KBP7-G SYSTEM
PROVIDENCE REGION

“It is too often we stand assembled here, wishing our fond farewells to one of our own.” I began, a monotone of rote in my voice. The assembled pilots and support staff held a somber mood, though there was also an air of discontent, of subdued outrage; and smug satisfaction. It was hard to tell what was appropriate and why from my vantage point, but I had heard the rumblings since our failed mission.

—

“Renegade Five, you’ve got drones on your six! Hard left, mark 2.6.9 now!”

“There’s too many of them; I can’t break free!”

“My systems aren’t responding! Renegade Leader, what the hell is going on here?”

Static was the only response. A jamming frequency had overridden all available bandwidth and scrambled the electronic systems of the fighters; they were as good as dead, and the rogue drones of the mammoth hive knew it and moved in for the kill.

—

“Though Jones had only been a capsuleer for a few short weeks, no pod pilot can ever truly be prepared for the truth death; it is a tragic loss that will not go unavenged.” I continued, noting a growing grumbling amidst the mortal contingent of the crew.

It was common for resentment and segregation to occur on any capsuleer vessel, and many podders preferred it that way; reminding the “norms” of their station in life. For me, there were no such differences on my ships; each life was sacred; each life was equal.

—

The drones swarmed towards the fighters, eager to destroy the helpless human pilots. Each pilot was frozen with stark terror, betrayed by the very technology they relied on for survival; their imminent doom hurtling through space towards them far too quickly.

“Mayday, mayday!” Renegade leader screamed into his helmet comm. “Can anyone hear us? We’re immobile and under attack! Mayday! Mayday!”

There is no sound in space; only the cold embrace of death.

The drones closed in, less than 500 meters, optimal weapons range.

The first wave of drones warmed their weapons; their glow signaling the end for the fighter pilots.

One drone exploded. And then another.

The main fleet was too engaged against the main bulk of the drone hive to have been able to assist; too far removed from the desperate plight of the fighter pilots.

A lone Wolf class assault frigate soared close to the canopy of Renegade Leader, who whooped and hollered at their saviour.

The drones quickly forgot about the fighter pilots, assembling into a tight formation quicker than any human pilot could react. They pursued the Wolf before Damu’Khonde pilot Random Jones knew what happening.

He quickly overheated his Micro Warp Drive, pushing his ship as hard as he could, yet still the drones were closing the distance.

He failed to see the auxiliary wing of drones that had been signaled as reinforcements.

—

“A brave man,” I continued, “A hero to at least one fighter squadron, and deserving of our respect and gratitude.”

“Bullshit.” a deck worker muttered through a cough into a closed fist, just loud enough to be heard clearly, but quietly enough to be denied. He was 12 feet in front of me, and slightly to the right of me.

His head cracked loudly off of the solid metal deck, and I knew he was disoriented. Not that it mattered; my right fist was already on its way down to introduce itself to his face while my left hand choked what remaining breath he had left in him.

In my gut, I knew this would only serve to divide the ranks, capsuleer from mortal, and that none of my mortal crew would believe me when I later told them it was about honouring the dead, and that I would’ve done the same for them in a heartbeat. But at that moment, I didn’t care. This was cathartic.

It didn’t take long before I was pulled off the crewman by his brothers. It took shorter time still before the other attending capsuleers drew their pistols.

My eyes bled hatred and pure disdain.

—

“What the?” Random Jones said to himself within his pod as suddenly his ship, and his body within his pod, were rocked with inertia, slowly drastically to a sudden halt.

Some would say that Random was lucky; that not being able to see your death coming was a blessing. For you see, Random Jones was a pod pilot, a capsuleer, an immortal amongst men, confined within the solid and windowless walls of his egg shaped pod, submerged in ectoplasmic fluid. He had no connection to his ship outside of the numerous tubes inserted to keypoints along his nervous system, allowing him to interface at the speed of thought with his ship’s systems.

Only now, those connections had gone dead.

Jones only had a moment to realize that meant his Aura unit, the artificial intelligence that assisted in every aspect of capsuleer life, including the instant transfer of consciousness to a waiting clone upon a capsuleer’s death, was also disabled and inert.

That was when his Wolf was torn apart from around him by the ravenous drones.

He would never know that the fighter pilots had re-engaged their ships, and rejoined the main fleet. He would never hear the cheers of celebration and gratitude from the fighter squadron and their comrades, relieved to make it out of hell alive.

He would never hear anything again.

—

It was one of the fighter pilots that stood inbetween us.

“You’re all pathetic. Swing your dicks somewhere else. We have a hero to commemorate.”

I couldn’t finish the eulogy. I was ashamed and humbled. I didn’t know why I reacted so very strongly, despite what I had convinced myself the reasons were. It had to be something deeper, more moving to illicit that severe a response.

Perhaps I was afraid of facing the true death myself one day, as was the inevitable fate of all capsuleers.

Perhaps I was terrified of watching everyone around me grow old and die, becoming forgotten in my memories.

Or perhaps it was both of these things and more consuming me, eating away at my soul, slowly eroding what little control I had over my emotions, reducing me each day a little more to the primal beast I was spawned from.

Perhaps.