Jamyl Sarum was tired of listening to General Mako.

It had been her hope that she could leverage this man’s hatred of his own kind, manipulating it into some type of surprise weapon to be used to further the Empire. Gaining his loyalty had been whimsically easy; he was a man that craved status and power, and the empty promise of both was easy for her to offer convincingly.

The difficulty had laid in the man’s ineptitude. Her opinion of the Minmatar as a people had lessened considerably since dealing with Mako. He had continually failed epically at every task he had been given, showing nothing but arrogance in response, consistently shifting blame to others for his failures.

He was pathetic.

Even now, as she sat on her throne, her head propped disinterestedly against one arm, he continued to ramble on, his stories become increasingly complicated, his lies becoming more transparent. She simply could not understand why the man would not act with honour, why he refused to accept his inadequacy and offer his life to her out of honour bound commitment.

Since the discovery of the wormholes, and the alarming number of capsuleers jumping on the bandwagon of exploration, much of New Eden had been left ripe for the picking.

She had made profitable arrangements with several pirate organizations, focusing their attentions on Minmatar space, another flawless strategy to weaken their militia. Some foolish Matar Colonel had cast himself into the spotlight as the would be saviour of his people against this threat. 

It was of no consequence. Her power and wealth far outreached anything the Matari government could muster. 

Her plan had been set in motion flawlessly; until Mako.

He had been tasked with the responsibility of gathering detailed intelligence as to the true might of the Elder Fleet, their  hidden location, their contacts, their intentions, every bit of useful information that would enable her to conduct a full assault against them, finishing what she had started over a year before. Their complete annilihation was a must.

Having failed in that, she reassigned him to something more simplistic; recon on the Tribal Liberation Force. How hard was it to make use of his “numerous and powerful contacts within the Republic”, as he had put it, to ascertain their defensive patrols, and their offensive strike teams which constantly invaded Amarr borders, picking in vain at their systems. It was something any mid-ranking Amarr officer could accomplish, and yet, this decorated Valkear General of the Minmatar Republic couldn’t accomplish even that simple task.

“So as you can see, milady, I did the very best with what I was given in this circumstance.” Mako finished, kneeling on one knee, his head bowed down respectully. 

Even his posture was lazy and offensive. There was no rigidness to his stance, no heartfelt fear or adoration for her in his physical presence. Quite simply, he disgusted her, and she was finished with him.

Without making any eye contact to Mako, she gave a subtle gesture, and her Imperial Honour Guard quickly moved into position, snatching Mako securely by his thick arms, dragging him to his feet. They secured him in binders, an energy handcuff that tightened the more it was struggled with, emitting an increasingly lethal electric shock all the while.

Mako once again showed his infancy, screaming profanities at her, spittle hanging from his mouth, veins pulsating in his forehead as his face turned red from anger and exertion. 

She made another subtle hand gesture, and one of the Imperial Honour Guards struck Mako at the base of his skull with a vibro lance, dropping him to the marble floor. He fell unconscious, urinating himself.

“What do you think? Would he make a good slave? He is quite burly.” Sarum thought out loud to herself.

“No, this one is full of bile. He would poison all around him, revenge his only motivation for life. He would never forget this dishonour.” she answered to herself, her voice deep and husky.

“Still, he could be made into an example, over time. His will could be broken anew; he could be publically disciplined daily until he begged for death, which would be denied him. Surely then others would see how wonderful and terrible I can be?” she asked, her voice sweet and melodious.

“It’s a fool’s risk, and I am not a fool.” she replied, her voice dark and angry.

“Very well.” she said, her voice regaining its sweetness once more. “Marshall Commander,” she began, getting the attention of one of her guards. “Dispose of him, any way you please. Enjoy it if you choose, be playful; whatever you so desire. He is of no more use to me.”

The Marshall Commander nodded his understanding, and with the other Imperial Honour Guard, they dragged the urine soaked form of General Mako away.

Once the throne room was cleared, and the floors cleaned immediately by silent yet attentive serving slaves, Sarum began to think out loud once more.

“So then, what now?” she asked, her light feminine voice echoing in the emptiness.

“Now, I wait.” her dark masculine voice replied as a mischievious smile slowly crawled across her face.

“Ok, grab what we need from the lab, then pack up some essentials from your quarters.” PyjamaSam said, already putting together a makeshift toolkit for their escape flight.

In the last few weeks Sam had made several alterations to the Null-Aura, or NORA, technology, to make the artificial intelligence more manageable, more controllable. He watched as the last of the flames died down around the infected tissue sample he had taken from Elly that very morning, the sample completely destroyed by a precision welding torch he used in his workshop.

He had wired Nora into the main station systems, and given her commands. “Nora, I want you to bypass all systems on this station; I want you in complete control. You will respond to only my voice, and in ten minutes, you will go offline.” Nora voiced her compliance, and began her task with enthusiasm.

Quickly, Sam grabbed Elly by the arm, leading them both to the sealed workshop doors. Elly had packed a toolkit as well; she was as much a thinker as Sam ever had been. “Nora, open this door, but seal every other doorway on the station.” Sam said, a slight panic to his voice.

They had been locked down into a forced quarantine minutes earlier. Elly, in the body of Lady Grey, and himself, had contracted an unknown contaminent. There had been signs something was wrong with Lady Grey’s body for days, but they both had focused their research into the hope of cloning Elly’s consciousness into a fresh, compatible body; neither of them had been looking for signs of Jovian sickness.

The Jovians were mythical to some, like gods, perhaps never having existed at all. The story went that they possessed technologies never again seen in New Eden, ships and weapons so powerful as to make our current technology look primitive. Yet in all their grandeur they were nearly wiped out by an unknown illness, in all their technological wonder, they couldn’t cure themselves. Rather than infecting all of New Eden, they chose to leave forever, and according to legend, that is where the birth of the four empires really began.

The workshop doorway slid open. Sam urged Elly forward. “Get your things. I’ll meet you at your quarters in three minutes. Hurry!” he cried hoarsely, his voice not used to this fevered pitch. Sam was a scientist, not a fighter. He had used his status as capsuleer to further augment his already impressive cognitive capacities; he had never focused on evolved combat.

He made his way to his quarters, only a few doorways down from his workshop, and threw some clothing into a tote bag. He could hear his corpmates demanding to know what he was up to over the loudspeakers, warning him of the consequences of his actions. “Nora, disable all communications systems.” Sam said. Blissful silence ensued immediately.

Two minutes later, he had met up with Elly at her quarters, though most of the time they had simply shared his. With Nora’s help, they made it to Sam’s Nighthawk hangar bay, and quickly loaded everything onboard.

“You sure you want to do this?” Elly asked, fear and hope in her eyes.

“It’s the only way.” Sam replied. “Nora downloaded all the relevant history of the Jovians to here.” he pointed at his head. “I know where they were last seen. I know where they were going. We can’t go through Jovian space without fear of being destroyed, so we’re going through wormhole space. We’ll get there, don’t you worry.” He offered a weak smile, and she nodded, placing her faith in him. Their love had come so far in such a short amount of time; she wasn’t going to falter now.

Sam began the pre-flight sequence on the Nighthawk, all the while talking to Nora. “Disable station weapon systems. Create false readings of our projected trajectory; I don’t want them knowing where we’ve gone. Also,” he said with a coy smile, “play some neolithic jazz in the command center.” That would drive them nuts, Sam thought with glee.

The ship launched, entering warp without incident, and soon they were several systems away. Sam looked at his chrono. “Nora should’ve gone offline by now, but hopefully with the fake trail we left we should be ok. Still, let’s stay focused and get as much space between us and them as we can.” Elly silently nodded.

He had just given up everything for her. There was no way he could go back now. It weighed on her heart just how much he loved her, and how much she loved him, but was it right? She was dying, she could feel it, and any day now the real Lady Grey would reclaim her body with a vengeance. They hadn’t been able to find a solution; they hadn’t been able to clone Elly successfully. Maybe things could’ve been different if they had made more progress.

Sam was fidgeting with a spanwrench and a control circuit nearby, smiling in triumph as some light indicators switched from red to green. He turned and walked to where Elly was sitting, placing the wrench on the sitting bench beside her.

“Ok, autopilot is working.” Sam said. From what she had learned, it was far more difficult, if not impossible to fly this size of ship without being inserted into the pilot pod, but Sam had somehow managed. Sure, they didn’t have any weapon crews, or a command crew to handle shields and defensive systems, but they were mobile, and that would hopefully be enough.

“We should be in proximity of a recent wormhole that existed in the VAF database. With a little luck, it’s still stable, and we can use it. In the meantime…” Sam said with a smile, pulling out the long, smooth obsidian case that Elly had come to know all too well. It was the real her; the only remaining piece of her original DNA from an era long forgotten; the era of Earth. That single, glorious strand contained every memory of her life, held the key to her own locked immortality, but try as they might they hadn’t been able to solve the mystery…yet. The fact Sam had brought it with her showed he was still optimistic and Elly forced a smile on her face, trying to show the same. She loved Sam with all her heart, but she knew time was running out. Even then she could feel the struggle inside her mind against Lady Grey. The pressure felt almost physical, overwhelming, and she had experienced constant headaches for days. She wanted to be hopeful, but she was far too pragmatic for that.

And now, even if they did find a cure, Lady Grey’s body had become infected with Jovian sickness. So even if she could maintain a feeble control over the other woman’s mind, how long would this body last?

“Elly, your ear.” Sam said, concern washing over his face. His gentle hand reached away from her, blood spatters on his fingertips. She put her own hand to her ear, and was astonished when it yielded the same result. She stared dumbly at the blood on her fingers, slowly looking up at Sam. She was speechless.

“Elly, are you ok? Talk to me. Tell me how to help.” Sam’s expression was of genuine love and concern, and he reached to hold her hands in comfort.

Elly reached her hands forward as well, snatching up the wrench beside her and swiping it across PyjamaSam’s face, disconnecting his jaw. Blood splattered and he fell heavily to the deck.

“Ewy, wha r ou” Sam tried to say before another blow with the wrench across his skull silenced him for a moment. She stood to her feet, towering over the bludgeoned form of PyjamaSam, whom was still conscious, through moving groggily.

“You sick, pathetic, excuse for a man. How dare you do this to me. Did you really think you’d get away with it?” Lady Grey said, hammering down on PyjamaSam’s leg with the wrench, breaking bone. PyjamaSam yelped in pain, his mouth unable to express even that properly.

“You drugged me! You violated my mind! You raped my body! I was there every single time you kissed me with your greasy thin lips! I was there every time you touched my breasts with your bony, cold hands! I was there every single time you, every time you!!!” She lashed out against his other leg with the wrench, filled with vehement rage. For months she had been trapped as a prisoner in her own mind, forced to endure every offence this bastard had committed against her.

She smashed down on PyjamaSam again, blood splattering on her clothing, cries of anguish coming from the crippled and broken man beneath her. She was going to kill him.

“Ewy! Sto! Pwe!” Sam cried.

“Elly is no more you idiot! She’s gone. But don’t worry; I know how much she means to you, and you’ll be joining her very soon.” Lady Grey screamed at him with venom behind every word.

Suddenly, she stopped.

She looked at the obsidian box, then back at Sam, the most wicked and evil smile across her face, her eyes beaming with the most malicious intent. She picked up the box, tenderly running her hand down it’s smooth surface, waiting for PyjamaSam’s senses to register what she had in her possession.

His eyes widened in stark fear, tears running down his face from far more than the physical pain he was in. One hand feebly reached up towards her, shaking and straining with the effort.

“nooo” his weak voice croaked. It was the most pleasureable sound Lady Grey had ever heard.

She smashed the box to the deck, stomping on it repeatedly with her boot heel, delivering devastating blows to it with the spanwrench. The box splintered, then shattered, its contents broken to countless pieces. She saw the DNA container and crushed it with her heel, heartfelt satisfaction etched onto her face.

Elly was no more, and would never be again.

PyjamaSam whimpered helplessly on the floor, his legs broken, his skull bleeding, his jaw hanging awkwardly to one side.

“I’m turning this ship around, PyjamaSam. We’re going back to VAF and you’re going to be held accountable for every single crime you’ve committed against me. I’m sure Tessa won’t be pleased, but justice will be served.”

Lady Grey walked towards the pod, preparing to take command of the Nighthawk.

PyjamaSam was a peaceful man at heart. He was a scientist, an inventor; he worked towards making the galaxy a better place. He had never asked for much, never wanted much. He was content to be alone. He had but a few real friends, and that suited him just fine.

That was before he had found his true love. That was before he had just watched as she was savagely murdered before his eyes, and he wasn’t able to do a damned thing about it.

His heart felt like it would physically break so strong was the pain, drowning out even the screaming of his body’s numerous injuries.

PyjamaSam had never felt such righteous fury before in his life; had never before been so enraged as to defy the laws of biomechanics and physics, never before experienced the power of love in such a real and meaningful way.

He dragged himself across the deck, Lady Grey nearly finished inserting herself into the pod. He wasn’t going towards her. Rather, he was slowly moving towards an interface console, sliding his body in its own blood, his arms weakening with every exertion.

He reached the console, and slid a slender tendril into his skull port. In his mind, he was whole. His thoughts raced through his ship’s systems, locking out anyone but him. He enabled the self destruct. In thirty seconds it would all be over.

Lady Grey had emerged from the pod, screaming incoherently, lunging at him, pure malice her clear intent.

She straddled his body, raining fists repeatedly upon his face and head. He smiled dumbly back at her. He had won, and he knew it.

She began choking him, but it didn’t matter. Twenty seconds and he would be free.

Lady Grey sprang from on top of him, rushing back to the pod, racing to connect herself to it. She was a capsuleer, and if she was plugged in, Aura would have no choice but to obey her programming and transfer Lady Grey’s consciousness into a fresh clone. But this Aura AI was now keyed to PyjamaSam only, and wasn’t letting anyone else access the ship’s systems.

Lady Grey quickly threw down the wires and cybernetic jacks, and screamed in rage at PyjamaSam. If she was going to die, so was he. She still had time to disconnect him from the ship.

She raced back towards PyjamaSam as the Nighthawk exploded.

—

VAF Cloning Facility
Undisclosed Space

PyjamaSam exhaled sharply, the first breath this new body had ever taken. The cloning chamber bed hissed open. PyjamaSam immediately heard the sounds of bootclad footsteps. As his eyes adjusted to the light of the facility, he could see VAF security teams standing in front of him, weapons ready and pointed at him.

Tessa Yor stood in front of them, a frown on her face.

“You’ve got some explaining to do, Sam.” She said sternly. “Lady Grey’s lost four months of her life. We were lucky to have a recent backup imprint of her. Jovian sickness, hostile takeover of our station, Null-Aura. Tell me, Sam, exactly what the hell is going on here?”

PyjamaSam smiled inwardly. His heart still cried at the loss of Elly, a loss he would profoundly feel for the rest of his immortal life. But Lady Grey would remember none of it, and he would never tell her. He could come up with a convincing tale for Tessa, about his noble effort to save his corpmates from the dreaded virus, and she would believe him. He had never done anything wrong before in his career.

He knew without a shadow of a doubt though, that for the love of Elly, he would gladly do wrong again.

Mother’s Day had just passed. I don’t mention my parents often. It’s not because I don’t love them or appreciate their contributions to my life, it’s more for their own safety and protection. I’ve made a growing number of enemies over the years, and having my parents suffer for my actions is not something that would sit well with me. It’s even why I didn’t go by my given name, but rather the moniker of Roc Wieler, well, one of the reasons anyway.

My mother knew how to get in touch with me when needed. She was respectful and proud, following my career through the holos, only contacting me on days like Mother’s Day, or my birthday. To be honest, after spending twenty years as a slave, I had forgotten when my birthday was, so appreciated her for the gentle reminder.

When I received her comm, I figured it was because of the special occasion. As her son, I knew I should’ve been the one contacting her, but to her and I it didn’t matter, so long as we spoke.

“Hey mom.” I began, feeling like her child once again. “Happy Mother’s Day.”

“Son, it’s your father.” she replied.

My father and I had never been close. I could fill pages in this journal with reasons why: abusiveness, emotionally crippled, passive/aggressive, dead beat, an angry fool living in a make believe kingdom of his own creation and destruction, those are but a few of the feelings I possessed towards him when he was still alive. 

He had been the epitomy of what a Brutor was hundreds of years ago: didn’t share emotion, worked hard to provide for his family, never complained about his station in life, disciplined his brood physically and excessively, distrusted and feared technology, the quintessential Brutor male. 

He had been hot and cold. While he had possessed great intelligence and a wicked sense of humour, he was untempered, raw, driven by his emotions alone, saying what he was experiencing without filter. Inevitably this had led to him alienating everyone ever close to him personally and professionally except my mother, leaving him an angry and bitter man. Honestly, I didn’t know how she had even put up with him. 

I did have to thank him for many of the characteristics I possessed, but moreso I detested him for many of the obstacles I had to overcome as an individual to become my own man. I wasn’t blaming my father for my shortcomings; merely recognizing the root of the problem and taking responsibility to deal with it myself. There is nobody to blame for who we are but ourselves.

Still, he had been my father, and at the time of this tale, was still full of angry life.

“What’s going on?” I asked, suddenly concerned. My parents weren’t rich, though I did make sure they had enough to get by. My father wouldn’t accept anything more. Though he should’ve retired years ago after a career ending hydraulic lift accident, he went from being a mechanic to a taxi driver; both of these a far cry from the military service he started his adult life with. He was a stubborn old coot; another characteristic we had in common.

“Your father got robbed at work.”

I was actually shocked to hear he was working. Last I had heard my father had his taxi license revoked for blowing up at a city hall clerk viciously; they in turn banning him for life from the municipal building and any municipal employment.

“He got a taxi license for the city next to us, and just started this week.” my mother continued. “He got a call to a dead end alley, and there was two guys there for him to pick up. The one went around to the passenger side. That’s when the other one by the driver side pulled a gun on your father.” I could hear the fear creeping into her voice, and knew she was on the verge of tears.

“Your father knocked the gun away, and floored it in reverse, while the passenger side guy leaned in and kept punching him in the face.” my mother said.

“Is he ok?” I asked, genuine concern for the bastard in my voice.

“He’s fine, not even shaken up. He’s just glad they didn’t get his $50.” My mother let the words sink in.

Fifty bucks. My father had recklessly endangered his life for fifty bucks. Sometimes I just couldn’t fathom the man’s thought processes. 

He was the only one able to work, my mother’s physical health having deteriorated over the years. She refused cybernetics, preferring to be crippled than to not be human. That was something her and I disagreed on. She was afraid being part machine would steal your soul. I loved her too much to tell her otherwise.

“But he’s ok?” I continued.

“Yes, he’s fine. But why would they do such a thing?” my mother pleaded with me.

“I wish I could tell you, mom. The more I fight for our people the more I question if maybe the galaxy wouldn’t be better off without any of us messing it up.”

We spent the next half hour catching up, me mostly listening, my mother mostly telling me each and every detail of their lives since last we spoke. I realized then where I got my gift for speaking from; the woman could just go on and on incessantly.

“Look, mom.” I finally interjected. “I hate to go,” I lied, “but I need to get some things done. I’ll try to call more often.” I lied again. “I love you.”

“Love you too, son. You take care of yourself out there ok?” she said.

“I always do.” I smiled. It was our familiar farewell, and it left us both feeling secure.

I’d take a little security where I could get it. Seemed it was in growing demand.

It was Mother’s Day yesterday, and honestly I felt compelled to write about my own mother, and my relationship with her. I will hold off on that however, as another entry seems to have consumed my mind.

I had recently heard from an old friend out of the blue, and we had arranged to meet for breakfast the morning after Mother’s Day. I woke up in a pleasant mood, today’s artificial weather showing sunny skies within the station. I had decided to make the 20 minute walk to the magtrain station by foot, and must confess that even simulated weather can leave one in quite the uplifted mood, which was the point I suppose.

I arrived at the station in my military formals. It was by request of my old friend, whom was surprised to find out that I was indeed the same Roc Wieler he had shared many years with in an Amarr slave camp. There weren’t many of us left from those days, and though I wasn’t one for revelry, I was still looking forward to the meeting.

Upon entering the station I noticed immediately a much larger and more irate crowd than usual.

The trains were cancelled indefinitely, while an investigation was made into an incident involving a pedestrian. They had been crossing the tracks illegally, and were struck by a magtrain. No other details were being released at this time.

Being blatantly militia, I was asked by the private station security team to lend a hand. At first I was confused as to why they would need me, but it soon became painfully obvious.

I’d like to interject here about what we’ve become. I still held to the naive belief that while capsuleers and military personnel dealt in lives as currency, that regular folk weren’t as desensitized to the experience. I couldn’t have been more in error.

Not one of the would be passengers I dealt with that morning asked the most humane of questions, “Are they all right?”, “Was it intentional?”, “What was their name?”; nothing. Each and every one of them could only care about one selfish thing; the delay and inconvenience it was causing them.

Now I understand our own lives are important; we have jobs to do, people to see, places to go. But at what point did we become so calloused that a few lost hours of our lives takes such high precedence over the death of another that we neglect to indulge in the most basic of human empathy?

What if it had been your mother? Or someone you knew intimately? Would you be so nonplussed then? And was I any different?

Shamefully, I wasn’t. I was used to death; I had delivered death personally many times, and experienced it far too often for it to affect me as it should. As I said, I assumed that was the price of militia life. 

Yet still it was wrong. In my recent historical readings of our people, I was familiar with how we used to be not so very long ago. When we were more tribal by nature, an entire community would pay respect to a lost one with a moment of silence. Businesses would pause, play would cease, and we would commemorate our fallen brother or sister in the respectful way of tradition.

Perhaps it was the media. Perhaps it was growing antipathy as society continued to spiral ever downwards towards eventual collapse. Perhaps we needed to stop blaming all the stereotypical reasons and begin taking accountability for own individual selves anew.

Perhaps I was too idealistic for my own good. Perhaps not.

A magtrain hit a passenger, and my life was too important to care. That was the attitude of the day, and it left me feeling nauseous and disgusted with myself and my people. I tried to comm my friend, but there was no response. For a moment I had the critical thought that maybe it was my friend of years past that was the victim of today’s tragedy. I suppose I would find out along with the rest of the public when the details were released via the newsfeeds.

Even that made me feel a twinge of shame. With my position, I could easily have found out the details of the incident and the current state of the investigation. I could’ve lent my weight to pushing things forward, but I didn’t.

Instead, I simply began walking back to my quarters once the enraged mob had dispersed to a manageable level by the security team. I was crossing the magtrain concourse when a group of women inquired as to what was going on. In a deeply regretful voice I informed them of the incident. I expected annoyance. I expected some type of ignorant disregard for the loss of life. I wasn’t disappointed.

“Home day!” the woman shouted triumphantly, beaming at her friends. From behind the anonymity of my sunglasses, I buried daggers into her, and turned my back on them in revulsion.

If we are to prosper, nay to survive as a society, we could not continue on this path of selfishness. When being put out of our way a few hours is of more import to us than the loss of even a single life, something in our life view has gone askew. We’ve strayed from the path of morality. 

Life is precious and sacred. Life is not a commodity. We are not Amarr, we don’t trade in life for gain, and yet in some ways, we are worse than them. At least they attach a value to life, albeit a monetary one. Were I to stand behind a podium and preach that philosophy to the masses, I wouldn’t even have time to watch my political career disappear, so quick would it occur, and yet that didn’t make the statement any less true.

We needed to start remembering who we are, where we came from. We needed to start drawing many lines in the sand, and stand defiantly, daring any to cross them. We needed to do that with ourselves before we could hope to make a greater influence in New Eden.

New Eden; right then it didn’t feel like the new paradise our forebearers named it to be. Perhaps it never was, nor ever would be again.