EVE Fiction

It wasn't supposed to be like this.
It was a simple job, one more mission in a place we weren't supposed to be.
I can't even remember the damn mission particulars. Blood Raiders, Matari terrorists and criminal scum in every flavor of the rainbow all blend together into one amorphous mass when you're twenty four years old and running on a hundred hours with no sleep, subsisting on various stims and protein bars from the drexie box in the galley. As I sway slightly in my chair however, I consider that the cane alcohol I've been drinking may have contributed to that somewhat.

The sun is far too hot as it beats down upon my shoulders, searing heat washes over me and soaks my uniform in sweat. I am alone out here, standing out in the desert with only the ghosts for company. God knows there are enough of them here. He should anyway, they all died for Him after all. All around me, fading into the distance and wavering in the heat haze, are rows of tombstones bleached white by the sun and by time into white ivory slabs, like endless teeth. Flowing script dances across each, declaring another life 'Joyfully given' or 'Heroically given' for our 'Beloved' Empress. Every so often, a mausoleum or an obelisk thrusts itself arrogantly from the field of bones, like fangs jutting from the mouth of a predator. This place has consumed soldiers in their millions. The Dasht-E-Margo, or the Desert of Death is an ancient graveyard out here on Mishi IV. Ever since the Amarrians came to this planet, ever since the Day of Uplifting, we've buried those who died for God here. I used to think it was because the Amarrians considered this place a place of reverence, since their own dead are buried in the compound near here. However now I have a different opinion.

This place is miles away from any settlement that can really be considered viable, much less any sizable population centers such as cities or towns, located in the heart of the deserts. Coming out here takes serious effort and it's only really safe to stay here until ten o clock in the morning, after which point the heat starts to reach dangerous levels. Even people like me, with special forces qualifications, start to pass out after about ten thirty. Hence I've reached the conclusion that they just don't want us to see the vast expanse of tombstones. The price of redemption, or the price of forgiveness... whatever.

I lick dry lips with a dry tongue as I sit before the tombstones. Twenty new tombstones sit before me. No names have been engraved on these tombstones, only the inscription 'They Went with God into the Shadow to Ascend into the Light'- Trials 10:29. No name or service number or gender. These people do not exist and never will. Their names will never go into the Book of the Dead since they did not exist. Serviceman Shabhaz may have been the most talented mess-hall officer I've ever met, who could work a true miracle, to make something remotely edible out of what the drexie boxes produced. Paladin-Serviceman Malachai Charon was the best comm-scan tech I ever met, and he could sing like an Angel. Chaplain Alghaz was that rarest of things, a Chaplain who was willing to muck in with the dirty work, and was willing to turn a blind eye to the occasional indulgence. They were my crew, my responsibility, my friends. I'm amazed the survivors even want to speak to me.

It's an amazing thing, how your world can crash down around your ears yet be totally silent whilst it does so. Even when it happened, all I knew was a sudden jerk and then I was waking up aboard a hospital ship to the news that we had been compromised and my entire crew was now dead. That was two weeks ago, and now everything that had been so certain has fallen into confusion and doubt. Twenty four years old, and I was already an Acolyte-Major, or just a Major to those who speak Gallentean. I'd already won several medals and been nominated for quite a few more commendations. My family was even prepared to talk to me again, now that I was something more than that secretive quiet girl who went into reconnaissance rather than continued the proud family tradition of commanding line warships. However all that has changed beyond all recognition. Even my navy career, something I have been doing or preparing for for my entire life has fallen apart like a house of cards.

No matter how good you are, if you cannot physically fight, you are of no use to a special forces team. I can't even walk, never mind fight. My right leg has been amputated half way down the thigh, and my jet black uniform trouser has been neatly tucked away underneath me to try and draw attention away from that fact. I'm still sat here after the funeral, after the orations and speeches, staring out into the endless field of bones. I am surrounded by the dead, and if I stay out here much longer I will be joining them. That fact holds a reassuring comfort. When all you have to live for is gone, what is the point?

I'm distracted by my bitter musings by a soft buzzing in my ear. I tap one thumb to another curiously. Very few people have the number for my skullphone and most of those are now lying here before me.
"Niece" The voice is sharp and brisk "I know you're still at the the Dasht-E-Margo. I've got a vehicle coming for you in fifteen minutes, be on it, there's something that you and I need to discuss" The gravelly voice of my uncle rings through my head like the snarl of a chain gun, shaking my out of my torpor. My uncle, Mostafa Mehrak-Adrelana is one of the few members of the family who I do speak to on a regular basis. He's saved my career quite a few times, and my life quite a few more. My dark mood swirls around my head like a cloud of smoke, however now there is a bright glittering gleam of curiosity and purpose.

When the hover arrives I am waiting to meet it. I will take my place in the Dasht-E-Margo, but not today. I owe my uncle that much at the very least.

Chapter Two Cont

I take a deep breath as I try and frame my thoughts.
I could be a Capsuleer.
I know who they are and what they are of course. Everyone knows of those capricious warlords, richer than the dreams of empires and more powerful than any of us mortals could dream. Cheats of death, they stalk the stars like agents of Chaos, ripping things apart on a whim and completely invulnerable to efforts to control or curb their influence. The thought is repellent to me, absolutely abhorrent. That I could get as divorced from reality as some of the characters I saw in the public channels that I subscribed to when I was fifteen and stupid is a terrifying thought. Not to mention the thought of outliving my entire family. Yet at the same time it is a very seductive thought. The idea of being unshackled to see the whole galaxy, of not having to look over each shoulder before I tell a joke and buy a drink without getting treated to a lecture about the sins of alcohol. Not to mention not having to worry about Kor-Azor or Sarum and their squabbling. Above all the thought of being able to walk again is incredibly attractive to me.

My uncle still has his back to me, his hands are still buried in his model and I wonder what he's thinking about, what he has in mind. My uncle is always a man with a plan, as one of his captains said of my uncle "He's a man who would never even scratch his ass without considering all the options" thus I cannot help but feel a little worried about what my uncle will want in return for putting me through the Capsuleer programme.
"You're sure?" I ask at last, the words dropping from my mouth like coffin nails "there's no mistake?"
"No mistake" my uncle replies, his back still to me as he slowly slots the engine cowling into position. "I went to five doctors, then another five, including two in the Caldari State"
I wince, that certainly can't have been cheap and my uncle chuckles "I felt I should have been sure before we proceeded any further, so it's definite, little Zsary's becoming a god... you are taking this right?" He asks, turning to look at me for the first time and his eyes are expectant. I can see something else in there, something different. Hope.

I take a deep breath, trying to find a way to phrase my words properly. My uncle is a dangerous man to have as a friend and even more dangerous as an enemy. I do not want to disappoint him or offend him, however at the same time I cannot stand the thought of becoming a monster like several Capsuleers whose faces fill our nightmares. Names like Aracaturus and Tarqueus Prime and Ayallah hang over my head like a curse.
"I want to think about it" I say at last "I've... had a few drinks... can I sleep on it and sober up?" I ask after a moment and he nods shortly, spinning on his heel.
"Fine, you have twenty four hours, after which I'm going to need a decision" he says, his voice sharp and I nod quickly, knowing that I've irritated him. I turn my chair and slowly make my way out of his office, deep in thought.

Chapter three: Decision time.

Ten hours later, I am sat on the balcony of my apartment, staring out into the gathering dusk. The slowly setting sun splashes the sky with crimson and gold. The domes and spires of the many temples flash in the half light and I can hear the distant cries of the summoners as the faithful are called to the temples for the evening prayers, the long wails softened into melody by distance. There once was a time when I would gladly have followed those cries to sermon, my feet dancing a pattern of faith upon the paved streets below. Yet now I turn my back and spit, discreetly, upon the floor of my balcony. This city, Esfahan 251 was born upon Faith. It was one of the first established settlements that the Amarrians built here to house their burgeoning colony. Now it is a closed military city, home to one of the largest planetary bases on Mishi IV. Even now, when all the faithful are supposed to be at prayer, the Navy still remains at work. I can still hear marching hymns being bellowed out as troops run through the city, hymns which I know by heart having sung them myself until the words were seared onto my very soul. The thunder of boots upon cobbles and paved streets, or the thundering of MTAC cannon, or the whine of hover drives never leaves this city. Every so often a klaxon raises a hue and cry as this or that unit is stood to, only to be stood down again a few hours later. Pulse rifle fire likewise echoes throughout the city, the riffs and clattering beaten almost into a tune as the soldiers continue to train.

Yet for all that this might be a military city, the Ni-Kunni nature still dances through this city, leaving its marks. Vivid murals decorate many grey stonefoam walls, mostly portraits of saints, martyrs and famous ships. In the market street below I can hear merchants haggling over this or that with soldiers desperate to spend the last of their meagre pay on some trinket for the wife, or perhaps something to help make the night pass a little easier, or else maybe a little extra body armour for the discerning gentleman? The scents of exhaust, burnt ozone and cooking spiced meat wash over me like a soothing balm. This is home, all I've ever known in fact. I have never been to another city in the Empire, I've never had any need to. Everything I could have ever wanted was here, my training was all conducted here and my entire life has either been spent here, or in a forward area. For all that people outside the Empire whinge about things they don't understand, I have seen very very few slaves and the ones I have seen have all been property of the Navy and thus well treated. At least they had no more shock lash scars on their backs than I had on mine. The fact that the Ni-Kunni were once a slave race is irrelevant, that being quite some time ago, and my family is proof of the fact that the Amarrians are able to overlook Ni-Kunni blood when it comes to promoting good officers. That being said, no one in the family ever rises beyond Admiral, those ranks being reserved for the True Amarrians. However of all the Ni-Kunni who have ever held the higher command ranks, a reasonable proportion of them have been Ad-Drelana.

After my meeting with my uncle, I'd come straight home to think. My apartment isn't exactly well furnished, for all that I've been living here for about three years or so now. The walls are still flat plain fishbelly white and the flooring is still the same flat grey mil-spec lino. The only decoration is the portrait of our Empress upon the wall and two folded golden flags in triangular cases next to it. Along with that is my dress sword pinned above the doorway. The only furniture is six faded beanbags and a low table facing an ancient holo set that my parents owned. Mid ranking officers in the navy are not exactly well paid, and most of my pay has been spent on kit for myself or my team. Thus my house is rather sparsely furnished at best, and so I gravitate to the balcony with its low wall upon which I can lean and admire the view whilst I think. I have a lot to think about. Now I have a hard choice to make, and fourteen hours, along with half a bottle of cane spirit, with which to make it.

This decision shouldn't be hard. Ninety nine per-cent of New Eden would kill to be in a position to make it, and even then for them it would be the matter of a moment to make that choice. Eternal life, riches beyond the dreams of avarice, freedom beyond compare. Beyond reproach or reprisal by anything save another demigod. All these things you will have if you do but kneel. I am reminded rather forcibly of the devil's bargain, for I have met Capsuleers before, those who worked for the Empire or the State would come in occasionally to show off a bit of tech or teach us something and what would always strike me was their arrogance. Their smug smirks or their offhand remarks. They always struck me as very very devout, or very very unhinged. Sometimes a little bit of both, though perhaps dying again and again and again does that to you. For me this is not an easy choice to make. I will gain eternity and lose most of the things I have worked for my whole life. No longer will I be tied to the navy, will I have access to the support proffered therein. Nor will I have access to my old group of friends for support. Instead I will have to rely on myself, or failing that, a group of like minded individuals. That thought does not fill me with the confidence that it probably should, since the only thing more dangerous than one insane godlike being with powers beyond her understanding are several insane godlike beings. Above all however, I am afraid of becoming something I do not wish to live with, and being stuck with it. A last vestige of my faith, quivering timidly in my chest tells me that the afterlife is waiting for me, and once I become a Capsuleer, the doors of heaven will be closed forever.

Esfahan is a city that doesn't sleep. As the major base for a whole fleet and at least two Royal Marine regiments, you can guarantee that somewhere, one large unit or another is on leave. Thus the Az-Sawan markets, the only part of the city where civilians are actually allowed, is open all day and all night. Three hours into my night time excursion find me here, in this riotous explosion of colour and noise. The sun has well and truly set now, yet the street is brightly lit by market traders with their blinking holo signs or the guttering light of faux torches. The rich smells of spiced meat, spices and ozone fill the air as I round the corner and I'm confronted by the sight of the market in all its semi-legal, wheeler dealer glory.

Brightly coloured awnings are set up, and wrinkly old men with leathery skin and glittering eyes are haggling with off duty soldiers for various trinkets or bits of kit. From a carpet to a new pulse rifle, fruit and vegetables to prosthetic limbs, everything you could possibly want is on offer here, legal or otherwise. Even at this late hour, the market streets are still thronged with churning crowds of people, mostly dressed in the tan working dress of the Imperial Marines though there are people dressed in civilian robes among the throng. Entertainers ply their trade throughout the crowd, with fire dancers whirling like dervishes, their flaming poi whirling like comets through the air and their flowing robes glittering as they move through the patterns of the dance. I slowly make my way through the crowds and suddenly I'm submerged in the crowd of people, literally.

I was never very tall to begin with, the Ni-Kunni are not built like the Civire or the Brutor after all. Even when I had both my legs, I was only five foot three, and now sat in my hover chair, I'm suddenly barely up to people's shoulders if that. I'm immersed in a sudden foul tide of eu-de-bootneck. Cheap shoe polish and even cheaper deodorant, along with more subtle scents. Vomit, sex and sweat and alcohol, though the alcohol may just be me. I pull my scarf up to try and cover my face up so I don't end up vomiting from the rank odours that force themselves on my nose. The scents are almost so strong that I can taste them. However the crowd parts as I make my way through. Respect for the wounded is something that most Amarrian servicemen are taught in basic training after all. Even though the crowd is loud and raucous, it is good natured. Soldiers jostle and shove each other this way and that however it very rarely comes to blows.

I make my way through the stalls, past the spices and into the prosthetic limb section of the market. Here is the only place where non-Amarr bloc traders hold dominance, though even here they keep largely to themselves. Gallente and Caldari tradesmen shoot each other evil glances. Representatives from Zainou, Ishukone and Lai Dai jostle for space with representatives from their Gallente opposite numbers, though there are quite a few Amarrian traders here and there. I have to confess I am sorely tempted to try and get a new leg fitted. This whole wheeling around in a hover-chair thing gets old very very fast. Maybe a prosthetic would do me some good. Whilst I know my uncle is planning on getting me one on his money, I'd rather use my own. Whilst prosthetics are expensive, as a mid-ranking officer I can probably stretch to a decent one.

I slowly make my way into the lion's den and there's a sudden frisson of activity among the traders. Very few fully bodied servicemen come down here, viewing it as a bad omen, and very few wounded servicemen come here either. Suddenly the display models change from fighting arms with built in blades and various other implements to legs of every shape size and description and I'm positively amazed at the variety on offer. Most of the Gallente limbs look to be quite well made, and most even have fake skin stretched over them obviously aiming to look lifelike. The Caldari models are rather more minimalistic, being boxy and gunmetal grey for the most part, though a few do have synth-skin stretched over them. I then make my way over to the Zainou stand, deciding to start there.

The suited salesman from Zainou looks me up and down and smiles a smile that could kill a thousand babies, a smile that I instantly distrust. He's a Deitis male with bright blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes. I wonder if this man has been out all day in that suit, though I doubt it. I can't smell him from fifty paces away after all. He has a tiny Caldari flag pin in his buttonhole.
“Well good evening ma'am, how can I help you?” he asks, his tone perfectly ingratiating and pleasant.
“I'm looking for a leg” I say, my tone short and businesslike. I'm not good with sales patter or haggling and this man has got my back up.
“I see, kirjuun” he says and with that my eyes narrow. One of the quickest ways to irritate me is to start spouting off in any other language than standard Amarrian since I'll have no idea what you're on about, or I will have an idea and I'll be offended that you think I'm a howling tribal. However from the way his colleague, another blond but this one female, looks at him, I don't think he's just offered me a car.
“Well, I'm sure we have something that can meet your requirements ma'am” He says brightly, waving me over to have a look at their catalogue of components and add ons.

Half an hour later, and I'm back on my feet, nursing my knuckles and wincing at my bank balance. The anesthetic that they used for the actual operation has left me somewhat groggy, but against that, I'm on my feet and walking again and that is priceless. I have a real spring in my step as I make my way through the crowds, each step improving my mood. I know that I won't be winning any foot races any time soon but I'm out of that thrice cursed chair and that is enough. I know this won't change anything with regard to my Naval career, or lack thereof

One runs for cover and I track him and then my burst takes him in the legs, sending him flying, his right leg disintegrating beneath him. The next burst takes him in the chest as he clutches the stump of his leg, howling in agony. I take aim at the last one, a wily Brutor who has managed to get himself into something resembling cover and pull the trigger. My rifle hisses angrily and my eyes flick down to the ammunition counter, which displays two angry red zeroes.

I hurl the rifle down, not having time to molest the body for magazines and I sprint for another piece of cover even as the gunman fires a vicious burst at me. Rounds shriek over my head and I throw myself down behind a low wall even as rounds thump into the other side and I find I am not alone behind my piece of cover as a soft whimper darts into the air beside me.

A Sebiestor tribeswoman is kneeling behind the wall next to me, her assault rifle clasped in shaking hands, clutched tight to her chest. Her face is white against her dark hair and her eyes are wide with terror. She's wearing a dirty leather jacket and cargo pants, and a red armband. She cannot be more than fourteen. Her mouth soundlessly opens and closes, her lips forming words I cannot understand. I stare at her for a second, knowing that had she managed to grow a pair and fight, I would be down. She's an enemy with a weapon. However I have killed enough children for a lifetime.
“Put your weapon down” I bark in modern standard Matari, the guttural words sounding strange on my tongue “I will not hurt you, lower your weapon”
She shakes her head and shifts, moving to raise her rifle, tears streaming down her face.
With that I kick her in the chest, sending her sprawling backwards and then I'm on her quickly, grabbing her rifle and wrenching it out of her hands. She stares at me, horrified as I turn the rifle upon the Brutor, who is moving from cover. The rifle jerks in my hands, its recoil far more vicious than that of the pulse rifles I am used to. The weapon kicks like a mule into my shoulder rather than the more controllable recoil of the pulse rifles I have trained on. However the Brutor falls like a puppet that has had his strings cut, his body twisting as the rounds slam into him.

I lower the rifle, a smile on my face. That smile suddenly goes rather slack as I hear movement behind me and whirl, the age old maxim of soldiering playing in my head. Never turn your back on a live enemy. The Tribal that I didn't shoot has leaped to her feet and in her hands is something that I can recognize as a firing trigger, a wire running into her jacket. Her finger is on the button and the safety is off.
****.

And here I thought I was the only one writing about Ni-Kunni :). Excellent story and great mental imagery. I look forward to the next part of your story.

Voronov then pulls up the most recent pictures of the prospective Capsuleer, both the Imperial navy mugshots and full body shots and she whistles softly. There is no mistaking the cool detachment in those eyes, as if the shutters have been dropped upon the world outside. The mind of a killer with a body to match. Ad-Drelana's athletic build makes it obvious that she's a soldier, not an ounce of excess fat hangs off that perfectly toned killing machine.
“Nice boobs” Evidently Ejollursohn thinks so too.

Voronov rotates the picture to get a good look at the girl's back and sucks in a sudden breath. Scars criss cross Ad-Drelana's back, some of them new and some of them old, the twin coil of a shock-lash clearly visible.
“Holy... this girl has a past to her and no mistake” She whispers. Voronov does not consider herself easy to shock, she was there when the Tribals sent an invasion fleet into Yulai after all, and since then she's seen all kinds of weirdness with CONCORD's capsuleer vetting department and she's heard all kinds of tragic stories.

However it's one thing to see it written down in dry psych reports and another to see it in full color images right in front of her nose.
“Bring her in for an interview” Voronov says at last “She looks competent enough to me... doesn't look like she's going to become dangerous any time soon”
“Didn't you say that about Mittani?” Ejollursohn asks as he turns to leave.
“Get lost, now” The look Voronov shoots him in reply is positively deadly as Ejollursohn heads out of the door, his mocking laughter bouncing off the walls of the office behind him.