Someone else's birthday

Most people think of podding as pain and death.

I like to think of it as a birthday. The day you are born again. A chance for renewal. Maybe an opportunity to set things straight.

The point being, getting podded is not all bad. It can be good for the soul, good for you. Maybe not the podding but what comes after, that's really something to look forward to. Your new life. The day you are reborn.

Your birthday.

So Happy Birthday to You!

BLAM

Bitch.

(Comms, standby for killmail.)

Perpetual Motion: Rituals

Every society, every culture has its own rituals; ceremonies, rites of passage, coming of age or passing away. Amarrian rites stand out as so very formal, Matari so passionate; they all serve this basic need that people seem to have, of marking changes. And everyone has their own personal little rituals, in their very own way.

Because, you know, those little rituals do help.

--

Age seventeen: Tash-Murkon Prime

"Miss Catherine."

"Yes?"

"Everything is ready, mademoiselle."

"Thank you, I will just need a few minutes."

I cut the comms and sighed. It was time to say goodbye.

I walked determined across the House until I reached the door to my bedroom and knocked, knowing there was no one inside. You know... to hear the sound just once more. I knew that door so well -its heft, how to push it exactly so it would not slam... or exactly so it would- how to listen to sounds muffled behind it, how to block it from House control. I opened it slowly and stepped in.

"Goodbye my bedroom," I said to the now empty space. The intricate golden ornaments of the household were there but all my things were gone. It looked smaller, somehow, without the furniture and stuff lying around. It used to be such a mess. And it felt weird like... someone else's already. Of course it wasn't mine: it was tidy.

I looked around as I slowly walked back, picturing every thing the way they used to look, posters, dresser, my backpack, holodesk. Coming out of the bedroom and through my personal quarters, I ran my hand over a massive wooden table that would have to stay. "Goodbye. I am sorry I cannot take you along." The texture of the wood felt so rich and smooth to the touch and the grain looked beautiful; along with the dark hue it had this sense of power, old power and secret deals. I have found similar in boardrooms since, but I bet they don't know half of what mine did of overnights and study, of friends and confessions, of breakfast, of passing out. "I will miss you, you know that."

The family chambers, right outside mine, were still full of the trappings of family life. Maybe a bit less, maybe a bit older now. It had been a family of four long ago, and then three. Now it would become a family of two. Maybe it was too big now. Or maybe dad would be transferred and it would be assigned to be the home to some other family and some other teenager. Well, that is the way it goes, is it not?

"Goodbye, my home," I said to myself.

The household staff were assembled by the door. They were a diverse bunch, gallies and takis, jin-meis and whatnot; from dad's embassy liaison, to the cook, to mom's nurse. Among them, they never found a single spy. Maybe there even was not one.

I said goodbye to each and every one, mentioning little personal details, sending regards to their families and presenting each with a small formal parting gift. Yah, one acquires some local customs after so many years. There were smiles and tears too, those were definitely imports.

I took a long last look at my home. Former home. The next time I came it would be as a visitor and I knew it would not feel the same.

I turned to the head of the household staff, "Mr. Asahir, I am ready."

The man in front of me made a quick gesture and I felt familiar hands fitting a cloak on my shoulders. We had always disputed that, I would insist on wearing the cloak myself, he would argue that it demeaned staff to be deprived of their rightful duties. Stubborn old man.

So for the last time I rolled my eyes at him, smiling.

"The transport will take you to the Consulate where your family awaits; they will then see you to the spaceport. Your luggage will be transferred directly to your new lodging in Luminaire. Will there be anything else?"

"Will you please take care of them."

The Nefantar smiled wryly. "Of course, Miss Catherine. You need not ask."

"Goodbye Hort," I said knowing how he disliked that nickname. "Thank you for everything you have done for us. For me."

"Goodbye mademoiselle."

"Goodbye everyone, take care."

Goodbye old life.

Hello new adventure.

--

Moving is always a painful occasion. Sometimes you do not understand the significance until much later. Sometimes you do understand and -especially when you have staid somewhere long enough to grow roots- maybe that makes it all the more painful. It hurts.

But you find ways to cope with it. Maybe moving was an exception not to be repeated and you find a bright future in your new home. Or maybe a new adventure which will last you all of fifteen minutes, until you have to move again.

So you come up with your own little rituals. Rites of passage for easing the pain, to remember what you used to love of your old life, or to embrace your new life with passion. For rituals mark change, and change is what you make of it. I choose change to be good.

Here is to good change. Cheers,

Q

Eejit

"So, where shall we go?" he said.

"Somewhere expensive!"

He took me to the NEX store.

:(

Perpetual Motion: Hints

Age twentysix, Metropolis

Quin, wake up.

I was curled up lying sideways in bed, with the duvet pulled into a nice cabbage around me. There is only one way to sleep, dear, and this is it.

Now leave me alone.

--

Quin, wake up.

My eyes were so puffy I could barely open them. You know how it feels when it is warm under the covers and everything else behind a slightly colder haze. You don't even want to move. At all. Maybe except your feet. I can stay for hours lying in bed, just slowly moving my feet and my toes. It's a gift.

So I did not even bother to open my eyes, wanting just five more minutes, five more.

Go. Away.

--

Quin, wake up.

"Oh please, make it stop."

Yup, because waking up can be ignored only so much.

I turned and stretched, yawning lazily. Nice bed. I opened my eyes and looked straight at... the ceiling, wondering where I had woken up, the baritone voice being about the only thing I recognised around me. I looked for clues, as usual.

After a second yawn I noticed the sounds, there was rain mixed with this incessant hum that could be air conditioning in the room, plus something vaguely industrial far away.

I rubbed my eyes. Ceiling, yes, as unrecognisable as the sounds, with a metallic yet unpolished look with a hint of rust. I spy... a Republic-style building?

Sounds of water. Not rain, coming from behind a door, so maybe a shower. Someone showering? Had I spent the night with...? Yah -you go ahead and laugh- I could NOT remember who I had spent the night with, or even if.

It had better been amazing.

Propped on an elbow, I looked for stuff. The clothes lying around were mine, as was the suitcase, so it was probably my place. Hotel room? No trace of whathisname's stuff, not even a shirt.

Ah, the shower. You know how it sounds different, like movement, when someone is in the shower but it sounds flat when no one is? The rain also sounds alive by the way but this one was flat, so the shower was likely empty. Either that, or there was a body in the shower, ha, ha. Ew.

Alone, bummer, and that was my wake-up shower.

Earrings, my last clue. I reached for my left earlobe and counted: one, two, three. Clone number three, in other words, Business Clone. Money Me.

So:

Republic hotel, by myself and wearing my business clone? I remembered, barely. I was in Teonusude for a marketing pitch, having clone-jumped and flown in on the previous evening for dinner and a whole night of sleep.

I am very good at sleeping, by the way. Not so good at waking up.

And I needed to be in top shape because, racer history would not matter. I had to show off my keen sense of market, the fact that I can buy my own expensive stuff and justify that yes, hiring the real deal would cost them dearly. They would not care how many Nomads I had plugged in some other clone, if my mind and my +5's right here were dozing off and wandering somewhere else.

Anyway, it was time to get ready.

"Mirror, mirror," I asked out loud, "Is there time for a bath today? And will you please find me an actual mirror?"

The baritone replied "Quin, you have a meeting scheduled in three hours. This room is not equipped with a holo mirror, although you may use the reflective membrane on the wall as per local custom."

Reflective membrane... a flat mirror?! How precious! Ever tried one yourself? I know it takes getting used to and you end up twirling and twisting your neck so you can not really look at yourself -which was the whole point of this mirror concept to begin with. But it is such a quaint thing, and the feeling that you have to use this ancient object in the same way they used to, in the old days. Like an Amarrian Holder Princess of yore, ha!

As I stood up I found what looked like a window into another room and saw... myself, looking back. A flat mirror, how cool! It had been years since I had used one but, you know how it is, once you learn how you never forget. Only last time it had been mounted on a proper golden frame.

Bath! Right. "Please cancel the shower and prepare the bath."

"Quin," the AI voice said, "the shower is currently in use."

Oh?

I turned around, surprised, and walked back towards the closed door, listening carefully for any extra hint. Clone jumping always messes my mind up, but maybe there was enough time to remember what I was up to last night.

"In that case," I grinned, reaching for the door, "please order breakfast for two."

--

You get used to it, and even come up with ways of coping. Ways of making it appear interesting or even funny, the fact that sometimes you may even not have a place regular enough to call home.

So you smile, you laugh. At every chance, every little thing you observe. The way people walk, or that silly monocle, or how the sun feels different or moves the wrong way. Because it is new, true or not, it should be exciting, and finding excitement in the little things, that makes all the big changes worth it.

And it keeps you going.

Perpetual Motion: People

At some point in your life you realize that it is not places but people that make you feel home.

So it is only natural that, as you leave places behind, you will want to bring your people along. A gift, a memento, a promise to write or to call, maybe visit. A social network link because, you know, you will also be chatting, talking, conferencing each other face to face across the chasm. Like being home.

Is it not great? Keeping in touch with people is so much easier than keeping in touch with places.

And maybe, if you are lucky, you will meet them again somewhere.

--

Age ten: Pator

Sitting on the rocks next to the beach, I was holding my knees to my chest while Taro basked in the sun, lying on his back with one leg dipping lazily in the water. The murmur of the ocean blanketed everything and was a lovely background to idle chat.

"Dunno. Journalist. An artist like Maman," I said, "something with people, definitely."

Taro chuckled "Like your mom? I hope not. She's fierce."

He had been one of my first friends back in Eram and one those who had left ahead of us. As it turns out when it had been time for my family to move out, dad's next assignment had been Pator. Down in Matar, actually.

Have you seen it? Of course everybody knows about Matar, the cradle of the Republic and everything, but have you seen it? From above it is this beautiful blue ocean world, with green dots here and there for people to live on. And on the ground, from the snowy mountain ranges to the plains and deserts to the jungle islands... oh, my favourite part used to be the islands. We lived on an island.

This is was where Taro's family had returned to. this was their 'home.' By some amazing coincidence we had ended up living on the very same island where they hailed from and it was cool because some of mom's old friends from Eram also were there.

Someday I would learn to do that, to arrange coincidence the way mom did. ;)

Anyway, funny how knowing someone from my previous life had helped so very much when I arrived... how long had it been, five years now? How time flies. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath of salty ocean air. It felt great.

I felt home.

I swear there must be this law of the universe that says whenever I start feeling at home, it is time to move to some other planet. I did not want to tell Taro. And besides that, there was much more to say but... I did not really feel like it. Somehow it just felt as if it would make things more difficult. So I just looked at the horizon and kept the small talk going.

"And what about you?"

"I want to be a soldier with the Marines."

"Oh, I see. How typical, you want to kill people," I teased, "you suck, y'know."

"It is not about killing, Kü, it is about fighting for my people." He replied matter-of-factly.

See, most in his tribe, the Brutor, feel different about fighting than the rest of us. For them it is usually about people and freedom, not about conquest, profit or sport. Fighting is Freedom. Fighting is Life. I knew that.

Maybe I could poke him with that.

"That's just an excuse, you know, so all of you can go and beat the crap out of each other like in the holos."

He just grumbled and pretended to ignore me.

Hey, maybe that is what I really needed, a good fight. A good break-up fight so epic that we would look back, remember this day and think good riddance! That way we would not have to miss each other terribly, every single day. We'd hate each other's guts, good. I could live with that. Half a universe away, that's what I would do.

In case you have not noticed, I am really good at fooling myself, sometimes.

So there, Newly Discovered Fact: Fighting is killing, fighting is crap. I hate you because you want to be a killer. 'Cause I said so. Just like that.

I pushed it. "No, really, must everything be solved by fighting?" now seriously enough for him to take notice. "Stupidest thing in the world."

"Sometimes you can't avoid a fight."

"I think there is always a way, if you really want to. And if you are smart enough."

He grumbled again and, in the corner of my eye, I could see him tensing up. I kept my sight on the horizon, thinking of how to tease him next. There is something not quite smart enough about trying to pick up a fight with an islander, boy or girl.

Oh, whatever. Keep poking.

"So, are you?"

"Am what?"

"Smart enough?"

Without actually looking in his direction yet keeping all my attention on that corner of my eye, I think I saw his head move. He was there allright, maybe he was wondering why I was suddenly hostile. Or maybe his tribal instinct was sizing me up for a well-deserved beating.

"Taro?"

"Hrmpf."

"I'm leaving. Dad got transferred..."

A movement, then stopped. I finally turned my head and found him propped up on one muscled arm, the other resting on his knee, curiously looking at me.

"Kü." He still called me that.

"It's Amarr."

"Kütral, listen," he slid closer and drew me in. I felt his arm gently pushing me closer, firmly across my shoulders, and I nested my head against his chest. I did not hug back.

"It's Amarr, Taro, it's fucking Amarr. I am going to live in the Empire now."

You know what some people say, right? Only two kinds of people live in Amarr: slavers and slaves. Even in this day and age.

Yah, yah, I know, and already knew back then it's not like that... but how about everyone else? Did my friends know? What would they think, what would they say? I was moving to the Empire. What would he say, what would he think of me?

And I did not want to go but, what can you do? Sometimes there is just no alternative but going wherever it is comes next.

"So what? We will always be friends," he whispered to my ear, "You are one of my people."

WTF? Hello? I was trying to break up and he was coming up with this? And why was that, genius, to make things more difficult? Put me through the grinder and make me hate even more already what I was about to go through? I mean, was it that hard to figure out that we were over anyway, whether we wanted or not. Take a hint, you obtuse, uncaring and simple-minded idiot. I am going anyway, so let me.

Why bother? He has never been good at hints, even today. I pushed him away slowly, deliberately.

"Goodbye Taro." So much left unsaid.

I stood up.

"N'de rendape ajuta," he said to my back as I turned around.

Yah, right, I thought, I would love to see that. Ten-year-old crosses the universe to be with friend, news at ten.

I did not run, I walked... and I did not look behind, I just stared ahead all the way home. No running, no looking back, no crying. Hey, two out of three, not bad.

Only halfway my sore feet reminded me that I had left my sandals behind.

I did not care. Wish it had been only sandals.

--

Now by the second time you move, you have already learned it doesn't quite work the way you expected. There is always something in between: distance, timezone, time apart, the fact that no matter how many times you call each other, the nuisance of a call will never feel the same as sitting in front of each other for drinks. Or a hug. Or a kiss. And then you start drifting apart.

So it does not work, and it turns out that you do leave friends behind, as much as you may want not to. But you expected this already, right? I mean, you learned that the very first time you moved.

One thing though. Maybe, if you are lucky, you will have good friends; they will keep you in their hearts, the same as you keep them in yours. And the day you see each other again, it will be like you were never apart.

For good friends, those are forever.

Perpetual Motion
Previously: Places

Planetary Interruption

Dear employees:

Operations in Hek II will be down for maintenance on 23 September 112. Regular downtime will be extended from 0900 to 1100 HST.

During this period the Company will upgrade the planetary Command Center to an Improved Lava Command Center, which will result improvements to overall productivity and employee experience. The soda vending machine at the SS-HIP launchpad office will be fixed as well.

Unfortunately it will be necessary to tear down all corporate structures on the planet and rebuild these from scratch; this shall happen, of course, on budget and on schedule.

We apologise for the inconvenience.

Employees are advised to take all personal items with them as they leave the office for the day.

With kind regards,

Management


(this item contains a hint: Bring a large supply of oxygen with you.)

--

OOC: Oh my. Was there not an easier way to do this? Why do I have to scrap everything just to upgrade? Tsk, tsk...

Perpetual Motion: Places

Age five: Eram

I was six the first time we moved. I guess I should have seen it coming.

Funny. As far as I can remember, there has been a steady trickle of people disappearing from my life. You can't imagine how tough it is to realize, as a kid, that friends are only temporary.

At first it was my friends from the crèche moving out. Thierry, Cathy Q, Taro. But new kids would move right in so there were always people around. They would stay just long enough to cease being strangers... and then would go.

Vanish, rinse, repeat.

Angèle was one of my best friends. Not only had we known each other since forever, we had also witnessed together the curious acts of disappearance by friends and schoolmates. We used to talk about that sometimes and afterwards I would pepper mom with questions about them, where had they gone, why had they gone and when were they coming back.

Apparently there is some mysterious time when grownups "must go" somewhere. And when it comes, they drag their family along. Stupidest thing in the world.

Then it had been Angèle's turn.

How predictable, you must be thinking. Right. I'd love to see you explain 'predictable' to a five year old.

Mom always did, she would explain with infinite patience and something like "She went back home, Quin, where her family is. When people have their home somewhere else, sometimes they want to return."

Okay, I was beginning to understand going back 'home.' Gallente kids went back home to the Federation. Caldari kids went back somewhere else called the State. Some had returned home to Pator. Blah blah. Apparently they would not come back on Monday nor the rest of the week and, unlike going back home for vacation, once they returned home... they were gone. For ever.

"Oh, no, not forever. All of these places are faraway stars in the night sky and, see, each one is actually an entire world full of people. They are so far, far away that it is difficult to attend the same school or to even visit, but maybe one day..."

So, 'home' was this place you had never seen in your life, huh? Full of strangers and empty of familiar faces or places. Any place else could be home.

Except, of course, the one where I had been born. Where I had been brought up, where I learned to talk, walk, made my friends, knew everyone in the neighbourhood, climbed every tree... where I lived. The one place that was mine yet, somehow, was not my home. 'cause home is elsewhere.

I got to stay while all of my friends had to go. Maybe I was just lucky.

All of my friends. All. of. them.

Lucky? Maybe I am looking for a different word here.

But... certainly not Angèle? She had been there all my life and my party, she was supposed to come to my sixth birthday party in a couple of months. Unfair!

"Why did she have to leave?"

Mom had heard so many of these questions before. "Why?" "Because people miss their home, sometimes very much so." "Why her?" "Because everyone has a home."

"Why do all of my friends have to leave? All of them? That's unfair. Must everyone go?"

"Because..."

"Why me?"

Yes, mom, why does this happen to me? Why?

She just looked at me and -you know how it is, to look at someone's face right that very moment they can't hold it back any more?- her eyes began to water. Looking away, she brought the back of her hand up to cover her mouth.

My, oh my, oh my, oh my, did I do something wrong, am I in trouble? Did I just hurt her? What did I do? I must have said something terrible, I did not mean to!

She began to weep quietly. Suddenly I saw it was not just me... it also happened to her. She was also losing friends, places, roots. It was not my fault. So I hugged her, we cried together and, for a couple of minutes, my mother and I were the same.

We were friends.

I really should have seen it coming. We moved a couple of days after my sixth birthday.

Perpetual Motion
Next: People

Chameleon

I picked up some new Caméléon tights yesterday while holiday shopping.

They have a store here in Clermont and we know each other well; my favourites are the black nanite Artémis. From a long pullover to a Devereaux gown, they can make any outfit kill rather than simply stun.

I love how nanite tights keep all the style of fabric and then bring it up to an entirely new level. Set the control to start at sheer, fishnets, lacy or opaque -whatever you feel like, actually- and then let the pattern slowly change, so subtly that will not notice at first but your legs never look exactly the same at second glance. Depending on the model, the playlist will fix, cycle, improvise or follow your mood during the evening, always hinting but naturally, never telling.

And turning heads is not all of it. Every step, every bit a star as you look outside, that is how you feel inside. Luxurious, daring, ready to walk on any edge. So very tired after an day on your feet? A nasty tear? Evening dancing? Don't worry, it will be alright -besides making stay-ups actually, you know, stay up, nanites know a couple of other tricks to make a girl feel like a billion or two.

Caméléons carry a stupid expensive pricetag for tights you use only once. But are absolutely worth it.

And stray hands, beware. Chameleons do bite.

-Q


Answering chat questions from readers...

Updated:
- Nanite tights: Made out of nanites, not fabric. They can change appearance and texture, but not colour.
- Caméléon: Gallentean luxury hosiery brand. They invented nanite tights and hold coyrights on pattern playlists.
- Caméléon black nanite Artémis: A model in the collection, my favourite...
- Stay-ups: sometimes do not. Unless with nanites, then they do stay. They'll even crawl up, which is creepy.

Updated, again:
- Of course they are not going to burn the boyfriend as they follow one's mood. He would feel something like a soft touch of fingertips. He will probably be surprised.
- Come to think of it, if you are mad at the BF, ouch. You had it coming, sweetie.
- I am not sure how much nanites would like the wash.

EVE Blog Banter #9: Down with Downtime!

Welcome to the ninth installment of the EVE Blog Banter and its first contest, the monthly EVE Online blogging extravaganza created by CrazyKinux. The EVE Blog Banter involves an enthusiastic group of gaming bloggers, a common topic within the realm of EVE Online, and a week to post articles pertaining to the said topic. The resulting articles can either be short or quite extensive, either funny or dead serious, but are always a great fun to read! Any questions about the EVE Blog Banter should be directed here . Check out other EVE Blog Banter articles at the bottom of this post!

"Last month Ga'len asked us which game mechanic we would most like to see added to EVE. This month Keith "WebMandrill" Nielson proposes to reverse the question and ask what may be a controversial question: Which game mechanic would you most like to see *removed completely* from EVE and why? I can see this getting quite heated so lets keep it civil eh?"

---

Two minutes - Molden Heath - Occator-class Transport Carillon

The ship shook as another missile hit.

Without looking away from his tactical display, the Captain barked orders. "Damage control, status!"

"Sir! Armor at 27%, we are overheating resists up, repair unit is offline, repeat, offline."

"Capacitor?"

"Zero, or close to," reported Engineering, "they are neutralizing as fast as we can generate, but I think I can keep the hardeners going."

Competent, he thought, shame she would have signed up right before this hauling mission. The pirates had ambushed them on the last low-sec gate of the return trip, before entering warp. Now the pack of frigates was slowly taking the ship apart... but there was a small window of opportunity and he would jump through it or die trying.

"Helm, keep trying to align to any celestial out there and warp to it."

"We are being bumped, captain, cannot align.""

"Align, damn it! Just keep trying again and again. Engineering, buy us all the time you can get!"

--

One minute - Tash-Murkon - Exploration vessel Voilà

"Nothing on scan, ma'am. Shall I scan again?"

Fire at will!, she thought, and smiled at the prospect of a silvery trail of scan probes abandoned in space. Oh, what was the point... there was nothing in this system... nothing in this region. There was probably nothing left in the entire cluster. She looked at the time in the display. Less than a minute.

"Yes please. Move pattern, then scan once more."

The point was practice. To keep skills sharp.

--

45 seconds - Essence, 25th FDU Defensive Patrol 1000h

(Graveyard Shift)

They had been flying for the entire shift and spotted no targets.

"So I says 'careful, that's not one of ours' just as he realizes he's trying to dock at the wrong station. Sentry guns almost get him good, warped out in half structure, har, har, har..."

The squadron had a clean record. Not impeccable, but clean. No kills, no loses, no action, no nothing. They came out at 1000 hours every day, patrolled until 1100 and handed over to the next shift.

The banter on comms was interrupted by the flight leader's voice "Ladies, cut the chatter. Time's over, dock up and get some sleep. See you guys tomorrow."

One by one, the squadron aligned and docked at a friendly station. All but one.

"Sir, Beaucheff here. What if we overstay shift?"

The militia flight leader started to reply a string of obscenities, then thought better. It was actually amusing. "You know what, Bo? That is the best damn idea I have heard in some time. But we seem to be all docked up so, why don't you do just that, overstay. We meet afterwards and then you tell us all about how it went, mkay? By the way, you keep your clone updated, don't you?"

--

30 seconds - Tash-Murkon - Voilà

"Thank you, that would be enough. Retrieve scan probes."

--

15 seconds - Molden Heath - Carillon

"Sir! Hull integrity 50%, I do not think she will take it!"

"She can, and she will."

The PA system blared "all hands brace for emergency warp, all hands brace for emergency warp."

--

DOWNTIME - Essence - in the dark

Lieutenant Beaucheff saw his flight systems shut down, then everything went dark.

--

DOWNTIME - Tash-Murkon - in the dark

"Latte, as usual?"

"Yes, a small one please."

--

DOWNTIME - Molden Heath - in the dark

The transport hung half-dead in space, far away from gates, celestials, pirate ships or anything else. All alone. Inside it was pitch-black, the incessant hum of a living ship having been interrupted.

But it was not quiet.

There was the cheering sound of a living crew.

--

DOWNTIME - Essence - in the dark

Beaucheff tried again to bring the systems back to life.

"Come on, 600 seconds to cluster restart? You have to be kidding me..."

It would take time.

--

30 seconds - Molden Heath - Carillon

The transport came out of emergency warp and immediately started aligning to the high-sec gate. The hull breaches were not visible anymore as armies of nanites worked furiously to patch the armour up, powered by newly-restored capacitor.

The small pirate gang, returning from their own emergency warp dispersed and disorganized, was too slow to react in time.

Their quarry had escaped.

--

One minute - Tash-Murkon - Voilà

"Ma'am, readings confirm the presence of kernite, jaspet and, whoa, hedbergite? Here? We're rich!"

She smiled. "Please inform base of the find, and make sure they send an Orca with the miners. We are only rich if we can mine all that before anyone else, you know."

"Aye, Ma'am. Woohoo! Will you look at the size of that rock!"

--

Two minutes - Essence - FDU Defensive Patrol

Beaucheff went for a last tour of the constellation. He had crossed paths with the Offensive Alpha Shift as they were heading for their own patrol, and had briefly talked to them. It was almost funny how the voices on the other side sounded worn out, nervous and jumpy in a way that no one from his shift ever did. He did not want to imagine how they would sound by the time the shift ended. Maybe it had to do with all those bunkers open for business now, and the enemy fleets roaming.

Anyway, would have loved to stay and chat but it was time to go home. His autopilot warped him to the last gate.

Right in front of him, the gate activated. Local spiked.

"Oh, sweet mother..."

---

DOWNTIME: that time of day, every day, when everything stops in space. No matter how important the battle is, how close you were to docking, how many zillions you have at stake in the market, everything blacks out at 11:00. Ships disperse and warp away, resources appear, conquered areas are to be contested again. A tired universe is made anew, during downtime.

In any case, here is why I think that aspects of downtime are bad: lots of stuff is generated at the same time. Asteroids, bunkers, exploration sites. Opportunities. Not that opportunities are bad, no, no, but having everything generated in one go is sort of unbalancing.

This gives people who fly right after downtime, more opportunities than the people who fly long afterwards.

So what are the chances that downtime is going to go away? Not many, I think. And what can be done about it? Well, downtime is not going to go away by itself overnight. Maybe it needs to be gradual. Maybe some of the stuff that happens at downtime should be replaced by new mechanics. So:

• Stop doing all of it in one go.
• Re-spawn some stuff spontaneously during the day.
• Eventually, re-spawn everything spontaneously during the day.
• Do away with the need for daily downtime.

I do not think that downtime will go tomorrow or next next week, there may be reasons why it's necessary. In the meantime, maybe we can start walking (ha, ha, walking) away from it. And I will still enjoy my downtime coffee.

---

Go visit the other participants of the EVE Blog Banter:

1. Diary of a Space Jockey, Blog Banter: BE GONE!
2. EVE Newb, (EVE) Remove You
3. Miner With Fangs, Blog Banter - It's the Scotch
4. The Eden Explorer, Blog Banter: The Map! The Map!
5. The Wandering Druid of Tranquility, "Beacons, beacons, beacons, beacons, beacons, mushroom, MUSHROOM!!!"
6. Inner Sanctum of the Ninveah, Kill the Rats
7. Mercspector @ EVE, Scotty
8. EVE's Weekend Warrior, EVE Blog Banter #9
9. A Merry Life and a Short One, Eve Blog Banter #9: Why Won't You Die?
10. Into the unknown with gun and camera, Blog Banter – The Hokey Cokey
11. The Flightless Geek, EVE Blog Banter #9: Remove a Game Mechanic
12. Sweet Little Bad Girl, Blog Banter 9: Who is Nibbling at My House?
13. One Man and His Spaceship, Blog Banter 9: What could you do without?
14. Life in Low Sec, EVE Blog Banter #9: Stop Tarnishing My Halo
15. Cle Demaari: Citizen, Blog Banter #9: Training for all my men!
16. A Mule in EVE, He who giveth, also taketh away?
17. Dense Veldspar, Blog Banter 9
18. Morphisat’s Blog, Blog Banter #9 – Randomness Be Gone !
19. Facepalm's Blog, EVE Blog Banter #9: What a new pilot could do without
20. Memoires of New Eden, You're Fired
21. Kyle Langdon's Journeys in EVE, EVE Blog Banter #9 Titans? What's a Titan?
22. Achernar, The gates! The gates are down!
23. Speed Fairy, EVE Blog Banter #9: Down with Downtime!
24. I am Keith Neilson, EVE Blog Banter #9-F**K Da Police
25. Ripe Lacunae, The UI… Where do I begin… (Eve Blog Banter #9)
26. Clown Punchers, EvE Blogs: What game mechanic would you get rid of?
27. Estel Arador Corp Services, You've got mail
28. Epic Slant, Let Mom and Pop Play: EVE Blog Banter #9
29. Deaf Plasma's EVE Musings, Blog Banter #9 - Removal of Anchoring Delay of POS modules
30. Podded Once Again, Blog Banter #9 - Do we really need to go AFK?
31. Postcards from EVE, 2009.07.02.00.29.06
32. Harbinger Zero, Blog Banter #9 – War Declarations & Sec Status
33. Warp Scrammed, Blog Banter 9 – Never Too Fast
34. Ecaf Ersa (EVE Mag), Can a Tractor Tractor a Can?
35. Thoughts from an Accidental Minmatar Revolutionary, EVE Blog Banter #9 - Aggression timers, WTs and Stargates
36. Mike Azariah, I don't put much stock in it...
37. Rettic's Log, Blog Banter: Overview Overload
38. A Sebiestor Scholar, [OOC] EVE Blog Banter #9: Slaves
39. Diary of a pod pilot, [OOC] EVE blog banter #9: Because of Falcon
40. Roc's Ramblings, Blog Banter #9 – Taking Things Slow
41. The Gaming-Griefer, EVE Sucks, But I Love It: The Memoir of a Masochist
42. Letrange's EVE Blog, Blog Banter #9: Bye Bye Learning Skills
43. Lyietfinvar, Remove that monopoly
44. Sceadugenga, Blog Banter #9
45. Industrialist with Teeth, EVE Blog Banter #9

Sniper

I wait, motionless.

I breathe deeply, just like I have been taught, and concentrate.

I hope.

My hands feel around for the edge of the camo blanket and, finding it, pull it aside.

I still harbor hope.

I open my eyes and there are my tools: a scope and a railgun. I was really hoping these would not be there.

But I find, in front of me, tools of destruction. All mine.

How did I end up doing this? Talking, as usual. This time, I let someone talk me in.

I still have some hope that the decision will not be mine, that something will go wrong and I will have to go back. "Oui monsieur," I would say, "I did everything I could. The weapon was damaged when I got it."

Click. But the pieces fit together perfectly. So much for hope.

I plug in. Breathe in, out, concentrate and calm down my pounding heart... the railgun welcomes my mind, senses my pulse, my breathing reflex and starts learning; it comes alive, starts breathing and pulsating by itself, its -his?- movement compensating my own before starting to learn those of the wind.

I lie down and wait with my eyes closed. I can see through my tools.

And I wait, motionless.

Commotion, someone is approaching down there, in the distance. The object of my attention is flanked by people in shades -rather, Evil Things that look like shades, I remind myself. They move with precision and professional cool, yet there is a certain twitchyness about them that almost reminds me of birds scanning for danger, blinking and looking around. Agility implants, surely; they just look nervous but I know they are not. I know I am. One of them looks in my direction and -I shudder to think- right through me. Those shades, they freak me out. Do they know I am here?

My covops suit keeps me safe and hidden but, yes, they know I am here. They must know. They always do.

This means I have only one chance.

But I don't want to take it. I don't want to kill. Ah, but there is a reason they talked me into this. It's because it is the right thing to do.

Apparently.

The gun knows where to deliver its message way, way better than I do; it is a matter of physics. It knows better, so much better in fact, that I am not allowed to aim. Just watch. Ah, but I do know things my gun does not know, I know the best time to shoot: when they are looking the other way, when they have checked, double checked everything, when they have made sure. When they feel safe. When they least expect it. It's a matter of people. That's why the gun is not allowed to shoot. Just aim.

Together, my railgun and I. We know where, we know when.

It feels horrible. Cold. How can killing someone be the right thing? There is always an alternative. I should have quit. One can always not do it. Walk away, just like that.

But I wait.

Just like he told me... how did I allow him to talk me into this? I hate it. I hate the waiting, because it gives me time to think about what I am doing. This is not right.

No... this is right.

Only it does not feel right. Never mind, the feeling will go away.

The birds are calming down. They still look around, protecting the nest, but now they have turned their attention to other corners of their world. Away from me and away from my invisible touch. They start walking away, turning their backs to me. Just a little bit more.

An opening.

In my mind, I gently squeeze the ball to nothing, careful not to disturb the gun.

And we let the charge fly home...

Two men tumble, one of them my target, the other one some poor soul whose job was just to take a bullet for him. Good boy, job well done. Yet behind him, my mark still flops down. Watchful birds are startled and nervously look around for the shooter, guns drawn. They will not find me.

I am invisible.

I might as well, I have just killed someone. I want to crawl under a rock.

I have just shot Tibus Heth, the leader of the State. I have saved the Federation, the State and New Eden. It does feel weirdly right yet totally wrong. Ends should not justify means. Look at what we achieved! Yah, but look at me, look at ourselves now... we are just like them.

A few minutes later my comms confirm that he is not dead, just badly hurt. So badly that he will be sipping his food through an IV drip from now on. Anyway, he will not be causing any more harm.

I whisper a reply in my thoughts, letting my contact know that I am fine and will join him at rendezvous.

I stand up.

A chime -what is that noise at my back? I spin... he is right behind me, wait, what is HE doing here and what is he is raising in my direc... BLAM

--

GAME OVER.


602 POINTS.

At least I took Heth.

But he? He bagged Foiritan. After that he went for Blaque and, after him, was working his way down the Supreme Court for like a zillion points, before getting bored and deciding to take me out.

I put the pointer down in front of the console. Some rifle.

"Is this supposed to be fun? Killing pretend people?"

"Well, actually it gets boring rather quickly. That's why you want to kill other players -that never gets old."

"You griefer. I do not want to play anymore... it's sick. And cheesy, with the covops suit, there is no such thing as a covops suit. And it sucks."

"Do you have anything else in mind?" he asked, still grinning.

"You promised to take me out. Please tell me this was not it," I sniped back.

EVE Blog Banter #8: Charisma Tanking

Welcome to the eighth installment of the EVE Blog Banter, the monthly EVE Online blogging extravaganza created by CrazyKinux.

This month's topic comes to us from Ga'len at The Wandering Druid of
Tranquility. He asks: "What new game mechanic or mechanics would you like to see created and brought into the EVE Online universe and how would this be incorporated into the current game universe? Be specific and give details, this is not meant to be a 'nerf this, boost my game play' post like we see on the EVE forums."

---

Crap, they were catching up. I aligned to the next gate and warped off, just as they came through.

For once I was not flying a frigate or an interceptor. Somehow I had decided to take a Stabber-class cruiser to an important rendezvous and now I was so regretting not having practiced on her for more time. I was being chased, they knew exactly what they were doing while I did not.

And they were slowly catching up. I hit the gate and jumped, with one or my pursuers slowing down from warp at 70 clicks. Oh, slow gate. On the other side I aligned and warped off, just as the tackler uncloaked and started to lock. Deeper into 0.0. I hit the next gate and jumped through with the guy 30 clicks behind me. I could already see the Huzzah Federation logo on his wings... this was going to hurt, soon.

On the other side, I was relieved to see friendly ships. I held my cloak as the gate flashed again for my pursuer, and again and again for two more of their gang - the ones too eager to chase me. We all held cloak while I hailed the Thukker battleship guarding the gate for assistance, hoping that my eight-plus standing with the Tribe would win me some sort of protection.

"The Thukker Tribe does not need enemies," they responded, curtly.

I thought fast, waited until my cloak dropped and then started burning towards the Thukker frigates - only for a few seconds as the Huzzah interceptor webbed me and the rest of his gang started locking on my ship.

"Hostile gang, the Thukker Tribe looks after their friends. You will pay for your mistake!"

Big mistake. Almost as soon as the Malediction was pinned in place by the Thukker frigates, it went poof and vaporized; the hostile Thorax and Rupture started unloading their guns on me as I turned to make a beeline towards the heavier guns of the friendly Tribals. Take that! They would have to either either run the gauntlet or run away.

They ran towards the gate. A Stabber wasn't worth it.

Moments later, salvage crews picked through the remains of the Rupture and the Malediction. Me? I had barely survived, in structure - were it not for the Thukker fleet intervening, I would not have made it.

The Battleship opened a channel.

"Red, you are late. Again."

"Fashionably late, Chief Ovi," I replied. "How nice to see you! Thanks for lending a hand with that rabble..."


--

That's what I would love, that standings with the pirate factions actually meant something in space.

You know, if you spend time on your networking skills, if you know people who know people, if you can handle hostile agents with tact and diplomacy... in short, if you show up as blue on some agent's desk, then why in the world should you not show up as blue to that faction's guns in space?

Making nice with pirate factions should mean that pirate factions are nice to you:

Pirate faction pilots would be neutral towards blues. They would not shoot you on sight, nor help you.

Pirate factions would react to aggression the same as always, of course. You shoot them or their friends, they shoot back and you lose standing. They'd be friendly but not stupid.

Pirate factions would shoot reds. Just like they do today.


With this, investing in standings or social skills (yah, right) would actually change the way that entire swaths of space look at you and, likewise, how you look at that space. The same way lowsec people invest in security status. The same way CONCORD does not like aggression. The same way Empire navies like friendly or dislike enemy militias.

I think pirate factions should hire a few ex-cops, to learn how it's done. 'Cause everyone but them do it.

Then, you could have dodgy friends in dark places, belts or gates (or, your target could, you never know). It would change the way you fit or the way you fly. The way you mission or the way you rat. Imagine surviving an ambush because... you warped back to a belt with friendly rats! :) Or jumping through a gate knowing there is help on the other side. It would spice up things.

I say that tank is anything that helps you survive. If friendlies will not shoot you to begin with, well... would that not be tank as well? Tank depending on social skills?

Definitely. I would call it Charisma Tanking.

---

List of participants:

1. CrazyKinux's Musing, EVE Blog Banter #8: Care for a little game of SecWars?
2. The Wandering Druid of Tranquility, Wow, that new thing is so shiny!!!
3. I am Keith Nielson, EVE Blog Banter #8 - Return of the Top Gun
4. Once More from the Beginning, 8th EVE Blog Banter May 2009 Edition
5. A merry life and a short one, EVE Blog Banter #8: In the Year of Our Awesome
6. Inner Sanctum of the Ninveah, Planets
7. Helicity Boson, Bantering the blog
8. Achernar, Unique adventures
9. Ecliptic Rift, OOC: EVE Blog Banter 8: Standings and secondary factions
10. The New Edener, EVE Blog Banter #8
11. Journey to New Eden, Eve Blog Banter #8: What new mechanic should be added to Eve?
12. Life, The Universe and Everything, Blog banter 8: mentorship
13. EVE Guru, EBB 8: Yarr! Prepare to be boarded!
14. The Ralpha Dogs, Greed Is Good, Greed Works
15. Rifter Drifter, Blog Banter 8: Strategic Gunnery
16. A Mule in EVE, Expanding EVE
17. Letrange's EvE Blog, 8th Blog Banter
18. Roc's Ramblings, Blog Banter #8
19. The Nude Nerd, Blog Banter #8
20. Scop's Log, Blog Banter #8: "We're caught in a tractor beam! It's pulling us in!"
21. Speed Fairy, EVE Blog Banter #8: Charisma Tanking
22. Industrialist with Teeth, EVE Blog Banter #8: It's Like Tetris for OCD People
23. Diary of a Pod Pilot, EVE blog banter #8: Killing in the name of
24. Talk Unfraid, Physical Communications
More to come!

Messages

So, back from vacation.

We went to a château just north of Clermont, but far away enough that it does not even feel like Auvergne V anymore. Beautiful! There was an old castle in the grounds a pond, vineyards and waterworks. We had the place all to ourselves for the graduation bash...

Anyhow, there is stuff even a capsuleer can't control. Like a certain someone throwing my neocom into the pond as they discovered me sneaking out a message. Bummer...

So upon our return to town, first thing besides getting a new one is checking the messages.

Message #1 - Dragonstar Corporation HR Department: "Welcome to the Dragonstar Corporation, Catherine Delorois. Your application has been accepted and we look forward to working with you upon your return next week."

Goodie, my first corp. This is going to be fun.

Message #2 - Kayleigh Jamieson: "Hi, Quin! Are you at the beach? Is it sunny? Or did you go for the countryside, the mountains.. snow? Hope you're having fun! Hugs, Kay."

Awww, thanks. Wish you were there!

Message #3 - Kanunu: "Hi Quin, I am wondering if you have any way of contacting Kay planetside? Enjoy your vacation."

Kanunu? Wow, it has been a long time since I had heard from him... season 5 of racing or so? He is a director now in DS. I wonder what it could be...

Message #4 - KillJoy Tseng: "ISRC staff got planetside issues, we are finding temps to lay the track and host the race. Don't worry, everything is under control."

Now that, that was not funny. I hate when people say stuff is under control, 'cause it means it's not.

Message #5 - CrazyKinux "Hello everyone. Still we've got time to squeeze a Banter before this month of Fools ends."

Oh, the Blog Banter, it had to be while I was away. I guess I could write something up a bit late, it should still be fun. Next message, please.

Message #6 - KillJoy Tseng "We are postponing race #5 and exhibition #3 unless we find a replacement. Take care, enjoy."

I really hoped they would find a way to run the race, even without me, or we would end up looking a bit silly as an organization. Well, everyone can have an emergency, guess I will have to do some PR.

Message #7 - Kanunu "Quin, did you find Kay? Don't freak out but the corp is under a surprise takeover; the main shareholder is forcing a vote on a new CEO in today and DS employees are threatening to leave en masse. Tell her not to worry anyway, everything is under control."

Ow, crap. My first corp? You have to be kidding me. This has to be... is this some kind of new speed record? 'cause that's like the only good thing I can think about it right now.

I better pick up the comms. I am almost afraid of catching up...

But before, I seriously need to kiss someone for having thrown the stupid neocom into the lake.

-Q

A treasure

The look on his face, when he realized it was my first time... again.

;)

Au revoir l'Université

April 111, Sinq Laison
University of Caille, Campus Bourynes

Text shimmers in front of me.

I have read it and know what it means. Actually, I have been expecting it. But it's still hard to believe.

No way. Finally?

The words are simple.

Gallente Business - Entrepeneur Elite
Issued via: University of Caille

This certificate is the final step of the Caille University graduate program for Entrepreneur specialists. It certifies that the holder of the certificate...

The real meaning is not that simple. It means it is time to say goodbye.

--

Have you guys gotten this feeling that you follow a pre-established path? No, no, don't get me wrong, this is not Fate, she acts in ways so much subtler. This is standing in the forest, looking around you and seeing a worn path on the ground. It may be the twigs, the grass or a hole in the thicket. Someone has been here before. That's the way to go.

And what do you do? You follow the path.

Not because they force you to. Not because it's your greater destiny. Not even because of a reason. Just... because. Because you are lazy, because it's the easiest thing to do, because it's the next absentminded step after what you were doing before. Keep still when you were still or keep moving in the direction you were. It's not Fate but that lazy slob, Inertia.

That's the feeling.

So what if I have followed the worn path all my life. Go to school. Make friends at school. Move with family, make friends elsewhere. School is over, what's next? University. Stay put for the Master's Degree. Oh, excuse me if I yawn for a bit.

I was admitted into the University of Caille some six years ago, it has been two and a half since I became a capsuleer. I started, all bright eyed and excited about spaceflight. I remember wanting to move stuff from here to there and make a killing on the market. See, I have a life down planetside and the market fits nicely with... living.

I learned very quickly that pure social and market would not be enough, so I learned to make a killing in different ways -one needs to know how to look after oneself, you know. Then I went into the fast courier business -I am just so good at the running away part of fighting,- and learned how to go faster and faster. Then I found racing and eventually, I learned to fit and invent and build my own stuff. Then T2. You know the rest of the story.

That is how I followed the path.

As it turns out, I fell right in the middle of some of the best people you can meet in space; some of them my team, some of them adversaries, all of them my friends. I have learned from them, I am a better person because of them, and I hope they feel the same. I have learned little things: a smile goes a long way; always say hello and always say goodbye; it's about the people, not the spaceships.

All these things I have learned while walking down the path. I have made small decisions in the meantime, and enjoyed some stunning views while looking that way or the other.

In the end, what I am saying is... I am grateful for the path.

So here I stand, in the middle of the forest, with most decisions having been made for me long before I took the easy way forward. And you know what? Now that I have arrived, I look around and find that there is no path ahead, no path around. From now on, there are only choices.

It feels good.

So thank you, Dean Arele and CEO Hatiniestan, for giving us safe paths to walk along. Thanks everyone here, for helping us along the way. We have reached this point where, although we will never stop learning, we will make choices that are fully ours.

To those graduating today, I say goodbye, et bonne chance. From now on, you choose how to make a path ahead of you. You have reached the end of this one path, who knows which one you will open ahead of you?

And to those of you staying in UC, I can only say... fly safe, nuggets, until we meet again.

Graduation Ceremony
Elite Entrepeneur Programme
University of Caille, April 111

--



Click.

Path no more.

A window wide open

They say eyes are the window to your soul. It's true. Without a word, eyes can say 'come hither,' 'go away' or a myriad of different things. Some say that the eyes of Amarrian-raised women are particularly expressive. Your eyes convey feeling and in doing so, subtly, other things as well.

Now if eyes are the window to your soul, then pod jacks must be the window to your mind. Without a word, these can command hundreds of people, have a ship jump endless distances across the void or turn on a pin. But all jacks, they are the same -cold and heartless. They convey Information. Thought.

Nature has been wise and kind to us over a million years. Eyes are truly windows, that look inside and outside; we can see things coming. We can shut our eyes in, well, the blink of an eye. Sometimes even without thinking we can avert our eyes, cover them, duck, curl up or ultimately stand up and defend them.

Not so with pod jacks.

Humankind is so clumsy. We do not have eyes on our back.

--

"What about that one?" I pointed to the backlace on display, changing the subject of conversation.

Amerique frowned and said "I'm not sure."

"Ooh, but I like it. Let's go inside."

It was actually one of the most beautiful I had seen. Simple, elegant, crystalline and sparkling.

"I am looking for a backlace?" I asked the woman behind the counter.

"To plug? Of course," she said, "would you like to see anything in particular?"

"I usually wear small and comfortable, but I'm looking for something more, ah, dressy?"

"I think I may have something to interest you." She showed me some sets and helped me choose three before directing me to the fitting room, "Please walk this way, let me call the adviser for you."

I followed her through the door, sat on the couch and relaxed.

"Hello, my name is Claire, how are we doing today?" a silver-haired  lady greeted me with a kind smile as she walked in. She introduced herself as my adviser, showing her credentials before engaging in easier talk. What a peculiar mix she was, serene and poised yet, at the same time, precise and professional. There was no hint of the artificial charm of social implants. How... genuine. What a nice surprise!

"Oh, this one is beautiful indeed. Is it for a special occasion?" she asked after she locked the door and prepared the sets for a fit. "What would you be wearing it with?"

I made myself comfortable while the couch was raising. "I was planning a black evening gown, I have this upcoming gala in a couple of weeks." I could feel the couch on the skin of my back, moving and leaving my jacks exposed.

"It does sound like a lovely combination, dear," she said, "diamonds do go well with formal, especially so with black. They also bring depth out. Let us start with this one."

--

Of course, what you wear over your jacks is important. Not just for the self-conscious but for anyone with a set on their spine.

Assuming you dress in something more than a basic straitjacket, you would want to choose something safe -safe as in, you definitely do not want people sticking stuff into your jacks. There is nothing between your pod interface and you -I mean, your jacks are you!- and, personally, I would not want people poking at my mind behind my back, plugging god-knows-what, probing into god knows which memories.

My mind, my thoughts, thankyouverymuch.

Sure, you say, security systems and stuff. But what good would your security system do about grubby fingers mistaking your jacks for an ashtray? About water and sand at the beach? About smog and dust in the city? How about lint? Imagine not being able to plug into your pod because of a candy wrapper -don't even mention chewing gum, just pod me now and wake me up!

Security systems, right.

Anyhow speaking of safe, you may want a closed high-collar shirt or a jacket that covers everything up to that top plug on the base of your neck. Caldari no-nonsense, traditional Achur or Amarrian no-skin-no-sin are your main options. That's safe. You could go designer, too.

But depending on your personality and lifestyle, you may want to dress differently. A gown with a low back, a v-neck, halter-top, any top that shows your back. Or summer on the planet, casual, a sundress, a swimsuit. Sports? Workout? I could go on. Even a trucker wants to wear his muscle shirt once in a while, non? Not many capsuleer truckers around, on second thought.

Some people keep the original socket-caps for planetside.

Me? Thank you, but I do not think you will find me wearing bright-yellow Ishukone plastic caps to a wedding.


--

As the third set of plugs clicked in place the couch announced with a beep that it would slide back into a position easier for me to stand up. Claire invoked again the mirror so I could see.

I looked at the full-body hologram, staring straight at my own back. Here... there. I made a twirling gesture with my hand and the holo dutifully obeyed, with the jewels sparkling on my back as the image turned.

"It looks gorgeous." Each plug was a little star-flower made of small clear, shiny translucent gems, arranged around a bigger one in the middle. Each one a different size, big enough to cover its socket and then some, all loosely strung by two shiny silver strands.

It looked great and I did feel great. "This one, I like this one."

"You look great with it, do you not?" She paused. "I could show you a matching necklace, if you would like to see."

She was good, a very good saleswoman.

--

Backlaces -jack-links or back-brooches or spine studs or any name you would use- have found their place in the wardrobe. You find them in all shapes and sizes and materials; rustic beads, semi-precious, precious; diamond, pearls, emerald, morphite; wood, silicone, fake skin, low-profile trit; clear, opaque; on strands or loose. Men prefer sports teams links, clocks, dice, dorsal fins or creepy little eyes that follow you around. Pandemic Legion links have become very popular this year, peeking out over men's collars, probably because of the Tournament.

Of course most of what you see around are not really plugs. There is an entire legitimate industry of genuine back jewelry to make you look your best, whether you are a pod driver or not; sometimes just to make people look like capsuleers. Beautiful designs, only instead of plugging into your jacks these would -don't ask me how- stick to your back. But there, now even a trucker can get those from brands and a stores that need not pay the ransom fee for an 'Ishukone-approved' logo on the mounting. And they look almost the same. Almost.

If you ask me, I would go for clear gemstones. They don't look quite the same.


--

Claire was right, transparency did bring depth out.

She showed me how the release worked and how to wear them or will them off myself. Once done, we went back to the counter where I had my new backlace and necklace set for delivery.

Amerique had, in the meantime, fallen in love with something shiny at the opposite corner. She is such a sucker for bracelets and rings.

"Would there be anything else?" asked my newfound friend Claire, so very helpfully.

"Yes... earrings? Just like these but, do you have a crescent set of four for the left side, one for the right?"

"Why of course," she looked carefully at me and noted "you can also have your ear pierced here, as a courtesy."

I smiled back at her "Oh, thank you so much but that will not be necessary."

The customer is always right. She discreetly warned me with "a beautiful set of four..." remark, her eyes still looking with confusion at the two drop rings on my ears.

"Oh, these are not for me, but thanks again," I explained.

Technically, true. They were for my jump clone, but how would she know?

--

In the end, it is a matter of personal taste, and tastes differ. Whatever makes you feel safe and comfortable and good is right, clothing or plugs or both over your jacks.

That, or play ashtray. Why would anyone want to wear their wide open mind on their back?

Back wear restores that basic sense of security we lose with pod jacks; it helps us shut that window to our mind, when we want to. We were not born with pod jacks, it is not our fault we have to look for ways to keep them safe. And if it helps us look and feel great, all the better.

Because, remember, you do not have eyes on your back.

Not your own, anyway.

;)

Racing 101

January 110, ISGC Season 4
University of Caille, Campus Odotte
Racing 101

Lesson #12: Waypoint approach

The class murmured in the darkened auditorium as the holo of last race danced over the two of us down at the center.

"So the problem is getting close to the waypoint in a reasonably short time. As you see in replay, she overshot by fifteen clicks on the first pass, then seven on the way back, then four... how do you call that move, Quin?" Gina asked with a straight face.

"The yo-yo."

"Yes, the yo-yo," she almost smiled, "I wonder why. Would anyone please tell me why the yo-yo is bad?"

The Racing 101 course was unusual in the sense that we had a mixed class: half of the attendance were engineering, mostly guys from UC Astronautics, plus a smattering of our people from UC Business and those taking 101 as optional credit. The main tech lecture was done by Juvaan Vesper; if you don't know who Doctor Vesper is, good for you. For those of us who do, he's that guy everyone will step out of the way for, just to avoid getting caught forever in a conversation. Everybody calls him Lags. On the up side, you really learn to be a good listener with him.

Anyhow, he did the theory. Gina, Brax and I, we did the practical class as instructors. We had this great show going, where two of us would take Lags' lesson of the day and dissect it from two different angles. It took hours to prepare but it was a well worth it.

The class murmured, uneasy. Right then, some probably knew the answer but were not willing to raise their hand.

I took the open question. "Because not only you look silly but also technically, it sucks. I think it took me fifteen seconds to get to that waypoint after approach. Wasted time!" I looked back at Gina.

She took the cue, "If we could save Quin fifteen seconds on every waypoint, it adds up to three minutes over the race, so the challenge is to find ways to have the ship stay a click and a half from the can on the very first pass. Ideas, anyone?"

A hand went up timidly.

"Uh, what about turning off the microwarpdrive before hitting the can? You should go slow enough to be manageable."

Gina and I looked at each other. That question was definitely for me.

I explained, "I would say that's good, in theory, but MWDs are tricky; you can't just turn them off, you have to wait until they cycle out."

Gina Ducasse, ship designer, architect and artist, would come up with the craziest ideas to fit and fly. She is this smart, serene girl whose eye will twinkle at the mention of tinkering with something and making it better.

She's our Geek Fairy.

"A MWD has a cycle time of 10 seconds," Gina continued my idea, "so I would say it is a matter of luck, rather than skill to do it that way." She had turned to the desk meanwhile and was fiddling with the holo, which was then cycling repetition after repetition of waypoint approaches turning off the MWD: overshoot, overshoot, right on mark, overshoot, overshoot, short, overshoot... I think they got the idea.

"Yah, so don't do that, ever, or we'll flunk you!" Some laughter in the class.

Another hand went up "What about using a cloaking device?"

Gina beat me to answer that one. "As a braking device? It would have the same problem. Cloak or no cloak, you would wait on your luck until MWD cycles off."

"We tried that," I added, "and found that can't brake that way when you are overtaking someone close, or navigating close to asteroids, or in a gas cloud, or close to anything..."

"... so think of it, do you really want your brakes disabled if you are two clicks from anything?" my friend mused.

"But hey, please keep those ideas coming. We would like to be creative here, there is no such thing as a stupid idea!"

Gina rolled her eyes, smiling. She actually knew how many stupid ideas we had tried during the season and exactly how stupid they had been. But that was our strength, the secret weapon of Scuderia Caille: being creative. We would take ideas dismissed by others as silly, ineffective or hopeless, turn those onto their heads and into cool racing moves. Sometimes, winning moves.

"For example," she said, "how about bumping the can itself?"

Silence.

She explained "You are flying a frigate with hundreds of shield points, so you approach the can at top speed..."

"... you close your eyes..." I interjected, to some more laughter.

"... and just don't brake. It's a kinetic hit, your shields can take it and... you stop right on spot!"

The holo obliged, showing different takes of the bump-brake: good approach, good approach, good approach. You could hear the oooohs and ahhhhs in the crowd.

"Of course people said it was stupid before we started doing it, but we showed them how it works and then we won Season 3. We don't bump cans anymore because of the risk of crew injuries, by the way."

OK, so it was sort of stupid. But it was a winning move while it lasted.

Three hands went up. I pointed to the one with the Lumi hairdo.

"So in the end, what is the best way to approach the can?"

"The best we have found so far is manual approach. As soon as you drop from warp you set a 500 metres orbit on the waypoint and then turn MWD on. When you are at your braking distance -which varies from ship to ship- you slow down to 1 km/s and, if timed right, you will just slide into orbit while the rest of the racers," Gina paused, "yo-yo around you."

"For example in an interceptor coming in at 9 per second, you brake at 25 clicks; if doing 13 per second, you brake at 60."

"But what if you do not have 60km? What if you landed closer to the can?"

"Then you may need to use your judgement. You can always go slower than full speed..."

The class was starting to flow...

Gina asked "now, what would be the optimal orbit for waypoint approach?"

"And remember, after-race tickets for good stuff we can use," I offered.

Fifty hands went up in the air.

EVE Blog Banter #6: The Hand of Bob

This month's topic comes... from me! I suggested to "write a short fiction story about the dissolution of the BoB alliance. It could be from BoB's point of view, the Goons', by neutrals in 0.0, civilians in Empire, NPCs or even rats. Write about before, during or after the coup; give us stories of market, war, people or love. In-character or roleplay. We want to know what happened, from those fictional characters that, in your mind, were part of it."

---

Somewhere in Delve.

Sam leaned against the door and rested for a second.

So this is what a coup looks like.

She was hurt and was bleeding. She knew she would not go too far, not without her equipment... but she had gone far enough already. She knew she could not make it out alive.

But now, she could at least get out.

--

Nine hours earlier

Bob security was tight, as always. The Bob Security Force ran the station like their own personal fiefdom and pretty much ignoring the regulars living there. Each and every little one of those goose-stepping twerps apparently had a better right to anything than a civilian, capsuleer or not. A flash of ID and that was it. Cutting in line at the bakery. Getting shuttle tickets and bumping someone off; or maybe just bumping someone off just for fun. They were always right about traffic disputes, they had the right to stop you for a spot search, they had the right to be judge, jury and if you were unlucky or stupid, your executioner.

Only, they had no right. None, whatsoever.

The day had started uneventfully as usual. Max had gone a couple of hours earlier than usual to work, looking worried. They had still had breakfast together, he had brought in a nice selection of rolls and coffee, chatted about nothing. He had mentioned putting off vacation for later. Station bills. Mining upgrades. Moving the medclones.

Yes, some corp had made a mistake and the medclones ended up in Detorid. That would need to be fixed.

"Detorid," he had repeated, looking straight at her, "what a screw-up."

The kiss has been unusual, a good-bye kiss. Not a see-you-later peck.

Of course Samantha knew Max was GIA. A 'Goonpany Man'. They had met a long time ago and, well, you don't really choose who you fall for. They shared many things, including being both miners. Mining. The thing was so far away of spying, in most people's minds, that most spies tended to pose as miners.

She was not into his part of the plan, but from her own she knew what was about to happen. Now, for him to mention the clones, his part would have to be risky.

--

The noise had started a couple of hours before noon. Distant explosions and then the sound, how to describe it, the sound of something big. Industrial, yet more alive than robotic, of shouting orders, of stuff melting at random, of vehicles, and crashing and the odd... scream? Then the PA system started giving orders to everyone, stay inside and do not venture out into public places, but was quickly silenced.

Shortly after noon the PA came back.

It was Max's voice.

"This outpost and all inside are now under the protection of the Goonswarm. BoB forces must lay down their arms now, or face lethal force. All non-combatant civilians should get to a safe place as soon as possible and away from resisting forces."

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit. That was it, something had gone wrong and they would come for her now. She stopped what she was doing and ordered her people out, they had done their part already. Time to go.

It was the last time she heard Max's voice.

--

The in-station BSF corps was ruthless and efficient. They were far better trained and equipped than whoever was staging the revolt: heavy energy weapons, armoured cars, riot-control gear and, of course, no qualms.

They had lost comms, PA, and had seen sovereignty-control systems blown up by mining explosives; they retained control over environment and surveillance. They quickly overcame some of the harder pockets by venting into space or just incinerating everything in the troublesome sections.

After that they were still outnumbered but blasting away at some poorly-armed station peasants -shooting at "tee zeros"- was not nearly as challenging as the fight in space.

BoB would have this station back, whatever the cost.

And then, they would make an example of the leaders.

--

The BSF Lieutenant shouted orders to the fire team. They had tracked the woman from sovereignty all the way to the flight deck. A sniper had almost bagged her on the way -it would have been easier if the orders were to kill- but now he was confident.

She was surrounded.

All in-station exits were blocked, dock doors were closed, ships were still being offlined, starting with those she could fly, and nothing would be there by the time she arrived. The breach team was on its way. Somehow, the stupid little wench had thought she would be safe in a pod.

--

Sam felt the gantry stop as her pod was being moved. Not that it mattered. She had a way out... she wished she was dead.

--

"Sir! Gantry stopped, working on override to bring pod back in five minutes. All frequencies jammed except for emergency & CONCORD transmissions and alliance-approved..."

The Lieutenant cut him short "Jam everything you RETARD! This is damn Bobspace, not a CONCORD-owned sissy Empire vacation resort! WE RULE THIS PLACE. Now go and do you job, you moron, before I have your ass airlocked, understood?"

The Sergeant saluted and went back to his war station. Arrogance was par for the course; the hand of BoB was supposed to be harsh, but fair. On the outside, he was as diligent and professional as ever; on the inside he could not avoid flinching at the cursing. He hesitated for a few seconds.

He reported back "Initiated, full jam will be effective in..." and then he belched as the wind suddenly picked up.

--

As its self-destruct sequence completed, the pod exploded. As it happened, the gantry had stopped in the middle of two compartments; the explosion damaged the bulkhead in between and exposed both sections to space.

The lucky ones went quickly. The less fortunate would have to recover from a severe case of decompression bends.

Samantha was very, very lucky.

--

"Dude, that was awesome. Welcome to Detorid."

Sam opened her eyes and focused on the man debriefing her. It had been years since she had been to this part of the cluster. She was not used to this way of talking, nor the accent. Nor to the smells -every station, every world has its own distinct smells and air quality, reminiscing of... nothing she could remember in this case.

The man went on "I mean, Sovereignty four is off and you guys totally owned that outpost. Huh, huh, BOB is so lame that this is happening all over their space..." he went on rambling.

Sam tuned him out. She noticed a couple of others close by in the medclone facility, nodding and grunting approval. She wondered whether handing Bob over to these people had been a such good idea after all.

She looked around the facility and found Max's clone, unused.

Oh, sweetie, at least you will not have to worry about that, she thought, smiling sadly.

---

Participants:

- Speed Fairy, The Hand of BoB
- CrazyKinux's Musing, No where to go...
- A Mule in EVE, Rolling to the Warzone
- The Ralpha Dogs, Two Tales of Glory and Honor
- One Man and his Spaceship, Times they are changing
- OZ's House of the Evil Dead, Every betrayal contains a perfect moment, a coin stamped heads or tails with salvation on the other side
- The Wandering Druid of Tranquility, Who the Hell are They?....
- I am Keith Nielson, He Gave Up the Stars