Expectation Is Not Just a River in Amarr

The job's simple enough: take down some scum out wrecking stuff. They say it's pirates; could just as easily be miners' kids. I can remember being so bored out of my skull on a few trips that I'd have taken a mining laser and tagged a harvester or two. Serpentis, name doesn't mean anything. File says they make illegal boosters; I probably know more than a few miners that are their customers.

Geez, what a position to be in. Probably going out to shoot at some bored kids on the premise that some corp doesn't like that their parents do boosters. And do I think the corp really cares? Let me see, who'd they give this assignment to: a capsuleer fresh out of the Academy?

I'm sure the Serpentis are shaking with fear.

"Ship, take me to the harvester." Hard heel to port; feels like muscles flexing. Bizarre that I still feel that there's an up and down out here; the piloting virus can only rewire our brains so much. Maybe another million years when we've evolved into a purely null-g race it can dispense with the gravitic illusions; but for now it's the only frame of reference we understand.

"Warp Drive Active." Everyone has phrases you hear over and over that if you charted at the end of your life would far outweigh all the others. 'Good morning.' 'May I help you.' 'Thank you.' If you're lucky 'I love you'; if not so lucky 'I'm sorry.' The graph for a capsuleer would have an enormous spike far outstripping all others, like the spike for veldspar in a belt scan. 'Warp Drive Active.' Even the good phrases become rote and ignored with time and repetition. But ours never becomes trite; it can't when it has such a profound effect on mind and body.

Roar in the ears, a kick in the butt. I swear I'm shorter; not a pleasant feeling, and the tickling of the gravitic waves around me is not helping. All experiences your normal crew never have to feel. Of course, they cannot begin to match the control I have over my ship.

The pod giveth, and the pod taketh away.

The drives cut out and I feel my guts shift up for a moment, a fullness at the back of my throat like just before you vomit; something must be not be quite strapped down in the holds. Except I don't have anything in my holds. Damn C students. I'll have to have that looked into when I get back.

Nothing out here; harvester, billboard... ah, there he is. An Impairor, typical Amarr rookie ship. Not that that means shit; sure, you'll see mostly Gallante in these systems, but a galactic market means you'll see everything fly by if you wait long enough. I'm not gonna blow some miner's kid out of the sky, orders be damned.

"Impairor, this is Agent Morel with the C.A.S." Like he would know the truth. "You will offline all nonessential functions and follow me back to the station. My guns are--" A sudden light, and a hot flash down my left side like a bad sunburn, my shields taking a hit. That was no mining laser.

Son of a mudder is shooting at me!