More and more fantastic speculations spin through my mind as the computer finishes up.
CLASS TWO PLANET [ESTIMATED]
Status: Charted, Unclaimed, Remains Unexplored
Life Support Capability: Probable
Surface: 89% Water [Frozen], 11% Land Mass
Detectable Resources: Water, Otherwise Unknown
Would you like to claim and name this planet?
[YES] [NO]
I scowl at the “charted” mention in the planetary status, thanks to those eager gamers who sped off ahead of us. And a Class Two planet wasn’t exactly something to get terribly hyped about, but whatever. I’ll find my own planet solo, without the Armada, the next time I’m playing alone. Headset on. The vastness of space spilling out in front of me in VR. The galaxy to myself.
“Well, looks like we found ourselves a wasteland, my dears,” I say, laughing into the microphone, prompting a chorus of chuckling in response.
I hear a few people shout, “Let’s go!” into the stream, and I grin at their enthusiasm, even though the excitement might be for nothing. A Class Two usually has few resources, though water is always useful.
“Shall we claim this one for the Armada?!” I shout, throwing my hands in the air and raising my eyebrows in question. My headset blares with cheerful shouting from the other players. This was only the sixth planet that we’d be claiming for our Armada, despite several game sessions of exploring. Some just weren’t worth it, and players that traveled with us had scooped them up for themselves. Like Class Ones, which were basically just patches of dirt or useless asteroids without any minerals. But this planet, with all that water?
I’ve got a good feeling about it.
Rebekah chimes into my headset, on our private channel.
“Hey, when we sign off, an offer just came in from Samsung for them to sponsor you for another month with a different watch,” she exclaims happily. “And they’ll pay you this time, instead of just giving you the product. Which means I get paid, too, and don’t just have to sit around writhing in my own jealousy.”
My dad’s last text flashes through my head.
Maybe get a job.
Fuck you, too, Dad.
The option to claim and name the planet still floats in front of the cockpit. As I type, the Armada roars in my headset, and I’m glad they all approve.
Would you like to claim and name this planet?
[YES][NO]
What would you like to name this planet?
BEKAH
Are you sure you want to name this planet
BEKAH?
Once a name is chosen it cannot be changed.
[YES] [NO]
I click Yes.
“Oh, aren’t you just adorable.” Rebekah laughs.
“For my first mate!” I shout into the microphone, for both Rebekah and the Armada. “Without her, there’s no show, no Armada, and much like this planet, she’s as cool as ice.”
“Damn right,” Rebekah growls.
“Descend!” I exclaim.
I tilt my ship forward, and the blue sphere with swirls of white rushes toward me as I speed down from the blackness of space. It’s silly, but I worry for a moment about what my viewers are going to think if this rock is a total waste of time. Which it very well could be. The water resources will be great, sure. For trading, for building. But explorationwise, which is the best part of playing this game, it might be a total buzzkill. That’s one of the unique joys of adventuring in Reclaim the Sun—the possibility and the disappointment that comes with trying to discover something new.
Which, you know, mirrors life quite well. Maybe that’s why people love it.
My ship rattles as we break through the atmosphere, the sky echoing with a loud sonic boom, the hundreds of other vessels thundering through the cloudy sky. The sound is like someone beating on a bass drum way too quick and sharp. I glance out the side of the cockpit, where rows of ships fly beside me, heading for the icy planet below.
This close, I can see that the frozen landscape is dotted with patches of sea greens and purples, blooming and shifting beneath the hardened surface. I wonder if that’s just the color of the water, or if there are creatures living under the ice. Reclaim the Sun spontaneously generates planets and galaxies, but it also creates the environments on the planets. The ecosystem, the wildlife, the weather. Part of me wants to know exactly how it all works, and there are countless articles floating around on the Internet that’ll dish all that technical stuff out, on sites like Polygon and IGN and Engadget. But most of me doesn’t want to ruin the wonder of it all.
It’s far more fun to think of it as magic than bits of code.
The scanners on my dashboard pick up a section that looks suitable for landing, and I punch in the coordinates.
“Let’s go!” I shout, my little ship soaring across the frozen tundra, the shimmering colors of the ocean speeding by as some of the little mountains start to peek up in the distance. Those mountain ranges give way to what look like bits of land frozen beneath the ice, and I press a few buttons, taking my ship down toward the ground, the landing gear extending with a loud hum and snapping into place.
I hear the other ships buzzing in my ears, their gear and landing procedures all the same as mine. The ships in the Reclaim the Sun universe are varied in terms of colors, shapes, and upgrades, but everyone has the same kind of weapons, same navigational gear, all that. The upgrades help, but they don’t give you an extreme advantage. A little one, sure, but nothing major. Keeps it fair, particularly when fights break out—which they do, per the many videos trolls have been posting online, taking out other players for kicks. Tricking them into thinking they’re going to get a free resource drop from a helpful player, only to be blasted apart. Stuff like that.
Bunch of tools, those ones.
My ship nestles down on the terrain with a satisfying crunch, the landing gear pressing against the hard ice and snow underneath. The crunching of snow, programmed into a game. I can’t help but smile. Those little details always get me.
I take a quick look at the display and note that the air is breathable and doesn’t require any kind of helmet or mask, which is great, considering we might have some new players in the Armada who haven’t explored or scavenged enough to buy the needed gear. I push a few buttons, and the cockpit opens with a hiss.
I’m immediately overwhelmed by the intense wind pummeling me from outside. I push against it as I climb out, the roaring loud and breaking apart my signal to the Armada. When I reach the ground, I turn to see several cockpits open and my people wrestling with the same issues, their avatars all looking fairly similar to mine, save for custom-colored outfits and little changes to their gaits and facial appearances. Customization isn’t huge in Reclaim the Sun for the pilots, which makes for a massive army of people all looking somewhat the same. You can certainly dedicate an hour or two to making your character look more like you, but I seldom find anyone who has the time or patience for that.