Rettic’s Log: Passage
Bleep.
Rettic is running through a crowded station mall. The sounds of sales tents and cheap food vendors are fogged through the noise of the disapproving people he pushes past. A station officer standing at the entryway of a pedestrian lift makes eye contact with Rettic through the commotion. Shit. Three more are alerted on the opposing bridge-way—in the direct path of the ship hangar. Think, Rettic. He grabs the back of his neck to feel the lukewarm socket imbedded in his spine. This takes you right out of their jurisdiction, and straight to CONCORD. If that happens, she dies. The piercing slap of a blaster round rang off the tritanium wall behind his head. Rettic immediately ran toward the officers as the crowd scattered in cries—
Bleep.
The eclipse of the star across the hull of the Catalyst reminded him his dreams as a child. As he observed the open sky through the lens of the camera drone he thought of looking at maps of New Eden with his father, plotting the reaches of civilization while imagining the possibilities of better worlds. Hell, his true wish was never having to set his feet on another dust covered planet again. The black engulfed him, and he breathed deeply—
Bleep.
Rettic dropped his hand of cards on the table, expressionless. “Fold.”
The ugliest of the Matari men scoffed under his breath. “Just like a Gallentean.” Smoke from their cigars danced across the room as the lights from the strip show cut through it like Amarrian beams. Rettic took another sip of his drink while his eyes fixed on a young Jin-Mei woman giving a lap dance across the room. She moved slowly over the table on her hands and knees, crawling submissively for the enjoyment of a few pirates. To Rettic’s disturbed amazement, she was heartbreakingly graceful. It was almost as if she enjoyed it. He wondered if there was any remnant of the girl he grew up with on Villore IV—if there was any semblance of his sister left.
Bleep.
Rettic held his gun over the bleeding Matari gambler, who was still holding his chips in his fists while crawling over the body of a cigar-choked corpse. The room reeked of blaster fire. “God dammit man, what you need? You want money?” The stumbled backward as he threw the chips at Rettic. “The fuck you want?!”
Rettic motioned for Aloraluna to move.
“Oh, you want the girl? I can get you girls, man. I can get you more than this bitch. I can get you Matari women too! You ever had a real woman, man? They’d show you shit you—”
Rettic cocked the gun.
“Dammit man don’t kill me. I’ll do anything you want, man! Anything!”
“Just like a Matari.” Rettic pulls the tri—
Bleep.
Aloraluna shouts at Rettic, throwing empty plates in the dining quarters of his Catalyst. She tells him she didn’t want to be saved. She tells him that she at least had money with the pirates. She tells him he’s no god of the skies, and that his clone body sickens her. She doesn’t know the sacrifice he gave to become a capsuleer through the black market. She doesn’t know he did this for her. She walks out the door, and for the second time in his life, he couldn’t stop her.
Bleep.
“Kirith Kodachi,” the pilot introduced himself. “You’re interested in M3 Corp?” The hangar deck of the Federation Customs Testing Facility reached to a seemingly limitless height above them, with only the sparkling lights from countless glittering windows revealing its bounds. The beauty of the Oursulaert station was shadowed, however, by the monolithic Chimera class Carrier looming behind the newly met pilot.
“I’m interested in getting as far away from Empire space as possible,” Rettic said, leaning in as the Caldari man offered him his hand in greeting. “And yes, I hear you guys know what you’re doing.”
The pilot answered with only a wry smile—
Bleep.
Rettic stood alongside his fellow corp mates as the ceremony for M3’s induction into the Paxton Federation continued. The Amarrian officials of Curatores Veritatis Alliance watched over the assembly from their floating thrones as the directors from each corporation lined the stage. Well, if you haven’t completely screwed yourself yet, this may be it. Rettic considered the congealing possibility that he may never be able to show his face on Villore again. A Gallentean working with the Amarr would be as kindly welcomed as a Blood Raider in a donor bank.
But any disillusions about right and wrong being genetic absolutes dissolved the moment Rettic saw a child enslaved by men of an enslaved race. If the Amarr would pay him for the corpse of a pirate, he’ll bow to any god they damn well please. As there are no boundaries to the black skies, there are no limits to the broken morals of man.
Rettic bowed his head in prayer with the rest of the room.
Bleep.
“God damn it,” Rettic mumbled as he awoke in his Incursus hull, spinning off a jump gate in the Catch region. “M3, do you read?! I’m bubbled at the SV5 gate in F9E, I repeat I’m—” A rocket cracked the armor of the ship, disabling his voice comms. The Incursus burned toward the outer rim of the disruption field only to be met by an assault frigate on the other side.
“We come for our people,” claimed a Heretic pilot in local comms as the rest of the gate-camp fleet continued to pound the armor to critical.
“And we’re waiting,” Rettic calmly replied. The hull ripped open and—
Bleep.
A clone gasps for air.
Bleep.
Doctors rush into the room. The sound of the heart monitor falls to a constant tone as Rettic pulls the cables from the socket in his neck and walks his new body out the door.
Bleeeeeeeeeeeeee—
Rettic’s Log are the accounts of Rettic in-character, his history, and the story of my experiences in New Eden as seen through his eyes. Read all of them here.
