Everyday Eve

Moriarity looked at the chip with apprehension. A ‘gift’. He knew what it meant. More augmentation, more vomiting and more headaches. He still did not understand why he ‘needed’ to have an augmented memory and intelligence. Attributes, enhanced to take him where he wanted to go faster and surer.

The problem was he could not decide where it was he wanted to go. Back in his previous life such decisions were always arranged for him. After all, he had been poor and had to work constantly to maintain a simple life. Out here he was a newborn immortal, a member of the transhuman class known as Pod Pilots. He almost regretted his decision to plug himself into this new life. He spent most of his time sealed into a pod, sealed off from his past, from his present and the company of others. He had begun to loathe this new life of isolation and cold indifference.

He had spent forever in the new pilots’ training programme working out how to scan with probes. He was also deeply uneasy with the pure violence of his new surroundings. It seemed everything was hostile and that all around him, New Eden was at war with itself. It was as though the augmentations, the changes that came with those augmentations, had exaggerated the worst and best traits of humanity. Out here the pilots of New Eden were capable of heinous acts against each other. All in the pursuit of wealth and glory.

Then there was the actual flying. His spatial awareness before becoming a member of the immortal class had been poor. He had failed at almost every sport he had tried, his simplicity had meant he had not seen the need to be competitive. Yet here he was in a hyper competitive gladiatorial arena that demanded he show his prowess in the tools of war. He could take risks that others would not and he could see things they could not. He could lose one ship and almost without thinking or feeling he could just turn and buy another, like replacing batteries. But the fighting was not easy; he was struggling to overcome the ‘rats’, as his fellow pod pilots describe them, and his ‘agents’ responded to him with corporate detachment.

It was after one disastrous run that Moriarity was left sitting drinking heavily in the Republic Justice Department in Eystur. The bar was one of those back station places hosted by mortals for mortals.  Moriarity shunned the company of his fellow pilots but found himself isolated and shunned by those around him in the bar. The only attention he seemed to be getting was from a world weary barmaid.  She was probably after a good tip.

“So what brings you in here?” She was staring at him as she wiped the bar.  Behind her several screens glared with a range of different sports from Brutor pit fighting to Slaver Hound hunting. It was one of those bars, you know the type, with that kind of special charm you can only find in the dark oily parts of a station.

Moriarity blinked at her through the haze, trying to collect his thoughts.  “I came for the company….” He wanted to say more; a thought had occurred to him just now, but it was gone.  This was going to be difficult.

She paused and looked at him and smiled. “That explains why you are sitting up here on your own, all broody and dark.” Moriarity was a bit miffed by this.  From what he could tell everyone in this place was broody and dark. Crap.  I am going to get into a conversation. “I think I made a mistake,” he sighed.  “I don’t know why I did it.” He stared at the bartender, then at his glass.

“Did what?” She continued to wipe the bar.

Behind her head Moriarity took in the images of Slaver hounds exploding as they were struck by high calibre rounds. The sport had become popular in the new Minimatar Republic.  “Became a pod pilot,” he said slowly.  He missed ordinary human contact now he had entered the immortal class.  He did not consider that this might happen.  In fact he had not thought about the whole situation at all. That might explain his confusion. It might explain why he seemed to be lost. Paralysed almost.

“Whats the problem?  You get to use and abuse your body, you could drink this whole bar dry, get killed and come back tomorrow without even a hangover!” she grinned.

“Shameless you are,” he said smiling.

“Look, you chose that way. Now you are locked into that way of life there is no point coming crying to me, you should see some of the shit I have to deal with.”  She walked over to another client who was ordering a drink.  Moriarity sat brooding. Moriarity never had to plan much before in his life.  In fact it seemed most of his life had been lived in a goldfish bowl.  Moving from one project to the next, failing at most things and never really achieving anything.  Now he was a pod pilot, actually having a plan was as improbable as winning the lottery in the first place.  A bit like lightning  striking the same place twice.

Moriarity finished his drink and paused.  He looked up and the barmaid looked over tilting her head.  He nodded.  Why not?  It is not as if I have anything to do anyway. She poured another double shot and brought it over to him.

“So watcha gonna do baby?” The tone that she said it in seemed to indicate that he had options.

“I don’t know. I mean some of these people are weird. They have some of the most bizarre call signs.  I saw someone the other day called ‘Body Crusher’ and another called ‘Body Bandit’.”

The barmaid glanced at him.  “Yeah they do that kind of thing, its like something happens to them.  Its why most mortals avoid them, you cannot predict what they will do and after all we only have one life.  Any moment can be our last.” There was something in what she said that Moriarity envied. She was in some way right, Moriarity had seen some of the radio chats in local.  Extreme things being said between pod pilots.  New Eden was full of pilots trying to outdo other pilots.  A kind of collective lunacy, almost shameless in its openness and vulgarity.  Yet they seemed to relish it. How could this be the bold new dream of the future of New Eden?  The very name seemed empty and cold.  He shuddered.

“Take this body.  Do you see anything wrong here?” He stretched out his hands palms facing down in front of himself.  She took his hands and caressed them, her hands seemed cold and rough to the touch.  Her fingers long and narrow, deeply tanned.

“They are very smooth.” She didn’t remove her touch, as though to hold him was to hold onto the untouchable.  There was an intense longing in her eyes.  Yet this skin, this flesh would eventually be consigned to the bin.  Its seemed completely intangible, the mortal touching the immortal. But was she actually touching him?  After all was this his skin?  Does it count if he is really some sort of doppelgänger?

“Too smooth, they should have hair, scars, and they should be blanched and uneven, worn maybe.” He sighed.  “I mean it doesn’t seem to have been lived in.  It ‘feels’ all wrong.” He looked at her intently.

“You’re so lucky.” She said a tear in her eye.  She removed her hand, Looked down and walked off to the other side of the bar.  Making herself busy clinking glasses. Moriarity continued to stare at his glass, brooding on what he had done.  His whole time in the New Pilots’ Induction Programme had been painfully slow, it was as though he didn’t want to finish it.  He knew all the tutors by name, and yet he had failed to graduate. After a while the barmaid came back.

“Sorry for being funny earlier, it is just sometimes I don’t get it.  You people have everything. Yet you come in here all the time moaning about how hard it is for you.  Just try it, try for once to live your life as though every moment should be your last.”  She stalked off.

Moriarity sat for a while longer. If only I could live my life as though every moment was my last.  In an instant the enormity of his decision struck him.  He would never again have the rush that came with knowing his life was in danger.  No longer would he feel the rush that he was about to die.  In that instant it finally struck him what he had lost and he was devastated.   He picked up his ‘gift’, downed his last drink and slowly left the bar.