The Coward's Way

Vaden sneers as he plays with the singed green metal scrap belonging to a once intact Gallente freighter. He twiddles it in his fingers, whistling an old Amarrian song. The Amarrian couple in the holo on his desk stare on in blissful ignorance.

Recorder on. What fools. To attempt such a task with an unwieldy ship in low security space. And your escorts? Those fools were barely able to out task the Perseverance. They should be thankful I wasn't in the mood to take out the Black Heart, else they would have lost even more. As it was, Miss Elysa Darkheart, you may have escaped destruction at our hands, at least in the public records. But I know it was truly I that brought your doom. Most would be upset that all that remained were mere scraps, such as what I hold in my hand. But your control tower fetched a tidy sum. Not to mention the satisfaction of seeing your corpse. All in all, you should have done business. You shouldn't have taken the coward's way.

Plans of vengeance

A camera drone floats near Vaden. He is recording plans for...something. A holo display on his desk displays an Amarrian couple. Vaden makes small notes concerning tactical reconfiguration of his dreadnought. Shortly, the door to his chamber opens silently, and Ilias Obelar, his squadron commander for his Templar wing enters. Vaden quickly deactivates the holo of the Amarrian couple, turning his attention to Ilias.

"Commander Khale, I understand you wanted to see me?"

Yes, Ilias, I have a very important job for you. One that I presently can not undertake, but can only trust to a few people. You're one of them. I have recently come into an...acquisition that I need you to take to Heaven for me.

"Heaven, sir?"

The constellation in Curse. The system of Hemin, to be precise. You will take the Interbus there, along with five of the best of your men. You will also have a package, two cubic meters in volume, approximately 500 kilograms mass. When you reach Hemin, you will be contacted by an agent of the Archangels, one that owes me a favor. Don't bother asking her name, I don't know it and she won't give it. She will take the package from you. You will need to wait approximately one week there. I have made arrangements for the Archangels to arrange room and board. Feel free to visit the Serpentis stations and take part in whatever recreation they have available. After one week's time, you will take the Interbus back here. You will have in your possession one prisoner. He is to remain in stasis for the duration of the trip. He must not be awakened. Return him to me, Ilias, and I'll pay you and your men triple your salary for a year. Not to mention that you will have a... seminal role in Sabikannen.

Ilias thinks for a moment, then slowly smiles and nods his head in agreement.

"Of course, sir. We'll make preparations at once. ...If you don't mind my asking sir, who is the prisoner?"

Vaden doesn't answer, he simply sips slowly from his wine glass, a glass made from the skull of Math'ra Hiede.

Revenge

The recorder is turned on in the midst of a hateful rant, whether by accident or design, it is unclear.

I WILL KILL HIM! I WILL RIP OUT HIS HEART AND SACRIFICE IT TO GOD! I WILL DRAIN HIS BLOOD AND DESTROY HIS FAMILY! I WILL CONDEMN HIS SOUL TO PURGATION AND HELL! THE DEPTHS OF MY REVENGE WILL STOOP TO THE ENDLESS DEEP AND SOAR TO THE LIMITLESS HEAVENS! GOD, HEAR MY CRIES! GRANT ME MY REVENGE!

Vaden stops, panting heavily, catching his breath. The repeated slam of a fist onto the floor can be heard.

I am not one of them. How dare he call me one of the Covenant, the foulest enemies of the Empire, that blight from within. Math'ra Hiede will pay. As I now spill my blood to the floor, I will spill his blood to the void. I will personally see his corpse hung in my gallery for posterity. By my blood, God, grant me revenge.

Difficulties

Recorder on. She's being stubborn. And, as always, I know why, but she refuses to listen to me. I fear she's reverting back to how she was nearly a year ago, when we were more akin to enemies than dearest friends.

For posterity, I need to back up. Inara graduated from the SWA two days before I graduated from the Imperial Academy. We both had contacts in the corporation called the Order of the Black Rose. We've been inseparable ever since. She claims I've always been bound to my faith. Even in those days, I suppose that was correct. In one form or another, I've clinged steadfastly to my faith as the guiding light in my existence. Shortly after joining the united, I saw the lie of the perversion of God in the Empire, granting salvation by merit of birth, and turned to the Sani Sabik, a purer form of faith that grants salvation based on merit of deed.

My conversion to the Sani Sabik was not an immediate act. I began simply as a study against the Blood Raiders, to whom I still hold a special enmity. Shortly after I converted, Inara and I began to have...spouts in our relationship. I embraced my faith and my career as a pirate. She deluded herself into behaving as if she were still in good standing with the State and a loyal daughter of Saisio. She chalks up her criminal status to a misunderstanding of business practices, and sees the murder of thousands of innocents as a transaction gone wrong. Yet I am the lunatic, or so they say...

In my studies of the Sani Sabik, I have found that the Blood Raiders err on one fundamental doctrine. The Covenant sees capsuleer blood as the purest. In that regard, they are misguided. The blood of the capsuleer is the blood of a clone, an infomorph, a pale copy of human flesh, and thus not worthy of sacrifice to God. They also misinterpret the reason behind sacrifice. Their blooding ceremonies are mechanical, devoid of spirituality and faith. Mine, the truer form, are so much more...personal. The brands and scars on my arms from Sabikannen, the Blood Night, are proof enough of this. In any case, the purest forms of sacrifice come not from capsuleers. God chose all capsuleers to follow his path of the Sani Sabik, it is not his will that we kill our own kind. The best of mankind to offer as sacrifice are the slaves, the lowest of the low. Some may not see the symbolism, but it is rather simple. The slaves are beneath God's grace, they are cut off from his benevolence. Offering their blood to him will assuage any wrongdoing that they or their ancestors have committed and appease God, granting them clemency in the afterlife. I'm doing them a favor, in the end.

That brings me back to Inara. She, despite ridiculing my faith at every opportunity, took the chance to emulate Amarrian culture well enough in becoming a slave owner, going so far as to call herself a "Holder." Despite her self-title, she is still in better standings with the Empire than I. They tend to look down on whom they see as traitors and heretics. The fools. Inara, oddly, is the best candidate to purchase large amounts of slaves for the ritual sacrifice to celebrate my promotion to Tactical Commander of Ghost Festival. Yet she refuses. On the "moral" principle of trying to dictate how my slaves will be used. Because I told her God's honest truth of their purpose, she refuses to purchase them for me. A Caldari! Trying to dictate the terms of one of their goods. I argued away her resolve, in the end, but that is not what is overly troubling. One way or another, I shall get my slaves, and have my sacrifice. But I do not wish to lose my friend again.

It's her damned delusion. She refuses to admit the truth of who and what she is. And because I embrace it, she distances herself from me. Her hedonism runs rampant, but because we are in Gallente space, it's not overly looked down on. I've heard...rumors...of her intimate activity. She kills, murders, just as quickly as I. She owns more slaves than I do. But she still plays the part of the good citizen, with a "misunderstanding" with Concord. I only hope she comes to her senses before she completely alienates herself from me again. Cost me a fortune in bribes to get her last reconciliation gift. Maybe, for once, a damned Achuran woman will listen to me and stop being so damned difficult.

Signs from God

Recorder on. It is a sign from God. It must be. My self-pity, loathing, and fear will come to an end, for my purpose is clear, my destiny, unfolded.

For a while now, that...damned woman, has made me question myself. It began before I ever joined Ghost Festival, when the Sleeper anomalies first appeared. I crossed the plane and found myself face to face with the greatest destructive force in the universe, a black hole. Since then, I have been on a path of doubt and faithlessness. She was right, if I had died in the event horizon, in a gravity well so great even my brainscan could not escape, where would God have been? The universe would not have even noticed my passing. She was right to say that to the universe, I am insignificant, and my death would be meaningless, my name, forgotten. But she ignored one obvious fact. I DID NOT DIE. I escaped, to continue my existence, my eternal service to God. For awhile, I ignored this fact as well. I allowed her whispers to cloud my judgment and my faith.

I saw myself as a servant to a God that, like the universe, would not even notice my coming and passing. What would be the purpose of serving a God such as that? My self doubt led to a booster addiction, one which I apparently made a fool of myself while on. The Drop was especially taxing. I would often hallucinate that I had spared my parents their fate at the hands of the MIO. But each day I would awake to the truth of being an orphaned child of a dead family. With no faith, no purpose, false worlds were obviously the better. But I have been given a direction, a second chance, as if descended from the lips of God himself.

I have been made the Tactical Commander of Ghost Festival. I am the mind behind all of our major combat operations, second in rank only to Myrhial. Mortis is my direct subordinate, replacing me in the role of Fleet Marshal. My first choice was obviously Inara, but as she is too busy dealing with her personal life to do anything in a commanding capacity, it is left to Mort. He will make a fine replacement for myself.

That damned woman once spoke of the purpose of power, and that politics were required for power beyond that of a pure brute. I have sheer power, my Gigapulse cannons are proof enough of that. But political power is another all together. But now, in a position of command within Ghost Festival, I will have an ear to Nephilim, and through her to the Dominations. That is a road to power. Now all that is left to build up our fleet, and prove ourselves worthy of the support of the Cartel. Praise be to God. I will have to offer the blood of a thousand slaves as sacrifice for his benevolence.

Recorder off.

Nightmares

Recorder on. I've been having nightmares lately. I'm not used to having nightmares. I always thought of them as being for weak minded fools, simpletons unable to separate guilt from deed. I don't think that anymore. The nightmares I'm having are based on something different. Remorse? Grief? I don't know.

One of the nightmares is of the day I was accepted into the Imperial Academy. My mother and father were on their planetside estates in Youl, where I grew up. I had been speaking with the Naval recruiter at the station in system, and with my excellent service in Carthum I was assured entrance. My aptitude for pod piloting was high as well, and I was excited to be accepted. I was still a young man by Amarrian standards, and my parents did not approve of my military service. Too dangerous. The dream begins with me arguing with my mother, Cora, on the balcony of our estate. My father, Kosomo, has not yet arrived home from his latest business deal. They are trying to dissuade me from going through with my enlistment. My father arrives, and joins in the arguing. While we fight, the MIO bursts onto the balcony, grabbing my parents and throwing them onto their knees, preparing to execute them. I raise my arms, and instead of hands I have giga-pulse lasers. I fire repeatedly at the MIO agents, my shots passing through them harmlessly, my efforts wasted, my parents helpless. My brothers and sisters are brought out as well, and placed next to my parents. I continue firing, to no avail. My family cries out to me as they are executed in front of me, one by one. Only as the last of the MIO kills my mother, agony painted on her face, do my shots take effect, killing the MIO agents. Cora and Kosomo then arise, their faces burned to ash, and point accusingly at me. I back away, falling over the balcony, falling endlessly into a blackhole below my house. After what seems like an eternity, I awake, sweat staining my sheets and my heart racing.

The other nightmare is shorter, but more harrowing. It's Sabikannen, the night that I killed Jall'n's father. Except Inara was away at the time, and I sacrificed Jall'n as well. In my bloodlust, I kill Alexia as well. I revel in the scene, bathing in the blood in a horrifying macabre dance. While I dance, Alexia, Jall'n, and Kerren arise, their skin taut and pale from the blood loss, their eyes empty and hateful at the same time. They approach me, lifting their hands to point accusing fingers at me. Their hair becomes capsuleer plug ins, snaking towards me to plug in and engulf me at every point on my body. I struggle, and they grasp tighter and tighter, suffocating me. As the air leaves my body and I lose consciousness, I awake.

Vaden pauses, breathing rhythmically, sighing once before he continues.

I...I have to get off Drop. I think it, and the Crash, Exile, Blue Pill, and Crystal Egg don't react too well through heavy, chronic exposure. Maybe Inara was right. Hell, maybe I was right. There's no point in wasting eternity being calxed out of my mind. And with these nightmares, I can't go on using, especially if they're contributing to these terrifying experiences. Percruor, I'm a bloodbedamned dreadnought pilot, and I'm afraid of my own mind!

Perhaps I shall have to learn to be...content in my place in a meaningless universe.

Damn Aria.

Recorder off.

The Point

Vaden paces aboard the large state quarters of a new ship, Raziel's Paragon, as he talks to an eleven man crew. He appears to be finishing up a briefing. The eleven men depart, leaving Vaden alone in the quarters. After pacing for awhile, he pulls out a bottle of Gallente wine, drinking straight from the bottle. The label says Luminaire-YC 82, a pricey vintage. He drinks haphazardly, dribbling wine down his chin and wiping it away with a broad swipe of his arm. He quickly empties the bottle, setting it clumsily on the desk.

Recorder on. What the hell is the point? I walked with Aria outside of the Gate the other night. We talked, about many things, and that damned woman did what she always does. She pointed out my flaws. I don't like that. She also had to point out that she and I were alone among the pilots of Ghost Festival in one regard. We always ask, "why?"

I am an Amarrian. I am also a Sani Sabik. My faith centers on the advancement of the self. The pursuit of power by those with the will and the strength to take it. The laws of God, the laws of nature, survival of the fittest, the dominion of the weak by the strong. But why? What the hell is the point? I'm on board my second capital ship, an Archon I've named after Raziel, a fine examplar of the Sani Sabik. I've amassed so much wealth, so much power. I feel it all amounts to nothing. Immortal I may be, but sooner or later, my brainscan will fail. Some disease or catastrophe will arise that wipes us all out. Maybe we're just puppets to some Jovian play, and they'll launch an attack that kills us all outright. Regardless, one day, long from now, I will die, and there will be no clone to reanimate me. And there will still be no answer to "why?" Power is all temporary. Band of Brothers is proof enough of that. They held Delve for years, and one deranged director destroys the entire thing. Delve belongs to the Swarm now.

I guess I'm just beating around the issue at hand. I've lost focus in my life. I think...I feel I am missing something, or someone. I desire a legacy, although that path is looking bleaker by the day. Children are out of the question. I can't exactly form a nation, or create something with such a lasting impression that historians will remember me centuries after my bones turn to dust. I guess, in the end, my thirst for power will have to be the end of my means, instead of the means to my end. Taken that way, I guess there is no point at all.