Author Archives: Ghenna

About Ghenna

An exiled amarrian noble and ex-imperial capsuleer coping with the psychological trauma of experiencing her own death and acclimation to her new home in the Gallente Federation. Ghenna maintains a publicly accessible archive of her aura-log impressions for therapeutic purposes. She currently resides in the Gallente-Caldari warzone, where she serves the Gallente Militia.

Time to Completion

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My executioner slipped out of cloak at 3000 meters per second. The skies of Pimebeka were comforting. I was home.

Entering the Tash-Murkon region, seeing the sky change suddenly from the cool green of essence to the deep peach of the Amarr empire sent a shockwave of memory and fear through my brain. My ship shuddered for a brief moment, and I was back in control. The focus training had helped.

I docked at the Carthum factory and once out of my pod took the mag elevator to the R&D level. The freight elevator shuddered as the inertial dampers powered up. Shoddy Carthum factories, I thought as I checked the biometrics monitor on my portable neocom, guess that’s how they keep prices down. The elevator itself was little more than a metal box contained within an open lattice of girders and magnets. It was essentially a rail-gun, with the elevator as the bullet and I was inside. At the speed we were traveling one trajectory deviation would mean a quick ride back to Charmerout, assuming my neocom caught the breach. I checked my neocom again, just to be sure.

The lift came to an abrupt stop, the dampers lessening the jolt significantly but not completely, and the doors slid open with a metalic squeal. It had been a long time since I set foot on a factory floor. It was always breathtaking.

Before me was the skeleton hull of an Apocalypse, enormous like God’s hammer. A thousand drones swarmed about the hull like flies around the caracas of some great beast. In this case, of course, instead of decaying the carcas was being assembled, reborn. Tritanium dust rained from the hull as the drone swarm cut, bent and welded the components into place.

“A person is just a constellation of dust from the stars,” the old childhood poem rolled off of my lips unexpectedly as I walked past the great hull toward the managment offices, “blown by the winds of creation…”

“But Amarr are made from dust chosen by God, and his breath alone is what guides them,” continued a voice from behind me. I turned to see a young Khanid woman, beautiful in the way Khanid often are. She approached me, and tucking a handfull of datasheets beneath her left arm extended her right to shake my hand. “I assume you’re Ghenna, I’ve been expecting you.”

I started to salute, and then stopped myself and shook her hand. Old habits die hard. “Yes, I’ve been sent by corporate to deliver some blueprints and datacores, they are being offloaded now. I’ll stay to see that everything is in order.”

“I’m sure that isn’t necessary,” she replied, shuffling through her datasheets. “Though we do appreciate your dedication to security.” She found whatever she was looking for and offered the datasheet to me, “please, have a look.”

It was a real-time construction status on an Abaddon. It was at 45% completion.

“That is a very nice ship,” I said, handing her the datasheet.

“That’s your ship,” she replied, shuffling the Abaddon datasheet back into it’s proper place in her bundle. Corp is setting up a branch office in Amarr space, and with the Gallente office doing well, it seems most appropriate for you to oversee defense out here, at least until we get on our feet.

I didn’t know what to say, it was a very nice ship, easily the biggest I’d ever piloted. Even in my navy days I’d never flown anything larger than a cruiser. An Abaddon as well, the ship had been a rumor whispered about in dark corners in those days.

“Thank you madame,” I stammered, “I’ll make good use of it.” I saluted instinctively. She giggled.

“You’re not in the navy soldier, no need for all that. We have some tachyons we rolled off the assembly line this morning, they should be in your hangar within the hour. A bit different from what you’re used to I imagine, but with your expertise in gunnery I suspect you’ll get up to speed in short order.”

“Yes madame,” I fought the urge to salute, “I should head back to Charm then, and get my effects in order.”

“Very good, we have everything under control here,” she said tapping on one of her datasheets, “And call me Afwal.”

“Yes mad- Afwal. And thank you.” She nodded, and I turned to head back to my ship.

“And Ghenna,” I turned to look at her, the small Khanid woman standing calmly while a thousand drones swarmed behind her sending sparks and dust raining from the massive Apocalypse hull, now noticeably more complete than it had been only minutes ago.

“Welcome home.”

Good graces

Status

The past few days have been somewhat hectic. I spent the weekend behind my office terminal working on the hypernet presence of the budding corporation that I’ve thrown in with. Things are coming together, but there is still much to be done. It’s a very atypical business model, time will tell how successful it will be.

The few moments I’ve had not jacked into the hypernet backstage were spent running my last few missions for the Federal Administration. My part is now effectively done in gaining standing for the Corp HQ and I can focus on other tasks.

Being in the good graces of the Gallente also has its perks. The federation now holds me in high enough regard to grant me access to jump cloning facilities. Ideally Corp should be able to provide this sort of thing, but we’re new and still relatively poor. Even if I bought a Rorq out of pocket we’d have no pilots for it yet.

Altogether a good, but hectic, couple of days.

Awakening

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Fuzzy sat across from me in his usual velvet-lined chair, smoking his pipe and appearing as aloof as a furrier in a waistcoat could appear. We sat in silence for some time.

“Tell me about your death,” he finally said, wiggling his nose a bit. I clenched my teeth at the question. I knew it would come up, but didn’t expect it this soon.

“Capsuleers die all the time,” I began, “the first time is scary, but you get used to it. You wake up in your clone, throw a bit of profanity around for a while and then get on with it.” I was avoiding the question, we both knew that.

“Waking up,” I continued, “that’s the metaphor most people use, and it’s pretty accurate. A moment of disorientation and then you’re somewhere else millions of miles away, a bit groggy from the meds. Just waking up. That time,” I felt my face cringe involuntarily. “Last time I didn’t wake up, I was reincarnated. It was nothing like waking up.”

Fuzzy cocked his head to one side and took a deep drag on his pipe, urging me to continue.

“One moment I was a speck of nothing being eaten by an infinite expanse of nothing,” I hesitated, searching for a better metaphor to describe it, eventually giving up. “Anyway, the next moment I was in a tank, but I was still dead, still dying.”

Still screaming.

“I didn’t know who I was, where I was, what was happening. I know now, of course, but I think most of that was after the fact. In that moment I was reborn,” I paused, caught my breath, “Waking up is that slow peaceful urging to consciousness. That time it was violent, quick, terrible.”

Snatched from death by sharp talons.

Fuzzy removed the pipe from his tiny mouth. “When was it that you remembered who you were?” It was not an easy question.

“I don’t know. I don’t know if I’ve ever remembered. The Caldari, they got the scan off, they brought me back,” I swallowed hard, it was more difficult than I had imagined. “Whoever I was, I’m not that anymore, not all of it anyway. They didn’t bring all of me back. There are pieces out there, still screaming silently in the cold.” I paused for a moment and took a deep breath, “losing memories is one thing, people forget things all the time. But it’s not like forgetting, it’s like having a hole where a memory once was. Emotionally you still have some connection to that void, but as hard as you try there’s just nothing there.”

Fuzzy leaned foward, “what about your soul? Surely you’re more than just memories? How does your soul get from one clone to another?”

The age old question. I had annoyed my tutors with the same question for years in theology lessons. I didn’t know the answer. I don’t suspect anyone does. “I don’t know,” I said honestly, “but sometimes I feel like I left part of my soul out there.” It was a terrifying thought.

“I wouldn’t worry,” he said sitting back and putting the pipe back between his lips. “In my view, souls are the universe’s memories, and the universe doesn’t forget. Be patient, your missing pieces will find their way home. Maybe it’s time you went back to visit Amarr. Maybe give them less distance to travel?”

His words struck me simultaneously as idiotic and profound, but he was right. It was time to go home.

Taboo

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Our footsteps resounded through the great marble halls. I struggled to keep up with Omar, taking three paces for each of his long graceful strides. I was six years old.

“Did you enjoy your outing today Ghen?” He was the only one I knew that did not call me by my full name.

“Yes, very much Mr. Omar Sir,” after months I could still not simply refer to him as Omar, despite his urging. My father’s hard lessons on politeness had cut deeply.

“My favorite was the big bird. It was so scary. I’m going to fly one day, my father told me.”

“Indeed,” he slowed his pace and smiled warmly at me, “will you be as deadly as the Aukrom?”

I frowned, “No, I could never be that scary.”

Omar smiled and resumed his usual pace.

“Why do they fight? The people I mean, not the animals. Are they angry?” it was an innocent question.

He stopped walking and looked away from me. After a few moments I heard him take a deep breath and he turned and crouched down to my height. He pushed my hair back out of my face.

“The Matari fight because they are told to Ghen. They must do what they are told. Your way of life, all of this,” he waved his hands about the marble halls, “depend upon that.”

“I wouldn’t fight those animals,” I said, “even if you told me to.”

He smiled a troubled smile, “Of course not dear, and no one would ask you to. You are a child of Amarr, you have the light inside you. As long as you keep the light only God is your master.”

“God and Empire,” I recited.

“No!,” his voice was strained, almost angry, “Only God.” Omar stood up to his full height. I looked up at him.

“Can the Matari have the light. I don’t even think about mine except on Sundays, I could share.”

His face brightened and he smiled, “That is very nice of you, but I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way. They have to find their own light.” He turned and began to walk, “Come dear, your Father wants you home for dinner. I hear you’ll be having guests from the empire,” he glanced at me playfully, “there might even be a pilot or two there.”

We raced the rest of the way home.

An hour later, at dinner I offered a prayer to the Matari, that they might find the light and be released from their bonds.

My clone no longer bears the scar left by my father’s belt, but the sting is still there.

I never saw Omar again.

Red is the new black…

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I spent the greater part of yesterday wandering about Essence and Sinq Liason collecting corporate deliveries and ferrying them to their appropirae locations for sale, production, or whatever other purpose they were intended for. The journey was long, but mostly uneventful, which got me thinking about how things have changed since my last jaunt as a pod pilot.

When I began my career as a capusleer the universe was a dangerous place. The high-sec/low-sec distinction was pretty blurry and null-sec, though as dangerous as it is now, was largely unpopulated. If I had been cruising about in a frigate, 40mil in deliveries in my hold in those days I would have probably been screwed. I’d learned my lesson early, having a Bestower laden with trade goods instantly melted under the guns of a m0o cruiser (with a few too many heatsinks) in a .8 system. Sure, CONCORD came along, but they just shot the police and went about their business.

Things are safer now, high-sec is relatively peaceful so long as you’re not under a wardec. Low-sec, however, particularly those areas bordering high-sec have become a writhing den of villainy and opportunists. I considered this as I set my executioner, pushing 4km per second on a course to Old Man Star to pick up some corporate deliveries.

I’d been cruising around low-sec for nearly an hour without any problems. There had been a Griffin at the gate to Yvangier that made a feeble attempt to target my ship before it blazed out of range and into warp. They’d trailed me for a few systems before either loosing the scent or giving up. Arriving in Old Man Star, things changed for the worse. Apparently every pirate in the region had decided that today was the day to hang out here. I jumped to a safespot and did a quick scan of the station I was going to and my exit gate to Villore. The station was clean but the gate was camped. I mean really camped. Three battleships and a swarm of interceptors.

I considered my options, I could probably make the jump safely, assuming the battleships weren’t sitting on it with bombs, which they probably were. In the end I decided against testing fate and went back to high-sec via Heydelies, deposited my collected deliveries into my Bestower and made the rest of my rounds, recanting my tale to other haulers cruising around the region. People are terrified of low-sec, and I wanted to reassure them that it really wasn’t that bad if you keep your wits about you and don’t do anything stupid.

“How do you use the directional scanner?” came over my com after I’d finished my story. It was a valid question, just not one I’d expect a seasoned capsuleer to ask. I explained it as best I could and finished up the day’s chores. High-sec space is generally safe, much safer than I remembered, and as always there is great money to be made there. With safety comes complacency, however, and I could suddenly see why low-sec was considered such a dangerous place.

I say to every high-sec pilot. Get a cheap ship, update your clone, fly out into low-sec and practice not getting shot. Better yet, practice shooting back. With some notable exceptions many of the pirates out there blowing your Iteron to dust are banking on your inexperience and hesitation. Make them earn their keep.

Who knows, they might even respect you for it.