Splintered Reality

By Julie Whitefeather

Eve Online fiction

The Story…

Brighde sat across from her grandfather. A warm fire crackled in the background as a cool evening breeze blew across the barren, rubble strewn remnants of what had been one of the largest battlefields of the Caldari-Gellante War. On a distant rise, an aged Caldari shuttle was silhouetted against one of the twin moons of Caldari Prime.

A strand of Brighde’s strawberry blonde hair blew across her cheek, its color a strong contrast to her dark skin. The color of her hair was, in itself, telling of her French heritage on her mother’s side – going all the way back to the human settlement on Tau Ceti, before they became known as the Gallante. Her dark skin on the other hand, that told her of her father’s heritage every time she looked in the mirror. It was a heritage that traced itself across the centuries, long before the human ever came to the place they called “New Eden” The name itself seemed ludicrous to her – New Eden. Some Eden, she thought to herself. After the collapse of the worm hole that brought them here centuries of war and blight flew across the galaxy; racing the progress of the remnants of humanity to what seemed would be their ultimate extinction.

Across from her the fire played a rhythm of light and shadow on her grandfather’s wrinkled face. The crevices of his dark skin, reminded her of the cracks in the dry plain on which they now sat. Her grandfather’s white hair told of an age that belied the sharpness of his mind. Her grandfather was the keeper of the oral traditions and the history of her father’s people. Her grandfather carried with him the history of thousands of years, stretching all the way back to the Oglala Sioux of the original Earth.

Grandfather and granddaughter stared into the fire for some time. The younger of the two broke the silence first…

“I miss coming to visit grandma”

Without lifting his eyes from the fire, her grandfather spoke to her in an even tone, as he concentrated on the fire.

“Your grandmother still mourns for the loss of her granddaughter. To her you are a stranger who has the memories of her granddaughter. In the time she will understand. You will always have a home here. With that her grandfather pointed to his own heart. Now, he said pausing, What troubles you young one?”

Her grandfather always knew. It was as if he could read her like a book. He always knew when she was agonizing over some fear. He could always tell what it was before she even spoke. It was a bit spooky, really, she thought.

“But granddad, Brighde continued, the angst now more apparent in her voice, I am right here. How can she mourn me if I am not dead?”

“She doesn’t see it that way daughter. To her, her granddaughter died that day her shuttle was blown up as it was preparing to make the warp jump to the Caldari Navel yards.”

Brighde fell into silence. Her grandfather allowed her, her thoughts, waiting for her to continue.

Brighde like it when granddad called her “daughter” . It reminded her of home – of being raised by two Lakota grandparents who still kept the old ways. At least it felt that way…

“Granddad,” Brighde said at last.

“Yes?”

“Who am I?”

This time her grandfather looked up from the fire, and stared directly into her eyes. He smiled. Then said quietly…

“You are yourself.”

Brighde smiled at her grandfather. “Trying to seem mysterious again are we? Or just tap dancing around the issue?”

Harold Blackwolf, her grandfather, her counsel and her consoler, just smiled back.

“You know what I mean granddad. Am I really Brighde or just…”

Here Brighde stopped herself, struggling with the word.

“…a clone, her grandfather finished for her. It is an evil word to apply to a human being.”

With one hand her grandfather picked up an antler from a deer. With it, he poked some of the rocks that glowed at the heart of the fire. “The rocks look as if they are ready now. Are you?”

“Yes.”

With that Harry Blackwolf lead Brighde to the edge of the circle of light cast by the fire. There at its edge, was what appeared at first to be a small mound of dirt. It was actually a mound form by branches and covered with old tarps. At the front was a small flap of canvas that formed a doorway.

Quietly, reverently, the elder Blackwolf turned to his granddaughter and spoke.

“This is what your people called an “innipi” – a sweatlodge.”

“My people,” Brighde said softly. Then she repeated herself …

“…MY people. What will I find inside?”

“Perhaps peace. Perhaps nothing. Maybe yourself.’

 

Brighde found she could only enter the lodge on hands and knees. With humility she crawled inside and felt as if she were entering the planet’s womb. She crawled in and took sat on the hard packed ground around the central pit, where the rocks would be placed.

Light entering from the door cast a small hard of light across the pit. The sweet smell of sweet grass lingered in the air inside the lodge. Her grandfather followed after her and handed her a bucket of water and a dipper. She set those to one side as her grandfather crawled in after her.

Harry Blackwolf took a seat on the opposite side of the pit from his granddaughter, carrying with him two antlers. Reaching out of the tent flap with the antlers, he brought in one of the rocks he had brought from the fire. The rock glowed bright orange against the dull gray of the antler. He moved the rock with the deer antlers. As he did so, he greeted the rock and placed it gently into the central pit. This he repeated several times until the pit held a small pile of rocks. He closed entrance to the small enclosure The canvas doorway closed with a slap against the tarp and a dim red light from the rocks filled the small space inside the lodge. Brighde could barely make out her grandfather’s face on the other side of the circular lodge. Harry Blackwolf rubbed something across each rock which sparked when he did it. A strong sweet smell filled the air.

He asked his granddaughter to greet the Creator and the spirits, introducing herself. When he finished, he took a dipper of water and splashed it on the rocks. Each time he did this a sound like several snakes hissing and plumes of warm steam filled the air. Each time the temperature rose, but not to an uncomfortable level.
Harry began praying, and invited his granddaughter to pray with him. As he did this he splashed water against the rocks. The light grew dimmer and the temperature grew hotter.
“Speak what is in your heart,” her grandfather said to her.
Brighde felt like she was in an Amarr confessional. At first she hesitated. Then she spoke to the air. To no one. To the universe around her. She spoke was in her heart.
When she was done, her grandfather prayed in Caladari, but began singing in the ancient language of Lakota. To her surprise, Brighde understood some of the words. She did not know why. She let herself be carried away by the words of the song. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the sounds…
…of the water hissing every time it hit the glowing rocks
…to her grandfathers soft singing in an ancient language she somehow understood.
…and her mind seemed to drift away, as a vision overcame her.
Brighde saw a woman sitting by a fire with a large tome in her hand. The glare of the evening sun peaked over what was once the forest of her home in the woods. She knew instinctively that the woman was Edelia Blackwolf – her mother. She watched as the sun cast long shadows over the living room floor. The woman dipped her pen an ink well next to her and began writing in the book.

Brighde watched as her mother rubbed her joints as if her reflexes were no longer as fast as they once were; the years having taken their toll. It was as if Brighde could feel what her mother felt.

Taming the far reaches of space, her mother began to realize, was now a game for someone much younger. Brighde felt her mother’s mind wander back to the day she first set foot on her new home world…a rag tag refugee with her child in tow.

There was a time when Edelia looked back on those years in the Caladari Navy, of the adventure, as the “good old days.” Her mind drifted back across the years. Edelia was distracted by a noise that sounded like it was made by the feet of a small heard of ravenous wolves. The noise grew louder behind her. Brighde saw her mother turn around. There was the same beaming face – a face that Brighde, who was seeing the vision – knew was her, only very young.

“Watcha doin’ mommy?”

“Well little one, Edilia answered, I am finishing up that book you asked me to write about my life, and the world your ancestors grew up in.”

“For me?!”

Brighde saw her mother close the cumbersome volume and handed it to her daughter – the young Brighde – with one hand. The book was even more of a burden for one so small, and the child took the book in both arms.

“Thank you sooo much mommy.”

The child set her precious treasure down on a nearby table…ever so gently…as if it would break if she dropped it too hard. No sooner had the book hit the surface of the table then she spun around, laughing gleefully, she ran to her mother and jumped into her arms…confident that she could trust mommy to keep catch her and keep her safe… ‘Just like always…’

The little girl plopped down in Edilia’s lap. She looked up and noticed one small tear slowly making it’s way down her mother’s left cheek.

“Why are you sad mommy?”

“I’m not sad at all little one.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“Because, little Brighde, these are tears of joy. I have fought many battles, long and hard, for treasure….for honor…and I suddenly realized…that YOU…little one…are the GREATEST treasure of all….my ‘pearl of great price.’ I would give up everything for you.”

“But you don’t have to give up anything for me, mommy,’ said little Brighde, “I’m right here”

“…THAT my little love, is why I am crying…THESE are my ‘good old days.’”

Brighde watched the vision. She watched as mother and child sat there enjoying each others presence, as the last rays of sunlight disappeared over the mountains.

 

                                       ————————————

 

 

Before her eyes even opened Brighde lay there half asleep, awakening to feint the sounds of sub-light engines powering up. Part of her told herself she should wake up. The rest of her wanted nothing more than to lie there – where ever she was – and just sleep. Peaceful, carefree sleep. She hadn’t felt this good in – well – ever. The rest of her, the merchant marine part of her, told her she should instinctively want to know exactly why she had awaked to the sound of sub-light engines, when the last thing she remembered, albeit oh so vaguely, was dreaming in a sweat lodge with her grandfather. A dream? Or was it a vision.

It didn’t seem to matter right now. All she wanted to do was drift back into the most peaceful sleep she had ever felt in her life.

Her sense of duty, eventually overcame the overwhelming sense of peace. “Or is it MY sense of duty” she thought as she remembered back to the visions or dreams – what ever they where – of the evening before in the sweat lodge. Or are they the memories of someone else that died at a warpgate? Memories implanted in her head?

She opened her eyes…

…and stared at a cold gray ceiling a few feet in front of her face. There was just barely enough room to sit up. The sound of the sub-light engines faded into the distance, as she sat up and looked around the room. She instantly recognized the drab tan furnishing of the guest billets in a Caladari Naval Station. Outside the rooms only window was her ship – The Hornet.

The Hornet was a decommissioned light cruiser from the Caladari Navy of the Osprey class. Where there had once been 150mm rail guns, there were now mining lasers mounted in their place. The aging missile launcher still worked. At least she thought it did. She had never actually had to use it. In fact she was the only one on board who had ever had any experience using it. Everyone else she sailed with had only read the instruction manual – an instruction manual that, true to Caldari Naval form, was so enormous, that a Gallente grak beast would have had a hard time carrying it. To the casual eye, her ship resembled little more than a large metallic Kiwi bird of ancient earth, lying on its stomach with its large metallic butt sticking up in the air. In fact the people who sailed with her had dubbed it just that – “The Kiwi”. Even from here she could see the large red lettering that had been hand painted on her hull, one night in dry dock, during a drunken “coming home” party after a particularly long mining run. She smiled as she looked at the letter. Whether they were her memories or someone else’s she couldn’t tell the difference. And somehow, after last night, it didn’t seem to matter so much. Friends are friends, and people that sailed with her, where her friends. They were also her family, and her home, as much as the Hornet was her home. She just stared out the window and smiled. Thinking back on the memories of the wild party that night – her memories.

Her reverie was broken by the sound of knocking on the metallic bulkhead that lead into the room.

 

The door to the room slid open with a sound of metal on metal, and the familiar scent of “Old Caldari Frigate” aftershave filled the room. Brighde was not sure why the scent was so familiar, but only knew to whom the scent belonged.

“Hello grandfather, your up early.” She said without turning.

“You aren’t,” came a chucked reply from behind her.

 

 

She turned to face her grandfather. As usual for those time periods when he was off duty, Harry Blackwolf was dressed all in black – lose fitting black pants, and a black shirt with a high collar in the old Minmatar fashion. Back on old earth they called it a ‘naru’ collar. His white hair which had flowed loosely about his shoulders during the sweat lodge ceremony was not pulled into a tight pony tail which hung down the middle of his back.

He smiled at his granddaughter and crossed to the room’s only table, setting down the extraordinarily thing and gleaming stainless steel briefcase that was so popular on Amarri Prime these days.

Brighde pulled the tie of her silk robe tighter around her, which pulled the ancient Minmatar design on its back straight. She crossed over to the table and sat down across from where her grandfather stood.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

She glanced over her left shoulder at the illuminated numbers which appeared to be floating in the middle of the large glass picture window that looked out onto the Caldari Naval shipyards.

“It’s only o’six hundred just now?” she said.

Harry Blackwolf opened his briefcase and pulled out a leather envelope. The envelope bore the seal of the Amarri priesthood – that of New Rome itself. He set the leather envelope in the middle of the table and sat down opposite his granddaughter.

“I mean,” he continued, you may be up early for Tuesday but you are not up early for Sunday.”

“Tuesday?” Brighde said in a surprised tone, “Its Tuesday? I have been asleep for three days?”

“You needed the sleep, he smiled, after all your only one week old – in a certain sense of the word. It may take you some time to adjust to your new life.”

“It still feels like I have someone else’s memory in my head, Brighde said with a yawn. Its very confusing. Are these my memories or those of some dead woman who was podded at the Altar star gate where she was waiting to jump into the Gelfiven system? Am I thirty standard terran years old or one week old?”

Harry Blackwolf reached across the table and put his large hand on Brighde’s shoulder in a very fatherly fashion.

“For now, He said, just be. In time the answers will find you.”

 

There was another knock on the door Brighde sat there watching the seal of New Rome staring up at her as her grandfather cross to answer the door. The door slid open once again and a very young Caldari Yeoman stood in the doorway holding a tray with a covered dish and a large carafe.

“Thank you,” Harry told the yeoman.

“You are welcome father” came the polite reply.

                              ————————————

Coffee..

Coffee was first discovered on old Earth. As time went on, and the history of old Earth faded into legend, so too did the use of the coffee bean. For it was there that some people first heralded its use as the cause of the greatest grievances of mankind. To many, its use became attributed to the decay of both moral fiber as well as that of body and spirit. And so its use faded into the past along with things like cigarettes, absinthe and cyclamate.

That is, until it was rediscovered one day by a dragnar herder on Tau Ceti, long before the worm hole that separated Earth and Eve closed forever.

Legend has it hat the dragnar herder saw his bucks particularly energetic after eating small brown berries off a bush. Keep in mind that the average dragnar spent the bulk of its life sunning itself in the warm Tau Ceti sunshine of its equatorial regions – the primary place it called home. In fact the average dragnar spent 80 percent of its life sleeping, another 10 percent eating and the remaining time getting fat from the previous two activities. After about several months of eating the beans, the herder noticed the average dragnar slept about 30 minutes a day, lost more than 50 percent of its body weight, and generally became an agonizing pain to take care of.

One morning, the herder complained of the affect on his heard to an Amarri monk of his acquaintance. This particular monk had a difficult time staying awake during the long hours spent in prayer by his order. It was this monk that spread its use throughout the Amarri priesthood. But it was, at first, a closely guarded secret.

It was a Minmatar infantryman who first let the proverbial cat out of the bag – or in this case, the bean out of the pot. The infantryman was in service of the same Amari priesthood that guarded the secret. When the day came that he left the service of the priesthood, a coffee plant left with him.

The use of coffee eventually became widespread among the Minmatar tribes, where its use took on special meaning. Ceremonies developed surrounding its use and became known to outsiders as the Minmatar coffee pouring ceremony. It is a special ceremony – a celebration of the individual. It is an acknowledgement that each time they met a person that the experience is unique in itself and will never come again.

 

A ceremony that Harry Blackwolf was about to perform for his granddaughter.

The door clanged shut behind Harry Blackwolf. As he crossed the room incense burning in a small bowl drifted behind him, its small clouds filling the room with the smell of sweet grass.

Harry sat at the table opposite Brighde who watched in silence as her grandfather began. She smiled. No words were spoken. Behind her the sounds coming from the repair dock seemed to fade away as her mind focused on the ancient ceremony.

He took a ladle of the large tray and poured water over each of his hands, holding them over a bowl. When her grandfather was finished, Brighde repeated the same action, ritually cleansing her hands as well.

A feeling of warmth grew inside Brighde as she watched her grandfather remove the six bowls of food from the tray, setting them on the table in an order determined by age old tradition. To one side he set a bowl of kosuio, a simple clear broth to cleanse the pallet.

Harry paused, smiled at his grand daughter, the placed a large bowl in front of him, next to it he place a small whisk. Using a small white cloth, Harry ritually cleansed the bowl. Brighde watched her grandfather’s careful inspection of the bowl, and folding of the cloth, the look on his face telling of his state of concentration and meditation. Then her grandfather opened a stoneware jar, the smell of coffee filling the air as he scooped the fine powder into the bowl. Carefully, he poured water from the carafe, so hot it was boiling as it slowly filled the bowl. As her grandfather stirred the hot brown liquid, the earthy smell of coffee filled the room.

Brighde closed her eyes, the smell bringing her mind and her senses back to a place from her childhood. A place she knew she had never been to, yet was familiar to her all the same…

                                             —————————

“…and so the frog says to the Jovian ambassador, ‘would you believe it started out as a wart on my ass?’” said Harry Blackwolf, as the laughter of his deep,  soothing voice filled the room.

 

Brighde shook her head, trying to clear the thick ‘fog’ that had settled over her.  It was as if she was waking from a long sleep.  She looked at the table.  The dishes from the coffee pouring ceremony had been cleared away.   Her grandfather sat on the opposite side of the table, beaming back at his granddaughter.

 

“More coffee?” he asked cheerfully.

 

“…umm. Ya! Sure, granddad.”

 

Brighde looked around with what is known in military circles as ‘the thousand mile stare’.  She watched as her grandfather poured her another cup of coffee from the gleaming white ceramic carafe that had been used in the ceremony.  Steam rose off the deep rich brown liquid.  That, was the last thing she remembered.

 

“What just happened here?” she asked her grandfather slowly.

 

“Well, at first I thought that look on your face was a reaction to my rather droll sense of humor. Lost a bit of time did you?”

 

“Yes, Brighde said as she blew across the top of the coffee that filled the stoneware mug. But not to much, I think, the coffee is still hot.”

 

“Well, time will tell dear.  But I would venture a guess that it is more than just a momentary blackout.  Sometimes sights, sounds and smells – especially old familiar ones – evoke memories.  In your case it might be a memory, and it  might be more. Time will tell.”

 

If the hot coffee that Brighde sipped didn’t bring her back to reality, the shrill sound of the claxon going off did.   It’s sound filled the small room and echoed in the hallway.  That familiar sound was something she reacted instantly to – it meant the station was under attack.

 

Instincts took over. Coffee sloshed over the top of the mug and spilled onto the table as she slammed down her mug.    The chair toppled over backwards as she leapt to her feed and raced toward the closet, and her waiting flight suit.    In her momentary lapse into habit she didn’t even notice that her grandfather didn’t seem the slightest bit unnerved by the alarm.

 

“Hang on there. Where do you think you are going?” came her grandfather’s calm voice behind her.

 

“But the station…” Brighde began.

 

Harry Blackwolf cut her off, “…can take care of itself.  Where do you think you are going in a ship that is in pieces?” 

 

Brighde followed her grandfather’s look out the window at her mining ship.  The light Caldari Cruiser was being refitted and was still in the middle of the refit.

 

Her grandfather’s calm voice soothed her jangled nerves.  “Put your clothes  on daughter and join me on the observation deck. I will meet you there in a few moments.”

 

With that Harry simply smiled, scooped up the leather envelope from the table and strode out of the room.  The claxon from the hallway blared louder as the door opened for her grandfather and then shut behind him.

 

It took her mere moments to through on her clothes and join her grandfather on the observation deck, which was one floor above.  She rushed into the room to see her grandfather looking out the large picture window that filled the far wall of the room.  This was meant as a lounge for visitors to the station.  It was filled with overstuffed chairs and had a warm comfortable feeling to it.  It was very un-military in feeling and obviously meant for civilian visitors to the station, such as herself.   One of the central features to the room was the close circuit television screens that filled one end of the long rectangular room.   The screens showed pictures from all over the station.  Below it  a speaker, normally meant to entertain visitors with the voice of the stations space traffic controllers, blared a warning.

 

“…unidentified craft.  This is your last warning.  You have committed a criminal act in controlled Caladari space.  Stand down immediately or we will open fire.”

 

Outside two ships orbited each other,  in a silent ballet in the airlessness of space.  Streaks of light flashed from a mining cruiser, a modified osprey class ship much like her own.  The streaks of light from what was no doubt the cruisers only weapon, streamed past a destroyer that orbited opposite her.  The  projectile from the ships hybrid turret falling wide and to the destroyer’s starboard side.  The cormorant class destroyer returned fire with deadly accuracy.  Three rocket volleys followed, one on top of another, and hit the osprey broadside.   The shields of the large classed osprey held, and the oval light simply shimmered as the rockets impacted on the shields.

 

This last volley from the destroyer followed the final warning that blared over the observation decks speakers.  In response Brighde and her grandfather heard a deep throated whoosh from somewhere below them in the lower part of the Caladari Naval Station.   A moment later the citadel torpedoes impacted on the destroyer.   Brighde and her grandfather each through a hand over their face and turned their heads to one side to protect their vision from the blinding flash of light.  When the light subsided all that was left was floating debris where the destroyer had once been.

 

Harry Blackwolf now looked at his granddaughter.  A very grim look crossed his normally jovial face as he addressed his granddaughter.  Holding out the leather envelope he handed it to Brighde.

 

“It is time we discussed these,” he said.

 

                                           —————————-

 

“Letters of Marque!” screamed the executive officer, jumping to his feet.  Then he repeated himself, unnecessarily, even louder this time, also unnecessarily.

 

“Letters of Marque?”

 

From behind him, a calmer voice broke in.

 

“Exec, letters of mark are an old earth tradition.  They allow a civilian ship to…”

 

William “Will” Littlefoot, the executive officer cut off his chief mechanic, making no attempt whatsoever to hid the exasperation in his voice.  In fact he seemed to be making a bit of an effort to add a bit more back in.

 

“For heavens sake Frank, I know what the hell letters of Marque are!  That’s not the point. Now he turned on his captain. The point is we’re a mining ship. We mine asteroid fields, not lay mine fields!”

 

He glanced down at the thick leather envelope that lay in the middle of the table, and back to his captain, who had put the envelope there a moment before.  The he continued.

 

“I’d ask who we’d be fighting for but I can see the seal of New Rome on the front of the letters.  Are the Amarri trying to convert people to ‘the faith’ at the point of a gun again? We’re a Minmatar civilian vessel. Why are even involved!”

 

A hushed silence came over the room.  Captain and executive officer stared at each other.  Still holding her executive officer’s eyes, Brighde Blackwolf addressed the chief mechanic.

 

“Frank”

 

“yes ma’am” he answered in a thick Caladari accent.

 

“Frank,” Brighde continued, “do you still have that TIG welder?”

 

“Yes’m” came the polite reply.

 

“Frank, I wonder if you could fix the hole in the ceiling above the exec’s head.

 

“Ma’am?” The chief mechanic asked dubiously.

 

For it was apparent to all in the room that there was no such hole in the old briefing room ceiling where they discussed ship’s business.

 

Now a wry smile crossed Brighde’s face.

 

“Well it seems, as usual, she said glancing over to her mechanic and then turning back to her executive officer, that they only exercise our executive officer is getting is from jumping to conclusions.  He seems to do it so often there must be damage to the ceiling by now.

 

Laughter passed around the room on the faces of all the ships company present. It took a moment for the executive officer to catch the laughter; but after a moment he too caught the mood.  He heaved himself back into his chair, laughing at his snap judgment along with everyone else.

 

Once the laughter died down, Brighde addressed all present; not as crew, but as friends.

 

“Look, she said, maybe we’re a mining ship, but its also a decommissioned light cruiser from the Caladari navy.  An old war horse…”

 

“…More like an old war pony” Exec cut in.

 

Once more laughter rounded the table.

 

“Ok. War pony, Brighde continued with a chuckle.  But it used to be a military ship.  She has seen military service, just like all of you have seen military service as well.”

 

Brighde paused, looking around the table.

 

“Will,” she said looking at her executive officer, “you and I served on the same ship together.”

 

“We did,” came the curt reply.

 

“Frank, she continued, You’ve had more military experience than the rest of us put together. You’re retired Caladari navy.  You were a chief petty officer.  I don’t think there is anything that you couldn’t fix.”

 

“Aye, you’ve got the right of that,” Frank replied with a smile.

 

Brighde looked around the table at her crew.

 

“ There isn’t one of you here that hasn’t seen some military service.”

 

Suddenly a gruff female voice broke in from a woman standing at the back of the room, partially hidden in the shadows outside the Bright pool of light that illuminated most of the briefing room table.

 

“There is one person that hasn’t seen military service – me” said the voice.

 

The voice came from Samantha ‘Sam’ McPherson, otherwise known as ‘Gunny’.  . 

 

“We all know how you got your nickname Gunny,” Brighde said, smiling at the woman who was her oldest and dearest friend. (or was she the ‘other’ Brighde’s oldest and dearest friend she thought to herself?).

 

‘Gunny’ McPherson got her nickname from her reputation of being able to shoot the antennae off a frigate with nothing more than a home made slingshot.  Most obviously quite impossible.  But the skill she constantly demonstrated sometimes left her ship mates wondering.  Gunny manned, or ‘womaned’ as she often put it, the ships sole means of defense from pirates as they mined the asteroid fields of Minmatar space – and aged 200mm autocannon.   It was not the skill that the crew questioned but rather its dubious source that gave them pause.

 

Brighde gave a wink to her friend and made reference to the source of that skill as she went on…

 

“…yarr” Brighde said doing her best impression of a B holoshow pirate.

 

Most around the room laughed.  A few of the laughs were a bit nervous.  Gunny had never done anything to give her crewmates a bad impression.  She was dependable.   That above all was one of her best characteristics.  If the ship was going down, she was one of the crew members that could be counted on to go down with it.   Yet stereotypes have a habit of staying with someone, even when they are not deserved.  The fact that she had once seen the seamier side of life, at times, made her crewmates worry.  They wondered if she might one day one day join in the pirates that she spent her time protecting them from as they plied the byways of the asteroid fields.

 

The slight tension that filled the room was broken by the exec.

 

“No matter what the reason, we shouldn’t be fighting for the Amarri.  They were the ones who once held our ancestors as slaves.  With this he looked Brighde straight in the eyes.  You’re ancestors and mine he said.”

 

The exec had a habit of restating himself and he did it again as he slammed his had down on the table, palm downward.

 

“They’re Amarri.  We shouldn’t be fighting for them.”

 

With this he raised his voice a bit and continued, standing up.

 

“The REAL Brighde never would have…”

 

The second the words left the executive officers mouth he knew he never should have spoken them.  Brighde was a clone.  He knew it, the whole crew knew it.   Yet among those people who held dangerous jobs it was commonplace to hire the medical laboratories around galaxy to produce one – medical facilities that had become commonplace for just this reason.  They specialized in it.  They were good at it.   Each clone was a perfect duplicate of the original, right down to the memories.  It was also an experience that those who were clones never spoke of.   It was the something that was not spoken of.  Not in polite society.  Not in any sort of society.  Not so much because the subject was taboo as much as those who had this experience would not speak of it.

 

People who weren’t clones couldn’t relate to being ‘born’ that way. Some understood. Some didn’t.  But bigotry aimed at clones was something that ran through society like an undercurrent.   It was obvious to someone who was a clone when someone else hated them for it.   It was never that obvious – bigotry, after all, is usually unpopular.  Few people thought of themselves as bigots.  Even those who did, didn’t want others to think of them that way.

 

Brighde was just getting used to the way people who knew she was a clone treated her.  To the average person who passed her on the street she was just another Minmatar.   She rarely thought of herself as good looking even when others did.  The reason was the negative reinforcement from those around her who did know she was a clone.

 

It showed in many ways.  Like the people who refused to get on the station’s lift with her. It shown on the faces of  people who would be walking along the corridors of the Caladari naval station, talking with one another and laughing – only for the laughter to die and the smile fall away from there faces as they looked at Brighde.

 

If the room was tense before, you could now hear a pin drop as silence fell over the room.  The crew waited for their captain’s reply.

 

In the pause that ensued, the sounds of the ship’s refit could be heard through the hull.

 

Brighde said quietly, still looking at the exec, “I think we are done here.”

 

One by one, the crew filed out of the briefing room, leaving only one person, standing at the back of the room – Gunny.

 

Gunny walked over to the table and sat next to Brighde.  Then she did something most of her crewmates would consider very uncharacteristic.  She gave Brighde a big hug.   She sat back and smiled at Brighde.  Gunny also had another trait she was known for.  She was a very, very good listener…

 

****

 

 

“The pod-pilots/ Capsuleers are the elite of Eve Society.  The chosen few who decide their own fate and often that of others, with the buying power of small countries and the military might of nations…they are the rock-stars of the Eve universe. Normal people look upon them with awe, and those in power regard them with often envy, discontent and fear…”  – Torfi Frans

 

As a pod pilot, Richard “Rick” Sirrelli was, in fact, none of these things.

 

He was not famous, though he desire to be. He was not a “rock star” – in fact he wasn’t even popular.  Quite the opposite in fact.  He was not looked on with awe, respect and certainly not fear.   This last outlook most people shared of him, however, was due mostly to something Rick Sirrelli had in abundance – conniving.  As a result, few people know the real side of Rick.  If they did, they certainly would have feared him.  For in addition to conniving, he was ruthless and mean as a snake.

 

As a pod pilot the one thing he wasn’t lacking was girth.   He is the only known pod pilot to have necessitated a custom made pod to accommodate both his enormous girth and the additional synapses in his brain.  This last quality was both the key to his reasonable degree of success in racing, and also indicative of what he had, more than anything else – connections. 

 

He had connections in abundance, and not just the kind he had hard wired into his head However, the implants he begged, borrowed and stole – mostly stole – attributed  more toward his success than he would even admit to himself.   In fact where connections were concerned, it was well known in the Amarri underworld that if Rick Sirrelli couldn’t steal or smuggle it, it probably didn’t exist.

 

The single, solitary exception was also the key to his single greatest ambition, as well as being the source of his greatest aggravation.  It kept him up nights.  It was a part of a warp drive engine.  Not just any part, no.  It was a hyper spatial ion driven capacitor.

 

The crux of the matter of the matter was this –  micro warp engines were what made space ships go fast.  It made them go very, very fast. Incredibly, astoundingly fast.  Micro-warp engines drained a capacitor, the source of their power, faster than a man dieing of thirst drains a glass of water.   This last factor, was what limited the size with which anyone could practically use a micro warp engine in a space craft.  It was why, for instance, you could not use a 100mn micro warp drive, normally made for use on a battleship, on a racing frigate.  What limited the use of such an oversize engine on such a small craft is that the power drain on the frigate’s tiny capacitor would move the frigate about a foot and a half.  True it would move it that foot and a half very, very fast.  But a foot and a half was about all that it would move.  But what if there was a capacitor that powered the craft took a long time to drain.  What, in fact, if that capacitor were nearly bottomless?

 

An engine powered by such a capacitor could win races.  It could also control the by-ways of space.  It meant speed with very little bottom end.

 

And in all the universe, such an engine part existed in only one place – and the use to which it was now put galled him no end.   It was used for mining.   It was currently mounted on an aged light cruiser of the osprey class,  captained by one Brighde Blackwolf.   The hell of it is, he often told himself, is that she didn’t even know she possessed such an astounding bit of technology.  Neither, it seemed, did that old fool of a chief mechanic of hers.

 

But he couldn’t exactly make what it was publicly known.  The instant it was known exactly what it was, he would never be able to obtain it.   The Caladari navy, which had created the part, had long since lost track of it.   The engineer who had once fitted it on a light cruiser for testing, had met with a terrible culinary accident when the third course of his evening meal blew him to smithereens.  Sadly, the only copy of his notes, which he was reading at the time, perished along with the man himself and his evening meal.  The light cruiser had been sold off by the navy  as military surplus.

 

Originally he had tried to purchase the craft, but the bitch who owned it wouldn’t sell.   He tried to blow her up as well, but it didn’t do much good.  Like a bad penny, she kept  turning up.  This last time was at a Caladari Naval yard where her ship was undergoing a refit.  When he found her again, he hired someone to try to take the ship, and it’s precious part by force.   As it turns out, not only did the fool he hired have the wrong ship, but he got himself blown in to such small parts  they had to scrape him off the walls of the space station.  

 

But this must have been his lucky lifetime for Rick Sirrelli had just found out that one other connection he had may be the key to getting his grubbly, meaty, sweaty hands on ever elusive capacitor.  The connection was someone he knew.  That someone was none other than Charlie Dau’fin,  champion of the great racing circuit at New Rome.

 

***

Charlie Dau’fin, was known as “The Dolphin”.  This was  not so much for his long bottle like nose (although his detractors would tell you this was the case) as much as for the speed and grace with this his ship moved – much like the ancient earth creature for which he was nick named.

 

Whatever you thought of The Dolphin (or simply “Dolph” as his friends came to know him) there was no denying one thing.  He was the absolute and supreme champion of the great circuit race in New Rome, at the heart of the Amarri Kingdom.  He had won the race more times in a row than any other racer in the 100 year history of the race.

 

There was one thing he was not.  Well – he actually was. The thing is, he denied himself to be this one thing, because in the elite Amarrian circles in which he moved.  That one thing is that he was the hereditary tribal leader of the Minmatar Nation.  He wanted nothing to do with it.  He was a champion   He was famous. People looked up to him (in fact his six foot five height forced people to look up to him).

 

The Minmatar on the other had been slaves of the Amarri.  Many still were.  They were the lowest class of Amarri society, a society of which he was very much a part. He had long ago abandoned both his heritage and his name.

 

***

The doors of the commissary slide open and in steps William Littlefoot, formerly the executive officer of  mining ship “Hornet”.   At the moment blissfully unaware of his status as “former” executive officer,  he rushes across the room like a man with a mission – which, also unknown to Will Littlefoot, he no longer has.  The progress of the harried man is watched all the while by Samantha “Gunny” Mcpherson, also formerly of the mining ship Hornet.  The difference between the two, at least for the immediate future, is that Gunny is well aware of her “former” status, and is allowing Will to rush around the commissary heedlessly.

 

That difference is about to change however.   While Will  is soon to know of his opportunity to explore new ways to fill his time, a new difference will arise.  This being that Gunny is far less concerned with her future employment opportunities.  As Will Littlefoot rushes headlong toward his objective – a fast meal on the run, before heading down toward what he believes is the still waiting Hornet – he is caught up short by the sight of Gunny Mcpherson, sitting nonchalantly at a table off to one side of the commissary.

 

“What are you doing here?” Will says, not hiding the note of irritation in his voice.

 

A slight smile crosses Gunny’s face. Without looking up from her plate she replies.

 

“Eating my breakfast, what does it look like I am doing?”

 

“That’s not what I mean and you know it. What are you STILL doing here?”

 

Now Gunny looks up at Will, the calm look on her face causing her former executive officer’s irritation to grow by the second.  She pauses, to make sure he is good and irritated before she continues, in the same vein as before, pointedly ignoring the point he is obviously trying to make.

 

“Because it’s a nice place to eat breakfast.  The prices are reasonable and the food is good.”

 

A silent pause passes between the two former shipmates.  Though the silence takes only a moment it seems to fill all space itself.  Will walks over to the table, trying to his best to look menacing.   This is a feat, which, when directed toward a woman who was a formerly a pirate (and to the thinking of some people perhaps not so “formerly”) – who had on occasion threatened to reach down her executive officer’s throat, grab his ass and turn him inside out – is perhaps one of the most wasted attitudes that William Littlefoot could have affected at the moment.

 

“What…”, he said quietly, leaning over the edge of the table, close enough for Gunny to easily take note of the veins on his neck bulging to such an extent that they appear that they may even pop out of his neck altogether.

 

“….aren’t..”, Will continues, pausing after each word in his vain attempt at emphasis that will instill fear in Gunny McPherson.

 

“..you” He says, now edging even closer.

 

“…on….board?”

 

“Because,” replies Gunny, looking up at Will and smiling in as condescending a manner as possible, “the ship has already gone.”

 

Another moment passes, as the shock that Gunny had so carefully tried to instill in her former executive officer has the desired effect.

 

“What?” says Will eventually.

 

“I…” here she pauses, then continuing in a mocking tone.

 

“…said…,” she says pausing again.

 

“That the ship has already gone. Departed. Disembarked.  Hit the starry highway for parts unknown.” Gunny said. Then she calmly goes back to her breakfast.

 

“She’s gone? The ship is gone? Where? How can she just take the ship and go? She can’t do that!”

 

“Sure she can.  Maybe you can’t fly a ship single handedly but Brighde is a pod pilot and The Hornet was once a light cruiser in the Caladari Navy – a military ship.  It was originally set up to be flown by one person.”

 

Another moment of silence pauses as the sudden and drastic change in William Littlefoot’s life sinks in.  Unbidden, he sits at the table opposite Gunny.  Gunny pushes her plate to one side.  Smiles and takes an orange out of the bowl of fruit in the middle of the table.  She begins pealing the orange, carefully working the peal away from the fruit so it stays in one piece.  The job is soon finished and she drops the orange peal, still in one piece, on her plate.   With this, she slides the bowl of fruit across the table toward her former exec.

 

“Apple.”

 

“No thanks,” Will replies, shaking his head, more to shake off his disbelief of the situation than to turn down Gunny’s offer of fruit, “Suddenly I am not hungry.”

 

“It wasn’t a question. It was a comment.” She says to Will with a slight sneer.

 

“What?” comes the reply, Will now looking at gunny with a puzzled expression on his face.

 

“It’s not an offer of breakfast, its an name, more of an adjective really.”

 

The puzzled look on Will Littlefoots face remained.  It was a look that told Gunny instantly that he knew even less of his own tribal heritage than she thought he did.  Gunny continued, Will rapt in attention more out of a desperate need for something, anything to hold on to now that his entire world had suddenly been whisked away from under him like some ephemeral rug.

 

“Back on ancient earth, Gunny said, we there was a name for people like you.  In my tribe we still use if for people like you – apple.”

 

“I don’t….” began Will before he was promptly cut off by Gunny.

 

“…you don’t understand. Of course you don’t.”

 

Here Gunny picked up an apple. Took a large bite out of it and held it in Will’s face, the white center of the bite toward his face, in contrast to the rich red outside of the apple

 

“Look at it, she said,  it’s red on the outside but white on the inside – just like you.”

 

Now Will was mad all over again.  As he understood the comparison he became furious and started to rise from the table. 

 

“Sit down.” Gunny said, her voice deadly serious.

 

Gunny had that way about her that, in moments like these, made it readily apparent to all around her that she had spent many years of her long life plying space as a pirate.  The command that she gave her former executive officer made him certain that those days were, perhaps not as far behind her as he had supposed.

 

“You may have ignored Brighde,  Gunny continued, but you re NOT going to ignore me.  If you walk out on me before I am done, you will only be able to hobble out.”

 

Another pause.  The entire works of William Shakespeare could have been written in what SEEMED to be the duration of this pause.

 

“Brighde gave you a chance to help our people.  Not just her people, not just my people, not just your people.  OUR people. All Minmatar.  You never even heard her out.”

 

Now Gunny pointed to an Ammarrian merchant, on the other side of the commissary. He was dressed to impress all those around him with his obvious wealth.

 

“Do you see that man?  His grandfathers OWNED our grandfathers.  We were chattel. Property. Hell our grandfathers may as well have BEEN cattle.  Some of our people are still slaves and not just to Ammarians.  Now maybe you don’t give a damn about that but I do.”

 

Will opened his mouth to speak but changed his mind and let Gunny continue.

 

“…and when someone gives me a chance to end that slavery.  When I am given a chance to help out people, and just MAYBE unite all of the tribes.  Maybe kick out  those who have kidnapped our people for centuries.  Well I don’t really give a damn who is footing the bill.  Even the First Holy Church of New Rome.”

 

Finally Will worked up the courage to reply.  Having regained something of his composure he looked Gunny right in the eye.

 

“Maybe your people,” he said, “Maybe my people, but not HER people.”

 

Now it was Gunny’s turned to look shocked – as well as disgusted.   She knew what he was getting at but wanted to hear the words come out of Will’s own mouth.

 

“Come on…” she started.

“No. I mean it. Will continued firmly.  You know it as well as I do.  Her father may have been Minmatar, but her mother was Gallente.  She isn’t even full blooded Minmatar. She isn’t part of the tribe.”

 

Now Will was hot.  He snatched the apple out of gunny’s hand.

 

“Apple is it, he said, now raising his voice at Gunny.  Apple? Well at least I am all red, not just half of me.”

 

Gunny let Will rant on, not the least bit intimidated. Now the entire commissary stood still, as Will continued, now shouting.

 

“Hell she’s not even Brighde any more – just some DAMNED CLONE.”

 

 

***

The ship looked fast, but that was only because it was fast…astoundingly fast, amazingly fast, stupendously fast…at least at sub-light speeds.  At hyper light speeds? Well, that was another matter altogether. At hyper-light speeds it was like pushing an elephant across the rug on its nose.  It was lucky if it could make a jump to the end of the docking bay let alone to the end of solar system.   For all that, it was still impressive.  True, next to the big Caladari military ships, such as the Scorpion class battleship in the bay just opposite, the ship could have been a gnat on same said elephant’s backside.

 

But it was all hers. 

 

Every pirate that was “retired”,  and due to the very nature of the business that was damn few, had a bit of something extra set aside.  Usually most pirates found themselves forcibly retired, and quite often out an airlock.  

 

The frigate had cost her most of what she had set aside.  It had an overcharged hydrocarbon microwarpdrive and an overdrive injection system.  However it also had a nanofiber hull and bulkheads.  Very light, but very fragile. Basically a  very fast egg that could make the jump to hyperspace.   It was a modified  Amarrii frigate, executioner class.

 

 It floated in the docking bay like two gleaming golden fangs held together by a cramped passenger compartment.   The ships principal, and at least for the time being, only occupant squeezed herself into the pilots acceleration couch.  It was a tight fit for her six foot one frame at best.  Normally frigates of this size were a bit more roomy.  The modifications however, took up a great deal of the passenger quarters.  The result was a ship that, rather than being something you got IN to was more properly viewed as something you put on, like a shoe – a very fast, very expensive shoe.

 

Gunny…no, she thought to herself, not Gunny.  That part of her life was over (or so she thought at the time).   New life, new name she thought. Back to being “Sam” like her mum used to call her. 

 

“Dear old mum,” she said aloud to no one in particular as she looked around the interior of the frigate, “God bless her weasel-like, thieving, black heart.”

 

The passenger compartment was very Spartan, but then, so was her pilot.   Two people could comfortably bunk inside. That is, if they were the sort of people to whom comfort meant sleeping on cold nonofiber and using the bulkhead for a pillow  and having to open the engine compartment to have a place to stick your feet – which, Sam did have to do, being as tall as she was.   Indeed, her mother had often told her that if she didn’t have so much body turned down for feet, she would have been another foot taller.    It was, in fact,  these same large feet that required specially made boots.   The boots, like the ship were terribly expensive, and difficult to find.   They were, she said to herself, the same boots that she would put up the back end of the person,  whomever he or she was, that was currently pounding on the hull of her frigate.

 

Several agonizingly uncomfortable, body twisting  moments, that would have made any contortionist proud, she managed to race to the hatchway.  She peered out the portal to find out what in blue blazes was so urgent that whomever it was, needed to pound so hard that she thought they  would pound their way through.  

 

Unable to see who it was she popped open the hatch to find the source of the pounding, which stopped the moment the hatch opened.

 

The source of the pounding was Will Littlefoot, whom appeared “fit to be tied” as grandmother used to say; and the way Sam felt about Will at this point, she would be more than happy to oblige him.   Before she could voice any objection,  Will launched into a tirade over whatever it was he felt was worth having a tirade over.

 

“You said the ship was gone!” he screamed.

 

She was about to answer what turned out to be a rhetorical question, for it would soon become obvious that her former executive officer felt he had the answer to his own question.  Like an ill wind that blew no good, she felt it was best just to wait out the storm – storm Littlefoot.

 

“You said the ship was gone! he screamed again needlessly.

 

It was needless for two reasons.  Initially  for the fact that Sam had heard him in the first place (as indeed had most of this end of the docking bay and, she thought idly, perhaps anyone who may be on the planets surface below them may have as well)  The second reason was that she had expected this conversation,  but just not so soon.  She let “Hurricane Littlefoot” blow on.

 

“You said the ship was gone, but I just saw it in docking bay eleven.   It isn’t gone, its just been moved.  What are you trying to pull? What is going on?”

 

“I said…she said pausing before she continued, that the ship was gone and so it is.  I didn’t say it actually went anywhere. It is “gone” in the sense that is no longer a mining ship, and no longer under the command of Brighde Blackfoot.”

 

“You aren’t going to get to be first officer that easy. Are you just trying to get rid of me?”, said Will.

 

“Yes. As a matter of fact I thought I had, came the reply.  That is until you came pounding on my hull like some deranged maniac pounding on the gates of hell trying to get out.  And if I had wanted to get rid of you to be first officer I would have killed you and put the dead body out an airlock and…”

 

Here Will tried to cut her off, but Sam would have none of it and raised her voice over his as she continued.

 

“…AND, she said,. I certainly would have tried to get Brighde to not sell the ship.”

 

“Sell the ship?”  Will said, with a very poorly hidden look of consternation, somewhat reminiscent of a man who has just been told that he is not only about to be beaten, but shot as well, broken in to tiny little bits, burned and the ashes stomped on.

 

Finally…this news had taken the wind out of the sails of “Hurricane Littlefoot.”

 

“Sell the ship?” Will repeated again.

 

Not that the matter bared repeating, which it didn’t. Nor was it even that William Littlefoot was the sort of man that felt he needed to repeat  himself, which he wasn’t.  It was simply that William Littlefoot was the sort of man that needed to be right all the time, which he also wasn’t, despite his incessant insistence that he was.

 

The fact of the matter was that William Littlefoot was the sort of man that, if he couldn’t be right, he would bloody well be wrong at the top of his lungs.   He was the sort of man would continue to assert his rectitude, oblivious to anything else – especially the truth.  And the truth was that this was the first time in his long and rather lugubrious life that he had absolutely no recourse to anything else other than filling the cavernous hole space, where a moment before his life had been, with first thing that came to his mind – which was nothing.

 

So he simply repeated himself, not knowing what else to do in that moment in which his entire life suddenly went spinning out of control, careening madly as if it where diving straight into the heart of a super nova.

 

“Yes” came a soft, quiet voice from behind him, “I sold the ship.”

 

Will spun around and looked into the same eyes that he had seen through a major war and three years of the most brutal fighting Charlie 15-4,  5^th armored division had ever seen. And in those eyes he did not see the shipmate with whom he had served; the person in whom he had once trusted his life.  Instead he saw something – no – someone, very old, as if a thousand lifetimes stretched out before him.  He also saw an immense sadness, he had never seen before.

 

Then the moment was over.  He wasn’t even sure he had seen what he thought he saw.  But what he knew he saw was his life slipping away from him, and he was desperate to stop it.

 

“You can’t sell the ship.  It’s our life.  It’s what we do. It’s who we ARE.” He shot at Brighde desperately.

 

“No,” Brighde said quietly, as she stared back at him with a look of pity – a look he absolutely despised., but dared not say anything about.

 

Brighde Paused.  Then she continued, with a sigh.

 

“It’s not our life, Will.  It’s yours.”

 

Will felt that things were slipping entirely out of his control at this point.  He reached for something – anything.

 

“You can’t do this, he said angrily, I have worked too hard for that ship. I have a stake in it. Hell that ship should BE mine. I worked just as hard for it as you did.”

 

Then he stopped, realizing what he had said.  Brighde smiled faintly, for she noticed it immediately.  For the first time he had related to the “clone” Brighde like the real one without thinking about it.  It was a mistake he would not make again, he told himself.  Now he was mad.  He railed against her, in a last desperate attempt to save what he saw as the ruins of his shattered life.

 

“Look.  I have a contract.  Whatever you sold that ship for I want my cut, and I mean to have it one way or another.”  he said, leering at her.

 

The was a long pause. Brighde smiled at him again. Damn that woman is irritating when she does that, Will thought to himself.

 

Then Brighde began softly, “You have a contract?”

 

“Yes.” Will said sternly.

 

“You demand your share?”

 

“Yes.” He said, feeling as though he was gaining ground.

 

“Or…or what?” Brighde, ventured, “you’ll sue me for everything I have?”

 

“YES!” Will shouted angrily, thrilled that he had finally come out on top.

 

With that, Brighde turned around. Walked toward the side of the docking bay and picked up a small drab olive green duffle bag that he hadn’t noticed before.   She picked it up slowly.  Turned back to Will, and quietly placed it on the floor of the docking bay in front of him.

 

“There you go.”

 

“What?” he said, looking at her as if she had suddenly grown a second head.

 

“There you go, she said, with that same damn pitying look on her face. Everything I own. Take it.   I don’t think the panties will fit you, I doubt they are your size, but you know how I like loose comfortable blouses. Those might fit. There. Take it.”

 

“Dingo Dung,” he spat at her, figuratively and, nearly literally, as he stared down at the duffel bag. “What did you do with all the money?”

 

“It’s gone.”

 

“Gone? What do you mean? Where? You lost it?”

 

“No. I gave it away.”

 

This William Littlefoot could not believe. He would not believe it. He refused to believe it. Who in their right mind would sell a Caladari Light Cruiser and just GIVE away all of the money.

 

“All of it?” he said, shocked.

 

“All of it,” Brighde said quietly.

 

“Why in God’s name would you do that?” Will shot back at her.

 

“Yes.” Brighde said quietly.

 

“What?”

 

“Yes”

 

“Yes, what?”

 

“Yes, Brighde said, that’s exactly why I gave it away.”

 

“What the devil are you talking about?”  Will said, looking at Brighde, as if he were now sure she had grown the second head, and sure that at any moment they would both start spinning around in circles – for he was sure that only someone who was possessed would do such a thing.  In fact, that is what he now asked her…

 

“What would possess you to do such a thing?”

 

With that Brighde walked over to Will and looked up at him.  She patted him on the cheek, noticing him wince as she touched him.  For a moment she thought he would understand.  Maybe, Brighde thought to herself, there was once someone inside who cared about people more than money, but looking into those glaring eyes, and that hard stare, she doubted if that person was there any more.

 

“Dear sweet Will, she said as she patted him on the cheek. 

 

Then she stood there staring at him a moment before she continued.

 

“Dear sweet deluded Will.  That’s all you care about isn’t it.  The money. Do you ever dream about anything? She asked him, I mean other than money, and the things that will bring it.”

 

Will said nothing and so she continued.

 

“Centuries ago, on ancient Earth there was a man who lived for a very special dream.  In fact he even died for that dream, as had so many people before him. Do you know what that dream was?”

 

Again Will said nothing.  Brighde paused, smiling at him, hopefully as she went on.

 

“He gave a speech once about that very special dream. In it he said, ‘I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: “We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal.’ He died for that dream. All these centuries later, we are still waiting for that dream to come true. And you know what? I have a dream too -  That our people,  who are still divided will rise up and be united.  That we will stop being slaves, that we will be free, ALL of us, not just some of us.  I don’t know how it is going to happen, all I know is that I am going to try and make it happen, and if I have to die trying, well then I will die for that same dream.”

For the first time in his life. William Littlefoot was speechless.

“Now unless you think my panties will fit you, I may as well take them with me.”

With that, she turned and followed Sam into the waiting frigate.  As she was about to pull the door shut, she turned to Will who was still standing where she had left him.

“You know, you might want to at least go back in the station, otherwise you will end up being blown out that airlock Gunny threatened to shoot you out of earlier.”

Brighde smiled.

The hatch to the frigate clanged shut behind her. 

 

***

The Osprey class cruiser perched like an awkward bird in the dim light of docking bay number 37.  A squat figure stood silhouetted against the side of the ship, which was illuminated in a pool of glaring light from the tungsten inert gas welder.  To eye any who might be peering over the subjects shoulder, which of course there weren’t any as the person was alone in the darkness of the docking bay – but had there been anyone the could have easily mistaken the work being done on the side of the ship for that of a poorly repaired ’57 Chevy from old earth.   This pristine white paint had been ground down to bare metal, leaving deep gouges that were readily apparent.   The metal itself was no covered with a grey primer normally meant for land craft, rather than a ship meant to travel the vast void which lay between solar systems.  If you were to look rather carefully toward the bottom of the side of the ship – if you squinted you could see two bumper stickers.   Bumper stickers in name only, of course, as the time had long passed, eons ago in fact, when any vehicle of any sort had anything even remotely resembling the shape or holding the purpose of bumpers. 

 

There was no longer anything resembling the shape of bumpers for there had long ago stopped being a reasons for bumpers at all.   This was due in a large part to the proliferation of lawyers, and the pursuant lawsuits, that filled the later have of the first century following man kind’s, or person kind’s as it is more properly known, first great leap into space – interstellar space travel.   In fact it was not so much as a leap as a limp.  For the entire affair was hampered by such an astoundingly large body of lawsuits that the legal “body” became too bloated to function at all.  This of course resulted in near total anarchy in most of the newest colonies that mankind, or person kind, had since established.

 

As person kind reached into the vastness of space, it usually found it’s hand slapped like an unruly child, for most of the races didn’t want “their” kind (their kind being humans) if they brought their lawyers with them.  To prevent the fall of humanity,  into what it became an increasingly likely fall into the black hole that had become the lawyer spawned, black hole that was bureaucracy, lawyers were banned from public practice.  Those that had not already been chained to the oars of tour ships, plying the seas of the many new colonies (that were now delighted to accept humanity sans attorneys)  were allowed to live in large asylums on barren planets, far from anything even remotely resembling intelligent life, behind 300 foot high walls baring large signs in 50 high letters that read “Abandon all hope you who enter”

 

Signs like this, bore little resemblance to what mankind, in its tenacious desire to cling to anything that was symbolic of “good times” , had still come to call a “bumper sticker”

 

In fact both the bumper stickers, which read, respectively – “Minmatar space, love it, leave it, or get too drunk to notice” and “The only way they will get my 250mm autocannon away from me is by prying it out of my cold dead hands” – and the owner of said bumper stickers reflected the love of what they thought of as “the good life”.  Namely, drinking and blowing things up, and in the best of times, both at the same time.

 

The bumper sticker, as is obvious, reflected the sentiment in its message which it plastered across the side of the owner’s newly purchased mining ship.  The owner reflected the sentimentality due to the ease with which she managed to weld on the sign she now held in one hand, with the welder she held in the other hand, and drink the beer which she held in a prehensile tail.

 

The owner of the prehensile tail was a member of a growing race of individuals which considered themselves “inter-specied”  – and then only be design, in particular, genetic design. For many eons since mankind was first able to walk erect and think clearly, there had been endless debate over whether humans had descended from apes, crawled out of a primordial sea, or made by God on a Saturday afternoon.  Then, ironically, one lazy Sunday afternoon, a geneticist named Hubert Bupnik or “Huey” to his friends, of which he had very few for reasons which will soon become apparent, had an idea.   Despite eons of mankind’s development, Huey was rarely capable of clear thinking, and only occasionally walking erect. This last incapacity Huey had was due to his regular habit of imbibing so much alcohol it would have killed the average yak.

 

Then, on a Sunday afternoon, in a rather depressed state of mind, caused by a particularly heavy round of drinking the Saturday before (which in Heuy’s case was considerable), he was mulling over something some had said to him the evening before.  Here is what they said:

 

“Huey,” he was told, “you look like you are one of the first generations in your family down out of the trees.”

 

In one of his rare lucid moments, Huey Bupnik made what has become known in most scientific circles, as one of the worst decisions ever made, by creating for himself, and those that would follow him, a genetically enhanced, surgically attached prehensile tail.  Thus allowing him, or so he claimed, to “rejoin his relatives in the trees” and finally, once and for all, “get away from it all.”  As it turns out, getting away from it all was something that was incredibly easy, due to the initial reaction from his friends.

 

It was soon discovered, however, that no matter where humans came from, the apes had the right idea, as it turned out, a prehensile tail was an incredibly useful thing to have.  In some remote sectors of the galaxy, where the primary unit of currency has become the beer bottle cap, tails became so popular as to necessitate a whole new body of law and ethics regarding tails, thereby necessitating the release of aforementioned lawyers.

 

And so, sign in hand, and beer in tail, one half of “Crantz-Stern” mining puts the finishing touches on the sign that graces the hull of their new flag ship.  It is a flag ship which brings their fleet up to a grand total of one and a half…well…one and three quarters really if you where to count both the escape pod fashioned from a military surplus pilots pod (and now rather ungracefully attached to the underside of the cruiser) as well as the shuttle that lays limply on its side, at the far end of the docking bay.  

 

The sign finished, Rosa sets down her welding torch to take a look at her new ship, on the side of which has been painted two beer mugs.   Below this is a sign which reads,

 

S.S. Hammered Steel

Pilot: R. Crantz

Navigator: G. Stern

 

Guilda stretched in the morning sun.  Well, it wasn’t the morning sun so much as it was a sun lamp, but it was morning all the same.  Guilda actually wasn’t her name, it was simply a moniker that her sister had hung on her some time ago.  Following in the tradition of a classical music composer from ancient earth, her real name was an unpronounceable symbol somewhat resembling an angry badger beating frog about the head and shoulders with a rather largish cricket bat.  The obscure origin of the symbol itself was lost to her family’s history.   The reason for the symbol, however, was not.

 

It was during the great “Lawyer Wars”  – which preceded the committing of the entirety of the galaxies legal body to the asylum and straight jacket that the majority of the galaxy felt it collectively so richly deserved – that the family tradition originated.  In the final days of the war, lawyers all over the galaxy entrenched themselves in court houses, city halls and bars (and hence origination of the term “passing the bar” which few lawyers in those days ever did, although through great effort of said legal body the true origin of the phrase has now been hidden).  It was during this time that the lawyers began what they called “Tele-bombing” runs.  The lawyers formed groups of solicitors from all over the galaxy into crack telemarketing squads which were genetically enhanced to go for weeks without sleep or nourishment, thus enabling them to telemarket for longer periods then was heretofore humanly possible.

 

It was the simple fact that the solicitors where unable to pronounce her name that saved Guilda from the fate of most of the rest of her kind – that is the brains of thousands of interspecied families suddenly imploding to escape from the unending telemarketing which stretched on ceaselessly for years.  The average telephone call began simply, “Is…” followed by a long silence during which the solicitor’s tongue and brain ceased up as both tried to cope with the situation. 

 

Having thus escaped the devastation of the lawyer wars, Guilda and her best friend Rosa emigrated to Minmatar space, there to settle in to what she thought would be a peaceful life of mining. She could not have been more wrong.

 

Weeks had passed since Guilda and Rosa had first departed Caladari space aboard the SS. Hammered Steel. Guilda watched them pass by, noting that if they minded their own business, she would mind hers. Guilda was, after all, as she commonly asserted, “one tough broad.”  This  was also something about which she was wrong.  What she was, in fact, was egotistical.  She had a ego so mountainous that it would have taken a climbing team and a dozen Sherpa guides a week to reach it’s summit.  Rather than tough, what she was, was resilient.  That, and, in a rather fortunate combination, lucky. She was incredibly lucky.  If people are sometimes said to be born under lucky stars, lucky stars are the sort of thing that are commonly thought to be born in the proximity of Guilda.  This, in fact, was the real reason she had survived the lawyer wars, but her egotism was so believable (again a sign of her incredible luck) that no one ever dared tell her different.

 

Guilda was, in short, the luckiest woman, indeed the luckiest being of any sort, in the entire universe.

 

Oddly enough, she had no idea.  Each time her luck saved what would have normally been a disastrous situation, she put it off to her massive intellect, about which, she was also horribly wrong.

 

Being the luckiest being in the universe, and being completely oblivious of the fact, are two very fortunate qualities that go hand in hand.   Not fortunate for the person themselves certainly.  Rather it is extremely fortunate for the lotteries, gambling establishments, economies, indeed entire planets which would topple if the lucky stiff were aware of the fact – which Gilda is not.

 

What is fortunate for Gilda is that her tremendous luck has saved her from inadvertent self destruction on many occasions.  While she may not be the most lackadaisical person on the face of any given planet which she may inhabit at any given time – she is certainly close behind whoever comes in first place.  All of which works together to create a person who has the capability of ruling the galaxy, but is simply to lazy to do it.   But Gilda, being the languid sort of person she is, wouldn’t care about it even if she knew.  This is, in fact, a quality that is about to have the chance not only to rear its ugly head, but go outside, and take itself for a brisk walk about the block as Gilda awakens to the sound of thumping.  It is thumping which – unlike most mornings following an evening of imbibing drinks which would take the top three layers off an asteroid had they spilled – is actually, coming from outside her head.

 

On this particular morning the slow steady hum of the mining lasers, which Gilda found so comforting (in fact she had a hard time getting to sleep without it) was interrupted by a pounding which rocked the ship.  Gilda groaned a bit. Turned over and covered her head with a pillow in a vain attempt to stifle the  noise caused by impacts on the side of the ship.  Several fruitless minutes passed.  A very large impact nearly threw her out of her bunk.  She stopped herself, grabbing the bedrail with one hand.   Swinging her feet out, she sat on the edge of the bed, eyes shut.  

 

“Lights” she called out, followed by a groan.

 

Obediently, the lights set into the walls snapped on.    Gilda sat for a moment, gathering herself for the supreme effort necessary for her to actually pull herself to her feet, a task complicated by the incessant rocking of the ship.   As she stood, yet another blast rocked the mining cruiser from side to side.   She braced herself against the bulkhead, as much to steady herself from the rocking of ship as from the spinning of the room.

 

“Don’t these guys ever sleep?” she groaned, looking about her blearily.

 

Another blast threw her out into the corridor, and against the wall opposite.  Ironically, had the blasts caused the ship  to spin out of control, she could have easily negotiated the narrow corridor that ran down the central part of the ship – she was used to rooms spinning.   She felt her way down the corridor, the ship rocking to and fro, and finally made her way to the galley.

 

The pounding stopped.

 

“Good” she said aloud, to no one in particular,  “they are reloading.”  She walked over to a small speaker set into the wall, below which was a small door.

 

“Coffee, hot, black” she shot at the dispenso-matic, then pausing she added, “very strong”

 

There was a slight buzzing sound from the walls and the small door slid open. There inside sat a large white mug, so big, one might think, that many of the galaxies smaller races could have easily swum laps in it.  With a smile, Gilda reached in and gingerly raised the cup of steaming black liquid to her lips.  She blew across the surface, and was about to take the first sip when the pounding and the rocking began again.  The result was scalding hot coffee over nearly every surface of the galley, except, remarkably enough, Guilda herself.  

 

“Bastards” she hissed looking into the empty mug.

 

It was not the mess that upset her, so much as the loss of the coffee.  New Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee beans were incredibly difficult to come by.

 

“You bastards,” she hissed again, as she reached into a nearby cupboard and drew out a lid for the cup.

 

She waited for the next lull in the blasts, which eventually came.  Thrusting the empty cup into the dispenso-matic, she repeated her morning ritual.   A moment later the machine produced yet another cup of the rich dark fluid.  Guild reached in and snapped the lid on with a smile as the galley began to rock again.  Cup in hand she turned slowly, stumbling her way down the central corridor toward the bridge of the ship.

 

The sound of the mining lasers still hummed along, filling the hold of the ship, which took up the bulk of what would be the “body” of the large kiwi like shape of the ship.   Rosa sat calmly in the pilot’s chair,  silver flask in hand.   From behind and above her she heard feet on the ladder that lead down to the bridge, which formed the “head” of giant steel kiwi shape that was the S.S. Hammered Steel.  As Guilda stepped onto the deck, Rosa held up the flask to Guilda.

 

“Hair of the dog?” she asked merrily.

 

“No,” Guilda answered sternly, and then added more calmly,  “I’m all set here.”

 

Guilda heaved herself into the navigator’s chair with a pained look, the sort of which would frighten small children and cause their mothers to pull them in off the street.

 

The ship continued to rock, but neither of the ships two occupants, now firmly entrenched in there seats on the bridge, seemed to care.   Rosa took another long pull on her silver flask, the yellow fluid burning its way down her throat.   To her side Guilda shut her eyes and took that first delightful sip of coffee.

 

The silence continued this way for some time – that is if you could call the gulping, slurping, and hum of mining lasers, all accompanied by the sounds of explosions on the side of the mining cruiser silence.

 

Oddly enough,  both halves of Cranz-Stern Mining, now present on the bridge, did.  They were, in fact, quite used to it. 

 

 

And so the “silence” continued like this for some time…

 

Several hours later, Gilda, having finished her coffee, turned to Rosa during one of the brief pauses in carpet bombing.

 

“Well?” she asked expectantly.

 

“Yes?’

 

Another explosion rocked the ship.

 

“It’s been going on for some time” yawned Gilda.

 

“Yes” said Rosa with a pause, “Yes it has.”

 

“It’s not likely to let up any time soon…”

 

“No,” replied Rosa with a sigh, “No, I guess it won’t”

 

The two sat together on the Bridge of the S.S.Hammered Steel and listened to the explosions intermingled with the hum of the mining lasers for awhile before either spoke.

 

“We really should do something” remarked Rosa offhandedly.

 

“Yes, we should”

 

“Yes…” replied Gilda with a nod.

 

“Yes…” replied Rosa, as she leaned back in the pilot’s chair.

 

Another long pause ensued, filled by the ceaseless sounds of explosions impacting against the ship.

 

“Shields?” asked Rosa expectantly.

 

Gilda calmly glanced over at her section of the control panel. Leaning back, she went back to staring out the cockpit window, into the star filled void of space. Without turning to Rosa she replied…

 

“50%”

Then the bombing stopped.  The momentary calm, broken only by the hum from mining,  stood out in  contraposition to the tremendous din that, albeit briefly, had abated.  Rosa took another long sip from her flask of Arcturian whiskey.

 

“Where do you think its coming from this time?” asked Rosa.

 

Once again Gilda leaned over her control panel.  She flipped a switch.  Three overhead screens, showing different views of the mining ship, blinked into life.  Rosa leaned over toward Gilda slightly, taking another sip from her flask.   She craned her neck a bit to get a clear view of the center screen which showed the view rearwards from the ship.  A very large, very deadly looking Battle cruiser of the Ferox class came into view.  As they watched a flare of light filled the center of the screen – the ship had launched another missile.  Calmly Gilda flipped the same switch.  The screens went dead.  Both women leaned back in their chairs.  They both sat staring out the cockpit window as they spoke, without turning to each other.

 

“Battle cruiser” said Gilda calmly.

 

The missile impacted the shields, and the ship rocked violently.

 

“Yep. A big one”  said Rosa, and took another long pull from her flask.

 

“Military?” Rosa asked nonchalantly.

 

“Might be. Probably mercenary.”

 

“What do you think they want?” Rosa remarked.

 

“Don’t know…” started Gilda.

 

Her sentence was interrupted by three missiles which impacted the shields in rapid succession.

 

“…but” Gilda said.

 

“….they” she continued

 

“…seem hopping mad about something.” Gilda finished.

 

Both women sat thinking. That “did I leave the iron on” look crossed each one’s face before Rosa came up with what she thought was a reasonable suggestion.

 

“What about that waitress in the bar at Arcturis 5-3 station? You tipped her didn’t you.”

 

“No,” said Gilda, “I thought you did.”

 

“Not me, I thought you did. Rosa paused, then added, Oh my.  I guess we stiffed her.”

 

“Still,” said Gilda, “most wait staff don’t posses the financial resources to hire mercenaries with major firepower.”

 

“In any case, interjected Rosa, we have to do something.   The bombing isn’t likely to stop any time soon.”

 

“Oh all right,” replied Gilda with a huff.

 

With that Gilda reached over to a rocker switch on her control panel. Beside it were two slide switches.  She  moved the slide switch all the way up to the position marked simply ‘full’.  Pressed a number into a keypad next to it, and hit the rocker switch.

 

She leaned back calmly as a voice filled the cockpit.

 

I can’t get no. Oh, no, no, no. Hey, hey, hey
That’s what I say
I can’t get no satisfaction, I can’t get no satisfaction
‘Cause I try and I try and I try and I try
I can’t get no, I can’t get no

 

The music was deafening.  The walls of the mining ship shook even louder then they had from the impact of the missiles. Still, above the classical music from ancient earth by The Rolling Stone, the explosions could be heard dimly in the background.

 

“ITS NO GOOD,” screamed Rosa, “I CAN STILL HEAR THE EXPLOSIONS!”

 

Gilda punched the rocker switch on her control panel again and the music stopped as suddenly as it had started.

 

“Oh all right,” said Gilda in exasperation.

 

With that Gilda reached over to a small junction box between the pilots control panel and the navigators control panel.  There, sent into the panel, underneath a bright red cover, was a large red button.  The panel itself was boarded with stripes diagonal stripes alternating yellow and black.  Above the junction box was a sign, written in fifteen major languages.  The sign said simply…

 

“…Do not press this button.”

 

Gilda pressed the button.

 

At the rear of the ship a large square panel slid open.  Behind it was the remnants of what had once been missile tubes one and two.  In stead, welded into place, and covered in grey primer, was one single tube meant for a light missile launcher normally carried be a frigate – a much smaller vessel than the mining ship that was a Caladari Navy military surplus cruiser.  It had been squeezed in to what had once been a much larger missile bay, but now held the outsized machinery and fusion reactors that powered the ships shields – shields normally meant for a battleship.  They machinery appeared to have been shoved into place by some giant hand wielding an enormous shoehorn and a fifty gallon drum of grease.  In that missile launcher was a single, solitary light missile.

 

It launched.

 

The battle cruiser to the rear of the S.S.Hammered Steel fired a salvo of six defender anti-missile missiles.   They roared through space at the single light missile that the mining ship had launched like a flock of enormous birds swooping down on a mouse.

 

And each defender missile missed.

 

Inside the cockpit of the mercenary battle cruiser, the captain laughed.  He made a rather rude remark, that were it translated, would have understood to be a suggestion as to the parentage of the mining ships captain, and what said captain could do with her missile – both of which were anatomically impossible.

 

He laughed again.

 

It was the last thing he ever did.

 

A moment later, impossibly, his ship exploded in a blinding light as shards of metal careened through space.

 

 

At 20,000 tons and 650 feet long it was one big ship. The body of the ship, meant to carry cargo, looked for all the world as if a giant hand had taken one big can and smashed two smaller cans on each end, then stuck a shuttle on the front for the pilots.   Piloting the thing was like trying to push a greased, drunken pig in a direction it didn’t want to go.  It was also slow.  So slow that many is the time that the owner felt like she might have to get out and push, just to get it to move at all.

 

But…

 

It was also free.

 

Gilda had won it in a card game.  That was just before she and Rosa had been permanently banned from the New Vegas solar system.  Gilda, in her naiveté, has always assumed it was for the drunken brawls that were a nightly occurrence.   The previous owner, who was now selling donuts in a New Vegas greasy spoon, didn’t see it that way.  All he knew is that his “baby” that was once his livelihood was plying the highways and byways of the galaxy, and it was doing it without him.  All of which made him madder than a wet Trilaxian Prairie Chicken, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. Or so he thought.

 

At the moment, his “baby” was now being rather incautiously guided into a docking bay on the outer rim of Amarian space.   As the ship was nearly in the docking bay, the back end fishtailed, slamming against the space doors of the bay, setting off a dozen screaming alarms throughout station.  None of which could be heard in space, and if Gilda could hear them, she probably wouldn’t have cared anyway.

 

Inside the station the foreman felt a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach, and it was more than just the entire dock area rocking.   He knew who it was who had set the station rocking and he hated dealing with her.  He swore, and frequently, that she did it on purpose.   She had a knack, or sheer dumb luck, for being able to cause the most upset with minimal damage to the space doors.   He tried to take the cost for the damage, however small,  out of her payment once, but she had threatened to reach down his throat, grab his lower intestine and turn him inside out.   He threatened to stop trading with her and she just laughed – and that was the problem.  There was no one else to buy ore from and she knew it.

 

He wouldn’t have to deal with her if that fat old fool he worked for, Richard Sirrelli, hadn’t burned every bridge both before and after himself.   Here they sat on the edge of Amarii space.   Sirrelli was Minmatarian, and the average self respecting Amarii wouldn’t give him the time of day.   Those who had no respect for themselves, or anyone else for that matter – the Amarii underworld would, but ore is one thing you couldn’t steal. At least not in the massive quantities needed to run this pig of a station that the foreman was forced to call home.  The Minmatar wouldn’t deal with Sirrelli either, none of the tribes would.    He had long ago forgotten who he was and where he came from.  Richard Sirrelli had spent most of his life standing on the shoulders of other Minmatarians to get ahead.  When he got there, he kicked every Minmatarian to the curb that had ever helped him.   The foreman didn’t consider his boss an apple, he thought of Sirrelli as the whole orchard.   But like the miner he was about to go down to the loading dock to meet, Richard Sirrelli was the only game in town.   He was the only one who would hire someone with the foreman’s background.

 

The news his dock foreman brought Rick Sirelli preceded him.  The second Jacque rounded the corner of Sirelli’s office, a well aimed beer stein came flying at the center of his forehead like a well aimed cruise missile.   Jacque dodged to one side, and the mug impacted on the steel doorframe, large chunks of glass flying into the hallway, as yellow fluid, which had been well contained by the stein until a moment ago, began to flow down the wall in thin rivulets.

 

“I tell you to have someone killed, and instead you bring her to my doorstep!” Sirelli bellowed.

 

Jacque tensed, preparing to duck another makeshift missile, as his much loathed boss shifted his enormous girth in his office chair.

 

“I wanted her dead body and that garbage scow she calls a ship, not to have you bring her around for lunch.   Now the ship is gone, and the woman is still intact – again.  Doesn’t that bitch ever stay dead?’

 

“Apparently not” replied Jacque, barely hiding his contempt.

 

“What am I supposed to do now?” asked Sirelli rhetorically, shifting uncomfortably in the desk chair which barely contained him. 

 

“I don’t know,  snapped the foreman suddenly, shoot her out an airlock, stuff her in her a thruster,  strap her to a missile.  I don’t know. I don’t care.   It’s not my fault if the mercs’ you told me to hire couldn’t get the job done.” 

 

A silent moment passed as Jacque realized he had perhaps gone a bit too far this time. Unabashed he continued…

 

“If you could ever manage to pry that fat ass of yours out of your chair and do a little of your own legwork, maybe things would get done.   As it is, I doubt the shop has enough grease to get your ass out of that chair you are stuffed in, and I doubt think those stubby legs of yours would hold all that weight if you could.”

 

Richard Sirelli’s glare held his foreman’s eyes for a moment.  His enormous strength, which belied the foreman’s idea that his boss was some foul tempered oaf with too much money, showed no external signs.   Instead he spoke quietly,  which, for all that, was far more threatening than if he had reacted to his foreman’s outburst in kind.

 

In an even, calculated tone, Sirelli spoke to his foreman, “You are…”

 

“…what fired?” interjected the foreman nervously.

 

“…no, I was going to say dead,” replied Sirelli matter-of-factly, “But I think I have something even better in mind.

 

“Better?” asked Jacque nervously, the roles now reversed to where they usually were.

 

“Well,” replied his boss, “Better for me perhaps…”

 

Sirelli left off the rest, realizing that anything his foreman could imagine in the ensuing moments, while he met with the woman, would be far worse than any threat actually made.

 

“Bring her in,”  he said firmly. 

 

Brighde was distracted by visions of “Rick” Sirrelli – - and what he would do to both Gunny  and herself when he found out the blueprints they had given him were fake (okay good fakes) still dancing in her head.   The clink of dishes from somewhere in the background, and the sizzle of meat on the grill at the back of the restraint served as the background for her troubled thoughts.  Gunny’s voice pulled her back to the present…

 

“So that’s just it? Fakes?  You give Richard Sirelli…THE Richard Sirrelli fake blueprints?  That’s how you managed to finagle your letter of introduction to the 15 time winner of the great circuit race at New Rome?”

 

Gunny paused, then continued with even greater aggravation…

 

“I stuck my stiletto up his nose for cryin’ out loud! I think that might be just a tiny little factor weighing against me when he finds out.  He’s not altogether stupid you know…”

 

“no. not altogether.” Replied Brighde Calmly.

 

“What were they the blueprints to anyway?”

 

“The garbage incinerator at the navy shipyard.”

 

“It’s a miracle he hasn’t figured it out already!” Gunny shot back at Brig.

 

“Yes.  A miracle,” Brighde replied matter of factly.

 

“As interesting as the this all is,” a voice interjected as it came drifting across the table, “what has this all got to do with us?”

 

The voice belonged to Gilda Stern and her partner Rosa – - whose tail she slapped away as she attempted to use it to grab another roll off the table, her hands being currently  occupied with an overly large beer mug.

 

“The ship I sold you has the prototype of the capacitor, and there ARE no blueprints for it. I checked with at the Navy Shipyard.”

 

“So…what…you want the ship back now? Or something like that?”

 

“Yes, something like that. But no. I don’t want the ship back.”

 

Rosa, assuming Gilda’s attention was firmly on the conversation, attempted to sneak another roll while Gilda wasn’t looking.  Without taking her eyes off Brighde, Gilda slapped the errant tail away from the rolls once again.   Rosa frowned as she was foiled by her partner’s peripheral vision that seemed to bear out the old adage about having “eyes in back of her head.”

 

“So what DO  you want then,” asked Gilda, a bit more irritated now.

 

“I want the ship AND you,” replied Brighde, who, along with Rosa – - who was more intent on her beer than the conversation – seemed the only other calm person at the restaurant. 

 

“How did you find me anyway? Did you follow me?”

 

“I didn’t follow you,” replied Brighde quietly, “You followed me.”

 

“I followed YOU, came the surprised reply.  I stopped for a quick bite and my favorite burger bar near the asteroid field I am mining – a mining schedule you are taking me away from I might add.”

 

“I need you. I need the ship. I knew you would come.”

 

“Oh? How is that,” replied Gilda, a big calmer as well as puzzled – - the first being the result of the latter.

 

“I…”

 

Here Brighde hesitated before she continued.

 

“…I saw it in a vision.”

 

“A vision.” Snapped Gilda. “So now you are seeing things are you?”

 

The table grew quiet, if quiet can be interpreted as the sound Rosa’s slurping the foam off her fifth beer, over the din of the diner.

 

“Ok, said Gilda finally. I’ll bite. What else do your visions tell you.”

 

“That you are going to help me unite the Minmatar tribes.”

 

“What do I care about your tribes?” growled Gilda, “I am not exactly from your neck of the woods. Hell I am not even from your neck of the galaxy.”

 

“nonetheless. You will help me.” smiled Brighde.

 

“…and what if I just walk out of here and get back to business, and tell you to mind yours?”

 

“You won’t”

 

“What do you mean I won’t? How do you know?…oh yes…the visions, said Gilda, rolling her eyes.  Then she added, and why me?”

 

This time Gunny interrupted the flow of conversation.

 

“We heard what happened, or rather almost happened, when you were attacked.  You, quite frankly are very luck. Very, VERY lucky.”

 

“Ya. So they tell me,” said Gilda as she took a sip of her own beer.

 

Then she added, “I have never believed a word of it.”

 

The waiter brought the check and Brighde reached for it.  Looking at the check she pulled money out of her pocket to pay the bill, and accidentally dropped it on the floor.   As both Gunny and Brighde simultaneously reached for the money, the world exploded in light, shattered glass and screams…

 

…The front glass of the diner, and the tritanium walls that held them in, where pierced by streaks of light from 60 caliber tracer rounds.  Glass shattered and filled the air in tiny particles of glass that gleamed in the air like a thousand tiny diamonds.   Whole in the tritanium wall appeared, made by the armor piercing rounds.  The first rounds shattered dishes neatly stacked on the counter that divided the kitchen from the rest of the diner – the kitchen staff were the first to die.  One waitress, just returning from a break had her arm shattered by another round.  The second waitress was not so lucky and soon lay dead at the feet of the first.  The tracer rounds continued to scream through the air, piercing what seemed like every square foot of the restaurant.

 

Every square foot, except, as it soon became apparent as the gunfire stopped, the few square feet occupied by Gunny, Brighde, Rosa and Gilda – who sat looking at the shattered beer mug she held in her hand.  A beer mug that had been pierced by one of the tracer rounds that had narrowly missed her head.

 

Brighde looked around the restaurant that was filled with blood, death, and shattered remnants of the diner.  Then she looked back at Gilda.

 

“I DO believe it. I do…”

 

“So who is this broad?” said Dolph over his left shoulder, addressing his agent which stood just behind him.

“She’s a nobody,” came the answer.

 

“If she’s a nobody,” said Dolph impatiently, as he tugged at the sleeve of his racing suit, “Why am I seeing her?”

 

“Because,” came the answer from F. Bishop Cauch’in, Dolph’s agent, “She is a nobody that knows a somebody.”

 

Dolph finished removing his racing suit, hung it in the closet behind him and turned around to face his agent, long time advisor, and sometime friend.

 

“So, I…what?…give her a tour of the track, an autographed picture and you get rid of her right?”

 

“Not this time, I am afraid,” replied the agent in his proper Amarrian accent, “This woman is not one of your ‘groupies.’”

 

F. Bishop Cauch’in, or “Bishop” as everyone called him, was a lanky Amarrian that compensated for his appearance by the almost calculated smoothness of his movement.   He was bordering on late middle/early old age, but his mind was as sharp as it was devious.   Where his association with Richard Sirrelli was concerned it was truly a case of  “It takes one to know one.”

 

“This broad,” he said, placing a mocking emphasis on the way Dolph had dismissed her in his usual misogynistic demeanor, as you so charmingly put it, “is here not just because of who she knows but also what she knows.”

 

“And jus’ what does this woman,” said Dolph, attempting a rather poor imitation of Bishop, ‘know that I don’t know?”

 

“Quite a lot I should imagine,” came the properly intoned reply, “that not being an incredibly difficult feat to accomplish.”

 

“Was that a dig?” asked Dolph.

 

“No. Merely a statement of fact, said Bishop, then continued…. 

 

“It seems that Ms. Blackwolf, the woman in question, has a penchant for going fast, and the means to do so.  It also seems she has the means for removing  that crown as ‘king of racing’ that you always assume is so firmly placed upon your head.”

 

“She thinks she can beat me?” Dolph shot back angrily.

 

“Richard Serelli thinks she can, and in matters such as these he is rarely wrong,” said Bishop as he took a seat at the long leather sofa that occupied most of the rooms west wall.

 

“Do you  think she can beat me?” said Dolph looking down at his agent.

 

“I think,” replied Bishop calmly, “that if she has the ability to remove the racing crown from your head, she also has the means to keep it there – that’s  what I think. Now sit down.”

 

Dolph took a seat in the large overstuffed leather chair opposite Bishop, every aspect of his posture making it seem as if he were granting Bishop an audience, when in fact, if anything, just the reverse were true.  The fact of the matter was that where Bishop’s services as an agent were concerned, he went where the money was, and for the moment the source of the money was sitting across from him…for the moment.

 

Bishop was about to speak again when there was a nock at the door.

 

“Some ta’ see ya’ Mr. Dau’fin” said a voice that sounded more like it came from a cement mixer than a human, “it’s dat’ broad….”

 

Here the voice was cut off in mid sentence by a sound that could either be made by someone in pain, but could also have been made by someone having filled having drained every drop of oil from the engine of same said cement mixer.   After a moment’s pause the same voice, now more restrained, and forcibly polite, continued.

 

“It’s dat’ Blackwolf woman and a very ill tempered friend”

 

Bishop started to speak but was cut off by Dolph.

 

“Show da’ young lady in if you would,”

 

“Right you are Mr. Dau’fin”, came the reply.

 

With that the door opened.  On the other side of the door was a large man whose frame filled the entire frame of the door, and not a bit of it fat.  His face, looked as if it had been in the wrong end of one two many argument with a hob-nail boot.  But he had a way about him that immediately caused anyone to wonder to him or her self “I wonder where they buried the other guy?”  He stepped to one side and there stood Brighde Blackwolf, and several paces behind her a very impatient, very agitated looking Gunny MacPherson.

 

“Show our guest in” said Dolph, once again cutting off Bishop before he could get a word in edgewise.

 

Brighde stepped around the mountain of flesh and muscle that was Dolph’s bodyguard, and into the room.   Dolph visibly straightened himself as he put on his “public face” that he reserve for his many adoring fans, or at least his many fans that adored his fame.

 

This time it was Bishop who took the lead in the conversation, before Dolph could do anything derisive to his agent, as he usually did when he put on his pretentious airs.  As Bishop rose to leave, he turned his back on the door, and Brighde for a moment, and whispered so only Dolph could hear him.

 

“Do try not to embarrass the racing team, and my reputation,  while you are in the process of humiliating yourself with whatever foolish thing you do – as you usually do.”

 

Dolph squinted slightly and flashed an irritated look at Bishop as he rose to greet Brighde.   Bishop stepped around Brighde and closed the door behind him.  Brighde stood in the front of the closed door and watched as he crossed to a bar full of bottles and glasses on the far side of the room.  Dolph picked up one that had a faint green luminescence and  poured some in a tall glass as he spoke…

 

“So, Rick speaks highly of you.  Have you known ‘im very long?”

 

Brighde hesitate for a moment, then replied.

 

“I am afraid I only know him through business dealings.”

 

“So…, said Dolph as he took a sugar cube out of a bowl on the bar and dropped it into the glass, which promptly began fizzing madly. You are a businesswoman eh? Are you here to give me the business then? He finished with a chuckle.”

 

Dolph’s feeble attempt at humor went over with Brighde like a lead dirigible, who tried her best not to show either her impatience, nor amazement that her vision could involve anyone so transparently superficial.  God must either have a great sense of humor or is scraping the bottom of the barrel she thought to herself.   She tried to force a chuckle but it came out more like a snort.  Dolph held up his glass, and Brighde waved away the offered drink.

 

Dolph crossed to the sofa with his drink and sat down, gesturing toward the sofa.

 

“What is this all about?” he said.

 

Brighde ignored Dolph’s “friendly” gesture and sat in the chair instead.

 

“I am not actually hear on business…” she began.

 

“Oh no? cut in Dolph as he downed the remainder of his drink in one gulp. Then just what are you here for?”

 

Brighde hesitated.  She wasn’t intimidated by the famous man. But she was also not sure how to tell someone like him that she had been sent to him with a message from God, without seeming like a lunatic.

 

“…its sort of hard to say,” she began slowly.

 

“Let me make it easy for you, said Dolph, I have dealt with this sort of thing before. You’d be surprised some of the things that women tell my friends just to get to meet me. I understand.”  

 

With that Dolph set he glass on the table  small table next to the sofa and began taking off his shirt.   Brighde stared at Dolph as if he had suddenly grown an extraneous extra head. 

 

“What are you doing?” Brighde said as if she were scolding a small child, “do you think I lost a bet or I am just slumming it?”

 

Dolph stared straight at Brighde.  It was hard for her to tell whether it was hatred, embarrassment or both that flared behind the dark eyes that stared her down.  His eyes still locked on hers, the voice that was jovial a moment before, was not deadly serious as he spoke to her.

 

“I think you need to get your narrow lil’ butt out of here…now.”

 

Brighde sighed and calmly answered back, “Believe me, nothing would please me more. But I am not here because I want to be – I am here because I have to be.”

 

The pair kept staring at each other, as if it were some titanic contest of wills.  After a moment, Brighde continued.

 

“…in the mean time, try and keep your genes in your jeans why don’t you?”

 

Dolph stood up.  A full head higher than her, he tried to use his height to intimidate Brighde.  Before he could get out whatever indignant reply he had thought up, Brighde broke in.

 

“Oh sit down. I’m not impressed and I am certainly not intimidated.”

 

If Brighde had been embarrassed about what her visions had asked her to do before, she certainly was not now.  Nothing irritated her then misogyny mixed in with a little condescension.

 

“What are you going to do? She said with a  glance towards the door, have your guards throw me out?  Beat me up? Save your ‘undefeated’ reputation by getting rid of me?”

 

Brighde was referring not just to Dolph’s reputation on the race course but his reputation with women.  Both new it, but Brighde didn’t say it. She didn’t need to. The look on Dolph’s face told her all she needed to know.

 

Dolph crossed the room to the bar.  Without a word he poured himself another drink. As he turned around she wasn’t sure whether he would throw it at her or not – in fact Dolph wasn’t sure whether or not he would throw his drink at her himself.  He hesitated for a moment, wondering what was faster – his aim or her reflexes.  Faster still was his need for the scotch and he downed it in own.

 

“Then what the hell do you want,”  he said, slapping his glass on the bar’s countertop to accentuate his comment.

 

“I don’t want anything,” Brighde shot back.

 

She hesitated a moment, then continued, with a sigh.

 

“One of your grandfathers sat on the Minmatar Ruling Council of Elders.  In fact he was the ruling chief, just before the council was disbanded.”

 

“Oh my god, he sneered, not another one of you  Autonomy for Minmatar Movement people.  Did your homework did you? Snooped around a bit? How did you find out, I never tell anyone about that?!”

 

“How I found out isn’t important,” replied Brighde calmly, what is important is that your people need you.”

 

“My people, Dolph started.  MY PEOPLE? He said screaming. Let me tell you about my people.”

 

Now he had worked up a ‘good head of steam’ and crossed the room, looking like he was ready to roll Brighde flat.

 

“What was it my people called me when I was growing up? Oh ya’, he said mockingly, they called me Wasi’chu.   Do you know what it means? It means “takes the fat” it means “greedy person”  Back on Earth it’s what bigots used to call people who weren’t like them.  It’s what I got called growing up.  Yes, I had a grandfather who was a tribal leader.  Do you know what I also have? I have a lot of relatives who aren’t Minmatar.”

 

Dolph stopped.  Stared at Brighde in disgust.  Then he turned his back on her and walked back over to the bar. Stopping he turned on her swiftly.  He pointed at her, and in as an accusing tone as he could manage he blasted her again…

 

When I was growing up, you people didn’t want to have anything to do with me because I wasn’t Minmatar enough.  Now that I am famous, now that I have some respect, everyone knows me again and wants to be my friend.  Well you know what I have to say to that?”

 

Dolph grabbed the bottle of Scotch nearest him and hurled it across the room.   It narrowly missed Brighde’s head, but she didn’t flinch – not until the bottle smashed against the wall, glass and yellow liquid flying everywhere.

 

“TO HELL WITH YOU AND YOUR PEOPLE,”  He screamed, “TO HELL WITH ALL OF YOU.  DO NOT PASS GO, DO NOT COLLECT 200 DOLLARS!”

 

Silence filled the room.  Brighde studied Dolph’s face wondering how to tell someone in this state something he was sure he wouldn’t believe, and even less likely to act on it, even if he did believe it. And so she just began…

 

“Not just your people need you. God needs you.”

 

The doubt she expected. The lack of anger in his reaction she did not.

 

“Excuse me?” Dolph said simply.

 

“I said…” Brighde started, but was promptly cut off.

 

“I heard what you said. God needs me?  Dolph rolled his eyes.  Oh that is a new one. God needs me?  In the first place I don’t believe you. In the second place, even if you weren’t loony, which you most obviously are, He’s God right? God doesn’t actually need anyone, especially not me.”

 

This last part Dolph added without thinking how it sounded and Brighde didn’t miss the opportunity it provided.

 

“yes, your right, she began calmly, God doesn’t need you per se, so much as wants you to unit the tribes.  He wants you, not because He thinks you will be any good at it, but rather because of how incredibly, overwhelmingly, unbelievably incompetent you will be at doing it.”

 

Missing the insult entirely, at least at first, as was his wont, Dolph picked up on the part she actually hoped he wouldn’t.

 

“Unit the tribes? So now your what…a prophet?”

 

“No. God  spoke to me.”

 

“Spoke to you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“How?”

 

“In a vision.”

 

“So what your telling me here is that you are seeing things and I am supposed to toss away my career and go on some jaunt across the galaxy united all the tribes that, when they are not fighting everyone else, are busy fighting each other?’

 

“yes, that’s pretty much it.” she said.

 

“your nuts.”

 

“No I’m not” Brighde, expecting this reaction, but a little hurt by it all the same.”

 

“Yes, you are”  he shot back emphatically.

 

“I’m not –  I’ll prove it”

 

“How”

 

“A test”

 

“A test?” Dolph asked.

 

“A test  Brighde said again.  How many times have you won the great circuit race in Rome. Not waiting for an answer she continued.  The last 15 races right?  How many times have you lost?”

 

“Like last place?”

 

“Yes”

 

“Never” came the reply with a smirk.

 

“I will race you.  Not only will I win, but  you will lose, no matter how many other ships are in the race. If I win, you have to help me.” said Brighde confidently.

 

“And if I win?” asked Dolph, “will you leave me the hell alone.”

 

“yes”

 

“What did you fly in on?” asked Dolph.

 

“An Osprey. A mining ship” came the reply.

 

“use that and your on.”

 

“Can I use a co-pilot? she asked.  An osprey is kind of hard to handle under conditions like that.”

 

‘Anyone you want,” came the reply.

 

“Done.”

 

Brighde turned to leave, smiling inwardly, thinking of the capacitor in the Osprey and the ace up her sleeve, the incredibly lucky new owner of the her old mining ship.  Dolph smiled to himself, thinking there was no way anyone could beat him in a mining ship. And somewhere in His Heavens, God smiled to Himself, knowing just how wrong both people where.

 

Splintered Reality – “par for the course”

 

The great “arena” at New Rome, was actually not an arena at all.  The name was simply a throwback to the days of Ancient Rome on old Earth when the arena had actually been at the heart of Rome.   Back then it was called “Circus Maximus”.   While the races now would sometimes descend into what might now be called a circus,  more commonly the event was more akin to a gladiatorial event.  The race course itself was in .5 security space in the Serad system. Just high enough to be safe for the visitors, and just low enough to “make it interesting”.  However, the biggest danger was not from pirates but from within – other racers and other racing teams.  These racing events had come to engender high security than most planetary governors enjoyed.  It had also caused the development of such sophisticated means to breach same said security as to be the envy of the intelligence communities of major corporations.

 

The race course was not laid out for speed – after all, any idiot could strap a cockpit on an engine the size of a small moon and blast around a high speed course with no obstacles.  The challenge was power under control.  The course began at Serad I,  site of New Rome, and ran first through the nearby ice field. The finish line was just the other side of the same ice field.  From there it ran past Serad II, allowing just enough time to build up some real speed, only to run headlong into the four asteroid fields of Serad III.

 

Then came the real challenge – the asteroid fields of Serad IV.  While there were six asteroid belts, the race course skipped every other field.  The asteroids in these fields where spaced far enough apart so that a skilled pilot could make it through without losing much speed – a very skilled pilot.  The asteroid belts of Serad IV was the challenge that separated the winners from the losers, and losers from their ships.  The asteroid fields at Serad IV were easy for a skilled pilot to get through the first time.  After that the debris of the losing ships tended to clutter up the course making each successive lap a greater challenge.

 

The “back stretch” of the course, as it were, was between the last asteroid field of Serad IV, and Serad VI.  It was at this point that the course rounded the back side of the eight asteroid belts of Serad V.  It was also at this point where the race contestants where out of contact with the racing commission, the Ammarian Governor, the entire audience.  This was largely due to the fact that Serad V was located on the opposite side of the sun from Serad I during the respective orbits.  However, it was partly due to design.  If there were any designs that one racing team had on another, this was where those designs would be carried out during the course of the race.  The racers knew it, the racing commission knew it, and most importantly the audience knew it.  This was what built up suspense and made this particular race so incredibly successful – waiting to see which racer came out of the other side of this stretch of the course alive.  It was also the reason why most of the ships in the race, but not all, where lightly armed.  Not in any obvious way.   But even if the armaments were discovered during the pre-race inspection, the right bribe in the right direction, always resulted in the racing commission looking the other way.

 

Then came the final challenge – Serad VI.

 

Serad VI, or rather what lay just beyond it, was the reason that the great arena was in this particular system – and the great arena was why New Rome was in this particular system.  What lay just beyond Serad VI, indeed just beyond the Serad system itself,  was a black hole…

 

…a black hole. An area of space where mass is so concentrated that there is no way an object, or even light for that matter, to escape once it has crossed the event horizon.  It is an area in space where the rules of geometry don’t apply any more.  Once a ship crosses the event horizon of a black hole, nothing can pull it back out again– the ship is doomed to move inexorably toward the singularity at its center.  But that is a center that it would never reach.  Its occupants, and the ship itself, would be pulled apart by the black hole’s tidal gravitational forces long before that happened.

 

…a black hole, with an event horizon that just happened to reach nearly to the surface of  Serad VI’s  single moon.   It was through this narrow corridor that each ship must pass.  As if crawling through this corridor in space would not make most navigators cry and lose control of their bodily functions,  the ships at that point would be hurtling through space at tremendous speeds, just having come off the back stretch of the raceway.  Go to close toward the moon and you would end up lunar dust.  Move to close the other way and you would be lost forever in the pull of  black hole. It was the last marker on the raceway that was the Great Arena at New Rome.

 

And it was the reason most teams wouldn’t even think of joining the race without a navigator with advanced degrees in hyperspatial mathematics and quantum physics.   The Great Arena at New Rome was not simply a difficult course, it was THE most difficult race course in the galaxy.  It had been the study of doctoral degrees, the subject of countless books and the single reason for the fame of any contestants that managed to win or place in the race, let alone survive.

 

Win, place or show, the victor’s purse for the races held at new room would pay of the debt of entire planets.   It was a good thing too, for that came close to what each ship cost that was built to win such a race.   The real reason to run, and win, such a race, however was not the prize money at all.  It was the endorsements – endorsements that raised the victor’s income to levels greater than the GPP (Gross Planetary Product) of most planets.  If you won this race you were set to ride the gravy train for life.  This was also, of course, why the reputation of the winners of the race was so incredibly important.

 

And it was on this very race course, against the racing team with the best reputation in the history of the Great Arena,  that Brighde would race her ship….a single solitary mining ship.

 All game  content  copyright © CCP.
All other content copyright ©2009 Julie Whitefe