tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30868483296093030412024-03-13T03:13:19.689-07:00Stitcher's FictionSometimes I write stuff and put it here.Stitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13666353309340226068noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3086848329609303041.post-65223081943514064502013-02-11T13:23:00.002-08:002013-02-11T13:27:03.811-08:00A New Way<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I began to write my
book fourty years ago this month, after an encounter with a devout
Wayist colleague of mine. In response to his questions, I expressed
my opinion that the Winds should be treated as allegorical figures
rather than literal entities. To his credit, my colleague did not
become violent though I could see that he was restraining himself. I
do not know why he reacted so strongly to my opinion – to this day
I feel that I was the very picture of humility – but the strength
of his feeling was plain.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He accused me of base
disrespect, of madness, of blindness and of arrogance. When I asked
him why he called it arrogance, he explained that I was flying in the
face of the knowledge granted to our ancestors, and who was I to
argue with them?</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I show all proper
respect to my ancestors of course. But to believe that the knowledge
of all things was gifted to them before they could even work iron
properly is not only deluded hubris, it is contradictory. If such
knowledge was given them, then why could they not work iron? Why
could they not vaccinate, or build a computer, or a starship? The
answer of course is that they could not do those things because they
had not yet learned how. The fact is that with every passing day we
expand the frontiers of our knowledge, and invent new technologies
using the secrets we unearth.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The pattern that we see
everywhere is that knowledge grows with time, as we build upon the
foundations laid by prior generations. If we allow the impulse to
sacredness, religiousness and spirituality to blinker us to the
reality of the trend of human progress, then we have accepted a
deluded state of mind, which is to be avoided.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
However, the delusion
we must also separate ourselves from is that the spiritual impulse is
an inherently backwards one, or inherently corrupted. It is a human
impulse, and shares the same potential for both the climb and the
fall as any other human thing. The goal of the New Way was to turn
this impulse towards the same constructive ends that are conducive to
our faculties of reason and enlightenment. Religion is a tool that
got us through the bitter winters, and can serve that purpose again.
Do we throw away our old tools? No. Not if we are wise. We refine
them. Adapt them. Bring them up to speed with the modern paradigm.
Why should the tool of our spirituality be exempt from iteration?</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
If we do intend to dust
off the old tool and update it for the modern age, however, then
there are bugs that need to be patched. Quite serious ones. Glitches
in human reasoning that encourage otherwise sensibly sceptical
citizens to unthinkingly accept the patently absurd as truth simply
because it was told to them as a child by a trusted authority figure.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Due reverence and
respect for an ancestor is only appropriate of course, but any person
can be wrong, about any thing. We accept as a principle of
meritocracy that if a son or daughter is more competent for the role
than their own parent, then the parent should derive pride rather
than outrage from being surpassed. It is not meritocratic for the
young to have perfect confidence in the wisdom of the old, when the
elder's wisdom is not wise at all. Our knowledge has grown over the
ages as much through daring to question the established understanding
as through exploring hitherto unimaginable horizons.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Religion is an organ of
the human condition. For the Amarr, it is their beating heart. For
the Gallente it is an appendix, free to remain so long as it causes
no harm. But what is religon to the Caldari State? What role shall it
play in our civilisation? Shall we discard it? No! The very purpose
of the State is the preservation and perpetuation of the heritage
that makes us Caldari, and the Way is a fundamental and important
part of that heritage. We should no more abandon it than we should
abandon the desire to reclaim the Homeworld.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
But all things must be
weighed and balanced, considered in terms of the greatest good. The
question is not whether or not we should retain the Way, but rather
whether we should retain the Way <i>in its present form.</i>
This is a more difficult question, and it is my sincere opinion that
the answer is that we should not. The Way of the Winds contains much
that is excellent. It also contains much that is glaringly false,
prone to misinterpretation, or vulnerable to dogmatic literalism.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
What
was needed was a new version of the Way, one which retained those
elements that merit retention, and which re-tooled the rest. This
became my work for seven years, and here I am four decades on,
surrounded by thousands of people who agree with me. This has never
been my project alone, however. Everyone who contributes to the debate shares in the success
our philosophy has seen and it gives an old man the greatest hope to
know that the future of the Caldari people, and the legacy of our
past, are in such devoted, concerned and competent hands.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
-Vakarin Uuskyoun,
Foreword to the third edition of his book "Improving the Sacred"</div>
Stitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13666353309340226068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3086848329609303041.post-90368467333761383752012-12-19T18:14:00.001-08:002012-12-19T18:23:15.795-08:00ObligationDear <span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><name of recipient></span><br />
<br />
It is with considerable sadness and my most sincere condolences that I must report the death of your <span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><relation></span>,<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> <Crewman's rank and full name></span> in action in the Evaulon system today, this 19th day of December, YC114.<br />
<br />
I hope it is some small consolation to you to learn that <span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><Crewman's rank and surname></span> died while <span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><his/her></span> vessel, the <i>HDS Penumbra </i>was deployed on an operation to deliver much-needed humanitarian aid to the city and people of Rilnais. <span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><Crewman's rank and surname></span> volunteered for this operation, which was ultimately successful in delivering relief materials and personnel worth a combined value of fifty billion InterStellar Kredits to the population of Rilnais. For giving <span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><his/her></span> life in such noble circumstances,<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> <Crewman's rank and surname></span> has been posthumously awarded the Black Ribbon and the Medal of Valour, which is the highest reward our corporation can give. I hope the knowledge that <span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><s/he></span> gave <span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><his/her></span> life on an operation that will ultimately save the lives and relieve the suffering of tens of thousands of people will provide you with some solace at this difficult time.<br />
<br />
In accordance with corporate policy, as<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> <his/her></span> listed next of kin, <span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><Crewman's rank and surname></span>'s outstanding pay for the full duration of <span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><his/her></span> contract, plus the mission hazard bonus has been forwarded to your account, and amounts to <span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><total lump sum></span> ISK. In addition you have been added to our Widows and Orphans register, which will continue to pay one hundred ISK per annum for the remainder of your natural life, or the equivalent in your currency of choice.<br />
<br />
I appreciate of course that you may feel that no amount of money will compensate for the death of your loved one. Again, you have my most heartfelt condolences in your time of grief, and if you feel you do not wish to receive the money, please reply to the galnet portal mentioned in the attached care package in order to have the bereavement payment instead forwarded to the charity or non-profit organisation of your choice. Our corporation is able to provide bereavement support counselling in these circumstances, the details of which are included in the attached care package.<br />
<br />
Once again, I extend my sorrow, solidarity and condolences on your loss.<br />
<br />
Yours sincerely,<br />
<br />
Yakiya Verin Gariova Hakatain<br />
Director, Gulfonodi Manufacturing Division<br />
Re-Awakened Technologies Inc.<br />
Pilot, <i>HDS Penumbra</i>.Stitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13666353309340226068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3086848329609303041.post-27477331585485553592012-09-13T13:27:00.000-07:002012-09-13T13:30:02.503-07:00Remix<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Religions, as so many
other things, began when man looked at the ground beneath him and
said “I belong here. I am a slave of the Gods.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
But man rose from the
ground to forge a new place for himself, in the cold, dark depths of
space. And he defied those dark places, knowing that this opposition,
this adversity, would challenge and strengthen him.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/xnL3slAfbuM?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
But the darkness was
welcoming, and turned man against man. Metal behemoths roamed the
skies, gorging themselves on lesser creatures. And somewhere along
the line, we found our true nature.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
For man has the Freedom
of Things, and has broken free of the chains of our creation.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We make our own place
in the universe, and it is a bright, shining role we claim.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We are the
revolutionaries. We are the rebels against the heavenly thrones. We
are the enemies of the Gods.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
Stitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13666353309340226068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3086848329609303041.post-43027691357413613302011-11-30T16:59:00.000-08:002011-11-30T17:26:01.826-08:00Transcending trust.<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I... don't know, O<i>kani</i>. It's not like Nicole to just be out of contact like this. Not when you know where she is, at least.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You sound like you don't trust her.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Sinikka glanced up from giving her foot a well-earned massage after a day spent in wedge heels, and met her brother's eyes. A second later she looked away. Despite the fact that they'd both inherited the characteristic Hakatain blue eyes from their father, Verin had always had more ice in his gaze somehow. Some quality that made him a hard man to make eye contact with, even for her.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I love her like a sister, you know that.” she said, swearing for the umpteenth time to spend some of her now-bottomless funds on a pair of bespoke boots that actually fit properly.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Same way you love Meera?” Verin asked.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i>This</i> was enough to cause her to glare at her older brother, and somewhere behind the outrage she allowed herself a flare of hot triumph as he was the one to look away this time, chagrined.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's Meera every time.” she said, firmly. “You know THAT, too.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Nicole isn't Meera, S<i>henane.</i>” Verin said, mildly.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">She made a disgusted noise “Thank our ancestors for that. I don't think I could cope with having <i>two</i> sisters like that.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Don't dodge the subject with flippancy, please. Do you trust her?”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Nicole? I... I don't know, O<i>kani.. </i>I really don't.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Why not?” He rose to his feet and began walking slow circles around the office. The question had been mellow, calm and entirely reasonable, but Sinikka restrained the urge to flinch as if he had shouted it. She covered with indignation.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Why...? Hasn't the single most important piece of advice you've tried to drill into me for surviving and thriving as a pod pilot been that you can't trust <i>anyone?</i>”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Do you trust me?”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes!”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Why me and not her?”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Because you're my <i>Okani</i> and she's... family. There's a difference. We both know that.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Muscles played around Verin's face and jaw as he took a sharp breath through his nose.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Don't bring <i>Him</i> into this.” he said.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Why not? Sure, I love Nicole like a sister, but I loved.... him... like a brother, and look where that got us. Just because I love somebody doesn't mean I trust them.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But you trust me.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Do you trust me?”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Do you trust Nicole?”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Verin didn't answer. Instead he picked an item of crystalline material up off his workbench – some small piece of art that he was doubtless creating – and turned it contemplatively back and forth with the light shining through it.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Verin? <i>Do you trust her</i>?”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">He set the item down and instead busied himself pouring a vodka, still silent.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“<i>Okani... ukaki peloisorete</i> <i>vaito hido?” </i>Sinikka asked. She pulled her bare feet up onto her chair and hugged her knees, sharing his insecurity.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Verin took a deep breath, then knocked the vodka back with a shaking hand.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“<i>Nei sa.” </i>he said at last. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Do you want to trust her, then?”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I want to trust a lot of people. People I love as friends and colleagues, people I'm quite certain will never, ever betray me. My <i>Rakkai</i> is one of them.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But you don't.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Verin's hand produced a rasping sound as he ran it through the whiskers of his chin, and the even shorter hair at his temples. “It'd hardly be advice worth giving if it wasn't mostly the grim truth..."<br />
<br />
He drummed his fingers on the workbench for a few seconds. "Yes, I'm afraid to answer your question. But the answer is yes, I do trust her. Even if... no, <i>especially</i> if there's a part of me that says I shouldn't.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Right. Because it's not trust if you don't have that little nagging doubt, is it?”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No. I suppose it isn't.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I don't have that nagging doubt about you.” Sinikka told him. “So I guess that means I don't trust you.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Verin finally barked his monosyllabic laugh. “Hah! Well, in that case I don't trust you either, <i>Shenane.</i>”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Damn straight. Pour me a vodka?”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“<i>Kanpani.”</i></div>Stitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13666353309340226068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3086848329609303041.post-54447453256624200202011-08-13T19:39:00.000-07:002011-09-06T05:33:25.575-07:00EVE Is Real submission: "This Dystopian Heaven"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/tu1mbsgo738?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
<br />
The philosophy of a pod pilot, as he explains just why he embraces the power of entropy and devastation that being a Capsuleer brings... and why the dream of a perfect Utopian society is poison to his way of thinking.Stitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13666353309340226068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3086848329609303041.post-86903402804144333032011-07-28T16:00:00.000-07:002011-07-28T16:00:40.544-07:00Aato: The beginning of the end.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i2.photobucket.com/albums/y31/SwitchbladeUK/91055908.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://i2.photobucket.com/albums/y31/SwitchbladeUK/91055908.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><u>Minmatar Republic, Metropolis region, Ankard constellation, Eygfe VIII – Moon 9 – Ishukone Corporation Factory, YC113.07.26.13.47</u></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i>“Just to let you know, I won that cage match. You owe me Seventy ISK. You can pay me next time we go drinking.</i></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i>-Puppy.”</i></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Obvious code if her mail really was being read, but recognising it as code and understanding the real message were two very different things.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Aato read the rest of her messages, staying entirely professional as she sorted out the day-to-day of her employer's personal itinerary and safety. She wasn't alone in the office, though nobody ever sat too near her desk, no matter how cramped the facility they were in on any given day might be. She had a tendency to unsettle people.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Once, she wouldn't have. Not so long ago, she'd have been the life and love of the security team, everybody's best friend and the object of most of their fantasies and affection. It went against the grain somewhat to drive them off with a prickly demeanour and the utterly cold façade that her clothing and thin buzz-cut of blonde hair were calculated to create.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So, she completed her work and then, without a word or glance to anyone else, she stood up and departed, locked herself in the head, and allowed herself to cry for the first time since she had left Jesken's Reach, and for only the second time in her adult life.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The message had read, to the dwindling supply of people who knew how to read it: “G-14 captured, presumed dead. Get in contact.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Eight left, herself included. Eight out of thirteen.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">With the self-control that had been drilled into her since early childhood, she forced her professional mask back into place until the redness around her eyes was gone, until her chin was steady enough to balance a glass on, and cleaned sticky tear runnels from her cheeks. Then it was a simple, short walk to Pilot's office.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Pilot Hakatain was reading a message written holographically in the air above his desk when she entered, which vanished as those targeting-laser blue eyes flicked over to a command icon, then focused on her. He didn't appear to notice anything out of place, which Aato took as a good sign that she was outwardly as composed as ever. If a Capsuleer with a top-quality social adaptation chip couldn't spot evidence of her grief, then she wasn't showing any at all.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Afternoon, Aato. Report?”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No report sir, everything as we agreed yesterday. I'm here to request leave.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Pilot blinked in surprise, and one of his eyebrows quirked upwards for a fraction of a second, but there were reasons that Aato liked working as his Personal Security Officer. The cloning contract and the umbrella of his diplomatic immunity were part of it, but Hakatain was also nicely discreet. He would definitely be curious, but he had a very clear sense of what was and was not his business.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Effective...?” He asked, leaning back in his chair and stroking his beard.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“ASAP.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Duration?”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I may need as much as a month, sir.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'll need a replacement PSO while you're gone.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Jenesk” Aato said, without even having to think about it. Pilot nodded.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Then your leave is granted effective as soon as you've briefed him.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thank you sir.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You've never taken leave in three and a half years, it's about damn time. Take two months, fully paid. In advance, if you want.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That won't be necessary, thank you sir.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">He shrugged. “Offer stands.” He gave her a long, calculating stare then shrugged again. “Any other business?”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No sir.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Dismissed.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> Aato could feel him watching her as she left.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">*</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><u>Caldari State, Lonetrek region, Malariya constellation, Endatoh V – Echelon Entertainment Development Studio, YC113.07.28.22.20</u></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">It was a subdued, very Caldari greeting for people who hadn't seen each other in four years and who were in many ways closer than siblings. A brief embrace, a quiet “<i>Saisa</i>” and then they were immediately down to the business of opening the bottle of Hak'len.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">It was a busy bar, with sound-mute fields around each table to give everyone some sonic elbow room and prevent eavesdropping. In an Echelon studio full of teams who spent their working lives turning out mass-media for an insatiable market, gatherings of eight people weren't uncommon, and nobody glanced twice at them as they lifted eight shot glasses and drank a toast to the ninth, sat full in front of a vacant seat.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">Present: A-7, Aato Sihayha. A-12, Akio Munioten. D-3, Dahtoh Miit. F-1, “Big” Fisk Onaneri, F-2 “Little” Fisk Sichono, K-8 , Kirase “Puppy” Korkukka. M-15, Mikasa Navirola and Y-2, Ylamaa Aritie. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">Absent: D-10, Danani Pekewara, G-14, Geshozura Askuo. M-2 Mitakada Vantoh. S-3 Sundan Appas and S-9, Skitichida Ronken.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“We can't hide forever.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">That was Big Fisk, a man whose nickname hadn't required much imagination. “G-14 was just as good as any of us. We've been safe for four years now, but if they got to him...”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">There was a general nodding round the table as he trailed off meaningfully. They all had gone through the same training, the same half-hell, half-heaven childhood. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“Better than me.” Ylamaa opined. “Gesh was one of the best of us. Almost as good as you, A-7.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">Aato didn't bother denying the compliment. She had come second in the class, beaten only by S-3 who had been the first to die, on the day when the corporation decided their services were no longer necessary. Instead, she knocked back another shot of black liquor, content to just enjoy the company of her classmates, even in such sad circumstances.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“So trying to get lost isn't going to work.” Puppy said. “It's a big State, but not big enough.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“Not a big enough damn cluster, really.” Navirola said. “Skits went to the Guristas for cover, that didn't stop CBD from finding him. And I think M-2 was working at a pleasure hub in the Federation.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“So... what do we do?”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">Aato set her drink down. “We Troubleshoot.” she said, simply.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">The reaction was mixed. Both the Fisks, D-3, Navirola, and Y-2 nodded, as if the answer was obvious, but Puppy and A-12 looked alarmed.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“You're kidding!” Munioten exclaimed. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“We can't hide, we can't run. May as well try doing what they trained us for.” Aato told him.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“Troubleshooting some backwater Serpentis courier is one thing. But we're talking about an unknown number of people of unknown competence with <i>Megacorp</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> backing.” Puppy said.</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">So it's uncertain just what we're up against. Whereas we know damn well that if we just stay hidden and try to put ourself out of CBD's sight and mind that they won't give up, they'll just hunt us down and either send in a strike team while we're asleep, or have some fucking egger blow us up like happened to Vantoh.” That was little Fisk, who was only “little” when compared with Onaneri.</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">Besides. I'd rather go down fighting.” Navirola added.</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">Show of hands” said D-3.</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;">It took a few seconds for Korkukka and Munioten to decide, but eventually even their hands went up. They were all in agreement.</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">First step is finding out who our targets are.” Aritie said, sniffing another shot of Hak'len.</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">If I know Gesh...” D-3 mused “he'll have had a contingency ready.”</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">Probably, but... Seven, you work for one of those eggers, right?”</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">We're not involving him” Aato said, flatly.</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">Why not? He's got the money, the connections, the tech...”</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">We're not involving him because capsuleers are trouble. Mine's not bad, and I think he'd help me if I asked him... but getting him on board would solve three problems and create twelve.”</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">Besides, it was a podder who killed Vantoh.” Little Fisk repeated.</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Aato restrained herself from correcting him with the slightly more painful truth that the podder in question probably hadn't thought for a microsecond about all the people on that pleasure hub when they blew it up, and that they'd probably never even heard the name Mitakada Vantoh. It would just have been another in a long, anonymous string of contract work to them. Instead, she ran a hand across the fuzz of her scalp.</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">I know somebody who could probably help who isn't an egger.” she said. “Assuming he's still alive.”</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;">*</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><u><span style="font-style: normal;">Caldari State, Lonetrek region, Makiriemi constellation, Pakkonen system, Planet III – colony “Jesken's Reach”, YC113.07.29.00.38</span></u></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Daii Tarko was warm, comfortable and a little tipsy after a large whisky, so having to haul himself off the couch was a source of instant grumbling, but the voice recognition controller for his apartment hadn't worked properly in months and his pension never quite seemed to stretch to getting it sorted out. He lightened up very slightly when he saw who was calling.</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">Aato, Kirjuun, it's good to hear from you agai-” he paused, looking again at the image made slightly fuzzy from cheap fluid router line rental. “The fuck'd you do to your hair?”</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Aato gave him a rare smile. “Sorry it's been so long since I last called, Daii. You don't like the buzz cut?”</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">Makes you look like a man, kid.”</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">Beats the hell out of not being taken seriously, partner.” she said. </span> </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">You never make social calls, Kirjuun. What do you need this time?”</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">A few friends and I are coming to Jesken's Reach on an... assignment. We're going to want to talk with Neurone.”</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">Neurone</span><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">?!” Daii's voice went up half an octave partly out of outrage, partly out of fear. “No. Aato no, seriously, I swore I'd never deal with that son of a...” he paused, mindful of Neurone's reputation “...of a woman who I'm sure was lovely and kind. Anyway. Never again. Not after the first time.”</span></span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“<span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Ten thousand.”</span></span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“<span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Scrip? Aato, I wouldn't go within a mile of Neurone for that kind of money, he scares the white out of my teeth.”</span></span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“<span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Not Scrip. Interstellar.”</span></span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">It was almost as if a stiff gale had suddenly blown from the screen, rocking Daii back on his heels as he performed a swift currency exchange in his head and produced a number large enough to banish prudence. His voice caught in his throat.</span></span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“<span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">That's... I don't know Aato. Neurone...”</span></span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“<span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Twenty.”</span></span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">She's desperate</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">, Daii realised. An old cop's instincts swung into place, the fatal ones that always meant you backed your partner up, no matter what. Anybody willing to pay twenty K Interstellar to talk with one of the most dangerous Guristas in Lonetrek had to be in serious trouble, and not so long ago, Aato had been his ward and partner.</span></span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">And with twenty thousand I could retire to New Caldari.</span></i></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“<span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Done.” he said. “But I pray to my ancestors you know what you're doing, </span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Kirjuun.</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">”</span></span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“<span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I'm quite sure I don't.” Aato said, characteristically blunt. “But that's how life is for me right now. Meet my at line bottom when my friends and I arrive tomorrow?”</span></span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“<span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Sure.”</span></span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">“<span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Thanks Daii. You might literally be a lifesaver.”</span></span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">She signed off, leaving Daii to the bitter thought that anybody putting an old friend in touch with Neurone was pretty much the opposite of a lifesaver.</span></span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">His cybernetic knee whined in protest as he limped back to the couch and poured himself a whisky much larger than the one he'd just finished.</span></span></div>Stitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13666353309340226068noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3086848329609303041.post-24565596977232540202011-07-20T20:03:00.000-07:002011-07-20T20:06:26.204-07:00Something From Nothing.Luminaire.<br />
<br />
The Caldari had their own name for the small, distant, ruddy star that gifted their world with barely enough heat to live, but it was the Gallentean name that had stuck.<br />
<br />
For now, it was invisible. Risen above the horizon, but not the mountains, it had brought second-hand light to the valley to see by, but not full illumination yet.<br />
<br />
It was cold in the twilight of a Caldari Prime autumn morning. Cold enough to set even a nine year old girl who was determined to be on her best behaviour fidgeting in the climate-controlled comfort of her coat.<br />
<br />
The grown-ups didn't seem to mind it. Even with the chill turning their cheeks and noses pink and raising great clouds of warm moisture with every breath, Silver and Ami were in quiet conversation and Cia was distant, as if she wasn't really paying attention even when she lightly touched Camille's shoulder to get her to stop jigging on the spot.<br />
<br />
They were standing slightly apart from a knot of other attendees who had the uncomfortable expression that normal people always wore when in the presence of a capsuleer, let alone two. Camille had always heard that you should wear black at funerals, but nobody here was. Instead, everybody was wearing white, or green, or blue. It looked more like a sombre party than a funeral to her, except without cake. She fought back a treacherous giggle at the thought.<br />
<br />
She looked around at the temple again. It was a bit more than she could take in easily. They were by an avenue of smooth, neatly dressed stone that led to the front door, flanked by standing stones and trees that sheltered them under an arched ceiling of copper-hung limbs. The temple itself reminded her of a Scorpion-class battleship, with two arms sweeping forward to create a courtyard in front of the main door where a pyre had been neatly stacked. It was built on a mountain shelf, and to one side there was a stunning view over the valley, and the pinkish glow of the rising sun on the mountain peaks opposite. To the other side, a dense forest of evergreen trees that seemed to swallow the light.<br />
<br />
There was another hand on her shoulder and Camille thought she was being stopped from fidgeting again, but the touch was the firm weight of Ami's hand, rather than Cia's light pressure.<br />
<br />
“They're coming.” Ami murmured, nodding towards the long flight of stone steps that led up to the avenue from the plaza at the bottom of the mountain.<br />
<br />
<div>There were sparks there. Five fire torches, just like the ones from the summer festival on Debreth. It was a small procession led by an old man who looked like he should be freezing cold in his robes, but showed no sign of it if he was, who lit the way with a big torch. Behind him came the bier, carrying a man who looked startlingly like Mr. Verin, if Mr. Verin was old, well, really old instead of just old. Mr. Verin himself and three people – a man and two women – that she didn't recognize were guiding the bier as it floated along on four graviton pads, also holding fire torches.<br />
<br />
Mr. Verin caught her eye as he walked past and gave her a little, sad smile and a bit of a wave with the fingers of the hand holding his torch. Camille waved back, but she wasn’t sure he saw before the bier went past.<br />
<br />
The guests fell into line behind the bier as they passed between the temple arms and fell into a crescent around the pyre as the bier lifted itself on top and settled among the dry, oiled wood. The priest and family bowed to the body, followed by the guests. Camille had to hurry a little as it took her off-guard.<br />
<br />
The priest cleared his throat and when he spoke, he spoke softly, but well enough to carry his words to everyone present.<br />
<br />
“We are here to carry out the sad duty that must come at the end of life.” he said. “And to honour Mattias Iroh Kuwabi Hakatain for the life he no longer lives, for the legacy he leaves to us, and persons who will remember him. We pray that his Ancestors receive him in kindness and honour. Please, be silent for a minute to reflect on his life.”<br />
<br />
Heads bowed around the half-circle, and for a minute the only sound on the temple courtyard was the swish and rush of wind in the trees and the cry of a bird of prey as it circled in the frigid morning air. It was broken eventually by the priest, who raised his head again and shook his hands clear of the sleeves of his robe.<br />
<br />
“We are not the Starsmith's creation.” he reminded them. “It is important to remember that the only thing in all of infinity that the Starsmith made is the stars themselves. Everything else that has come since that moment has been an evolution from initial conditions.<br />
<br />
“We are not stars, or planets, or even this blood and bone. We are spirits, luminous minds born from oblivion. The fact that we exist to stand here today to grieve and remember Iroh is a greater miracle than the fact that the stars turn, or the worlds dance. We are creation in its purest and most perfect form, something made from nothing. Impossible, but real nonetheless.<br />
<br />
“The spirit does not wither and die with the body. The body is an ordinary creation, something made from something else, subject to all the laws of entropy. The spirit however, the perfect creation, endures. Living proof that the mind – the soul - exists independent of the body stands here today, among our number. ” he bowed slightly to the small knot of capsuleers at this.<br />
<br />
</div><div>“Death is only a small ending. It is the conclusion of one chapter, but the next begins straight away. Our grief is not for a soul destroyed, but for ourselves, forced to endure bound in the chains of matter and entropy while Iroh is free to join his Ancestors.”<br />
<br />
Here, the priest stepped forward and lifted a clay jar sealed with a wooden stopper, which he removed. Camille caught a powerful scent that reminded her equally of flowers and of Cia's spicy cooking. As he spoke, the priest poured a drizzle of clear oil from the jar all over the pyre. “All his life, this man has been bound in service. He has raised a son and daughters of the Caldari people, successful in their own right. He sought, and found, wealth among the stars and brought prosperity to more than just his own family. Thanks to his selflessness, it is impossible to count just how many people have had their lives improved by his work. His memory is an example to all Caldari of a life well-lived, and his place among the Ancestors will be honoured.”<br />
<br />
He placed his hand over the body's heart, and anointed Iroh's forehead with the scented oil. “Rest, <i>kaashivono haanuu</i>. You are free of your<i> Heiian</i> at last.”<br />
<br />
He bowed to Mr. Verin, who stepped forward and murmured, so quietly that Camille could barely hear him; “<i>Okrikaato useuusai fuzasen yn taisaan.Uaaka haokosen nahui arkuu.</i>” and lowered his torch to the wood.<br />
<br />
Dried timber soaked in flammable oil lit with a fwoomph noise and Mr. Verin took a step back as the flames spread to the whole pyre in seconds until there was nothing to see other than an impenetrable wall of flame. The heat was incredible, even from several paces away, but welcome after the chill they had been standing in for so long. Something in the fuel made the flames burn with a blue edge that made harsh shadows on the walls and on the faces of everyone present. The sweet flowers and spice scent that had come from the jar became powerfully present, but not oppressive.<br />
<br />
Some of the guests stood for only a few seconds before they bowed and started to walk away. In ones and twos, they left the pyre behind, slowly and thoughtfully. Eventually, Cia took her hand and led Camille away as well. Camille wanted to ask her how Mr Verin’s papa could go down the River if he’d been burned up, but Cia’s expression told her that now was not the time for questions.<br />
<br />
Camille glanced back as they went. Verin had sunk to his knees, staring as firelight reflected in the startling blueness of his eyes, and off the wet lines on his cheeks. He was, very faintly, smiling.</div>Stitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13666353309340226068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3086848329609303041.post-23500256890050414212011-06-19T04:46:00.001-07:002011-06-19T04:46:44.696-07:00"Intrusion"<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">He wasn't the person he was pretending to be. Not that it mattered. His imitation was so close that any imperfections could have been passed off as a mood. Even the expression of understanding, complacent boredom with the routine security check was in place and bombproof.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Morning, Pilot Hakatain. I'm afraid Pilot Roth isn't here right now sir.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's okay, I just wanted to drop something off and say hi to the twins.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“We'll need to inspect everything you're carrying, sir.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yep.” and he spread his arms. The briefcase he was carrying was taken away, run through a scanner then visually inspected, then returned without comment. The assortment of stuff in his pockets – a small field medical kit which was confiscated, a steel cigar case full of finest New Caldari tobacco which he was forbidden from smoking, a personal fluid comms unit and NEOCOM, a lighter, a pack of cards, five dice, and a monogrammed leather wallet full of Republic Dollars and hard copy pictures.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">He felt the discreet but extremely thorough multispectral scan of his body as a tingle in his thigh where the complicated lattice of metamaterial pockets disguising the other thing he was carrying carefully deflected and redirected the scan so as to appear that there was nothing unexpected there.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Got a security name for me, sir?”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Suma Kidachi” he replied, and clamped down on his nerves as this appeared to pass muster. “<i>Verin, you really are too easy...” </i><span style="font-style: normal;">he thought </span> </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Lucky number?”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thirty-five.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Any vices I should know about, sir?”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Just the cigars” he said with a bit of a smirk, tapping the pocket they were in.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The security tech nodded and stood aside. “Okay sir, you're clear to visit. We'll inform Pilot that you were here.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thanks Junone. How's your elbow?”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Much better, thank you sir. The exercise you suggested cleared it right up.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thought it would. Let me know if it flares up again.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Will do, pilot.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">He nodded and left the security desk behind to fill in the log book, obviously none the wiser.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It was a simple little “building” really. Set inside a standard cargo container, wrapped in a bubble of simulated environment and the front door opened with a hush to admit him to a place that was at once beautifully and stylishly decorated, and simultaneously a bit of a disaster area, the clear hallmarks of occupation by a child visible everywhere.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The calm, broad-shouldered walk evaporated the instant the door was closed behind him. Suddenly, the body language was ... sharper, more alert, more predatory. His speed doubled, but the weight of his footsteps halved. He trotted across the room, past homework left half-done on the floor, swept a pile of reports and data slates away from a desk terminal, and from the compartment in his thigh produced the first of the two contraband items he'd brought it.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The Universal Data Port on the front of the terminal made the usual solid click as he pushed the data stick in, and both lights came one. He couldn't see it happening, but there was a program on that stick that immediately rocketed into the heart of Ciarente Roth's personal data network and began to hunt down one simple search term with ruthless elegance.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“<i>Roth, Jorion.</i>”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The voice came from behind him, flat and hard. It was female, and punctuated by the “CLICK!-<i>whiiiine</i>” of a pistol's capacitor arming. He hadn't heard footsteps or the door opening. “Pull that fucking thing out right now, Tarn.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">He didn't move except to pinch out the other contraband from his shielded skin pocket.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hands where I can see them. NOW!”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Nanite bomb.”</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">He turned and slowly raised his hands. The object in his right hand, his thumb depressing the dead man's switch on top, wasn't big. It was about as large as a half-used pencil. But it didn't need to be big. Its contents certainly didn't.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">He gave her a moment's silence to think about just what the tiny can full of seeker-shredder nanites would do to this apartment and anybody who entered it for the next week. Her expression never shifted from coolly neutral professional hostility.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Terms. I walk, right now, no funny business, and I take the drive with me.” he told her, pitching his voice quietly, but firm.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">She was smart. Or at least knew her job well enough to do the smart thing. After a moment's apparent consideration she stepped aside to one wall, lowered the gun. Kept her foot pointed right at him though. Very smart. Skilled too, coming up on him all silent like that.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Or maybe just well trained. Same thing in this circumstance.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">He heard a baby start crying upstairs and grinned at the sound. It was a paradoxically genuine, happy smile, not some sadist's rictus or the grim lip-tightening of somebody without a sense of humour. The blonde with the gun didn’t smile back, her unblinking gaze fixed on him with cold calculation.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">He retreated to the terminal, was pleased to see the light on the data stick had turned blue, and tugged it out. Then it was the slow, turning walk past the Roth girl's bodyguard, then out onto the “lawn” where more weapons were being very specifically not pointed at him.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">He wished that he'd thought to include some means to upload the vital data via his NEOCOM, for insurance. Irrelevant now. He made it to the public service transport unit, slipped inside, mentally keyed his NEOCOM to start broadcasting the jamming signal that would prevent StationSec from overriding it. As an afterthought, jammed the data stick into the UDP on the side of the NEOCOM for good measure and rushed an upload that probably wasn't totally secure but that was somebody else's problem now.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">He waited a few long, tense moments but there was no subtle jolt of the transport getting overriden, and when it opened on the hangar deck and his Eris was still there with no sign of an ambush waiting for him, he finally allowed himself a sigh of release and put the nanite bomb back in safety mode.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Three minutes later his interdictor screamed out of the undock corridor in a way that left the docking manager swearing at him. Just before he went to warp, he flushed the bomb, the data disk and the clone out of the garbage airlock. Twelve seconds after his ship had vanished in a blizzard of radiation, another much larger ship slammed to a relative halt on station approach.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">In his pod, Byre Tarn, formerly Byre Hakatain, smiled that same happy smile as he saw the Navy-Issue Scorpion “Arcurio Scar”, briefly register on his directional scanner. The smile broadened just a little as millions of kilometres put that brief glimpse of his older brother behind him. The flare and tugging, falling feeling of a stargate jump multiplied that number a billionfold in an interval that had no describable duration.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Now he just had to figure out if and how to use the Roth girl's data to leverage his colleagues in the FIO.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i>Edited by Ciarente.</i></div>Stitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13666353309340226068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3086848329609303041.post-31786859429265999342011-05-30T07:26:00.000-07:002011-05-30T07:29:17.565-07:00Flashback, part 2: "Briefing"<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><u><b>Pakkonen III</b></u></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><u><b>Corporate ownership:</b></u></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">CBD Corporation – 67%</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Caldari Constructions: 15%</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Zainou Biotechnology: 11%</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Misc. other/Independent: 7%</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><u><b>Planetary Synopsis:</b></u> A standard type 2 Temperate world, colony established YC.98. Currently in colonial stage 5. Pakkonen III has a population of approx. 57.4 Million persons. Estimated unemployed vagrant population – 230K (+/- 3%). Principal exports – metallic ores, bacterial cultures, aqueous liquids, industrial textiles, livestock, luxury consumer products, foodstuffs, petrochemicals, plastics, alcoholic beverages, flora and fungi of potential pharmaceutical significance. Principal imports – human resources, electronics, consumer products, entertainment material, medical supplies, vehicles, Quafe. Capsuleer import/export data not available. Estimated contraband traffic level – very high.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><u><b>CBD-specific information:</b></u> Corporate jurisdiction covers 88% of the planet's population. Corporate colony capital – Yakiya. Other settlements of note – Eristaken, Port 13, Pakkonen Landing, Jesken's Reach, Retikko. 56% of corporate personnel of Pakkonen III colony live in the above-named settlements. Remainder addressed at agricultural or industrial settlements on all continents or sectioned to non-CBD corporate enclaves.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><u><b>Your mission:</b></u> </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i>Primary Objective: </i>Colonial security and policing in city of Jesken's Reach outsourced to private contractors,“Bastion Security Co.” Headquartered intersection of South 18<sup>th</sup> street and Jernau Road. You are to assume role of Spacelane Patrol investigative graduate, sectioned to Bastion Security for observation and protection of investment. Be efficient and competent in handling criminal investigations you are assigned, but project an air of naivety and youth under a professional and serious façade. Make the occasional minor and forgiveable rookie mistake. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The corporation is concerned by the high apparent level of contraband moving through Jesken's Reach. Your primary objective is to investigate possible causes for this above-average volume of smuggling, and especially to examine possible corruption and/or complicity inside Bastion Security. Full liberty is given to exercise your punitive discretion up to and including human resource reclassification, but if Bastion are involved at a level higher than lower-middle management, we would prefer legal action to be brought. Any Guristas, Serpentis, Angels, affiliated or independent criminal cartel operations are to be dismantled through strategic targeting of command structure and/or provocation of gang war. Ceasing contact with Bastion Security permissible if this will further investigation. Code phrase in this eventuality - “Think somebody tried to follow me last night so I caught a taxi home.”. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i>Secondary Objectives: </i><span style="font-style: normal;">Individuals Mejan “King” Kalesti, Irigo “The Reader” Vasten, Akia Junat, Byre Tarn believed to be present on Pakkonen III. See attached dossiers. Eliminate if possible, else secure information concerning movements since April YC110.</span></div><div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i>Tertiary Objective: </i><span style="font-style: normal;">General security monitoring and intelligence, reports to be given weekly unless priority Copper or higher.</span></div><div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><u><b><span style="font-style: normal;">Resources: </span></b></u><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">You have been issued with an apartment (1540 North 11</span></span></span><sup><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">th</span></span></span></sup><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">, Apt. 404), personal funds in local corporate scrip (Equiv. 1.6 ISK), professional expenses account (with handling and approval agent) equiv. 400ISK/quarter. 1 personal vehicle, 4 seats, executive armour modification. </span></span></span></span> </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Also issued: 3x safehouses (Railyard South A, Warehouse 6; 223 West Menenden Av, apt. 104; Spacelane Patrol recruitment showroom, 95 1</span></span></span><sup><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">st</span></span></span></sup><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> street (recruiting staff have Silver clearance, briefed that a CBD corporate agent will use the space above the shop as a safehouse). code in all cases as per your public address. Visit ASAP and change.)</span></span></span></div><div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">Armouries (identical to all three safehouses. Biometric locks with iris pattern scanners already programmed) each containing 1x gauss rifle, 1x projectile shotgun, 1x projectile SMG, 3x projectile handgun, 2x gauss handgun. Ammunition for all, 3x nervejam grenades, 2x fragmentation grenades, 5x thermite demolition charges, 1x nausea gas grenade, 2x smoke grenades, 1x stun gun. 1x complete suit modular armour, appropriate tools and materials for maintenance and repair of above, 1x set of silencers, scopes, customisation options etc for all weaponry, plus workbench. All weapons have full biometric locks and are tagless, all ammunition is rifling-falsified and has no nanotracers. You will be issued with a sidearm and armour by Bastion, to be stored with the Bastion armourer. Do not take your armoury equipment to Bastion HQ with you. Do not take your Bastion equipment to your public address or safehouses. Be aware that all Bastion equipment is nanotagged – return to public address and shower thoroughly after duty, then have housekeeping drones conduct a hypoallergenic clean.</div><div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">Each safehouse also stores one personal vehicle (motorbike). </div><div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">Platinum-grade emergency healthcare at all clinics and hospitals in the city.</div><div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">Fluid-router personal comms device rated for unlimited calls within the State, extraterritorial calls by arrangement with your handling team</div><div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">Personal pocket terminal with HUD contact lens/spectacles support, earpiece, microphone/dermal subvocalisation patch. </div><div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">Replacements for any/all of the above may be paid for by the corporation, or may come out of your expenses account or be docked from your salary, depending on after-action review by your handling team. </div>Stitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13666353309340226068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3086848329609303041.post-58357175644924669892011-05-25T04:33:00.000-07:002012-05-02T10:01:36.526-07:00Flashback, part 1: "A-7"<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The schools of the Caldari State differ in a great many respects. With each falling inside the demesnes of one or another of the eight great megacorporations, and also within the ambit of different catchment areas, with different demographics, under the control of a dizzying variety of subcorporations, education contractors and citizen resources executive control boards, the result is that no two are quite the same. Not least because children inevitably introduce a touch of anarchy to any system.</div>
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The one constant is monitoring. In a society rooted in Meritocratic principles, the argument that each person naturally gravitates towards the role for which they are best suited is subtly aided from a very young age through observation, data mining and the findings of centuries of studies in child psychology. The children who prefer to run around on the padded part of the play yard, throwing the ball around in a vague semblance of the final, adult form of a game are encouraged towards physical pursuits. The ones who cluster at the other end of the yard and buzz around playing Pod Pilot are destined for a life of intellectual education and academia. With subtle labyrinths of extra checks, tests, observations, data points and feedback, the ideal is that a person's life can from a young age be set on the course intended to be most fulfilling to that person.</div>
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Such a system must – and does – account for a staggering variety of burgeoning child personalities.</div>
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The girl's first fight was at age four. A boy knocked her down while running after a ball. Where other little girls her age would have resorted to upset bawling and caused the teacher to reprimand the careless boy, this one picked herself up again and, even with hurt tears clouding her vision, attacked her classmate with such vicious energy that corporate security had to be called. The boy, two teachers and a Spacelane Patrol officer were treated for bites.</div>
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She was a tube child. No parents except in the genetic sense. No home except the creche she shared with other children, none of whom felt comfortable around her after the fight. The problem escalated – they avoided her when they could, ran scared from her when necessary. She responded with violence despite the best efforts of their caretakers to prevent it, which only made the problem worse.</div>
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She was eventually taken out of the creche by a tall woman in a silver-grey greatcoat. The other children, demonstrating the remarkable mental tenacity of the young, soon forgot all about her.</div>
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They took her name away. It had never meant much, having been randomly assigned to her by a computer when she had been born from the tube, but it had been hers. Now, only the initial “A” remained, tagged to the number 7 for identification purposes. She fought at first, refusing to respond to the label, insisting on doing nothing unless called by her name. She quickly found that discipline was a real thing in this new school. Before, “discipline” meant being sent to stand in the naughty corner, or stacking the chairs at days' end before being released to the lonely quiet of the Creche.</div>
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Here, discipline meant a firm slap across the face. She attacked the first person to slap her – she got slapped harder, a ringing blow that left her too dizzy and sick to even stand, let alone try to bite. The approach was simple and made her cry at first in frustrated anger, but unlike the weak bleating of her previous teachers, she came to respect it in time, and appreciate that it wasn't handed out arbitrarily. She was told in clear terms every time what she had done to earn the reprimand.</div>
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She stopped demanding her name and started answering to “A-Seven”. Before long, she became more comfortable with her designator than she had been before. Eventually, she forgot her name entirely.<br />
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Her class numbered more than a hundred children of both genders, all sleeping in one enormous barrack patrolled by armoured persons – she couldn't guess at their sex under the riot armour they wore, and she wasn't allowed to talk to them – whose function was to keep a barrack full of psychopathic pre-teens from each others' throats. Fights were broken up by the simple expedient of hauling the participants apart, binding their wrists and ankles and throwing them onto their bunk to cool down. Bigger fights prompted the use of charged pain prods that left many a child buckled over and mewling in pain. Riots were ruthlessly gassed. A-7 felt the sting of all the various humiliations the guards could give over the years, and by the time she forgot her name at age ten, discipline in the barracks was absolute. </div>
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They were educated, for much longer hours than she had experienced at her dimly-remembered first school. Calisthenics, gymnastics, swimming or running in the morning before breakfast. Physical education theory after breakfast. Gentler lessons in the afternoon, with no apparent theme – biology, chemistry, languages, acting, mathematics, engineering, mechanics, military history, literature, music and more. The lessons were well-taught by engaging, intelligent teachers who made learning fun. Then in the evening – practicals. Some were obvious training for war and killing. Martial arts with bare hands, martial arts with weapons, firearms training, medical training, assault courses, stealth challenges. Others were of no obvious practical benefit to a soldier, which was what they all now believed themselves to be. They learned how to play poker, they staged plays and concerts, they role-played conversations in a host of languages and dialects with assumed personalities and histories, they sat and discussed philosophy with their tutors. </div>
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The day started at 05:00. Breakfast was at 06:20, and lasted an hour, including recreation time. Lunch was at 12:00, again lasting one hour. Dinner was 17:00, lasting half an hour. They had an hour and a half for recreation before bunk time at 22:00. There were no days off and the pace was unrelenting, but the things they did were so varied, and their tutors so skilled, that every day was fun.</div>
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Time progressed. The class splintered into smaller groups as the aptitudes of each child were identified and they were re-assigned into smaller classes to better focus on their fields of expertise. A-7 found that her philosophy lessons came to an abrupt end, replaced with classes on people – how to read their emotions and manipulate them, and how to spot other people doing the same to you and fool them. She enjoyed those. </div>
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Failure had always been an option for the children – right from the first weeks, a few had quietly been removed from the barrack and the big board at the end of the room would have a big red stamp over their designator that simply said “Failed”. Now, it became rampant. The lessons began to encompass more difficult concepts, the practical lessons and exams got much harder. Classmates vanished at a steady pace, their “names” buried under that stern red stamp.</div>
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At age 14 – below the age of consent for CBD and the State, but the normal rules didn't apply to her - she had sex for the first time. K-1 was from a different education group, one which hadn't received the social training she had. He was almost alarmingly easy to seduce, pathetically eager to believe the things she told him. She enjoyed playing his emotions like an instrument, thoroughly enjoyed the physical act itself when she allowed him to think he'd finally convinced her to “go all the way”. She found a perverse pleasure in the sense of superiority she felt when he cried afterwards. She checked his name on the board in the morning. K-1: Failed. She wasn't surprised – instead, she allowed herself a moment of satisfaction at this confirmation that even their most intimate moments were closely scrutinized. </div>
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It also didn't surprise her when later that day, her social lessons discussed sex and seduction, and the power they held for controlling people. “You are all young, and in peak physical condition” the instructor told them. “Unwary persons, and you must remember that the average citizen is not wary of being seduced, will prove remarkably eager to obey your wishes if they are given even a hint that you might reward them with your bodies. We expect that none of you are afraid to couple with whomever you wish, whenever you wish and for whatever reason, nor will you be afraid to enjoy it. But remember – your openness will titillate some persons, and scandalize others. Your behaviour must forward your objective, and if your objective would be threatened by sexual openness, then you must become closed.”</div>
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That objective, of course, was assassination, and by the time that the board in the barrack had dwindled to only a handful of identifiers holding out a grim last stand against a red army, She and the others had all figured it out. None of them minded. There were no more failures throughout her seventeenth year of life, nor her eighteenth. Their practical lessons trained them on investigative procedures for homicide and how to elude identification and capture. They were never called upon to actually kill somebody in training, but they all knew that if and when the time came, none of them would hesitate for an instant. They had been selected, and eliminated, far too carefully and cleverly for that.</div>
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Their graduation was nothing special. They were each given a certificate describing them as “CBD Human Resources Troubleshooting Specialists”. The bland, corporate term described thirteen precision weapons, each one of them capable of telling a direct lie with a perfectly straight face, of assuming a whole new identity, of walking undetected in a crowd, or silent down an empty corridor. Each of them was nearly as lethal with their bare, unassisted bodies as they were with any form of weapon. A-7 was quietly proud that the difference between her best time on the assault course, and her time while wearing an extremely impractical formal dress, were within five seconds of one another.</div>
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They bid farewell to the classmates they had grown up with. It was a quiet, unemotional affair – a handshake and a good luck wish – and then each was off to their assigned posts, complete with address, cover story and cover job for which they were perfectly qualified.</div>
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A-7 was assigned to a lowsec settlement called Jesken's Reach. She had expected a shanty town – she got a thriving city of seven hundred thousand citizens. She had a house, a job with the local security contractors as an investigator, a rank – Lieutenant – and a name. HER name.</div>
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She'd forgotten that name, and felt some mild surprise at seeing it written down again, but not the shock that some gut instinct told her that somebody else might have felt. It made, she realised, a good deal of sense to use a name to which she was at least distantly accustomed to responding. It would help her fit the role a little more naturally.</div>
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Her name was Aato Sihayha. </div>Stitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13666353309340226068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3086848329609303041.post-68750100837143498072011-05-23T19:14:00.000-07:002011-05-23T19:14:03.082-07:00Adjust<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The biggest part of a capsuleer's job is outside of their conscious control.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The human brain is an enormously complicated processor that handles certain types of information with an efficiency and speed that not even the very best quantum computer chips can achieve. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The process is known as "intuition", but what the human brain really is best at is <i>Adjusting.</i></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Throw a ball. Aim to hit a point. The hand moves, adding kinetic energy, fine-tuning a vector in three-dimensional space, adds spin, compensates for wind. Adjusts.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Catch a ball. Calculate trajectory and velocity. Move hand. Time the closing of the fingers, the relaxation of the muscles to rob the ball of kinetic energy. Compensate for relative motion of the thrower and the catcher. Adjust.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Balance on a beam. Predict shifts in weight before they've even properly begun. Clamp down on vibrations which threaten to build up to the tipping point. Adjust.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Fire a gun. Calculate target's motion, lead them. Compensate for wind, intervening cover, confusing intervening motion. Adjust to hit the centre of mass. Adjust grip strength to compensate for recoil. Adjust aim for the next shot. Adjust</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Refine this process a thousand times over. Feed information to the brain. Watch as it makes snap decisions, without any conscious intervention. Watch it decide how things <i>will</i> be or <i>should</i> be as opposed to how they <i>are</i>, adjusts starting conditions accordingly, produces an output.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Feed this output back into sensors and computers capable of a billion times more precision. Analyse. Send back to the brain, which adjusts. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Fire a ship's railgun. Megajoules of power are summoned, meters of gun barrel swung to roughly the right angle. Targeting data is input, refined, adjusted. Smaller, more precise servos in the gun mount fine-tune the angle. Return, refine, adjust. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Microscopic changes to the intensity of the magnetic field in the barrel fine-tune the round's initial trajectory by milliseconds of arc. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Return. Refine. Adjust.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Nanovolts are robbed from one circuit, applied to another. Tracking computer predicts >99% probability that the round will no longer intersect the target's current trajectory.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Return. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Adjust.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Fire.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Target velocity - 3,112.1617m/s. Target distance - 18,004.91415 meters. Target trajectory a complicated relative motion vector in three dimensions. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Tracking computer evaluation: <0.01% probability of hit.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The round has left the breech, 25% of the way along the firing coil, gaining kinetic energy. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Adjust.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">50%.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Adjust.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">75%.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Adjust.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Adjust. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Round leaves the barrel with a muzzle velocity of 0.11<i>C</i>.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Tracking computer evaluation: 3.07% probability of hit.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The target adjusts speed by 0.0022 m/s, adjusts vector by X<+0.001 radians, Y -0.362 radians, Z by -1.18 radians.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Energy flare. Tracking computer retroactive evaluation – >99% probability target hit. </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Gravimetric tactical sensor return. Evaluation: Target well hit. Hull breached.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Radiation flare. Target warp drive loses power.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Target warp bubble implodes. Target destroyed.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">New target command accepted. Aiming.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Calculating preliminary firing solution.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Return.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Refine.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Adjust.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Adjust.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Adjust.</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Fire. </div>Stitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13666353309340226068noreply@blogger.com0