Chapter 12 – Burned Flesh

This is chapter 12 of “Redemption” a fictional tale set in the EVE Universe.  Please see this page for more background on this story.

Preamble:  Years ago, my friend and fellow blogger, Mme Thalys inspired me to write fan fiction.  She tells her stories from the perspective of a hard-hitting wormhole mercenary corporation.  Among that crew is a rather colorful Amarr privateer who perked my interest and Mme Thalys granted me permission to embed him into my storyline.  I hope she likes what I am doing to him….

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Chapter 11 – Domestic Bliss

This is chapter 11 of “Redemption” a fictional tale set in the EVE Universe.  Please see this page for more background on this story. 

Slavery wasn’t that bad.  Work was pretty light, Food was good and the clothes were actually quite nice.  Amarr-style robes and stuff but they flowed nicely around her body and felt soft on the her skin.  And the metal collar – well, it chafed for about 2 weeks, then she just forgot it.

As long as it showed its green pulsing glow, it was actually quite pretty.

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Chapter 10 – 28 dead, 5 injured. 30 missing

This is chapter 10 of “Redemption” a fictional tale set in the EVE Universe.  Please see this page for more background on this story.  

28 dead, 5 injured, 30 missing

“It wasn’t your fault.  We all know the risk.  Don’t blame yourself”.  A heavy, calloused hand on his shoulder.

150 men and women under his command, 28 dead now, 5 injured, 30 missing.  Sure, some of them had been rejects, drifting among the stars like dust without home or loyalty.  Some had been dreamers like his father, standing by a porthole, never tired of the unblinking stars against the black velvet of space.  But most had been family men, normal guys who just wanted their share of happiness, bring up good children, send them to schools rather than factories and maybe even take a vacation once in a while.  They had trusted him with their lives, their hopes and their dreams.

And he had failed them.

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Chapter 9 – Rescued?

This is chapter 9 of “Redemption” a fictional tale set in the EVE Universe.  Please see this page for more background on this story.  

Voices through a fog, far away.  Under water maybe.  Like when Mum bathed her and she got water in her ears.  Rested.  Floating.  Feeling good.  Voices through the fog, slightly closer.  Amarr.  Lydie did not want to wake up.  She decided against it.  It was nice where she was.  It was warm. She was not hungry.  She was not in pain.  Just everything seemed muffled, like packed in cotton balls.

Chapter 8. Fire

This is chapter 8 of “Redemption” a fictional tale set in the EVE Universe.  Please see this page for more background on this story.  

“You smell good, little dancer”, the old, blind Matari man said, and it could not have been less appropriate. She had scrubbed herself for hours and when she run out of soap, she used the industrial cleaner intended for the floors – and she used lots of it. It stung her skin, it reeked and it did not make her feel any cleaner. Lydie was running on autopilot when she turned up at the Matari camp in the early hours and sat next to the old man. She couldn’t tell Mum, she couldn’t tell the “authorities” – whatever they were. They would not believe her and if they did, nothing would happen. So, Lydie sat down next to the old man, hoping that nobody would notice her bruises. And of course everyone did. Trained killers develop an almost spiritual situational awareness. That something terrible had happened to Lydie was clear to everyone as soon as she sat down. But combat practice continued.

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Chapter 7. Happy Birthday, Lydie

This is chapter 7 of “Redemption” a fictional tale set in the EVE Universe.  Please see this page for more background on this story.  

Lydie tiredly moved the mop on the diamond plate floor.  It was her 16th birthday and nobody knew.  Maybe Orv, wherever he was.  Certainly not mum.  Lydie felt self pity welling up and suppressed it with a powerful swipe of her wet mop.  She hated staring at the steel floor with its repetitive  pattern, after a while, her vision turned two dimensional. The fat, raised diamonds then became the screen on which she would play the movie of her memories, the harried escapes from station to station when she was a child, dad’s brave good-bye with Orv in tow and mum’s fading interest in this world after dad had died in the attack 6 years ago. Orv made it out of that Iteron wreck somehow, made it to University and now was a grown man trying to send help but dad’s death ended her mum’s world as much as her own death would have. Mum withdrew from Lydie slowly and with no anger to the world.  But  without dad, mum simply had lost her place, her anchor, her grounding.

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Chapter 6 – The Dancing Washers

This is chapter 6 of “Redemption” a fictional tale set in the EVE Universe.  Please see this page for more background on this story.  

Lydie loved watching her Magic Washers dance. She would put them next to each other on the metal floor and every time it the big banging came, the 3 warm steel rings would dance, touch each other, jump up in joy and sometimes even somersault. After every jump, Lydie would move them a little, find some dirt to angle them on and try to make them jump all at the same time and kiss each other in mid-jump. Mother said that she wasn’t allowed to lie on the floor in the big metal room where everyone had run to when the banging started but dad had allowed it, “you think she will die of germs?” he said to mum and that was that.

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Chapter 5 – First Blood

This is chapter 5 of “Redemption” a fictional tale set in the EVE Universe.  Please see this page for more background on this story.  

He didn’t drown of course, it was technically impossible. Capsuleers panic and thrash occasionally but eventually they all get used to it – in fact, many preferred to stay in their warm, safe, nourishing womb and experience the world as projection to their conscience rather than stepping into the cold and harsh world of meat and metal.

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Chapter 4 – Drowning

This is chapter 4 of “Redemption” a fictional tale set in the EVE Universe.  Please see this page for more background on this story.  


Orv woke up when the Iteron made contact with the docking braces at The Center for Advanced Studies in Cestuvaert. Disoriented, he looked out his porthole and found himself mesmerized by the view: a cratered moon casting the Gallente station into pale light. The station may have been dirty, scratched by countless micrometeorites and scorched by the occasional solar flare but its rounded features and elegant curves told him that he finally had arrived. He felt relieved, at ease and cheered by the bustling in the cargo hauler’s passenger aisle. A few Gallente Incaris were getting up, stretched their legs and grinned broadly. They had returned home. “Home” was not a word Orv had used in a long time but their happiness infected him too and he found himself smiling for the first time in years. He got up, loosened his survival suit and shouldered his tiny bag.

He smiled until he met the Hazmat team that had been sent to escort him to the medical station. Yes, he had undergone massive surgery and nannite injections in the station of a sworn enemy. Yes, there are known nanites that could be “infectious” but this show of containment had come a little late. After all, he spent several days in a tin can with 200 other passengers and crew breathing recycled air, docking several times each day to let passengers off the ship. What nefarious things the Amarr may have infected him with would now be spread over half the galaxy. A little late for containment maybe? But of course, there was no arguing with military orders – there never was.

Orv sighed and let them connect his survival suit with their rolling air supply and closed his hood. They led the way, filled with importance of their duty, pride of protect their home from imaginary threats and hope that their superiors and relatives would watch them in awe on the station news feed. They led Orv to the medical station where he would likely spent the next few days being prodded by wide-eyed interns.

They didn’t find anything. Of course.  They tested his body for tracking or exploding devices, exposed him to every imaging technology possible until Orv put a stop to it. The radiation would eventually harm the neural nanites that cost 1 bn ISK and his sister’s freedom, so he could not have some nurse accidentally nuke them whilst she was painting her nails. He called for the chief of the medical station who looked at his chart and ranted that Orv was the sloppiest capsuleer job he had ever seen and that he would likely burn his brain to a crisp if he had the temerity to jack himself into a shuttle. He rambled on about Amarr doctors in general, comparing them to creatures so low on the evolutionary ladder that Orv imagined them with gills and pseudopods sticking out of their lab coats. Orv had to laugh out at that image but the doctor found nothing amusing about it and discharged him on the spot. Dressed still in his hospital gown, Orv stood in the main artery corridor of the bustling station. A tame slaver hound wearing a pink bow-tie playing with a fluffy baby bunny would have attracted less attention.

Indignities aside, Orv found his quarters in the capsuleer training wing of the station, was given a bunk and an introduction to the training course. Non-capsuleers always assumed that training involved nothing but buying a skill book and uploading it into your head. Voila, you could fly a carrier and swat away millions of people. Not quite. Training consisted of countless hours inside a stationary pod trying to control the myriad of ship subsystems with his own nervous system. Sure, the hardware for that was injected with the skill book but learning how to operate it was a completely different manner. And the skills build on top of each other, so he had to start with the lowliest of all frigates, armed with a civilian gun (spitball, they called it) and a mining laser that had less power output than a modern electric toothbrush. His ship would be crewed by a group of “seasoned (i.e., nearly retired) engineers who had been serving this ship class for so long that they knew all the possible ways a capsuleer could screw up. They had rigged all ship controls into their own home-built survival pods and would eject at the first sight of danger. Basically, save of a Doomsday Device, nothing could harm them there and they expected nothing from Orv other than that he would not fly them into the sun. A scenario for which they had a well-practiced escape plan.

But training first. Orv reported to the the bridge of the training wing and was issued his brand new immersion suit. It was the best money could buy and while he was not quite sure where it came from, he slipped into it without asking questions. The suit sensed his body’s contours and sucked itself so close to the skin that it almost became one with it. It glistened black and looked wet like an oil slick but was dry to touch no matter how much he would perspire. The suit would jack itself into his neuronal network and translate his body’s motion into commands and feed back electronic input to his skin and nerves.

A young technician guided him to the training capsule and Orv could spot a large number of operators and trainers behind the thick glass watching him intently. Presumably drowning yourself for the first time makes for a good spectacle. Or they wanted to know if the Amarrian nanites worked with the Gallente electronics system. If they didn’t they would have to dispose of a body and fill out reports, nothing they looked forward to.

The hatch of the capsule was open and Orv climbed into the cavern. The technician suppressed a smirk and closed the hatch after pointing out that this one did not have the escape handle that real capsules had, presumably every new recruit would pull it in panic and flood the room with expensive pod goo – easier to just let them thrash in terror for a bit than to mop the liquid up.

When the hatch closed, literally all noise from the outside vanished. Orv was by himself – until he plugged the pod’s umbilical cable into the jack at the base of his brain. Then he would be in direct communication with the operators behind the glass who would put him into a simulated spaceship and monitor his vital signs.

The sensation of sticking a cable into his brain stem turned out to be not exciting at all. After all, it was designed to be seamless but now could hear the operators as if they stood next to him. He could see what they wanted him to see by projecting it from the computer interface into his optic nerve. They could sense his vital signs, spot the smallest of his motions and have the suit counteract it. This way, Orv could – in theory – haptically manipulate simulated switches and such but that of course was no way to drive a multi-billion spaceship. Eventually, he would “feel” and control the spaceship as if it was an extension of his body. But for now, it was just a training operator telling him that they would flood the capsule with podgoo and if he panicked, too bad. There was a slight disappointment in the operator’s voice as if he really had hoped for a major malfunction of the Amarr-Gallente interface with spectacular results, short wiring, seizures and exploding eyeballs that he could tell his children about over dinner. But none of that sort. It just worked. How boring.

A mechanical clunk reverberated through the capsule, a valve opened and Orv felt the fluid enter the pod near his feet. Air escaped through tight slits above his face and he tried to steady his breath. He had anticipated this moment for years, had known about it, heard stories about it and of course had been exposed to it before during his surgery – but then he had been anesthetized. He knew his body would take it – they had tested his larygnospasm which would prevent him from inhale the liquid. But he lacked that spasm – they were happy to tell him – allowing him to drown properly and not just black out. It was important that the entire lung filled with liquid or he could get embolisms when pulling high G’s. The liquid also had a much higher capacity to carry oxygen than air and through convection he would not even have to breathe. But he would have to learn to flood his lungs with this stuff first.

The liquid crept up on his sides and between his legs. He assumed that the operators ran it as slowly as possible to prolong the panic but he had no evidence for that. Finally, it reached the sides of his face, rolled over his mouth, eyes and nose and entered his nostrils. He had to fight the urge to lift his head above the surface where there still was air. Orv was determined to deal with it right here, opened his mouth and inhaled sharply. He was rewarded with a massive coughing fit that spasmed his body and he violently jerked his head into the ceiling of the pod. But there was no pain, a cushion had been installed there for that purpose – blood contaminates the expensive podgoo. Orv was shaken with involuntary retching and coughing fits while the capsule filled at constant rate. He panicked. He needed to get out. His vision shrank to a tunnel and he screamed for help to the entertainment of the assembled operators outside. The podgoo rose to his shoulders now, his ears and he pressed his mouth against the vents, wishing for a stream of air. It didn’t come. The liquid rose past his eyes through the vents and he held his breath while sinking back down to the base of the pod. Immersed in liquid, cut off from the outside world, he realized that this would be how he would die some day. Alone, in sheer terror and without hope.

Orv thought of his sister and inhaled deeply.

Chapter 3. Iteron

This is chapter 3 of “Redemption” a fictional tale set in the EVE Universe.  Please see this page for more background on this story.  


To the great relief of the security guards, Orv boarded the old but well maintained Iteron III cargo hauler. Like so many of its class it had been converted to carry up to 200 passengers in a tight forward compartment and although creature comforts were not its high point, it served well enough on long routes across New Eden. Sure, a capsuleer could just set the destination, activate the autopilot and fall asleep but haulers like followed planned routes with dozens of stop-overs. They carried the bulk of New Eden’s goods and people.

He was greeted by a cheerful but scared Gallente crewman, evidently, this was his first big journey and the experience of docking at a quasi-military facility deep in enemy space was the stuff action holoreels were made from. After a few hundred stations this enthusiasm would surely abate. On the other hand, having a Gallente capsuleer on board in this region would mark them as a target for any enterprising enemy. After all, Orv was not going to be plugged into his pod and would die as easily as any man. “Ending” him permanently would earn someone substantial bragging rights, the couple of hundred civilians he would take with him would not matter. Orv knew all of this and was convinced that his presence had been advertised to every police and customs office on the way in hope of a smooth passage. It was logical but ill advised. Not everyone working for Concord had severed all ties to their own race and corruption was always a problem in large organizations. He should have gone with his original plan and change ships and ID frequently but he would have to be traveling for weeks rather than days.

The crewman issued the mandatory survival suits to the passengers and noticed that Orv carried his own, a very expensive, military model, hardly used. Haulers of this class have virtually no armor and a rogue asteroid or missile would cut through the ship like a knife through butter. In that case, the suit would detect the drop in cabin pressure and fire explosive charges around the neck, encasing the head of the bearer in a thin plastic hood. The cheap on-board suits stored only a few minutes worth of air and heat and needed to be plugged into a universal jack of which there are many in the passenger cabin. If they worked at all. Orv’s personal suit however had its own isotope heater and compressed air for several hours. Only the very paranoid, ex military with post-traumatic stress disorder and those with first-hand experience of space disaster carried their own. The crewman pondered to which of class his new passenger counted.

Orv dozed off while the loading continued and the hauler’s capacitor charged. The hissing of the outer-hatch’s air-seals and triggered a surge of memories to rise up slowly and unstoppable, like fat bubbles in pod goo. He could have suppressed them, he was good at it after years of practice but he realized that one day he would have to confront his memories  – if nothing but to justify the suffering he imposed on himself and on his sister. While his body now stared absentmindedly out of his porthole, his mind relived that fateful day 8 years ago.

He had just turned 15 and was on his way to the University of Caille to accept a “Genius Scholarship” in cybernetics. He would be the youngest post-graduate student there ever and the scholarship would restore the honor and dignity of his family who had lost everything and lived in cramped refugee quarters, fleeing from system to system ahead of the frontline of yet another capsuleer war. They had lived in nullsec, his father part of a capital ship construction crew, building carriers and dreadnoughts for capsuleers. When the invasion came, they jumped onto whatever could carry them and fled across nullsec for nearly a whole year. Orv himself had burrowed into cybernetics textbooks more to escape reality than to study. And when the talent scout showed up, he aced the tests with ease. He never wanted to be an academic. He wanted to travel the stars like his dad, an engineer, maybe even a navigator. But the scholarship would change all of that. He simply could not back out.

The university required a parent to enroll him in person and so his father’s employer allowed him extraordinary (and unpaid) leave. He managed to play his old contacts for two seats in the cargo compartment of a gigantic Iteron V and spent the first 2 hours of the flight staring at a packaged Amarr shuttle on its skid. Then his father had a quiet word with the crew and Orv was invited to ride out the rest of the journey on the bridge, clamped into a jump-seat behind the navigator. It was ostensibly to honor his scholarship and Orv absorbed a crash course in star travel the amused bridge crew gave him. Much later would he learn the real reason why his father wanted him to travel on the bridge. It was the compartment with the most armor.

The first 12 jumps across very hostile territory had gone surprisingly smoothly thanks to the experienced crew and two Covert Ops frigates jumping ahead and scouting for activity. Three times, they had reported “hot” gates and the hauler kept jumping ceaselessly from one safespot to another to thwart detection and attack. Although stressful to the crew, it was routine. All knew that someday their luck would run out but not on this trip. Never on this trip.

Finally they reached the last null sec gate leading them back into Concord space, one more jump and they would be reasonably safe. Their destination was still low security, meaning anyone could attack them but it was sparsely populated, the single outpost in that system was their last dock for the night and everyone needed sleep. The scouts went ahead and gave the “all clear” to the large cargo ship. Their crew aligned and warped right top of the gate initiating the jump as soon as they could. The massive jump system propelled them into their final system and the Iteron came to a slow stop, still cloaked from the warp. By now Orv understood the sequence of events and could anticipate the pilot’s action. He aligned the heavy ship towards their station and readied to initiate warp when the navigator in front of Orv jerked and reported the sighting of eight new ships within their d-scan range. He read the names and the corporation aloud – a wormhole outfit which explained how they appeared so suddenly. A tense second later, the small fleet landed almost on top them. Amongst them two battle cruisers, Amarr Harbingers with enormous firepower and very short reaction time. They could lock down the huge and slow Iteron almost instantly and kill it’s warp drive if they were geared for it. These ships were all piloted by capsuleers and hence anything was a target worth destroying. But the hauler had another 10 seconds of cloak left and was only 24 degrees off from their target. If they could just line up and fire the afterburner while initiating warp, they might still surprise the the capsuleers and warp off before they were able to react. Orv heard himself already telling this adventure to his dad who sat in the cargo hold, clueless about the events outside. But Orv also did not quite see the danger for what it was. He had been lulled into a feeling of safety by the experienced crew, their banter and war stories and – when the situation required – their focused professionalism.

The eight combat ships approached the gate oblivious to the cloaked hauler amongst in their mids. They were in jump range. And then they stopped, only a Helios went through the gate, a scout ship to check out if the other side was hot. The remaining seven lazily orbited the gate.

Time had run out. The Iteron slowly decloaked, first, the structure became visible and turned opaque and finally, the ship emerged from the stars. Now that the game was up, the pilot issued a stream of orders that were crisply confirmed by the crew. One of the commands started the massive but still undersized afterburner and Orv was almost deafened by the howl of the system as it pumped raw energy into the turbines. It takes a lot to accelerate an Iteron V and it would take many seconds before the ship markedly gained speed. The navigator furiously called in the local coms channel, repeating their ship ID and that they carried nothing of value. The combat pilots out there would not care if hundreds of civilians died but might want to save munitions if all they would get was worthless scrap metal. It was a gamble, and may have paid out with other capsuleers but evidently not with these. Instantly, one of the Harbingers peeled out of formation and started targeting them. The bridge crew instinctively hunched when the shrill beep-beep-beep flowed through the speakers, then stopped. The Harbinger had locked the hauler down within seconds and the last remaining question about the intent of the capsuleer fleet was answered when their warp drive was stalled by force of the battlecruiser’s scramming system. They were hanging dead in space with little forward velocity and no means of escape. The co-pilot tripped a red switch and the “abandon-ship” alarm sounded through the hull. This would be the first sign of trouble his father and the rest of the passengers heard and it came just before the first salvo hit amidships. Orv had stared out of the bridge window at the small spec of light 35km away, moving quickly starboard when the battlecruiser opened fire and the Iteron’s flimsy shields evaporated in a spectacular display of yellow and blue light. Klaxxons sounded and the pilot tried to gain some transversal velocity, more out of reflex than necessity, an Iteron V does not outrun an Harbinger. But sitting there helplessly was worse than doing something useless and so, everyone was intensely busy. Everyone but Orv who realized that he was almost 100m away from his father. The next salvo hit deep into the armor and Orv saw pieces of it being flung into space and then congealing in front of the window. He stood, and fell more than climbed down the stairs to the passenger compartment.

The passengers screamed in many languages, struggled in their belts trying to move away. To where, Orv asked himself. But he too had the urge to move, do something, anything just not to stand and wait for the next laser to burn him alive. He started to run down the central isle of the hauler behind the crew who aimed for the lifepod exits in the midsection of the ship. These were lashed to the outside of the hauler and would float free when tripped by the crew. And that was exactly the section where the next salvo of the laser batteries hit, literally melting the lifepods and burning deep into the armor of the hauler. Acrid smoke started to pour through the ventilation, the structure was damaged already. The next salvo would finish them off. Orv sprinted past the crew towards the aft section of the ship. The bulkhead to the cargo hold had failed to close.  Some passengers used the cycling time of the enemy’s weapon systems to paw for their survival suits’ umbilical and with wide and panicked eyes looked for the jacks to plug themselves in when the lasers finally burned through structure. The hit was in the extreme rear of the passenger cabin, right in front of the bulkhead and the intense light bored through the compartment wall from starboard, incinerated several rows of passengers and ignited the air around it into a roiling yellow plasma before it melted its way through the port side. Orv came to a skidding halt about 10 rows away and shielded his eyes from the granular light. Just for a moment, he admired the beauty of this horizontal column, the tongues of fire leaping away from it. Then it just disappeared. Air rushed out of the holes and Orv’s survival suit triggered it’s hood with a sharp report.

Everything went quiet as the air escaped and with it the ability to transmit sound. Orv felt the Iteron buck under his feet. The afterburner was still active in the engine rooms aft, pushing hard at the mass of the ship. But the structure had collapsed and would not take the massive force trying to accelerate it. Orv started to ran aft again and lifted off. The gravity field had ceased and he propelled himself by kicking off the passenger seats. Most passengers had their hood on like Orv and were panicked but seemed safe for the moment. For others, the suits had failed and the vacuum and intense cold of space had burned their faces to black masks, boiled their eyes and lungs. Some were still alive and jerked with spasms, their faces frozen into an inaudible scream. A Gallente woman tried to pinch a leak in her daughter’s suit that was bleeding air. Orv caught the girl’s eye staring at him not understanding, not knowing and yet full of terror. He half sprinted, half floated in the dying gravity field towards the bulkhead where he could already see the wing of the packaged shuttle when the lasers hit again, this time behind him, closer to the bridge. He did not look around but the light suddenly changed, cold glaring sunlight poured into the hauler and illuminated the shuttle in front of him. A tear in the floor began to widen. The Iteron was falling apart. Orv did not think, reflect or weigh his options. All he could think about was his father. If he found him, all would be good. His father survived literally hundreds of attacks and and surely could work a way out. Orv jumped over the tear at the last second. The aft section of the ship pushed the passenger compartment aside as they ripped on each other. He found himself in the cargo hold when the next salvo hit the remains of the passenger cabin. It crumpled and melted into a congealed mass of metal, wires, plastic and human flesh.

Orv spotted his father hovering above the packaged shuttle. He was tearing at the tarp that had covered it, revealing its stubby wings and domed canopy. He was alive. They would live. Orv propelled himself towards the shuttle, his father turned and eyes grew wide recognizing his son. He caught Orv with his left arm in a hug and held on to the shuttle with his right arm. Tears welled up in Orv, he had found his father all would be good, when he felt himself pushed backwards. His father’s face was tense and twisted by pain and determination. He motioned towards the shuttle open cockpit. Orv looked closer and saw what his father was pointing at, a single universal jack for power, air and heat. Their supply in their suits would not last for more than a few minutes. Orv looked around. All spaceships have power jacks for these emergencies in the passenger compartment and on the bridge. But not in the cargo hold where – ordinarily – nobody would allowed. His father had understood this and hoped his son was safe in the cockpit. For himself, he had identified the packaged shuttle as his only chance. Orv’s confused brain almost understood the implication when the air on his suit ran out. These cheap survival suits gave no warning. The faster you breathe, the faster they run out. And Orv had been hyperventilating.

Holoreels made suffocation look almost like a peaceful fading-out. The reality that Orv experienced was very different. His breathing was getting harder and harder until the lung spasmed. He was fully conscious when blinding headaches and involuntary tremors signaled his end. His vision turned black and white, narrowed to a tiny tunnel. His world had shrunk to naked panic and terror, forgotten was his father, forgotten was his family, the hauler and why he was here. He even forgot about himself in this last struggle to live. He had already unlatched the umbilical from its pouch, a 2 meter long finger-thick armored hose and now tried plug himself into the shuttle’s connector. His arms trembled badly and he failed again and again. Finally, he lost control over his shaking hand and knew he would not make the connection when he saw his father’s hand gripping his wrist and ramming the connector home. Orv was rewarded with an instantaneous rush of air into his suit. The air soon warmed as the isotope reactor came online and Orv felt as if an immense weight had been lifted from his chest. Nausea hit him, cold sweat and the urge to urinate all at once but all he could think about was that he was going to make it. Orv started to breathe. He could feel his heartbeat slowing. They were going to make it. He had known it all along.

Carefully, Orv pivoted around looking for his father. He was not there anymore but floated by the forward bulkhead that, now that the passenger compartment had gone, formed an open door to infinite space. His father turned, raised his arm, barely controlling the tremors, waving goodbye to his only son. Then he jumped into the light of his beloved stars.

Orv broke down in tears, uncontrollable shaking and sobbing. He screamed knowing nobody could hear him, he pounded the shuttle’s canopy and more than once did he grab the connector of the umbilical wanting to end it all. But every time he did, he saw his father’s hand steadying his wrist. He could not undo what his father had died for and so he stayed connected to the shuttle, tethered to this machine inside a wreck. His breathing slowed, his eyes dried up and the warm air defogged his visor. He could see, he could act, he was alive. His father wanted him to live, save his mother and sister and live his life. He had a duty now to get out of this wreck and into safety. Orv recalled the last seconds on the bridge. The pilot desperately trying to steer the hauler to safety. The red flashing of the square on the navigator’s computer showing that this Amarr battlecruiser had opened fire. The name next to the Icon on the same display. He remembered the name of the pilot who destroyed the hauler, killed the crew and passengers and his father.

He would find that capsuleer and destroy him.