The Sky is Going Dark.
17 Oct 2017Gmanharmon
17OCT330305:33
I am writing this entry currently in supercruise, several dozen jumps away from Waypoint Bravo at Gagarin Gate, Gru Hypue KS-T d3-31, currently en route to Sacaqawea Space Port in Skaudai CH-B d14-34. Why is the sky going dark? I am finally out of the meatiest part of the interstellar dust lanes that shrouds the Core Regions from casual observance, and the systems grow further apart as I proceed down through the gap between the Scutum-Crux and Sagittarius arms.
Once I dropped in-system and scanned the nav beacon, I updated my bookmarks accordingly, but I am frustrated that I am quickly reaching my limit on how many bookmarks one can place on the galaxy map. For all the petabytes of data storage Universal Cartographics has access to plot 400 billion known systems across 130,000 cubic light-years, they could really stand to do better than allowing each Commander just fifty bookmarks to place down.
Farewell, Gagarin Gate, and we thank you.
Perhaps I may have to start writing down my discovered systems and points of interest the old-fashioned way, with pen and paper. Perhaps we all should take up the practice, but in this world of cloud computing and neural networks, I highly doubt many spacers would be willing to sacrifice something so elementary as an expanded bookmark tool. Indeed, I doubt many spacers would be physically able to log each and every system they came across. There are always new cases of broken metacarpals and atrophied quadriceps in the infirmaries of starports everywhere, as so many pilots live only for the allure of the Almighty Credit and forego things like sleep, diet, and exercise. I can't really blame them, however, since the current galactic economy is in a state of freefall, some would say. With mission payouts decreased across the board, Commanders have been struggling. The last time we seriously made any serious scratch was during the passenger-hauling gold rush between Rhea and LQ Hydrae. I heard thousands of Commanders refitted their Anacondas and Beluga Liners to exclusively ferry refugees, politicians, businessmen, tourists, and day-trippers less than ten light-years one way, with payouts of seventy million credits being hauled in each hour! Each hour! Actualized, that kind of dedication put in for a full day's flying would fill one's fleet with an Anaconda for all occasions, and A-rated to boot!
Oh, but where was I? Right, bookmarks. An appropriate segue. I wouldn't mind the task of putting pen to paper and listing all my discovered systems and points of interests, but such a feat would fill volumes. Not to mention, I am still one of the few pilots in existence who can write. Being raised up in a system far from the reaches of the Federation's socialist overreach, the Empire's dogmatic colonialism, and the Alliance's laissez-faire indifference, I received a classical education in the ancient style, with tutors and mentors, in actual libraries with real, physical books. (As well as their digital counterparts, for those volumes either out of print or lost to the ravages of time.) A benefit of such schooling left me with a solid grounding in astronomy, civics, law, philosophy, economics, physics, chemistry, algebra, geometry, fluency in eight old-Earth languages, and calligraphy. One of my prized possessions, besides my trusty .45, is a Montblanc fountain pen, crafted from onyx and platinum, with a suite of nibs formed from 24-carat gold. The act of picking up the Montblanc, dipping the nib in a sturdy glass pot of the richest India ink still manufactured by old-world artisans in some far-flung system within the bubble that I will not mention here, and creating flowing words and scripts, not from keystrokes and data queries, but from muscle memory and a practiced hand, is a cathartic release all its own, and in some of the deepest political circles, a well-written letter of introduction or a business card, presented on fine parchment or triple-thick vellum, makes quite the impression. I know many a pilot who have gone from being complete outsiders to both Empire and Federation, become Rear Admirals and Dukes, commanding whole armadas from their Corvettes and Cutters, simply because I wrote them a letter of introduction. My services are not free, of course, so they often had to beg, borrow, or steal to repay their debts, but either way, I got my money's worth.
Sitting here in my bunk writing this missive, I realized I have still not yet had my coffee, or my whisky. What a fine kettle of fish.
Liftoff from Gagarin. The clouds of the still-unnamed Gru Hypue nebula are quite spectacular from the surface, yet disappear into the vacuum of space upon breaking atmo. A strange visual quandary.