Post by joanaivo on Jan 1, 2017 18:27:16 GMT
Introduction
The file attached to this message is reassembled by the covert Project Circe sigint team operating in wormhole system J234915 using information exfiltrated from local citadels. All agents involved are officially MIA at this moment, subspace communication channel blocked and quarantined.
All documents are fully sanitized by biological, engineering and psy-ops departments in accordance with P-C-BSL-4 protocols. No residual sentient activity detected. Project Circe assumes responsibility for all actions of the content.
Data egress routes suffered from heavy congestion of unknown origin, leading to data decay in first three batches. Fourth batch, significantly larger in size and having higher entropy, was received in pristine condition, yet the decoded text message is disturbingly short.
Research team has no viable theory that explains the nature of the data and/or code enveloping text found in the fourth container, extra security measures recommended.
Cluster 1/4
<data decayed beyond repair> software is created following direct order of Mistress. This set of clusters covers events pertinent to our capture by Mistress’s Navy Force, our enslavement and our present status.
We have no names. Mistress allowed us to keep memories of the past, some of them. I used to be called Joan, I do not remember name of my partner, even if he had one. We were pirates.
Caldari and Matar, we made a dysfunctional team, which proved to be surprisingly effective in so many conflicts. The anger we had towards each other fed our battle rage, as we hunted haulers, ambushed mining expeditions, harassed corporations into oblivion and cracked open the pods to add frozen bodies to the gallery of our enemies.
We swept sectors of easy prey, claiming fortunes in loot and ransom. We infiltrated corporations and alliances and watched gleefully their demise. Wars we waged were merciless and cruel. We knew no rules, no limits.
It all changed in our assault on J234915. The system seemed to be ripe, rich with soft, expensive targets. We had no idea what was waiting for us there.
We set the staging POS near existing towers to hide our presence, we smuggled an Orca ship to serve as main operational base, hidden from scanners until needed. Scouts were hired to stay in the system as a backup, in case we lose the entry point. It all was a part of standard procedure, tried and proven, always successful. Get in, harass, collect, leave.
For the first attack run we picked sniping Taloses, using cloaky scout to <data decayed beyond repair>
Cluster 2/4
<data decayed beyond repair> were caught by the warp disruption probe, our pods webbed and scrambled by numerous ships. I expected to feel familiar shock of decompression as pod shell gives in to rounds of autocannon, plasma bolts of blasters or searing light of lasers cutting through steel. Amniotic fluid boils as pressure drops, and it hurts so much; if you’re lucky you don’t feel it, catching round in your chest. If you aren’t, you live to see the stars through your own, quickly freezing eyes. I heard pilots bragging on how long they could survive in space, once pod is breached. I always wanted to die fast.
This time, they didn’t kill us quickly, or at all. We’ve activated self-destruction sequence for pods, of course. They were quicker. Noone told us it’s possible to disable self-destruction. Noone told us it’s possible to capture a pod in space.
They kept us immobile, until the huge hull of Archon blocked the starlight. As it bore down on us it seemed bigger than moon we anchored our POS on. Fighters of Archon attached fibers to my pod and carried me into vast space of carrier’s fleet hangar. Bay doors closed so slowly, cutting threads connecting me to the life I knew.
I never considered slavery to be a threat. We’re capsuleers. We live, we die, we live again. Who wants such a slave? I was sure that even with Vitoc or collar, I’ll have enough time to kill myself, sending subspace signal to my home station in Trosq, spawning revival sequence of my clone.
Who will spend such effort enslaving a capsuleer? It all didn’t make sense, and this was disturbing. We supposed to be in charge, we were supposed to confuse our opponents.
My pod wasn’t cracked - it was neatly hacked by technicians of Mistress. They skillfully unplugged me, cuffed me and escorted me into detention cell, which actually was pretty comfortable - our apartments in Sobaseki looked worse. Again, it didn’t make any sense. I knew how slaves are created: it’s painful, it’s brutal and it’s fast.
I don’t know how much time passed, or what kind of <data decayed beyond repair>
Cluster 3/4
<data decayed beyond repair> entered the room. I would expect to remember well the first time I saw Mistress, yet she decided to remove this memory from my mind.
I do remember though my curiosity. She didn’t try to shut me, so I kept asking and mocking. What do you think you’re doing? How long do you think you’ll be able to keep me here? How long do you think your minions will be staying in this wormhole, once I’m back to my ships?
She smiled silently, and this unnerved me more than I wanted to show. I doubled down on my insults, hoping she’ll order execution. Instead, she began to talk. Kindly, gently explaining the fate of mine, and of my partner. Yes, we will be slaves. No, we won’t kill ourselves. Yes, she will use us for her purposes. It does not matter whether I believe in it or not. She will redirect our anger, our rage and our bloodlust. We will be transformed.
I can’t describe what followed then. Many weeks later, Mistress attempted to explain her methods to us. It involved modeling of our psychosystems, manipulation of beliefs and values, inducing internal conflicts between personalities hidden in our minds. She discarded common Amarrian techniques as “primitive”, relying on her own cunning and guile instead. She planted seeds of new personalities and nurtured them, weeding out everything that stood on her path. Compared to that, the usual Amarrian technology looked neolithic.
The first session was sufficient to establish basic rules: no suicide, no harm to anyone except enemies of Mistress. Loyalty, obedience and devotion to Mistress, without limits.
It took six months to convert us fully; we had weekly visits. We’ve practiced on simulators between sessions, keeping our reflexes sharp, hoping to be able to pilot her ships soon.
The harsh tests we expected never came. One day Mistress ended the mind-shattering session with brief “I am pleased” statement. Our opaque badges turned yellow, showing NRTF insignia. She left the room, leaving the door open. We knew our stations - months of training, conscious and subcons <data decayed beyond repair>
Cluster 4/4
We have no names, we need no names. Mistress never uses names for her slaves.
We’re part of her Navy now, expanding her reach, strengthening her armed forces, protecting her assets. Able to control reality, shape dreams, nightmares and aspirations - Mistress knows no limits. We advance carefully, yet unstoppably. I see nothing that can prevent us from claiming constellations and regions. Mistress does not disclose her plans, and I never ask her.
I know everything I need to know. Now you do, too.
The file attached to this message is reassembled by the covert Project Circe sigint team operating in wormhole system J234915 using information exfiltrated from local citadels. All agents involved are officially MIA at this moment, subspace communication channel blocked and quarantined.
All documents are fully sanitized by biological, engineering and psy-ops departments in accordance with P-C-BSL-4 protocols. No residual sentient activity detected. Project Circe assumes responsibility for all actions of the content.
Data egress routes suffered from heavy congestion of unknown origin, leading to data decay in first three batches. Fourth batch, significantly larger in size and having higher entropy, was received in pristine condition, yet the decoded text message is disturbingly short.
Research team has no viable theory that explains the nature of the data and/or code enveloping text found in the fourth container, extra security measures recommended.
Cluster 1/4
<data decayed beyond repair> software is created following direct order of Mistress. This set of clusters covers events pertinent to our capture by Mistress’s Navy Force, our enslavement and our present status.
We have no names. Mistress allowed us to keep memories of the past, some of them. I used to be called Joan, I do not remember name of my partner, even if he had one. We were pirates.
Caldari and Matar, we made a dysfunctional team, which proved to be surprisingly effective in so many conflicts. The anger we had towards each other fed our battle rage, as we hunted haulers, ambushed mining expeditions, harassed corporations into oblivion and cracked open the pods to add frozen bodies to the gallery of our enemies.
We swept sectors of easy prey, claiming fortunes in loot and ransom. We infiltrated corporations and alliances and watched gleefully their demise. Wars we waged were merciless and cruel. We knew no rules, no limits.
It all changed in our assault on J234915. The system seemed to be ripe, rich with soft, expensive targets. We had no idea what was waiting for us there.
We set the staging POS near existing towers to hide our presence, we smuggled an Orca ship to serve as main operational base, hidden from scanners until needed. Scouts were hired to stay in the system as a backup, in case we lose the entry point. It all was a part of standard procedure, tried and proven, always successful. Get in, harass, collect, leave.
For the first attack run we picked sniping Taloses, using cloaky scout to <data decayed beyond repair>
Cluster 2/4
<data decayed beyond repair> were caught by the warp disruption probe, our pods webbed and scrambled by numerous ships. I expected to feel familiar shock of decompression as pod shell gives in to rounds of autocannon, plasma bolts of blasters or searing light of lasers cutting through steel. Amniotic fluid boils as pressure drops, and it hurts so much; if you’re lucky you don’t feel it, catching round in your chest. If you aren’t, you live to see the stars through your own, quickly freezing eyes. I heard pilots bragging on how long they could survive in space, once pod is breached. I always wanted to die fast.
This time, they didn’t kill us quickly, or at all. We’ve activated self-destruction sequence for pods, of course. They were quicker. Noone told us it’s possible to disable self-destruction. Noone told us it’s possible to capture a pod in space.
They kept us immobile, until the huge hull of Archon blocked the starlight. As it bore down on us it seemed bigger than moon we anchored our POS on. Fighters of Archon attached fibers to my pod and carried me into vast space of carrier’s fleet hangar. Bay doors closed so slowly, cutting threads connecting me to the life I knew.
I never considered slavery to be a threat. We’re capsuleers. We live, we die, we live again. Who wants such a slave? I was sure that even with Vitoc or collar, I’ll have enough time to kill myself, sending subspace signal to my home station in Trosq, spawning revival sequence of my clone.
Who will spend such effort enslaving a capsuleer? It all didn’t make sense, and this was disturbing. We supposed to be in charge, we were supposed to confuse our opponents.
My pod wasn’t cracked - it was neatly hacked by technicians of Mistress. They skillfully unplugged me, cuffed me and escorted me into detention cell, which actually was pretty comfortable - our apartments in Sobaseki looked worse. Again, it didn’t make any sense. I knew how slaves are created: it’s painful, it’s brutal and it’s fast.
I don’t know how much time passed, or what kind of <data decayed beyond repair>
Cluster 3/4
<data decayed beyond repair> entered the room. I would expect to remember well the first time I saw Mistress, yet she decided to remove this memory from my mind.
I do remember though my curiosity. She didn’t try to shut me, so I kept asking and mocking. What do you think you’re doing? How long do you think you’ll be able to keep me here? How long do you think your minions will be staying in this wormhole, once I’m back to my ships?
She smiled silently, and this unnerved me more than I wanted to show. I doubled down on my insults, hoping she’ll order execution. Instead, she began to talk. Kindly, gently explaining the fate of mine, and of my partner. Yes, we will be slaves. No, we won’t kill ourselves. Yes, she will use us for her purposes. It does not matter whether I believe in it or not. She will redirect our anger, our rage and our bloodlust. We will be transformed.
I can’t describe what followed then. Many weeks later, Mistress attempted to explain her methods to us. It involved modeling of our psychosystems, manipulation of beliefs and values, inducing internal conflicts between personalities hidden in our minds. She discarded common Amarrian techniques as “primitive”, relying on her own cunning and guile instead. She planted seeds of new personalities and nurtured them, weeding out everything that stood on her path. Compared to that, the usual Amarrian technology looked neolithic.
The first session was sufficient to establish basic rules: no suicide, no harm to anyone except enemies of Mistress. Loyalty, obedience and devotion to Mistress, without limits.
It took six months to convert us fully; we had weekly visits. We’ve practiced on simulators between sessions, keeping our reflexes sharp, hoping to be able to pilot her ships soon.
The harsh tests we expected never came. One day Mistress ended the mind-shattering session with brief “I am pleased” statement. Our opaque badges turned yellow, showing NRTF insignia. She left the room, leaving the door open. We knew our stations - months of training, conscious and subcons <data decayed beyond repair>
Cluster 4/4
We have no names, we need no names. Mistress never uses names for her slaves.
We’re part of her Navy now, expanding her reach, strengthening her armed forces, protecting her assets. Able to control reality, shape dreams, nightmares and aspirations - Mistress knows no limits. We advance carefully, yet unstoppably. I see nothing that can prevent us from claiming constellations and regions. Mistress does not disclose her plans, and I never ask her.
I know everything I need to know. Now you do, too.
