I had lost a ship once previously, shortly after I graduated from the Navy Academy. Until recently, however, I had not lost a crew. I can only say that it has been a sobering experience, so much that I have not had the nerve to speak of it until now. My thoughts of those thousands aboard the Enduring Friendship are unpleasant at best; I find myself wondering how many perished, escaped, or found themselves conscripted by my victorious assailant. Had I not foolishly allowed myself to be engaged, then perhaps. . . well, I suppose that's of no consequence now.
Those minutes of fighting seemed an eternity as I struggled in vain to stave off the inevitable. Helplessly trapped and unprepared for the fight, I thrashed wildly as my enemy raped both my ship and ego, a display of incompetence and impotence that I should rather not soon repeat. When he had finished with me, as I saw my ship's broken hull sparking and bleeding plasma fires into space, I remember feeling relieved that it was over.
Relieved. Relieved to hear silence rather than crew chiefs reporting damage across all decks, shouting over the nearby screams of their comrades. Relieved to see my adversary warping away to find other prey. Relieved to see the tiny running lights of my capsule on the camera feed. Relieved that, despite so many dead, I was not among them.
Is this what it means to be a capsuleer? Selfish concern for my own welfare in the face of senseless carnage? The bitter irony that the immortal captain should be left alive while the crew perish in gruesome fashion gnaws at me, yet I have already replaced the ship and found another eager crew. I still can't decide whether it is appropriate to mourn the loss or simply carry on as though nothing has happened.
Father always tells Mother that she should let me grow up. For the first time since I left home, I think I'd prefer to still be her little boy.
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