Intergalactic Summit

I think you have a fairly thick skin, even if you do not see it.

... okay. That's odd. That actually hurts. I'm a little bit impressed, Mr. Nauplius.

You did leave out the sort of large detail that I wasn't really having all that much doubt and angst until I started visiting the Federation. I have been learning from them, just, maybe not the things I meant to.

Hush! Don't give him ideas!

The mere existence of your corporation's NRDS policy is obviously inadequate to Lady Jenneth's development, hence her continuing angst. What she is crying out for is someone who would use her as a weapon the way a hunter uses a hunting bird, and the Amarr Bloc is so wayward and liberal that it is unable to provide this straight forward guidance that would be an obvious duty to even someone with a moderately traditional view of the Reclaiming. I mean, think about this a moment: the second most conservative Amarr-aligned pilot apart from myself is of all people Samira Kernher. No wonder Lady Jenneth is so adrift and confused; your fluffy, happy, liberal Amarr Bloc is so adrift that you cannot possibly give her the steady guidance she so obviously wants and needs.

I still cannot believe that I am being begrudged for refraining from taking advantage of someone.

Entry Twenty-Eight: "Purpose"

So, about that "work" ...

There are some things I've thought about the Drifters for a long time. I'd never actually fought them before, though, not at all.

That changed today.

A few observations:

The Drifters are either Sleepers, themselves, or so closely allied that it makes no difference. Every piece of technology I saw during our incursion into a "Drifter" hive that wasn't an actual Drifter battleship was unambiguously something the Sleepers made.

We entered from Amarrian space. We exited through Gallentean highsec. The Gallentean wormhole was the one the Sleepers had actually constructed in a deadspace pocket and surrounded with facilities-- on both sides.

The scale they work on is just absurd. Fifty-kilometer ... struts? Rods? Sticks? Can you really call it a stick if it's fifty kilometers long by maybe a kilometer wide? ... scattered in a broad swath in a way that seemed random if you looked closely, but if you panned back a ways was nothing of the sort. It was like dozens of sticks scattered in a vague S-pattern, only just huge, the formation hundreds of kilometers long, with electricity (or something that looked and mostly acted like it) arcing back and forth between them.

If it was a wreck, it hadn't been blown up by anything we did, I don't think. I got more the sense that it was discharging or else had discharged-- that either it was doing, at that very moment, what it was designed for, or that it had finished its job already. The massive, view-dominating spatial distortions above and below didn't do much to change that impression.

There seems to be such a thing as a Drifter station. It's quite a lot larger than most of ours, and, like most Sleeper stations of any sort, we can't scratch it. We did manage to raid a supply cache there, though.

I said before that Drifter weaponry seemed like a beautiful way to die. It is, kind of, but I don't think we'll be able to appreciate it very much. I saw the Lux Kontos beam that hit me, but ... it wasn't something that lasted. After all, looking pretty wasn't at all the point. It just tore my poor Caracal apart-- no dropping shields, no warning klaxons, just all of a sudden no ship. I'm sure nobody survived. At least it was probably painless; there wouldn't have been time for anybody to even notice they were all about to be dead.

I named the ship the "Acceptable Loss I." It seems heartless, but maybe I should keep doing that. At least that way I'll feel like my crew actually knew what they were getting into.

Do you really think that killing is going to help someone who has to bear the stigma of being a remorseless killer due to the actions of her genetic predecessor rather than her own actions?

Do us a favour and sacrifice a Punisher to Tamiroth.

I staff the recruitment offices at Nonni with survivors of ships that have 'brewed up' who haven't yet completed their terms of service. No prosthetic devices to be worn during working hours.

I figure if they can make it all the way through the horror show unphased then they REALLY want to crew one of my ships.

I have also arranged for the publication and distribution of books, written by myself and edited by a companion who is very intimate about the harsh details of serving aboard a capsuleer ship, to all bright-eyed lads who wish to join up the cruiser crew.

The title is very brief, eye-catching, and to the point:

"You Are F***ed!"

Subtitled: "The harsh realities of serving aboard a capsuleer vessel and the ways of dealing with it."

Five pages of statistics about crew attrition rates. Then the actual content.

The first chapter is titled:

"Chapter 1: Resigning"

Followed by:

"Chapter 2: Breaking the news to family and loved ones"

The reason why I meet my would-be crew was because, well, I'm a privateer, meaning I do not really have a HR department. HR work is outsourced, either to independent third parties or the FDU itself. The contractors and the FDU do not tell the crew exactly how boned they are if they sign up to crew on a capsuleer vessel, especially one flown by irresponsible freelancers like myself. I believe that I must make up for this oversight and tell them very clearly that their expected life expectancy is measured in minutes.

FDU recruits are the worst. Always so full of **** and vinegar believing in heroism and the usual glory-hound-pandering nonsense. These recruits are more liability than asset if left the way they are. Better to slap them with the cold, hard facts about how boned they are before they start panicking and trip over a power conduit or hit their heads against a grate during an engagement.

I simply believe that it is my duty to give all that I can give to the people who are going to give their lives to me.

One of the things I must give, other than compensation, is education.

They come in either not knowing what it was they are getting into, or were severely overestimating their chances at survival.

I will educate them, then I will grant them the choice of getting themselves killed for the benefit of a ne'er-do-well like myself, or leave and live a boring but very safe life of, well, I don't know. Fishing trawler crewman?

For those who stay, I applaud them and work to help them see and experience multiple calamities, until either they die for good or they lose the appetite for suicide missions.

Also, seeing them personally is a good way to remind myself to be less incompetent with my piloting the next time I undock. Watching them react (or overreact) with shock? Never gets old.