company doesn't try to keep them healthy – the sad fact is that even the best-treated ones live short, painful lives.

Combat 60% Bite: 2D10 or D6, Melee

Body 30%

Speed 60%

Instinct 15%

Health 20 or 5

Special Subdermal Bombs: Upon death, Hellhounds explode for D10 or D6+1 AOE damage, as long as they are not within 10m or Close range of a living handler.

A mangy dog that at first glance looks diseased, but upon closer inspection has exaggerated muscles and cybernetic implants. It bares sharp teeth and growls and howls with wild and powerful lungs, suddenly moving with alarming speed and grace. Its fur is a decidedly unnatural colour the same as the branding of the corporation it belongs to, and when not hostile it seems agitated, in pain, and on edge at all times.

The Cultural Exodus

During the early years of interstellar exploration, the tumult of the posthuman transcendency, first true corporate states, and full brunt of the Earth's climate crisis caused a mass exodus from the Sol system. This period of history is known as the Exodus, and is responsible for the many farflung and sometimes hilariously doomed to fail colonies that, in some cases, went for decades before being recontacted.

To the student of history, serious or casual, perhaps the most interesting part of the Exodus was the Cultural Exodus. One of the greatest corporations of the time was Vatersson Industries, headed by the mining magnate Vali Vatersson, a man who lived well beyond his years thanks to extensive gene therapy. A student of the arts and a history buff ever since he was a child, he bought up art and artifacts from the failing states of the pre-Exodus years, acquiring a vast collection of masterworks, classics, and an ample number of otherwise unexceptional contemporary pieces.

Late in his life, Vatersson began to regret the hand he had in exploiting the dying Earth, and in particular his hoarded collection of masterpieces. But Vatersson knew that the new world would not be one where the Company, even his own, could be trusted to keep its word; it may take a decade, or even a century, but his collection would inevitably be sold to the highest bidder who would likely keep it as tightly guarded as he had.

Believing he had no way to ensure his art would be available for anyone to see and appreciate, and unwilling to destroy it or simply let it fall into the hands of other magnates, Vatersson used his vast wealth to fund a solution. He chartered ships, hiring suicidal crews with the same promise – anything they wanted, for up to a year of life and a billion dollars in cost, if they would only sail their ships to distant stars and hide the art in secure, secluded vaults in the depths of space. After returning, they would have up to a year before, as part of their contract, being killed to ensure their silence.

It was difficult. It was damn difficult. The cost was in the hundreds of billions – but Vatersson was uber-rich, had no children, preferred to die before he was more implants than man, and saw his crusade as the ultimate form of charity. Three ships were never heard from again. Constant surveillance and isolation whenever possible prevented the spacers from fleeing after they returned for their reward, but two made such spirited attempts they had to be killed prematurely. Two ships had info leaks, their relics reclaimed within five years (and all by corporations, no less).

But by the end of the year, it was done. No one remained who could have known where the ships had gone, save for the mastermind, who died a year later of natural causes. After his death, only a single journey's itinerary was leaked, for a total of three out of dozens.

Every few years, they find one. You can search a system for months and miss a vault, but they're never in a truly random spot. The Mona Lisa was buried at the magnetic north of a tidally-locked life-bearing world. Goya's The Third of May, 1808, orbited the second Lagrange point of a world with a canyon the size of Mars' Valles Marineris all the way around. The funeral mask of Tutankhamun sat atop the largest vein of gold yet found.

Sadly, the plan didn't fully pan out. They're found by Company ships more often than not, and when they aren't the crews tend to sell them to the highest bidder, putting them back in Company hands. Those crews who do keep them squabble over who has what rights to it, often leading to them hiding it away once more only for the last living crewmember to claim it and, in their old age, die within a decade and have their kids sell it to the Company. (If the Company doesn't just steal it outright.)

But sometimes it does work. It's not common and not always much better than being nabbed by a Company CEO who'd at least hang it on his wall, if not show it off to the public – Van Gogh's Starry Night was burnt by rebels on the backwater world where it was found – but sometimes, sometimes, one falls into hands who deserve it. Some sell or donate them to public institutions who could never afford to beat the costs the Company would pay for them. Others keep them quietly hidden, hanging them on their wall and claiming it's a replica, safe in the knowledge they own a piece of history.

Starry Night by Vincent van Gogh

Bonus: Celebrities-for-Hire

I wrote this after formatting the above stuff, so I haven't gone and edited it or had a day or two to realize "crap, that idea is horrible because [insert reason here]".

Fame's not always all it's cracked up to be. Of course it's better to be part of the decadent elite than the downtrodden masses, but that decadency tends to bite people in the ass in the most unexpected ways.

All too often, skilled artisans - musicians, actors, artists, writers, chefs, even prostitutes and pornstars on some of the more liberal worlds - overextend themselves, taking bad deals and spending their money wildly. When their initial success wears off, they're left with long contracts and colossal debts, but enough skill and popularity that the Company won't simply funnel them into debt bondage. Or more accurately, will do it in a more insidious way.

Art is risky. Sometimes it fails. When an artist isn't quite popular enough for the Company to find it worth funding a dozen misses for that one big hit, it's a lot easier to sell something else: fame. Short term contract work for executives and other members of the elite sells well and always has a market. Imagine a world where Gordon Ramsey could be hired to cook you dinner, or your kid's favourite boyband hired for their birthday party.

Sure, it's expensive as hell, but the billions of underlings the Company employs have millions of executives, and the contracts are very short term: one dinner, one party, one portrait. A savvy middle manager or spacer captain could save up enough for a low level job every couple months. The only problem is that the Company has the celebrities on a tight leash. A high enough pricetag can buy you nearly anything, and since they're selling fame, not skill, they have no say over what they do. It's not about the art anymore. It's not even about selling the art. It's about selling the name, to as many people as possible.

It's not as bad as being a wageslave or literal slave. But for artists who got into the game to do what they love, and had a taste of true success before being turned into a corporate plaything, it's a soul-crushing job. The kind of gig that makes running away to join a ragtag spacer crew performing legally questionable jobs on the edges of human space start to sound like a good idea.

Stats: +5 Speed, +5 Intellect

Saves: 40 Sanity / 25 Fear / 30 Body / 35 Armour

Stress: Failing a test related to your celebrity skill incurs 1 Stress from impostor syndrome.

Skills: Art, Rimwise, Art Specialization, +1 Point

New Skill: Art Specialization. Like Weapon Specialization or Vehicle Specialization, but for Art. The Art skill encompasses a familiarity with everything from writing to drawing to acting to music. Being a poet or a guitarist is the realm of Art Specialization. Treat it as an Expert skill whose only prerequisite is Art.