“So it’s said the Amarr have always been the most technologically advanced race.” I said as I took another swig of my beer, while my U’K alliance mates jeered and booed at my opening comment.

During the previous several weeks, I had started becoming a part of the team, a brother to be relied on, no matter what the task. It felt good to be surrounded by Matari, like-minded people dedicated to the eradication of slavery and piracy but not bogged down by the minutiae of political maneuvering.

“But it wasn’t always so.” I continued, resting my beer on the table, wiping dribble from my chin with my sleeve. There was a quiet murmuring of anticipation now, my audience waiting for the inevitable tale I would tell.

“My great ancestor, the first Matar Colonel Wieler in our proud line, archived an experience he had with perhaps the original Amarrian priests to come to our worlds.”

I deliberately paused, drawing them in further, waiting for them to hang on my every word. I enjoyed telling a good story.

“These two Amarrian priests were curious about our people; intrigued by our tribal way of life, by our strong clan ties.” This, of course, received many hoots and hollers, some Brutor even pounding on their chests in recognition that we were Matari.

“It so happens that they decided to travel among us inconspicuously, trying to blend in, if you can even imagine such a thing.” A few chuckles, a few snorts of derision.

“‘Blessed Elder Brother,'” the first priest said to the other. “‘I hunger. We should find ourselves some sustenance among these primitives.'”

Boos! Bahs! from the crowd. I smiled.

“‘There, brother! Look!'” the priest said, and I pointed to some imaginary place outside, many of my audience turning to look. I shook my head and laughed.

“They happened upon a hot dog stand.” I said, a wide smile on my face, already knowing the punch line.

“‘This is good, elder brother.'” the younger priest said. “‘They eat dog as well. Perhaps they are civilized after all.'”

I had to shush the hissing and booing from my alliance mates.

“‘Let’s hope so, lesser brother.'” the other priest replied.

They ordered themselves two hot dogs, both of them ravenous with hunger. Several minutes later, they sat down with their foil wrapped food.

The lesser priest unwrapped his hot dog, his mind consumed with the need to eat. His eyes bulged round, his mouth hanging open, and he quickly wrapped the food back up, placing his shaking hand on the elder priest’s sleeve.

The elder priest looked to his younger brother, genuine confusion and rising alarm etched on his face.

The lesser priest spoke, his voice trembling.

“‘What part of the dog did you get?'”

I have never heard a group of Matari laugh so hard to this day.

Imagination has always been one of the most wondrous gifts in my opinion. Without it, would we even have advanced to where we are? If not for the dreamers, how we would ever advance as a race? As a society?

Of course, there was the argument for pre-destination; perhaps the Jovians had controlled it all… for all we knew, there could have been several attempts, perhaps even across several dimensions, creating different timelines for New Eden we would never be aware of. Did we ever come to fully understand their power? Did they even have limitations?

Gigaer recently gave a sit down interview. Twas an interesting tale he spun. Did it really happen that way? Did it not? Does the truth of it matter more than the telling?

THE WIELER VACCINE

Ol Nyna Evpuneq Nu penc, V’z va gebhoyr guvf gvzr. Wbjny juvarq fbzrguvat jryy nobir zl urnevat enatr.

“V’z xvaqn ohfl evtug abj,” V fnvq. Wbjny qvnyyrq ure serdhrapl onpx gb fbzrguvat n yvggyr yrff yvxryl gb penpx tynff naq gevrq ntnva.

“Gurl’er fubbgvat ng hf.”

“Abg n ybg V pna qb nobhg gung abj,” V lryyrq, synvyvat gbjneqf gur pbafbyr. V yhatrq ng gur xabo gung qviregf nyy raretl gb gur erne qrsyrpgbe fuvryqf. Gur rfpncr cbq ynhapurq.

“Qnzzvg.”

“Gurl’ir whfg incbevmrq gur rfpncr cbq.”

“V pna frr gung, Wbjny. Jurer gur uryy vf Rabc?”

“Fur’f qbja va gur tnyyrl.” Fbzrguvat uvg hf — uneq.

“Qba’g gryy zr fur’f orra yvfgravat?” V fnvq. Wbjny abqqrq.

“Gung’f whfg terng,” V fubhgrq, fynzzvat zl svfg vagb gur pbafbyr, “jr’er tvivat guvf hc abj orsber gurl oybj hf bhg bs gur fxl.” Wbjny fdhrnyrq fbzrguvat. V onpxrq bss gur guehfgref naq fnttrq vagb zl frng. V’z abg n cvybg, arire unir orra. Gur pbyq terl bs gur cngeby pehvfre svyyrq gur zbavgbe.

***

Jr fgbbq orsber gur Zvazngne pbzznaqre. Zl ersyrpgvba qnaprq bss gur bqqyl natyrq cnaryf bs uvf havsbez. Vg jnf inthryl ulcabgvp. Ur’q frag uvf tehagf va svefg. Gurl’q ebhaqrq hf hc — n ovg zber ivtbebhfyl guna jnf fgevpgyl arprffnel — ohg jr unq gevrq gb bhgeha uvz, fb V pbhyqa’g ernyyl pbzcynva. Bar nccrnerq oruvaq uvz naq juvfcrerq fbzrguvat va Zngnev. V qvqa’g pngpu vg. Gheavat gb hf, ur fjvgpurq gb Pbzzba.

“V ungr fzhttyref.” V qvqa’g cebgrfg guvf. Ur jnf evtug, nsgre nyy. Rabc fjnlrq orfvqr zr. Orvat Tnyyragr, V jnf snveyl fher fur’q or evtug. Fur fynzzrq gb gur tebhaq, uneq. Thrff abg. Gur pbzznaqre ebhaqrq ba zr.

“Lbhe sevraq frrzf gb unir n ovg bs n ceboyrz, V guvax fur yvxrf gb yvfgra gb guvatf, onq guvatf, vyyrtny guvatf.” Ba phr, bar bs uvf tehagf cebqhprq gur qvfx.

“Jung vf guvf?” nfxrq gur pncgnva jvgu rabhtu rknttrengrq gurnger gb svyy gur tenivgl jryy bs n fznyy cynarg.

“N cevzvgvir fgbentr qrivpr, fve,” fnvq gur tehag “Naq jung — rknpgyl — qbrf vg fgber?”

“Ol gur fgngr bs ure —” gur thneq jnirq qvfzvffviryl ng Rabc’f cebfgengr, tvttyvat svther, ” — V’q thrff zhfvp, fve.”

“Nanylmr vg. Abj.” Nf gur tehag fpheevrq njnl, gur pbzznaqre’f rlrf yvg ba zr.

“V xabj lbh’ir orra gb Fbivpbh, Wnlra. V xabj gung lbh naq gurfr gjb svygul Rybef ner erfcbafvoyr sbe unys gur cvengrq zhfvp gung’f qrfgeblvat guvf jbeyq, naq jura V svaq vg, erfg nffherq gung lbh ner tbvat gb ebg.” V’z fperjrq.

***

Gjb qnlf yngre gurl eryrnfrq zr. Rabc’f fuvc jnf vzcbhaqrq naq qrfgeblrq. Fur jnf fragraprq gb n lrne va gur oevt sbe cbffrffvba bs n fznyy nzbhag bs nhqvb nygrevat fhofgnapr. Gurl qvqa’g svaq gur pnetb.

***

Lrnef yngre, V ena vagb Wbjny ba n sebagvre zbba. Jr erzvavfprq nobhg gur byq qnlf. Nccneragyl Rabc qvrq fubegyl nsgre ure eryrnfr. Fur’q ybnqrq rabhtu zhfvp gb ybobgbzvmr na vasnagel qvivfvba vagb na rfpncr cbq, naq ynhapurq urefrys gbjneqf n cnffvat pbzrg.

I’ve heard rumours that some people think I’m not nice; that I’m rude, blunt, uncouth.

I can be nice. Here’s an example:

It wasn’t too long ago that I received a message on my NeoCom from an agent. I’m sure the agent must’ve been confusing email messages with instant messaging, as only the title field was filled in. The body text was empty. I happened to be having dinner with a friend when I received the message, and showed it to her.

She shook her head, knowingly, and playfully admonished me. “Be nice.” was all she said. I gave her best “When am I not nice?” look, which was returned with a “Do you really need me to answer that?” stare, complete with sarcastic eyebrow raise.

So I was nice.

The title of the message had said “I’ve uploaded the file to your server.”

Now understand I am an organized person for my own sake. Telling me you’ve uploaded a file to my server without telling me the name of the file, the project it’s related to, or any other single useful piece of relevant information isn’t really helpful in any way.

My reply. “I’m sorry. I must be experiencing issues with my NeoCom as the body of your message was completely empty. Please resend.”

I felt good about myself. I put away my NeoCom and continued eating dinner, thoroughly enjoying the companionship and conversation of my friend.

Shortly, I received a reply. “I have uploaded a new binary to your server for you.” Excellent. At least I was made aware of the file type that had been uploaded to some mysterious project on my file server.

I sighed audibly.

My reply. “Please tell me the file name of the binary you have uploaded as well as which project you are referring to as I currently have no idea what the hell you are talking about.”

I had tried nice. Fail.

I didn’t receive an email back.

The following morning, I was called into the office of the agent’s supervisor. Apparently the agent had been offended by my curt reply. The supervisor was understanding, explaining it away as inexperience, etc, etc, but simply asked me to be nice.

“I’m always nice.” I replied. It amazed me just how many people could arch a single, sarcastic eyebrow.

We parted ways, and I went about my business per usual that day.

The next morning I received a message from the same agent. The body text was empty. The title had one simple question in it:

“Did you get the file I uploaded?”

I warmed up my autocannons.