I do not like the pod.
...No, that's a stupid statement. I wouldn't be a pilot if I loathed it, without exception. Let me start again.
I do not like how being in a pod feels.
When one's neural uplink is attuned, your conscious mind is supposedly locked, one hundred percent, into the starships CPU. To your brain - At least, to the part that matters - the body no longer exists. You are your ship. (Well, sort of. I'll get back to that later.) The science is very, very clear on this.
Yet... When I am in my pod, flying, I swear that I can still feel it. Just barely. Some part of me simply does not accept the "illusion" it is being fed. Though nine parts of my eyes might see my ship, see space, see everything as I am supposed to... The last tenth can still see the murky, near-black of my small, quasi-spherical chamber. A single skeptical corner, somehow standing in opposition to the rest of of those two deluded orbs.
And, more then that, I can still feel the cold, thick jelly pressing against my bare flesh, hear the tiny vibrations from the far-off engines, and taste my own bitter filth in that grotesque, awful liquid. Not to mention sense the wires jammed deep into the back of my spine and skull.
It is not something I like at all. It makes me feel trapped, and more then that, vulnerable. Too human to be floating amongst the void.
Perhaps I am being foolish. Perhaps it's all in my head - In fact, that's almost guaranteed, really. It's certainly easy to forget, when I'm fixated upon something in space instead of letting my mind wander, and there's really no rational explanation for it to speak of. I will be the first to admit that I'm pretty neurotic, and I could easily see myself imagining such a thing out of sheer obsession with how weird the whole thing - Capsuleering, rather - Still seems. But, still...
Sometimes I feel as though there is something wrong with me. Something wrong with how I interact with the pod, that somehow escaped the people who conducted the tests back at the School of Applied Knowledge.That my mind is somehow not quite as compatible as it should be, and that one day I'll try to get out, and end up with mindlock, or my brain fried and leaking out of my ears.
I was talking in the Summit earlier - This was actually at the end of a really odd conversation that sort of pertains to what I wrote the other day, but I'll talk about that another time - And I mentioned that, when I was fighting, I felt "Like a Starship", in the literal sense. That in the heat of battle, I could almost forget I was a person.
...The other pilots there found this strange. They remarked upon it, and even seemed to mock me, as though I was a deluded fool. It was upsetting, how distant and less intimidating their experiences were compared to my own.
I had never thought it strange, before. I assumed it was just how things were meant to be. To feel the ship as if it was your own... Body, to sense the capacitors energy surging through you from your burning heart, to feel the flicker of your sensors feedback like a gust of gentle wind touching your flesh. To see from the camera drones as if they were your own eyes, and at times feel the need to blink, it is so utterly real. But, in finding it is not, I suddenly feel a drowning woman amongst divers.
And that makes me feel as though I fit amongst them even less.
...I know this is all ridiculous. I know that people react differently to integrating with the technology, and that different minds have variable ways of "translating" the information they receive from their ship. I know that I am nothing special, save perhaps for my ability to make truly spectacular mountains out of the humblest of molehills. I know I am a pilot like any other. Like all others.
But... It is one more thing to bother me, I suppose. A small flicker of doubt. To add to the pile.
Thursday, 31 January 2013
Wednesday, 30 January 2013
Footprints
I visited home today. After the news of military mobilization in the State, I felt, for some reason, compelled to return. I am not entirely sure why, but I suspect it was because I worried - If only slightly - That total war might ensue with the Federation, or the megacorporations might be at last turning to each others throats in some kind of violent coup. And I would have only this final chance to see Saisio, to walk amongst the endless hills and peaks, to sit and think in the monastery, and hear the teachings of the elders... Before it was reduced to bitter dust. To die amongst my people instead of live amongst my, well, more recent and less hospitable kin.
I never really believed that would happen, of course. It was a foolish, childish fear, a petty thing I idly entertained to spare myself the difficulty of disregarding it. Like when one gets a strange chest pain and quickly rushes to make a half-hearted repentance of ones misdeeds to the heavens, just on the off chance it's something serious.
...Well, perhaps I'm the only one who does that. I suppose we are all fools in our own little ways, if you will forgive the utter trite redundancy of such a statement.
In any case. It didn't lead to anything, of course, and I didn't stay for very long.
It was odd, though. While it has only been two weeks since I departed and returned to piloting, it seemed peculiarly... Unfamiliar. Things seemed to stick out more then they usually do. I was aware of the odd overgrowth in the trees, the creak as I walked upon the old, wooden stairs, the poor state and general untidiness of my own room...
Is it strange that I have a "room"? I am a Capsuleer, if still a fairly recent and very much unsuccessful one. I could afford a hundred homes of equal quality to even the rather locally spectacular one my father owns. Gods and spirits, I could probably build myself a skyscraper and exist there, with all the things one could ever need at my fingertips for my own amusement. (Ugh, I sounded Gallentean for a moment, there.)
And yet, for the past four months, I dwelled in this relatively tiny space, as I had when I was a child. I spent most of my time idly reading books from our library, in spite of the fact that I could have done this from my Neocom with much less effort, which is burned behind my eyes forever, easily summoned at a moments notice. When I was not here, or spending time with old friends, I was outside, strolling through the hills and woodland - When previously, and now once again, I had wandered amongst the stars.
Isn't that absurd? I know I am a creature of habit, but such a tremendous retreat into familiarity was all but pathetic. Something about being a Capsuleer, with all it's terrible grandeur, scared me to my very core, such that I wanted nothing to do with it, or to even be reminded, for a time. I cared not for glory, nor wealth. I only wanted to desperately return to the way things were.
Is it strange that it fills me with a strange sense of profound discomfort, and a small measure of shame, to write about this? Even though no one will ever read it, save for myself?
I spoke with my father briefly; He is well. He appreciated my efforts in assisting the mother corporation, thus returning dignity to our family name. I would be more frustrated with being forced to repent for his mistakes if it were truly any effort at all - But in all honesty, it is not. My fathers shame on our family was something that hung over the head, over all of ours heads, for years. But, as a pod pilot, it has only taken me essentially two days to evaporate it completely, and grant us more favor then we have ever held, even prior to what happened.
When I mused on this particularly hard, I felt weak. Ill, even. The concept was terrifyingly intimidating. That I, alone, could accomplish more then my elders did in years, and do so not in some great feat of intellect or bravery, or some other virtue; But rather in only following orders and completing what were, to me, trivial, mindless tasks. In baseliner terms, little more then delivering a crate... No, even that implies exertion... A gift, perhaps, to a friend who lives down the street.
That, by virtue of what is now my very nature, my deeds were worth so much more.
It is a shocking thing, to be a normal being, a little mortal amongst little mortals, and then stand within my own giant footprints. Or even to observe them from some distance, as the case may be. To be forced with a choice, to either see myself as something great and huge - Which violates the teachings of my sect more then I can even begin to speak of - or to begin to see the world as something smaller. Far, far smaller.
Why did I return, and not remain content in the comfortable, the little? ...I suppose I do not yet really know. Perhaps I will, soon. But I felt that I needed to do so.
When I got back into space, I bought some new skillbooks. I spent an hours earnings on one to learn cloaking. It cost about a million isk? I can't really remember.
I am trying very hard to not think of how many houses that could buy. Very hard. It is difficult.
I never really believed that would happen, of course. It was a foolish, childish fear, a petty thing I idly entertained to spare myself the difficulty of disregarding it. Like when one gets a strange chest pain and quickly rushes to make a half-hearted repentance of ones misdeeds to the heavens, just on the off chance it's something serious.
...Well, perhaps I'm the only one who does that. I suppose we are all fools in our own little ways, if you will forgive the utter trite redundancy of such a statement.
In any case. It didn't lead to anything, of course, and I didn't stay for very long.
It was odd, though. While it has only been two weeks since I departed and returned to piloting, it seemed peculiarly... Unfamiliar. Things seemed to stick out more then they usually do. I was aware of the odd overgrowth in the trees, the creak as I walked upon the old, wooden stairs, the poor state and general untidiness of my own room...
Is it strange that I have a "room"? I am a Capsuleer, if still a fairly recent and very much unsuccessful one. I could afford a hundred homes of equal quality to even the rather locally spectacular one my father owns. Gods and spirits, I could probably build myself a skyscraper and exist there, with all the things one could ever need at my fingertips for my own amusement. (Ugh, I sounded Gallentean for a moment, there.)
And yet, for the past four months, I dwelled in this relatively tiny space, as I had when I was a child. I spent most of my time idly reading books from our library, in spite of the fact that I could have done this from my Neocom with much less effort, which is burned behind my eyes forever, easily summoned at a moments notice. When I was not here, or spending time with old friends, I was outside, strolling through the hills and woodland - When previously, and now once again, I had wandered amongst the stars.
Isn't that absurd? I know I am a creature of habit, but such a tremendous retreat into familiarity was all but pathetic. Something about being a Capsuleer, with all it's terrible grandeur, scared me to my very core, such that I wanted nothing to do with it, or to even be reminded, for a time. I cared not for glory, nor wealth. I only wanted to desperately return to the way things were.
Is it strange that it fills me with a strange sense of profound discomfort, and a small measure of shame, to write about this? Even though no one will ever read it, save for myself?
I spoke with my father briefly; He is well. He appreciated my efforts in assisting the mother corporation, thus returning dignity to our family name. I would be more frustrated with being forced to repent for his mistakes if it were truly any effort at all - But in all honesty, it is not. My fathers shame on our family was something that hung over the head, over all of ours heads, for years. But, as a pod pilot, it has only taken me essentially two days to evaporate it completely, and grant us more favor then we have ever held, even prior to what happened.
When I mused on this particularly hard, I felt weak. Ill, even. The concept was terrifyingly intimidating. That I, alone, could accomplish more then my elders did in years, and do so not in some great feat of intellect or bravery, or some other virtue; But rather in only following orders and completing what were, to me, trivial, mindless tasks. In baseliner terms, little more then delivering a crate... No, even that implies exertion... A gift, perhaps, to a friend who lives down the street.
That, by virtue of what is now my very nature, my deeds were worth so much more.
It is a shocking thing, to be a normal being, a little mortal amongst little mortals, and then stand within my own giant footprints. Or even to observe them from some distance, as the case may be. To be forced with a choice, to either see myself as something great and huge - Which violates the teachings of my sect more then I can even begin to speak of - or to begin to see the world as something smaller. Far, far smaller.
Why did I return, and not remain content in the comfortable, the little? ...I suppose I do not yet really know. Perhaps I will, soon. But I felt that I needed to do so.
When I got back into space, I bought some new skillbooks. I spent an hours earnings on one to learn cloaking. It cost about a million isk? I can't really remember.
I am trying very hard to not think of how many houses that could buy. Very hard. It is difficult.
Tuesday, 29 January 2013
A Fleeting Dream
Battle, is... Not in my nature.
But today, I shot down a cruiser while in an asteroid belt.
It is not the first time I have killed. I have chosen a very nonviolent, fairly safe career: An explorer. (Though I feel a little silly calling it a "career" at this point, considering I've been doing it for all of two weeks.) I do most of my poking around space with probes instead of in person, which averts a lot of danger, and I mainly stick to high security space, so I don't get ambushed while I'm working. I have been told by other Capsuleers that this is a cowardly way to make money, but most Capsuleers would probably step on the neck of an injured animal if it lied in their path, so I do not take it to heart. I also make a little money mining, which, too, is nonviolent.
But occasionally, there are still times where I have to fight. Even with the upmost caution, there are occasions where I am cornered; Sometimes it is an ambush in a belt, or falling victim to a surprise attack while going through some old ruins looking for artifacts. One way or another, it ends up being the only option, nature or not.
...Usually, the battle is over before it starts. I make a quick, reactionary flicker of will. My weapons fire... And in an instant, they are gone.
It was like that this time, even though it was a bigger ship. I should clarify - This was the first time I've blown up anything larger then a Frigate or Destroyer. That's why I'm making such a huge fuss. There were probably more people aboard that ship then I have killed in the past put together. Yet, in spite of that, it was no different. I had expected a proper fight or maybe even to lose my ship, but it still only lasted a few moments, and then it was over. All that remained was a faint feeling of disbelief and regret, a great cloud of molten rubble and shattered lives, slowly dissipating as entropy allows.
If I allow my mind to wander, I can almost forget it happened.
It is so easy, so utterly trivial, that it disturbs me on a level I cannot quite say. Firing my missiles is the oddest thing. It feels so natural. Far more so then I ever expected. Like I'm releasing something tense and heavy inside of me of me that desperately wants to escape. And it is not even close to an exertion, being more akin to taking a long breath.
Over a hundred lives, gone with only a thought...
My dreams have become different. I was told they would, but never experienced it in my first two months. But now, having returned, I have begun to.
I am a... Creature. A malformed, floating, ever-changing thing; A entity that cannot be described, not for the horror of it's nature, but simply the sheer abstractness. I swim in a vast ocean (or something close to it), my mind and body shifting as I do so, the water seeping into me as though I am a sponge. There is a thumping, a pulsing, inside of me, striking with every step. It is painful. It pushes, a terrible and bitter pain, against my skin, something akin to a headache, only all over my form. I feel sick - I want to fall, but I am not standing, nor is there any ground for me to hit. Thoughts I cannot quantify in waking hours rush through my mind like a raging storm. New, hard, cold instincts, and terrible primal urges. Inhuman ones.
There is a light - Or something comparable. A feeling of safety and warmth. I try to swim towards it, but I am slow, sluggish. My "limbs" are tiny, broken things, and my breast is fat and bloated. The light becomes fleeting. It fades, and the very concept of it seems unknowable to me. It is, itself, like a fading dream...
There is more, but I cannot recall it, save for flickering images and concepts. Anger, fear, manic lust. The sensation of being fixated on a terrible thought, an awful image, but unable to direct my mind anywhere else.
I am told that it is because of the implants. The skill training, and the like. The brain is receiving a great deal of new information in an inorganic way and is unsure how to process it properly, and wrestles to interpret in a manner that it is capable of understanding.
Still... I had been training in my first two months, as well, before my hiatus - Yet had not experienced it. Back when I was keeping mostly to stations and making a fool of myself in front of Capsuleers on The Summit. Back when I was fearful of leaving the station in my meager ship, and instead busied myself playing with Isk, not even truly considering myself a podder. Back when I hadn't killed...
The teachings of the Yumao sect say that to slay another is to burden oneself; To take the responsibility of the taken life into ones own heart, and thus, harm ones perception of the Totality, as it is through the self that we see the greater whole that we are derived from and to which we shall, at the very end, return.
Yet, that truth feels distant, at this moment. Perhaps even unrelatable. I took those lives, but I do not feel a burden. I do not even truly feel as if anyone has died. As if what happens in space is nothing but a waking dream itself, something alien and terrible, but ultimately fleeting.
Something has changed. And not for the better.
But today, I shot down a cruiser while in an asteroid belt.
It is not the first time I have killed. I have chosen a very nonviolent, fairly safe career: An explorer. (Though I feel a little silly calling it a "career" at this point, considering I've been doing it for all of two weeks.) I do most of my poking around space with probes instead of in person, which averts a lot of danger, and I mainly stick to high security space, so I don't get ambushed while I'm working. I have been told by other Capsuleers that this is a cowardly way to make money, but most Capsuleers would probably step on the neck of an injured animal if it lied in their path, so I do not take it to heart. I also make a little money mining, which, too, is nonviolent.
But occasionally, there are still times where I have to fight. Even with the upmost caution, there are occasions where I am cornered; Sometimes it is an ambush in a belt, or falling victim to a surprise attack while going through some old ruins looking for artifacts. One way or another, it ends up being the only option, nature or not.
...Usually, the battle is over before it starts. I make a quick, reactionary flicker of will. My weapons fire... And in an instant, they are gone.
It was like that this time, even though it was a bigger ship. I should clarify - This was the first time I've blown up anything larger then a Frigate or Destroyer. That's why I'm making such a huge fuss. There were probably more people aboard that ship then I have killed in the past put together. Yet, in spite of that, it was no different. I had expected a proper fight or maybe even to lose my ship, but it still only lasted a few moments, and then it was over. All that remained was a faint feeling of disbelief and regret, a great cloud of molten rubble and shattered lives, slowly dissipating as entropy allows.
If I allow my mind to wander, I can almost forget it happened.
It is so easy, so utterly trivial, that it disturbs me on a level I cannot quite say. Firing my missiles is the oddest thing. It feels so natural. Far more so then I ever expected. Like I'm releasing something tense and heavy inside of me of me that desperately wants to escape. And it is not even close to an exertion, being more akin to taking a long breath.
Over a hundred lives, gone with only a thought...
My dreams have become different. I was told they would, but never experienced it in my first two months. But now, having returned, I have begun to.
I am a... Creature. A malformed, floating, ever-changing thing; A entity that cannot be described, not for the horror of it's nature, but simply the sheer abstractness. I swim in a vast ocean (or something close to it), my mind and body shifting as I do so, the water seeping into me as though I am a sponge. There is a thumping, a pulsing, inside of me, striking with every step. It is painful. It pushes, a terrible and bitter pain, against my skin, something akin to a headache, only all over my form. I feel sick - I want to fall, but I am not standing, nor is there any ground for me to hit. Thoughts I cannot quantify in waking hours rush through my mind like a raging storm. New, hard, cold instincts, and terrible primal urges. Inhuman ones.
There is a light - Or something comparable. A feeling of safety and warmth. I try to swim towards it, but I am slow, sluggish. My "limbs" are tiny, broken things, and my breast is fat and bloated. The light becomes fleeting. It fades, and the very concept of it seems unknowable to me. It is, itself, like a fading dream...
There is more, but I cannot recall it, save for flickering images and concepts. Anger, fear, manic lust. The sensation of being fixated on a terrible thought, an awful image, but unable to direct my mind anywhere else.
I am told that it is because of the implants. The skill training, and the like. The brain is receiving a great deal of new information in an inorganic way and is unsure how to process it properly, and wrestles to interpret in a manner that it is capable of understanding.
Still... I had been training in my first two months, as well, before my hiatus - Yet had not experienced it. Back when I was keeping mostly to stations and making a fool of myself in front of Capsuleers on The Summit. Back when I was fearful of leaving the station in my meager ship, and instead busied myself playing with Isk, not even truly considering myself a podder. Back when I hadn't killed...
The teachings of the Yumao sect say that to slay another is to burden oneself; To take the responsibility of the taken life into ones own heart, and thus, harm ones perception of the Totality, as it is through the self that we see the greater whole that we are derived from and to which we shall, at the very end, return.
Yet, that truth feels distant, at this moment. Perhaps even unrelatable. I took those lives, but I do not feel a burden. I do not even truly feel as if anyone has died. As if what happens in space is nothing but a waking dream itself, something alien and terrible, but ultimately fleeting.
Something has changed. And not for the better.
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