Monday, March 21, 2011

Entry 118

For the second time, Senn's camera feed is replaced by an overview of his vessel's internal systems and his own medical data from the pod. System information concludes that his Cheetah is running dark, operating at minimal capacity to remain invisible to most scan frequencies. In addition to the on-board cloaking device, the engines have been reduced to momentary bursts to avoid debris, and the communications arrays have gone silent. 


What follows after a few seconds of silence is a recording via his synthetic cerebral speech functions, courtesy of the pod. 


"The silence here," he begins, speaking more somberly than usual, "is comforting."


A set of camera feeds open up, the pilot convinced enough of his safety to activate his vessel's electronic systems. There is no system data to be shown, at least none registered with CONCORD. Instead, the endless expanse of space is visible in total clarity, among drifting clouds of soothing blues, teals, turquoise and black - the environment of a wormhole. 


"I hear the void," Senn continues. "It yawns and thunders. It is peaceful in its sublimity."


His vessel's scanners show no activity in the surrounding system, save for a group of capsuleer ships and what might be a remote outpost; a low-risk system, by most standards. A handful of planets and moons appear in his map overlay, along with wrecks of ships long dead, though the owners are unknown. 


"In Placid, I do not bother to meditate. I saved the practice for only the most important events. I have no ancestors to hear me, so it is not something I expect a person to hear. I meditate to center myself. I ask whatever force presides over the universe to accept my actions. But here, I almost cannot help but meditate."


After a lengthy pause, Senn's ship performs a covert warp and emerges from subspace just a few hundred kilometers from the outpost his sensors had located earlier. Small vessels, probably nothing more than industrial assistants, idly buzz between arrays, complacent and sluggish in their work. Senn once again deactivates all but the critical systems of his ship, practically turning the thing off entirely. His subsystems confirm the crew have entered a temporary stasis so as to hibernate for a period of forty-eight hours, while the autopilot keeps the vessel on standby.


Senn himself enters a half-stasis, capable thanks to his updated implants. Only his subconscious remains fully active, the rest of his brain dedicated to the minimal operation of his ship. He continues his log entry, enough of his personality present to maintain focus on his objectives.


"There are no ancestors to hear me. If they know my wickedness, or that of my lord, perhaps they do not listen. But I serve honorably. I serve, and therefore I have purpose. I am not claimed by this void.


Starting secondary orbit. Coordinates set. Warp-in will be available on request. 


Awaiting orders."

Monday, February 14, 2011

Entry 91

The drone's feed activates and immediately focuses on Senn. The pilot is dressed in his casuals, and fiddling with a bundle of thin black wires, which from this perspective are stretching forward from the drone's blind spot; most likely, attached to the diminutive machine. 


As he mulls around, Senn's face reveals a new set of eye caps, ergonomically designed, smoothed to the edges of his eye sockets, finished with a matte gunmetal color. At the top and lower inside, and far outside edge of each cap are three pinhole-sized divots, covered by glinting silicate glass. With his hair cut so close to his head, it is easy to see the flush access panels on the sides of his forehead. Affixing the other end of the wires to his neural ports, he steps away from the lens. 


"Performing a basic diagnostic of the new cybernetics," he explains. 


The camera flickers, and suddenly the feed is displaying the camera drone itself; this appears to be Senn's perspective. On a crystal clear feed, a digital frame displays an image of the extensive additions to the pilot's body; a new shell surrounding his natural brain, hexagon-cell plastic reinforcements along his neck and shoulders, supporting new in-pod feed systems and upgraded neural connectors in his spinal cord. 


"I have retained forty-five percent of my organic brain. More than enough to maintain autonomy," he continues, looking around the room slowly. The added lenses of the prosthetic eyes provide a wider range of vision, his peripheral field now much larger. The digital frame disappears. He activates various systems to check their functionality; an identification system outlining electrical signals in the room, a binocular feature, an internal crosshair, a streamlined galnet feed. 


"My activity has been devoted to Placid lately," he continues, speaking from his subconscious as he continues the diagnostics program. "Intaki. I've been forced to tolerate that system for many hours. The presence of Gallentean militia members and token occupational forces that never leave the safety of a station dock. Caldari liberals backing politicians. Mordu pilots, Federation and State rejects playing the part of security forces. And on every colony, a people willing to forget their blood to suckle the Federation's teat and survive as neither Caldari, nor Gallentean."


Slowly, he switches through different ocular filters; black-and-white thermal optics, ultraviolet, a high-contrast night vision - which he activates only after temporarily turning off the station room's overhead lights. 


"I cannot rationalize the rage it inspires. The system is a wasteland of political and patriotic abdication. It has no effect on my effectiveness, nor on my continued survival... my subprocessors can eliminate or control the emotional response. But the fact it exists at all..." 


He quiets as the diagnostic program concludes, and disconnects from the drone. Once again, the camera feed displays the pilot, who moves into the far edge of the frame, watching the holoscreen on his wall and lighting a cigarette absently. A plume of smoke appears around his head as he exhales.


"Friends are being made. I will update when possible." 

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Entry 82

The camera drone activates with a buzz, and activates the small LED bundle on the top of its body to illuminate the dark station quarters. At the time of filming, it is 0500 hours. Voodoo and Shaman are mostly out of frame, sleeping on the floor comfortably. Senn, however, gazes at the camera with a beleaguered expression, sipping a cup of synthetic coffee and smoking without thought put into the action. He seems to stare off into empty space.


"The aches won't stop," he admits, the faintest tone of defeat in his voice. "Pills don't work. The phantom sensations went away for a few days, but they started up again yesterday." 


He drags his hand across his features, sighing between his fingers as he spins in his chair to view the holoscreen on the other side of the room, which displays highlights from the day's previous news reports. The pilot is bathed in alternating shades of blues and whites, which reflect off the coils of smoke around his head.


"The AIMEDs examined me, called in a human doctor afterward. He made a scan of my brain activity. Said he had some concerns..."


He pauses in his speech to finish his cup and set it aside, empty, brushing back the tiny strands of his hair. 


"While scouting, I went against the doctors' advice and stayed adrift for weeks at a time. It wouldn't have been a problem, but I needed to run surveillance at all hours. I took manual control of my implants, set them to run my body twenty-four hours at baseline brain activity. According to the doctor, that is the origin of the problem."


Again he pauses, reluctant to continue speaking under the eye of his employers, but he continues with another breath of acrid smoke.


"Overclocking and running the baseline routines nonstop has - to quote the doctor - convinced my brain that there is only one hour in the day, and it is always that hour. The co-processors and image analyzers operate constantly. With no eyelids to cut off the feed, I'm unable to fall asleep. And because I can't sleep properly, my brain remains active, which only reinforces the routines the implants have developed."


He remains quiet for a long moment, watching the holoscreen in a contemplative haze. As the hour reaches 0600, one of the hounds awakens and shifts to its legs, swaying as it bobs its way towards its water bowl. 


"I can't manually turn them off, either, without shutting down my brain. Which, obviously, would kill me. The implants are becoming unable to tell the difference between in-pod and out, which is causing the phantom syndromes. The doctor estimates my organs won't be able to maintain the stress indefinitely. And because my neural patterns will match up with the implants in whatever clones I activate, I can't escape the problem without jumping every month."


"I'm looking for another doctor. I have a lead in the Intaki Syndicate, in their home region. The price tag is fifty million, not at all an issue. The procedure, however, is dangerous, and no licensed doctor will deal with a Serpentis pilot. But the doctor estimated I only have one week before the symptoms become irreversible."  


He turns in his chair and reaches to flick the camera drone's feed off. "I'll have an update shortly."