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."

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." 

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." 

Entry 59 - Mobile

This entry is a basic format of audio recording via neuro-linguistic input. In place of an active camera feed is Senn's recorded DED portrait, along with a digital audio meter, date and time, and a panel displaying the internal system readings throughout the pilot's current vessel including heart rate, stress levels, organ condition, brain activity, blood oxygen levels, and the status of the capsule's nutrient feed to the pilot. 


At the time of recording, it is 0200 hours, and Senn's readings all appear within normal limits. The date indicates that he has been mobile for eight days. His stress levels have elevated slightly, though he appears to be able to ignore the initial discomfort of prolonged pod exposure. In his isolation, it is clear he has settled into the solitary mindset ingrained by military training. 


"At time of recording, I am in orbit above site Beta, distance three-zero-five klicks. Multiple targets confirmed."


A brief pause is punctuated by the activation of the ship's thrusters, which operate at just fifty meters per second, a "run silent" speed with little ambient signature. 


"Slow orbit is being maintained. Visual on advanced ship types - HAC's, recons, third-gens. Strobe confirmed."


The data attached to the video file, sent through secure channels, include captured images of a multitude of ships, bearing signs of all manner of armament, defenses, countermeasures and electronic superiority equipment. Along with them is a solitary image of an unnamed station.


"Primary objective complete. Secondary objective in progress, will advise on next contact with Mother."

Entry 46

The camera has been running for roughly forty minutes. Perched safely on the side of the room, the drone provides a somewhat elevated view of Senn in his casual clothes, pacing around the center of the barren station quarters. Pacing opposite him is a muscular, grey-brown slaver hound. It is not Voodoo, who lies a few yards away on Senn's cot, watching the new beast circle his brother. This hound is significantly larger, and since the camera activated, has been periodically attacking and wrestling with the pilot.


"People say slaver hounds are murderers unless they're raised as puppies," he says in an absent tone, bespeaking the concentration required not to have one's throat bitten out by this beast. "Usually that's true. They can smell fear. They feed off weakness. If they don't like you, they'll eat you."


Even as he finishes his words, the animal lunges for him and tries to close its lethal jaws around his neck. Senn sidesteps the hound and wraps an arm around its throat, catching his hands together and using his body's weight to pin the beast. However, within seconds it has thrashed and bucked its head free, and circles once more. The moments are tense as the two continue their juking, circling and twisting, testing one another.


"In the wild they run with alphas. Despotic hierarchy. The males fight constantly. Prove who deserves to lead."


Again the two lock horns, and again the pilot manages to overpower the larger beast. He never moves to harm it, only to prove he can overpower it, and each time the hound fights back. Slowly, the hound begins to lose its stamina, surprising considering its advantage in weight over the capsuleer.


"Some Blooder officer had this boy aboard his battleship. Mr. Caman found the leech in a complex, along with plenty of friends, crowding one of their cathedrals. Took all the ordinance we had to put them to sleep. When the firefight ended, the only escape pod had a hound in it. Either he had a personal one, or the leech had the heart to give up his own."


This time, the animal tries to jump upright to push Senn over with both paws, but the pilot uses its weight to his advantage and flings it on its side. The hound scampers to its feet and rushes in for a vicious strike, capturing Senn's arm in its teeth. The pilot grits his jaw and breathes through the sensation of fangs sinking into his flesh, blood seeping around the hound's jowls. It stares up at him with wild eyes, its ears flat against its skull, the fur around its shoulders bristled imposingly. Senn holds back its shoulder, sparing himself being clawed at, and leaving the two in a standstill.


"You're a fighter," the pilot says. He speaks through clenched teeth, staring squarely into the eyes of the canine. "I think you were waiting for us... I think you guided us to the leech."


After a few more minutes of struggle, the hound's features soften. With no strength left in its body, it lets its jaws part and sinks down towards the floor, lying on all fours and resting its jaw on the ground. Senn takes a moment to treat the bite marks in his arm, brushing away the clotting red fluid on his skin. He crouches down and sets his palm firmly on the hound's head, ruffling its fur slightly. The beast seems suddenly docile.


"You're 'Shaman' now," the pilot instructs. The hound makes no protest.


Voodoo lets out an excited panting sound, padding over to the newest member of the pack and biting his ear in a strange show of acceptance. 

Entry 44

At the time of filming, it is 0200 hours. The camera drone sparks to life and focuses slowly on Senn with a lowlight filter, capturing the slightly disheveled pilot sitting at his desk with his body half-turned towards his holoscreen, watching a competitive sport too far from the camera to clearly make out. The nearby ashtray is even more overfull than usual, visible only by the holoscreen's flickering blue light. Voodoo rests on the bed, having fallen asleep much easier than his companion. 

"The medics can't find a reason for the aches," the pilot states in a wearied voice. "Not a medical one, anyway. They're not sure if the lack of sleep is causing it, or vic versa..."

He takes a lengthy drag of his newest cigarette, following it with a long sip from a canteen in arm's reach. He lifts his hand to his head, pulling back his hair with deliberate sluggishness. It is clear the movement pains him, albeit very slightly. Frustration effects a bit of a shake from his shoulder.

"I can feel the ship around me," he continues in a lucid tone. "It'll catch me by surprise. Walking around, I suddenly find myself trying to activate thrusters that don't exist to move me where I want to go. It's causing a problem, but not one the medics acknowledge or know how to treat." 

The pilot pauses, as he often does, to consider his own thought before voicing it. On-screen, an athlete is driven to the ground by another, stronger competitor. The cheering crowd can be heard, like a rushing wave in the distance.

"I've been roaming more often. The aches stop once the neural jacks are in. Lately, I'm not even performing tasks handed down by my CEO. I'm jumping between systems looking for fights I never find. I'm fine for a day or so after that... then it starts again."

"I shut off my IGS feed, against better judgement... I can't take that sound anymore. Just the same complaints out of a hundred different mouths. Everyone thinks they have all the answers. Everyone thinks they're special. If anything got solved by talking, talking would have solved something by now..."

He finishes off his cigarette and extinguishes it against the mound of others, the ashes flaring up for an instant before dying out. He gets to his feet and staggers to his bed, slowly shoving the still-sleeping slaver hound to one side. "Lets try this again," he mumbles in a defeated voice, the camera feed shutting off as the two animals fall into a heap and the holoscreen shuts off. 

Entry 20

When the camera feed starts up, Senn is a couple yards away and engaged in his usual routine of exercise, swinging a metal kettlebell in a wide arc, the motion straining the muscles partly revealed by his casual outfit. It hearkens images of the traditional training of the Caldari military to one's mind. He finally pauses to set the weight aside, grabbing an already damp towel from a nearby table to clear the beads of sweat from his short-haired head. Voodoo lies on his side not far away, panting in his sleep.

"A Maller pilot drifted into Amod earlier today," he begins, letting out a quick exhale to encourage his lungs' purging of used air. "They were fresh out of the Imperial Academy, too young to recognize a probing covert ops ship. Milo's ship couldn't engage, but once we had a lock, Con and I warped to close range and put the target down. It was the first kill our CEO wasn't orchestrating. The first confirmed kill on my record."

He brushes the cloth across his synthetic eyes, removing the liquid percolated in the sliver lenses. He lays the towel in his palms and dusts them off as well, leaving the cloth in his hands as he continues speaking, his head slightly lowered.

"It wasn't too long ago I made the same mistakes. Three months later, I'm in danger of getting burned by the State, and picking off straggling prey." 

The pilot tosses the towel aside and returns to his desk, the camera drone following along with a gentle whir of its motors, settling near the edge of the desk and adjusting the focus of its lens. Senn reaches for the newest addition to his armory, a sturdy automatic pistol of higher quality than his older weapons.

"AP5 Kukri," he explains, fiddling with the pistol as he begins to strip it to check for damages the dealer might have neglected to mention prior to the purchase. "The action sends the recoil down into the fist. Twenty rounds on fully automatic, every one will find the target. I bought two."

There's another pause in his speech as he strips out the magazine from the weapon, checking its edges for nicks or burrs, momentarily seeming to drift into thought. It lasts only an instant, however.

"Galnet has been lighting up with hits on the Angel Cartel. Without solid evidence, I can only deduce so much. But it sounds like certain members are drawing too much attention and it's costing them dearly. Furthermore, one of the individuals attempted an infiltration of Stillwater. He was amateur, but it was cause for concern. I've been asked to step up security. The odds of a breach are down to almost nothing."

When the firearm has been reassembled, he lines up a shot against an imagined enemy and slowly depresses the trigger, testing the smooth action with an empty chamber.

"My employer is arranging a meeting with an Angel CEO. Sounds like someone in the real cartel is searching for collaboration with AI. Hopefully we'll be getting some work soon enough."

He reaches to switch the video feed off, the pistol still snugly in his hand in a ready position, the light glinting off the muzzle's sharp corner. 

"In this business, I'm sure I'll be getting my hands dirty in no time."