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.

Corporate Politics

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Running missions for the Gallente is perhaps one of the more boring endeavors I have ever undertaken. In the old days of Red Cabal I ran a combat crew, we fought things, we defended mining ops and hired out to corps who needed a bit more firepower. Now I mainly do work for the Gallente, doing my part to improve Endland’s federation standing and managing the day to day affairs of the corporate trade account. It’s a desk job, and while I’m not too happy about it, it has been a great help in replenishing my accounts.

But I hear we are recruiting, and that makes me happy. Endland’s recruiting policy has always been to recruit fresh out of the academy. It’s a policy that served the corp well for a long time, and I can see the advantages. Loyalty is the most important quality of an employee, and in my own corporate endeavors I’ve found that training someone from an academy recruit to a veteran combat pilot is a great way to foster loyalty. The downside, of course, is that such recruits are long-term investments.

So now, in addition to my responsibilities as trade director, I’ve been given the dubious honor of being chief of security. Currently that means I have control over an under-stocked combat hangar and can give orders to myself. If recruitment goes well, however, it’ll mean that I’ll be training a fresh wing of combat pilots to protect corporate assets, make trouble in our local neighborhood and generally populate low-sec Gallente space with wrecks. Good times all around.