For most capsuleers, Death is a constant companion. If we’re not dying, we’re killing. If we’re not killing, we’re trading in the implements of death. If we’re not trading, we’re manufacturing new and improved ways of killing people.

Funny occupations for someone who’s functionally immortal, don’t you think?

I guess there’s some truth to the common perception that capsuleers are sociopaths who don’t care about baseliners. I mean I’ve personally caused the deaths of tens of thousands, if not hundreds. I don’t think I’ve hit the millions, but that may be wishful thinking on my part. Of course, they all had it coming (Except possibly my crew. But they’re well compensated). You take the coin from a pirate, you trade in slaves, and you give up any rights you have to life.

These days, I tend to keep a few steps removed from it all. A Merchant of Death, rather than a deathdealer. Are my hands any cleaner? Probably not. Still doesn’t interrupt my sleep. Only thing which does, is thoughts of my own death. Like with the H4-RP4 Kyonoke outbreak. Sure I had a backup, but that’s not the same. At least not for this me.

I guess it comes down to keeping your friends close, but your enemies closer. Death’s the greatest fear of a capsuleer. True Death, that is. So we flirt with it. Hold it close, wear it like a cloak, spreading it where ever we go. There are times that I think on the religions of my childhood, and fear the day it all comes crashing down.

The inquest at the H4-RP4 facility. Kyonoke. That wasn’t a good time. I couldn’t not go, not when I received the invitation. If I hadn’t received one, I’d have kicked up whatever trouble I could, until I got one; But I have to admit, I was still terrified. I mean, I live in a bubble. My immune system isn’t the best, even against normal baseliner disease. And yes, I probably could have jumped out if I were infected, as long as it hadn’t progressed too far. Or reverted to a backup.

Backups aren’t something I like to talk about. Feels too much like dying. No “explode, then open my eyes elsewhere.” Knowing that another you went on, lived life, then died, before you you woke up, without any memories of that time. Thankfully, up to that point, I’d never had to use one. So yeah, terrified. But not quite enough to stop me going. I may not be the best Son of Matar out there but when my people are suffering and I have a chance to use what influence I have to help them, or at least stop it spreading to others, I didn’t really have a choice.

So with my backup up to date, and a clone body prepared, I set out. Preparations were fairly minimal. Embedded recording system. Best immune system I could get into it in the time I had. Features structured to gain some respect. A beard; greying of course, to simulate a patriarchal feel. A paunch, for prosperity, and to be less threatening. Tall, but not too tall. That kind of thing.

Other than a Cheetah, a fairly barebones crew on it, and a hold-out, that was me. Oh, and the research staff back home. I can’t provide the same resources as a State, but I’m not without some resources.

(Fiction! Yay!)

I guess this is the key feature of being a capsuleer. Piloting a ship, flying with just your mind.

I’ve been told the experience is different for everyone, so I can only speak for myself. It’s a hard thing to put into words, but I’ll try.

Have you ever driven? Where you don’t think about steering, you just do it? Where you’re one with the vehicle? And if you start thinking about it, everything goes to hell? That’s what flying is like for me. Achieving that state of mind where you just act, rather than thinking. There’s probably a word for it, but not one I know. I don’t think about going faster, or think “I should set speed to a hundred meters per second”; instead I just travel at the right feeling speed. Sure, it isn’t as precise, but it works for me. You get used to it, knowing how far away things are, and travelling there. Or twisting away from danger.

Some ships make me feel sluggish, others fast and nimble. I know some people find it hard to work with camera drones, your viewpoint no longer connected to your body, but it feels natural to me. When I want to look at something, I just do. While also knowing where I am, and what’s around me.

If I’m flying a long time, it takes a while to get used to my body again. I’ve seen some people who’ve spent long times in micro gravity have trouble getting used to the idea that things don’t stay where they put them. It’s similar, but on a bigger scale. Walking is harder than most people realise. And having to move yourself, to get a better view of something. Bit of a mind fuck, really. And kind of limiting.

Actually flying? There’s nothing like it. That feeling of power. Sure, there’s pain, when your ship gets shot to pieces around you. From an itch, to a deep burning pain. But you learn to wall it off. Keep thinking clearly, while your body is falling to pieces around you. The feeling of weakness, as someone drains your energy. Being stuck in molasses when you’re webbed. Explaining it is hard. There aren’t words for it. I guess, eventually, there may be. But when you’re a capsuleer, you just know. Though it makes some conversations hard to have. Imagine having to explain taste, to someone who’s only ever eaten the one food? It’s an overwhelming experience. But one I wouldn’t give up for anything.

“Damn it.”

Steve unlocked the catches holding the blueprint cartridge into the console, before removing it, and using a can of compressed air to clean it and the slot. “I could have blown into it to dislodge any dust, but corrosion and electrical contacts are a bad mix. And this one isn’t cheap.”

Seating it back in place, then re-engaging the catches, he turned to his visitors. “And now we’d have to wait for the nanite control matrix to replicate in the blanks. Time consuming, but the access controls are weaker, which gives me a far better chance to splice in some upgrades. However, I have a few I prepared earlier. Always have a few ticking over, when I’m hooked up in the capsule.”

Steve grinned, the expression somewhat out of place. Like he was unused to controlling those muscles. “My staff normally takes care of shifting the blueprints around. Just plugging the right cartridge, in the right socket, so I can take it from there, at some range. Unfortunately I’ve heard that the CRC are going to be banning the channels needed for actual control, which is a pain, but that’s life. Guess they’re running into some intra-system bandwidth problems.”

Waving his guests on towards a different terminal he continued, “These cartridges contain a second generation control matrix. It’s stable enough, unlike the third gen. Stable enough to spawn copies from it, and not to degrade as it gets used. The third gens, well, they’re more limited. Can’t cause another matrix to organise, and each time you have them run a cycle, they get a little less stable. The longer you leave them hooked up to a second gen, the better they get. To a point.” He paused. “Nanite based construction isn’t as simple as a set of instructions, saying ‘put this here, and that there’. They’re closer to a neural pattern. Very complicated, and somewhat difficult to make. The original makers have the first generation copy, which can spawn the stable second gen copies. The ones generally known as Originals. It’s not a good name for them, but it’s good enough.”

He sighed. “If I had one of the first gen, I’d be set for life. Any length of life. But no. What I’m currently left with is what I do here.” He waves his hand round the lab. “Taking badly protected matrices, and trying to splice upgrade patterns into them. Those are stable, but they don’t always take well. Or connect to the wrong place. I’ve had a few blueprints for ships, which had a thruster where the Capsule should have gone. Had to junk those. You get a feel for it though. When to cut your losses, and move onto the next, or when you can fix it. They’re even less stable than the third generation, but the performance benefits are worth it, and I’m following guidelines laid down by better, well, more specialized minds than mine.”

“Oh, research? There’s some research you can do with the second gens. They’re stable enough to massage. Where you can find places to strip out wasted materials. Lighter support beams, for example. Or a power core that’s closer to the margin. Again, it’s more of an art than a science. And one that really needs a direct neural interface. Art, rather than science. And a great deal of simulation. Thankfully something I don’t need to do much these days. I have associates for that. It’s not a full-time job, with the required simulations, and stabilization time, but it takes more time that I want to put in. And I just don’t enjoy it.”

Steve turned back to his guests. “So.. This is where you’d be working, if you took me up on my offer. For your down time, I’d be providing plenty of entertainment. Holoreels a plenty,” He coughs, “Entertainers. good food. And all for the fairly short time you’d be working for me. And a wage you just can’t get planet side. What do you say?”

I never used to be claustrophobic; If I had been, I’d never have entered the Capsuleer program. Spending all the time in such a tight enclosed space would have sent me running for the hills.

These days, getting into, and out of, my capsule gives me the screaming heebie-jeebies. That time after the capsule closes, to when the neural implants hook up and my perspective soars. Getting out is worse. I don’t know if it’s common amongst Capsuleers, or just me, but after I spent a week hooked up, barely docking, just soaring free, getting crammed back into my head was almost more than I could take.

It’s hard to explain, that feeling of being trapped to one view-point, when you used to be able to send your vision flying through space. When you could talk to someone light years away, just by thinking about it. Sure, you miss a few things -food mostly- but they’re easy to ignore, when you’re bathing in starlight.

I don’t know. I still force myself down to a frail mortal form. But it’s getting harder. Especially after that Naglfar.

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