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EVE Fiction

 
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Flash Fiction Competition Winners Announced, Voice Actors Wanted

Author
Seismic Stan
Freebooted Junkworks
#1 - 2014-06-10 12:21:42 UTC  |  Edited by: Seismic Stan
I've recently launched a new podcast, Something, Something, Spaceships, which is aimed at being an accessible show discussing EVE Online and other sci-fi video games.

As well as discussing recent news and the upcoming EVE documentary 'A Tale of Internet Spaceships' with one of its producers (Petter Martensson), Episode 1 includes a flash fiction competition with the winning entry being given the audio treatment for broadcast on a future episode of the podcast.

Full details are in the show, but the key facts are as follows:

  • Entries should be 500 words or less.
  • Dialogue or narrative led material is fine, but bear in mind overly complex material will make fitting the podcast schedule a bit of a challenge and might a deciding factor.
  • Submissions should be sent to [email protected].
  • All submissions will be published on Freebooted (but authors retain all rights).
  • The top three entries will win 100m ISK each.
  • The winning entry will be produced into an audio short.
  • The closing date for submission is Sunday 22nd June.

I've previously produced a number of audio fiction pieces from short stories to satirical comedy and even a full-blown EVE comedy-drama series.

It'd be great to give some quality EVE fan fiction a voice (or several).
Seismic Stan
Freebooted Junkworks
#2 - 2014-06-28 16:33:57 UTC
As announced on my blog, I received two excellent entries to the competition which I'll publish below.

I'll be looking to produce audio versions of both pieces, so give them a read and if you think you have a voice that fits, please get in touch.
Seismic Stan
Freebooted Junkworks
#3 - 2014-06-28 16:34:50 UTC
'What We Are' by Laria Raven

"A vodka, if you'd be so kind. And some... some of those little sausage things. On sticks."

"Coming right up, ma'am. How was your day?"

"Oh. Was it a day? I know we keep day and night on the station, but when you're out in the belts... the light never changes. It's as bright when you warp in as when you warp out."

"As you say, ma'am. How was your period of time in the belts?"

"Same as always. Mostly dull, with occasional moments of terror, and the constant beauty of my lasers playing over the surface of the rocks. I did choose to be a miner, I suppose. Do... do you ever wonder why you exist? What purpose you serve?"

"Rarely. ma'am. Here is your drink, and your cocktail sausages."

"I do. Thank you. I wonder. I wonder what became of the little girl who just wanted to get off the surface of Mies IV and out into space."

"She is a capsuleer, I observe, ma'am. Fabulously wealthy, envied by the masses."

"That's true, I suppose. But what did I give up to get it? Do you know what it means to be a capsuleer?"

"Not exactly, ma'am."

"The training changes you. Physically and mentally. They put implants into you, interfacing with your neural system. So that you communicate with the ship. No... so that you are the ship. When I'm in pod, I forget about arms and legs and eyes. I just have engines and a tritanium skin. I reach out with my lasers and my tractor beams, and I never blink. And there's the implants in your brain. The ones that help you learn, that help you think. There's even one that makes you more likeable. And then... then there's
the remaps."

"The remaps, ma'am?"

"They... change your brain. Make you more intelligent, or less. Improve your ability to process sensory information... or make it worse. Another vodka, please."

"Of course, ma'am."

"The remaps change your personality. They change who you are. Only you don't notice it. Don't really believe it. But I've watched holos I recorded before the last remap, and I don't recognise myself. Oh, I don't mean physically. It's my face. But it's a different person behind it."

"I can't imagine what that's like, ma'am. Your vodka."

"Thank you. I... I don't know who I am. I've lost the story of my life. It doesn't make sense to me. Most people can construct some kind of tale, where they grow up and have experiences that change them, and that results in the person they are now. Mine is just shattered into incoherent shards. With all the changes, all the implants and remaps, I'm not sure I'm even a real human anymore."

"That must be hard, ma'am. Another vodka?"

"No, I think I'll go get some sleep. I guess you don't understand what I'm saying, do you?"

"Not really, ma'am. Sleep well."

"System, shut down."

"Shutting down. Good night, ma'am."
Seismic Stan
Freebooted Junkworks
#4 - 2014-06-28 16:35:43 UTC
'With Our Compliments' by Adam Reed

Jefferson rubbed his brow wearily. This conversation was doing nothing for his headache.

“Look, there’s nothing wrong with the ship. It’s a very nice ship. Shiny, made of metal, a decent size. If I accidentally find myself in a belt in Molden Heath, I can well imagine the Angels who ambush me are going to be regretting that day’s choices as they run their own corpses through the refinery to try and clean the Pyerite off their bones.”

Jefferson could sense the woman at the other end of the line nodding absent-mindedly as she replied: “We’re glad you’re happy with your purchase, Mr Trent. The Brutor Tribe Treasury are proud of our customer satisfaction record. So I can close the ticket?”

“I would be delighted with your service, and in particular with the three complimentary 280mm Howitzers that have arrived in a crate marked ‘Amarrian Wheat’, if what I’d got was what I’d ordered. This would all be wonderful if what I’d ordered was a Bellicose with an odd selection of pop guns, target painters and one single, lonely Hobgoblin I. That, however, is not what I bloody well ordered.”

Jefferson heard a sigh. He could picture the Treasury employee filing her nails, half listening to his complaint and half listening to a joke being cracked by the office sex pest in her call centre in Rens.

“Mr Trent, I have the order in front of me. It very clearly says you ordered a standard Bellicose with three-“

“If I might stop you there.” The blood was pumping fiercely through Jefferson’s temples as he attempted to keep his anger in check. “If you look at my profile you’ll see I’m a freelance Civire front-line war journalist, specialising in reporting from the space around the Pool of Radiance. What I ordered was a stabbed-up Cheetah with neutral markings, to give me a half-decent chance of catching stories before those lucky bastards at Interstellar Correspondents.” The headache was getting worse.

“What I plainly didn’t order was a massive two-wheeled clown car which may as well have come painted with “Your mum” on the side. I have a hard enough time trying to avoid getting my limbs handed to me by members of the Stain Empire without flying about in a ship so laughable it’d make a Badger look like a bloody speed-fit Claw.”

“Obviously I didn’t order a sodding Bellicose. It’s quite simple: I want a Cheetah or a refund. And no more excuses, please. The only thing that hurts me more than this conversation is my head after that bloody Hobgoblin fell out of the drone bay just as I walked under it.”

The line was silent for a moment, but for the overenthusiastic laughter in the background as the office monster reached his punchline. Finally, the Treasury employee broke the deadlock.

“OK Mr Trent, I’m happy to say that on behalf of the Brutor Tribe Treasury I’m authorised to release an exceptional vessel for your use, free of charge, while we investigate what’s happened: a superb special edition ship that puts a great many Empire vehicles to shame.”

Jefferson exhaled slowly.

“It’s an Echelon isn’t it?”

“Yes, Mr Trent, with our compliments.”

Jefferson’s skull throbbed. His week stretched out endlessly ahead of him like a courier mission pointlessly carting a thousand crates of Scordite from deepest Lonetrek to Khanid Prime. He closed his eyes, searching for his happy place.

“What holoreels does it come with?”