EVE Fiction

((So inspiration hit in the form of a muse smacking me over the head going "WRITE SOMETHING" so here is the first part. I sincerely hope it's NOT terrible and not a waste of time. I eagerly welcome any constructive criticism or suggestions you may have.))

Varigne system near Planet VI - A recently discovered asteroid belt

Mikram floated in the dimly lit airlock counting down his checklist for the third time...or was it the fourth? He looked in the mirror at his tall frame noting his face was a bit dirty and greasy. Pod fluid was hell on your complexion. His deep green eyes flicked over each portion of his hard suit, checking and rechecking the seals and functions that would ensure he came back from this spacewalk alive, whole and unfrozen. With a final sigh and a realization that the rest was up to luck, he raised his helmet. With a loud click and a hiss of pressurization, Mikram was now in a world of his own. Everything he saw, heard and felt came through the suits systems. He reached out a puffy, hardened finger and clumsily pushed the large yellow and black striped button labeled "open." A flashing red light began to strobe as the air was sucked out of the tiny room and the heavy doors began to prise apart.

It was cold in the void. No matter how many times the E.V.A. course instructors had warned him of this, it still came as a surprise just how cold it was. Even with the insulation and heating provided by his Six-kin Mk.4 Hard-suit he still felt a bit of numbness biting at his fingertips and toes. The view however, was magnificent. The system's blue star shone bright and clear forcing his visor to compensate for it's azure glare. Mikram slowly drifted towards the cluster of asteroids that was his target. A wide grin slowly spread across his face as an impulsive idea occurred to him. He twisted as sharply as he could pushing one arm above him to curl back down pointing at his head while his other hand rested on his hip. He neared his target asteroid as he completed what may have been the most awkward and graceless pirouette in the history of dance, his grin still plastered to his face. How many Wind Dancers could say they had danced in the solar winds of a star, unfettered by the chains of gravity and atmosphere?

The sleek shape of his Anathema class covert-ops frigate hung motionless behind him, the illuminated blue ring surrounding it's airlock the only sign of life and power. He pulsed his suits thrusters to steady him from his turn and then once again to slow his approach. Mikram softly bumped into the asteroid, quickly scrabbling for purchase. Even though the prospect of waking up in a new clone held no mystery for him, a thrill of primal fear still shivered up his spine as he considered just how tenuous his situation was. The thin material of his suit offering a bare modicum of protection against the lifeless chill and rending vacuum.

With his legs and one arm bracing his body, Mikram reached into his tool belt and began to unspool an anchor cable with a laser-piton at the end. He set the piton against the rocky surface and clicked the end. A warm, orange light began to glow as the piton burrowed it's way into the surface of the asteroid. He felt the light tug as the anchor spikes deployed but heard no sound. It was unsettling to hear only your own breath and thoughts. Everything past the tiny, darkened visor of his suit was utterly devoid of noise. He took one last look around before reaching behind him and tugging on the tether to his small, handheld laser drill. He placed the guide spikes against the asteroids rocky surface and looked down at the scanner unit display. His sensors had not lied, there was a large, dense deposit of nickel-iron with traces of other elements. Mikram gripped the handle of the drill and aligned it for a moment before gripping the trigger. The shutter slid down over the guide spikes and he saw only a faint ring of bright orange-yellow light leaking from between the shutter and the asteroid's rocky surface.

Mikram took a moment to look around in wonder. His journey to reclaim just a tiny fraction of his heritage was approaching it's end. All the training, the sacrifice, the loss and the pain would all be worth it. The mining drill shuddered once and then stopped. The indicator light on the sensor display turned to green as it flashed a completion message. Mikram quickly secured the full drill with it's precious ore to his work belt again and then slowly turned around, bracing himself against his anchor rope and the asteroid. He engaged his personal heads up display and plotted the return trajectory and did his best to line up to it before pushing off and giving his thrusters a quick burst to power him back towards his Anathema and the final steps of his journey. Inside his ship waited a sealed, pressurized locker with the word "Digir" engraved on it, "Sky" in the old language of the Ni-Kunni.

Eldulf System, Planet III - Descending altitude

Mikram marvelled at the tactile sensations of manual flight through a thick atmosphere. The shudders passing through the shuttles hull, the cacophany of the wind racing past and the engines varying pitch as it attempted to power his craft through the upper bands of thickening air and turbulence. Gravity became more insistant as he began to rely on his control surfaces for lift and direction more than his attidude thrusters. He was still plugged into this vessel so he could easily fly it with little to no manual input but that would deprive him of so much sensation. The throttle felt like it was directly connected to his engines, constantly vibrating with the varying pitch of the power he demanded. The control joystick became more and more resistant to his efforts as the air around his ship continued to thicken. The shuttle bucked hard as he crossed over a thermal band into a screaming jet stream that threatened to pull him out of his glide path and into a potentially destructive spin. Mikram grimaced as he pushed hard against the resisting controls and realigned himself to his planned trajectory. Finally, he cleared the worst of the re-entry's challenges and emerged below the high clouds into relatively calm air and a curved vista artists would weep for.

The planet's surface stretched out below him disappearing into a hazy curve alternating between the blue of oceans and the brownish green of land and vegetation. He had chosen to land on the dayward side of the planet so there were flashes from ice caps and a constantly shimmering sparkle from the ocean as the system's sun seemed to point out all of the wonders he was hurling past. Mikram took as much time as he could to savor the moment and the view until his control console began beeping at him in a most unpleasant and insistant way that only machines can. He hit a few buttons and then began to back off the throttle as his retrograde thrusters and airbrakes began their work of slowing him down to a planetary pace. His restraining harness dug into his shoulders and waist as the demands of inertia and gravity made themselves known to one who was almost a stranger to them.

The pulsing red dot of his landing target resolved itself into a large clearing in the canopy of trees with what looked like the most basic of roads for planetary vehicles leading to and from it. He decelerated further until he was using mostly thrusters to maintain his elevation rather than any lift provided by speed and wing. Slowly he eased his shuttle into the clearing and began to descend. He could see a large, rugged vehicle approaching as his guide came out to meet him. A few minutes later, Mikram was walking down the fold out steps and shaking his guides hand. "Kired Maltevor! Pleased to meet you." The smiling Vherokior man said. Mikram returned his greeting and shouldered his large pack as they walked towards Kired's vehicle. Mikram was somewhat taken aback by the sheer size of the things tires, not to mention the absolute austerity of it's passenger compartment. The frames on the seats were mostly bare metal with netting comprising the majority of the seat and few cushions of any sort. This was going to be an interesting ride.

A very bumpy and sore three hours later, Mikram was groaning and clambering out of the vehicle. For all the apparent size of the tires and the assumed size of the shock absorption system, this thing seemed designed to rattle him half to death. Kired seemed none the worse for wear though and he was smiling as he came around the front and helped Mikram unload his gear into a small campsite right against the base of a large stony mountain. Kired began talking rapidly about various facts and items of interest seeming to switch topics at random. The mountain was called "Fakath Kintaba" which meant midnight mountain. Something to do with the depth of the shadow the huge mountain cast as well as the darkness of it's rocky surface. Kired continued to talk as he helped Mikram unpack a few more things and then he excused himself to wander off and make their dinner. When Kired returned, he found Mikram half in his sleeping bag, fast asleep. "Gravity really wrecks these spacers he whispered" and turned to his own tent and the fire to enjoy a rather large dinner and some silence.

The next day found Mikram sore, but eager as Kired led him into the cave that held his goal. The mine had been abandoned since space faring and modern methods had returned to this part of space and made the old methods of manually wrenching the fruits of the earth from it's stony grasp unprofitable. The ancient miners had certainly built this mine to last though. The entryway had been carved from the solid stone and crystals grew where water had mangaged to seep through tiny cracks and dribble down the walls through the many years. Their headlamps shone along time-smoothed walls where only the faintest traces of the miners picks were still visible. Crystaline formations and tiny waterfalls sparkled in the rare light and tiny puffs of dirt wafted up with each step they took. As they went, Kired let out a tiny spool of wire to ensure they could find their way back. They took turns, seemingly at random until Kired said "Ahh, here we are."

Mishi system, Planet IV - Home world of the Ni-Kunni, 3 years ago.

Mikram, or more accurately, not-quite-yet Mikram was transported to the surface in a cryogenically frozen clone transport tube. Along with his shuttle, he made up a small portion of the cargo dropships load. The Vherokior trader Arlanok felt nervous being this far into Amarr space but he was what he seemed. A trader and as such, coming to a world known for it's merchants seemed the very picture of innocence. The fact that a large portion of his dropship's hold had been extensively refitted to be all but invisible to the scanners of Amarrian customs is what helped catapult his normal wariness to levels approaching paranoia. The dropship was only a few kilometers from the surface when Arlanok triggered a small device in his pocket. A few moments later, and a rapdily burning device being thrown into the waste chute, he felt a rumble in his descending dropship. Mikram's shuttle shot out of it's holding hangar and described a parabola towards a vast, uninhabited portion of the planet's surface. The chime of mail being received stole away Arlanok's attention for a moment. "Huh" Arlanok grunted. Mikram had nearly doubled the agreed upon fee. Arlanok smiled wide. This trip was going to be very profitable indeed.

Mikram allowed one final burst of thrust and then settled into his glide path. The darkness around him was his cover and any bright engine trails would negate all the effort he had taken to get here under the noses of Amarrian customs and security. The shuttle touched down on a long rough runway in what appeared to be a desolate wasteland peppered by a few crumbled ruins. It took only a few more bursts of power to guide it into a sand colored hangar. The large doors ratchetting down seemed to seal the shuttle into it's own little world as it popped and hissed, the heat bleeding away from it's stealthy journey. Mikram stepped off the fold down stairs and wandered out of the hangar into the night-cloaked desert. He took a deep breath, followed by a long sigh. "Home, sweet home." He whispered.

It was this place, in this broken and sandy ruin he had grown. All the people he had known and loved, had existed here. All that was left was the dust and the memories. He was barely into his promised eternity and already there seemed to be more pain than anything else. His existence only served to remind him that he was alone. The passage of days leaving him with little more than ennui. Mikram wandered like this until the horizon began to lighten, the first rays of Mishi's sun peeking over and showing the desolation of the land and on Mikram's face. He may have wandered like this for days had a voice not disturbed his reverie. "For a man who had done everything to ensure the discretion of his visit, you seem to be rather willing to wander around until someone finds you." Mikram snapped out of his fugue and looked around. A man was resting on one of the the small piles of rubble that had once been a wall to a large courtyard. He seemed at ease with his surroundings and more importantly, with himself. The man was content to look Mikram over saying nothing and awaiting his response. "Who are you" choked Mikram, suddenly very aware that the desert had drank the moisture from his mouth and left his eyes gritty and out of focus. "Come into the hangar, have a drink and we shall talk." said the old man as he beckoned Mikram to follow him.

Mikram drank and washed his face, revelling in the sensation of rebirth the cool water offered him. His mind was returning and with it, a host of questions. The old man seemed to anticipate this and said "My name is Emkunatar, I am here because you asked me and more importantly paid me to be here, and I am your teacher." The man again looked Mikram over and sighed. "Even with the exorbitant sum you paid me, I'm beginning to think it may not have been enough. I know the kind of trouble you pod-pilots tend to bring." Mikram looked up sharply and touched the flesh plugs he was using to try and conceal his pod interface sockets. "That obvious?" he asked sheepishly. The man just snorted and rummaged around in his pack for a moment before drawing out a large sand colored hooded robe and offering it to Mikram. Emkunatar smiled and said "Welcome to Mishi, or shall I say welcome back to Mishi. It will help if you start off by trying to blend in by looking like you belong." Once Mikram had put on the robe, Emkunatar again looked him over and then told him "Stand up strait, put your arms strait out to your sides and balance on one foot." Mikram did as he was asked and looked at his teacher questioningly. "Balance in a dead environment, as you can see and feel, it is easy. Now follow me outside." Mikram again followed Emkunatar out of the hangar and was surprised at how fierce the sun had already become along with the winds. He had almost forgotten how windy Mishi was, the various wind chimes, wind generators and flapping sails and garments an almost lost slice of his childhood. "Again" commanded Emkunatar "Balance." Mikram hurried to comply but was almost instantly and repeatedly forced to use his second foot to steady himself as the wind gusted and swirled, catching his voluminous robe and turning him round like the sails and curtains of his youth. The old man just looked at Mikram with a smile and nodded, pleased to see that Mikram had already learned his first lesson.

"So the Amarr set a trap. They landed a huge contingent on the third continent and began building what looked to be a massive fortress in the deepest part of the desert. This was a direct challenge to the fierce warrior tribes and they immediately set about harassing the construction efforts and striking where they could. The project drew more and more of the warrior tribes until it was apparent that nearly all of them were on the third continent, fighting against the Amarr. In the space of one night the Amarr evacuated their troops, their people, everything they could. Then they rained fire and death on the entire landmass scouring it of life almost down to the microbial level. The rest of the Ni-Kunni only know it as the day of fire when the whole world shook with the voice of the Amarrian God's wrath. The Amarrians knew it as the day of their victory but even then they looked to the deep desert and to the Ni-kunni with a modicum of worry. They knew that every last warrior tribesman and woman could not have been wiped out. They were right. The deep dwellers, the fiercest of us all trickled in. Ones and twos, here and there they quietly joined with the shallow desert tribes and later with the villagers, seemingly absorbed into the greater mass of peaceful Ni-Kunni." Emkunatar's face grew even more solemn as he spoke. He paused thoughtfully and looked at Mikram. Seeing the hardness in his expression he continued softly.

"All the Amarr did was not evil mind you. They brought so much to our people. Where once starvation and dehydration were regular killers of our children, all we needed to do was work an honest day's labor and they would guarantee our existance and that of our children. They brought education and opportunity. For those that chose that way, they brought a faith that was much kinder than the old Gods of the Ni-Kunni with their constant demands for precious water or worse yet, blood. They even allowed us to reach out and touch the stars." Emkunatar looked pointedly at the lumps where the flesh plugs still concealed Mikram's pod interface sockets. "Even after generations though, the Amarr still knew to fear the Ni-Kunni in that small space in the darker parts of their hearts. It was not until some of our kind rose to the positions of minor Holders that the practice of Wind Dancing was allowed to return. The one area where even our new found trust and power cannot grant us permission though is in the full expression of all the dances, all the ways we Ni-Kunni used to flow with the wind. Once, there were dances with blades. The Swordwind, the Bloodrace and the Widow's Lament to name but a few. All were quietly banned and the Amarr hoped, they prayed that we would forget. But a few, a tiny few of us remembered. We kept them alive, we, the descendants of those haggard survivors, the deep dwellers. Our ancestors smile with tired joy every time a Sword Dance is performed, in secret as it may be, but it is still remembered, our warrior spirit is still alive."

Emkunatar sighed and closed his eyes for a few moments as Mikram mentally digested all of this information. Mikram had no way to tell if all of this was the truth, no evidence and no historical books or archaeology to confirm any of these statements but...he believed. This history sat well with his psyche, much better than any of the white-washed histories he was fed in his early schooling. Amarr doctrine cleaned up from the dirty parts of history to only show a race of benevolent saviors from the stars lifting up the ailing Ni-Kunni out of their squalor and warfare. Servants of a mighty and kind God indeed. Mikram returned to his senses to find Emkunatar hobbling back into the courtyard from his small room with a cloth wrapped package. "Go and close the gates and the window shutters please." Emkunatar asked of Mikram. Mikram quickly rose and did as he was asked, his curiosity burning. When he returned, the package lay on Emkunatar's crossed legs, the cloth drawn back to reveal two long thin swords. They were slightly curved and looking carefully he could see the shape of the blade was almost perfectly teardrop shapped. They were almost like small aircraft wings. He looked up into Emkunatar's eyes and saw sorrow and joy mixed there. Emkunatar spoke quietly "I will teach you these dances and the forms to spin your own. I will also teach you how to wield blades such as these not just in dance but in combat. And finally I will teach you how to make blades such as these. I can only hope you take the lessons I give you into your heart along with the knowledge I pass on to you."

((Soooo, I ran a bit verbose on this part, sorry. Again I hope it's at least moderately interesting and I have an outline for the final part but I need to do a bit of research and wait for the creative spark to hit again.))

The expression on the Amarrian flyer's pilot was almost comical as Mikram burned past approaching Mach 1 in a space of seconds. The thrusters turned the sand of his launch area to glass with their heat as he quickly outdistanced his pursuers capability to follow. Again he heard them calling out for more aid. Amarrian Customs and Navy patrols were both responding and would be on station with commendable speed. It would not be enough. Mikram quickly reached orbit and it was a short trip to Mishi VI's moon. Mikram punched a few more buttons and then pulled two heavy levers. The entire front of the shuttle popped off to float dead in space as the shuttle's body veered off and began to broadcast all manner of insults, requests for aid and other recorded nonsense as it headed for the closest star gate. With a little luck that would buy him some time. The Stilleto came screaming towards him from the moon's direction and quickly picked him up, scooping the whole cockpit assembly into it's cramped cargo space. He could feel the whole ship quickly accellerate again upto speeds that would have them ripped to molecular sized pieces in any sort of atmosphere. Mikram grinned as he heard Arlanok over the internal comms. "You owe me big for this one, Waiting up here for months has been boring as hell!" Mikram just smiled and nodded, sure of his friend's ability to get them both out of trouble.

((The muse has struck...finally and it's done. I hope you enjoy :) ))

Approaching the Minmatar Republic border - Providence-class Freighter "Er'ridu"

Mikram peeked out from behind the curtains into the cavernous hold of the freighter-turned-refugee carrier. He could hardly believe how many people were clustered around the stage. A sea of Ni-Kunni refugees of all ages from all over the Caldari-Gallente warzone, united by heritage and desperation. They had come, mostly in small family groups at first, scared by the increasing fervor of the campaign. The fall of Caldari prime and the destruction and fall of the Titan had shocked the rest into a manic flight. Sadly, this was not a new story to the Ni-Kunni people and with some of the refugees in the hold, it was not their first time fleeing a conflict they were not even bit-part actors in.

Mikram had forged his swords on the fiery second planet in the Eldulf system, his adopted home deep within the Minmatar republic. After his eventful apprenticeship with Emkunatar on Mishi IV and the steps he had taken to create his unique swords, Mikram had thought his purpose would be easy to see. Almost as soon as his new blades had cooled, and he had engraved "Ki" and "Digir" on the twinned blades, his sense of purpose had evaporated. It seemed fate was unhappy with this however, as the following months had been full of more and more stories of increased tensions and then open fighting between the Empires. As usual, when the mighty struggle, it was the weak and powerless that were trampled. Ni-Kunni all over the galaxy were suffering, drowning in the violence and strife with no Empire or military might of their own to turn to for protection.

Mikram was not the first, but he had heard the call. The Border Runners had long been a part of the Ni-Kunni culture. Mostly centered around the transport of illegal or questionable cargo across borders for profit, they seemed poorly suited to the heroics demanded to save many of their people. Out of the morass of criminality, profit and questionable character arose a group who saw more in their skills than pure gain. Ships that had once slipped across every border carrying all manner of contraband now slipped across them, stuffed to the rafters with the desperate and the hopeless. Where profit-per-jump and percentages used to fill the minds of these pilots, now it was numbers saved and lives restored. Mikram still found it somewhat staggering that his bottom line was deep in the red...and he was happy about it.

The green light flashed, indicating the performers were ready. Mikram silenced his mind and pulled up his mask, preparing himself for the dance. It was mostly to ease the minds of the refugees and to provide a moment of diversion for these people, Mikram had something special planned as well. The wind instruments began, gently swirling into a breathy introduction which called to mind the blowing winds and shifting sands of Mishi IV. The two wind-dancers representing the Ni-Kunni people danced slowly across a yellow-brown expanse, their leaps small and furtive, barely leaving the ground. It was a weary sort of happiness with which existed and danced on old Mishi IV's harsh surface. Above them, holograms of Amarrian ships appeared as they looked up in fear and wonder. Mikram swirled out of the side stage, his swords flashing aggressively, his leaps still small, constrained by gravity. The troops of the Amarr descended, paper-mache representations and as Mikram swirled closer their rifles flashed and Mikram fell to the floor, a gasp rising from the audience. Slowly, Mikram picked himself up and backed away, a hologram of swirling dust concealing him. The Amarrian troops paraded proudly around the cowering Ni-Kunni couple as a few more Ni-Kunni dancers dejectedly joined them.

Suddenly, Mikram was back, striking out of the swirling dust and darkness. His swords whirling as he leapt for longer stretches, hidden fans billowing his cloak and garments around him, he lashed out. First one, then two then many of the Amarrian soldier-mannequins were sundered. Ration packs, candies, toys and small packets of Isk exploding out of them to shower the cheering crowd. Mikram swirled one more time before locking into a pose of readiness with a proud and haughty grin on his face. Behind him a castle bearing the Amarrian symbol arose. He turned to face it, his head tilting up as his swords fell in disbelief. They shot up again and he ran towards it beginning to dance and swirl again, his swords whipping through the dance. The stage lights flashed and when they darkened again, the castle was gone and Mikram was splayed out on the floor, eliciting a groan of fear from the crowd. The Ni-Kunni dancers rushed to his aid, their cloaks flashing colors of worry and fear. The Amarrians came back and this time they were not defeated. Again, the Ni-Kunni moved, their colors muted, their dance barely visible as they were forced into strict lines and structured forms. As they marched, the instruments picked out a cadence for them, at first subdued and humble. As it went on, fewer and few of the Amarrian's remained to guard the Ni-Kunni as they were pulled up again into the rafters above and fewer of the Ni-Kunni jangled chains of clanking cymbals. The music picked up in pace and liveliness as the Ni-Kunni once again returned to more dance like movements.

Thank you.