never written anything before. so whilst I like to think I am ok with words. I have probably broken many rules of writing. But gave it a go the other night whilst thinking about playing E : D. Constructive criticism appreciated, book deals and film rights offers will be considered 
Welcome To The Elite
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Alastair Frederick Kevlov pulled hard on the striped lever. The act, so commonplace in recent months, passed with only a momentary thought of how the handle on this model of ship had a slightly rubberised finish compared to shiny, slippery gloss of others. The secondary blast shielding snapped up over the pilot chair in an instant and with a reassuring metallic thunk. The view of the cockpit was now reduced to a small letterbox shaped opening in the front of the pod.
Alastair had enquired about other models of escape pod and looked for optional extras in brochures. Salesmen were always willing to explain the window was small because more glass made the pod more vulnerable to micro-meteorites. Without the benefits of ships shields, glass was an easy target for flying debris and, obvious to everyone except him, you didn't want to risk cracking a window just for the sake of a better view.
Alastair knew the rest of the ejection procedure in minute detail, the auxiliary atmosphere processor would top up the pressure inside the pod, his ears already starting to pop as the system came online. Next the pilot chambers explosive bolts would fire, ripping a chunk of the main cockpit off the top of the craft and exposing the pod to the vacuum of space. This was always far less dramatic than other pilots extolled in their stories of daring adventure and survival. After the pop of the first explosive bolt, the atmosphere disappears into the greater volume of space and the rest of the bolts blow with little fanfare.
All the ships main systems went into rapid shut down at the same moment the eject lever got pulled so, for a few fractions of a second, a complete absence of audible sound engulfs the tiny tin pocket of air. Alastair had just long enough to think that the delay between this and the commencement of the final stage was always longer than the last time.
'How many times has it been now?' he wondered aloud as the jets of the pod fired and carried him, its precious cargo, away from what the pod had been programmed to consider immediate danger.
As the escape pods jets sputtered out with the last few milligrams of fuel, the pod began a lazy tumble through space. He remembered now, he had had to count out on his fingers as the jets completed their burn. It had been ten ships. In the last six galactic standard months, he had ejected from ten ships since he got that blasted message.
His latest doomed ship glided gently into his limited field of vision as this revelation crossed his mind. He liked this ship. It had a nice feel to it and he was just forming ideas for a name for this one. But as the ten megawatt military laser pierced its dull fuselage his thoughts turned to the simpler times.
The occasional exceptional event would come by once in a while, a passenger or a somewhat suspicious package of great importance, but these constituted a few tiny blips in a life consisting of a pleasing monotony of buying, selling and going between.
Alastair’s life endured this way for a number of years until it happened. After a long haul run from Uszaa to Tionisla, carrying a cargo hold stacked full to the brim of various forgettable mundane items. After a minor skirmish with a Mamba class ship and an acceptable sale of goods, a message came in as they docked for a cycle of rest and recuperation.
Alastair recalled with mirth how unexpected the message was. His family, scattered to the far reaches of the frontiers were explorers, galcorp enforcers and even a semi-notable pirate. None of these people would be sending Alastair a message. He doubted any of them remembered the fact a family relation existed. He also had few friends he stayed in touch with, so unlikely to be any of them either.
During this reflection on the past, the smouldering hulk of his ship moved beyond the pods viewport in much the same way he had just left the cockpit. Critical systems, crippled by the last vicious burst of laser fire and unable to regulate themselves any longer, tore themselves apart. This in turn ignited the remaining fuel in the ship and obliterated the system itself, the rest of the ship and the cargo it was carrying.
Although this chain of events was understandable in Alastair's eyes and a highly probable outcome of most interfaces between fired laser and ship hull, this latest development gave him only more cause for concern. Obvious to him now was the fact the attackers were not interested in the cargo.
The message had pinged open on his screen with an almost garish camaraderie. ‘You have gained elite status’, flashed eagerly in his face on the open screen. Alastair knew what this meant. Like some perverse joke of a computer game, he had somehow managed to 'score enough points’ to be given this branding. For a branding it would be. A permanent mark, seared onto him like cattle in the ancient days of cowboys from the vids he sometimes watched to pass the time. He may as well just paint a big shiny target on himself from here on in for all the difference it would make. How had this happened? He had done nothing remarkable, just repeated the good trades he had learnt after long years of failed sales and fines for illegal goods or improper docking procedures. And now, for his below average efforts, he had been made a target for anyone trying to make a name for themselves for whatever reason. These reasons, more often than not, were not good reasons. At least not to Alastair.
At this precise point, Alastair realised why the viewing ports on the escape pods were all so small. Now he knew, as the same laser that atomised parts of his ship erupted into the pods tiny living space, it was really so you couldn't see it coming.
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Thanks for taking the time to get to the end.
Welcome To The Elite
------------------------
Alastair Frederick Kevlov pulled hard on the striped lever. The act, so commonplace in recent months, passed with only a momentary thought of how the handle on this model of ship had a slightly rubberised finish compared to shiny, slippery gloss of others. The secondary blast shielding snapped up over the pilot chair in an instant and with a reassuring metallic thunk. The view of the cockpit was now reduced to a small letterbox shaped opening in the front of the pod.
Alastair had enquired about other models of escape pod and looked for optional extras in brochures. Salesmen were always willing to explain the window was small because more glass made the pod more vulnerable to micro-meteorites. Without the benefits of ships shields, glass was an easy target for flying debris and, obvious to everyone except him, you didn't want to risk cracking a window just for the sake of a better view.
Alastair knew the rest of the ejection procedure in minute detail, the auxiliary atmosphere processor would top up the pressure inside the pod, his ears already starting to pop as the system came online. Next the pilot chambers explosive bolts would fire, ripping a chunk of the main cockpit off the top of the craft and exposing the pod to the vacuum of space. This was always far less dramatic than other pilots extolled in their stories of daring adventure and survival. After the pop of the first explosive bolt, the atmosphere disappears into the greater volume of space and the rest of the bolts blow with little fanfare.
All the ships main systems went into rapid shut down at the same moment the eject lever got pulled so, for a few fractions of a second, a complete absence of audible sound engulfs the tiny tin pocket of air. Alastair had just long enough to think that the delay between this and the commencement of the final stage was always longer than the last time.
'How many times has it been now?' he wondered aloud as the jets of the pod fired and carried him, its precious cargo, away from what the pod had been programmed to consider immediate danger.
As the escape pods jets sputtered out with the last few milligrams of fuel, the pod began a lazy tumble through space. He remembered now, he had had to count out on his fingers as the jets completed their burn. It had been ten ships. In the last six galactic standard months, he had ejected from ten ships since he got that blasted message.
His latest doomed ship glided gently into his limited field of vision as this revelation crossed his mind. He liked this ship. It had a nice feel to it and he was just forming ideas for a name for this one. But as the ten megawatt military laser pierced its dull fuselage his thoughts turned to the simpler times.
The occasional exceptional event would come by once in a while, a passenger or a somewhat suspicious package of great importance, but these constituted a few tiny blips in a life consisting of a pleasing monotony of buying, selling and going between.
Alastair’s life endured this way for a number of years until it happened. After a long haul run from Uszaa to Tionisla, carrying a cargo hold stacked full to the brim of various forgettable mundane items. After a minor skirmish with a Mamba class ship and an acceptable sale of goods, a message came in as they docked for a cycle of rest and recuperation.
Alastair recalled with mirth how unexpected the message was. His family, scattered to the far reaches of the frontiers were explorers, galcorp enforcers and even a semi-notable pirate. None of these people would be sending Alastair a message. He doubted any of them remembered the fact a family relation existed. He also had few friends he stayed in touch with, so unlikely to be any of them either.
During this reflection on the past, the smouldering hulk of his ship moved beyond the pods viewport in much the same way he had just left the cockpit. Critical systems, crippled by the last vicious burst of laser fire and unable to regulate themselves any longer, tore themselves apart. This in turn ignited the remaining fuel in the ship and obliterated the system itself, the rest of the ship and the cargo it was carrying.
Although this chain of events was understandable in Alastair's eyes and a highly probable outcome of most interfaces between fired laser and ship hull, this latest development gave him only more cause for concern. Obvious to him now was the fact the attackers were not interested in the cargo.
The message had pinged open on his screen with an almost garish camaraderie. ‘You have gained elite status’, flashed eagerly in his face on the open screen. Alastair knew what this meant. Like some perverse joke of a computer game, he had somehow managed to 'score enough points’ to be given this branding. For a branding it would be. A permanent mark, seared onto him like cattle in the ancient days of cowboys from the vids he sometimes watched to pass the time. He may as well just paint a big shiny target on himself from here on in for all the difference it would make. How had this happened? He had done nothing remarkable, just repeated the good trades he had learnt after long years of failed sales and fines for illegal goods or improper docking procedures. And now, for his below average efforts, he had been made a target for anyone trying to make a name for themselves for whatever reason. These reasons, more often than not, were not good reasons. At least not to Alastair.
At this precise point, Alastair realised why the viewing ports on the escape pods were all so small. Now he knew, as the same laser that atomised parts of his ship erupted into the pods tiny living space, it was really so you couldn't see it coming.
------------------------
Thanks for taking the time to get to the end.
