Blogger

Annoyingly I can find no option in Blogger to share my 3 blogs on one account but use different usernames. Now this isn’t a problem for some but I always liked separating Biomassed from Hitch, it is now becoming a pain though to switch between both users when commenting.

Because of this you will now see me as Biomassed/Hitch on all posts for all blogs. Just thought I would clarify that in case anyone asked :)

My blogs are:

http://biomassed.blogspot.com/ - Eve

http://eveinline.blogspot.com/ - Fiction

http://hitchable.blogspot.com/ - Personal

Lost no more

Authors note: The following work of fiction is, due to the nature of its telling, one that ends a beginning. The tale starts with a Little Lost Hound. I highly recommend you read this before commencing on the trail of words below.

The old man stepped down from the landing platform. His blue eyes stared out from a hardened face, his expression was cold, like the landscape. Behind him he heard the whir of the twin turbines as the platform lifted off. The drone added to the thin, whiny wind, and for a moment gave it substance. A young boy stepped out of his shelter from the wind and walked over to him. He bent down and picked up his solitary kit bag.

“Where to mister?” The young boy questioned. The old man looked down and made eye contact, but said nothing. Thrusting his chin forward he stepped into the past, the young boy falling in behind.

After a while the old man stopped and glanced sideways. He turned, right heal down, foot flat, bringing his left leg in step, military style. Sharply, he headed toward the ruined stump of a tree. Stopping a meter away he pointed to the dry, cold ground, pulled out a ten and flicked it towards the young boy. Catching it and with one eye on the man the young boy placed the bag where the finger pointed. “Thanks mister!” He exclaimed.

A ten was more than he had hoped for, nine more than he dreamed he would get. He thought rapidly, realizing he could maybe get more. “You want anything? Need a guide?” The old man turned slowly, the same fashion as before and set his pale blue eyes firmly on the boy. “Go” The old man stated. The low growl, the eyes, and the way the old mans scar glistened in the somber twilight made the boy turn quickly and run.

Softly, barely a whisper - “I remember”

-The tree is golden. Leaves fluttering in the warm wind. A child swings from a branch, pushed by a golden haired woman. A slip and the warm taste of the earth in his mouth, then the woman picking him up, held tight in her arms-

Hard, nearly a growl - “mother”

The old mans face softened as quickly as it had hardened. Images flooded back, memories, thoughts, and smells. He lowered himself to the cold, hard ground. Reaching out, touching the rotten, burnt stump of the tree. His fingers extended, eyes closed, he made gentle contact. As his finger tips touched, more memories came.

-A man, old, but not as old as he, smiles down on a young boy. He wears a uniform. The mans hand reaches down and ruffles his hair, then standing straight he gently turns, right heal down, left foot coming up behind, walking off into the fading sunlight-

Grunting, the old man stood up, slung his kit bag over a shoulder and walked towards his once home.

The wind had picked up, it pushed and tugged at the old mans uniform. He pulled the issued overcoat close, and allowed himself one imperceptible shiver. He was surrounded by forgotten ruins. Worn down by mother natures slow, but persistent, reclaim of what was once hers. Small dust-devils ran freely over the broken dereliction of life. After dropping his kit bag once more, he knelt down and ran a finger softly down one side, opening a compartment. He pulled out a small metal container. Shifting to his left he sat down, crossing one leg underneath, leaving the other straight.

A tap to the top of the metal tin and the invisible mechanics inside slowly rotated one section, allowing access to the inside. He emptied the contents into his palm, taped once more and threw the now sealed container to the side. Pinching the contents of his palm between thumb and forefinger he rolled the fragrant shreds into a ball and placed it under his top lip. Instant calm overcame him as the drugs took immediate effect. He leant back against his kit bag, relaxing, soon asleep despite the cold, thin wind and hard floor.

-Bright light. A thousand faces staring up from a sea of blood as they scream into the night. Blackness, dark, inky blackness-

He awoke with a start. The twilight had turned into night. He let the terror flow through his mind. It brought with it, as it did every night, the horrors of what he has seen, and what he had done. Knowing he had right did not make it easier. Knowing he was chosen did nothing to ease the pain. The memories flowed through him unhindered. The memories of battles, slaughters, and screams, but most of all though: the dead. Thousands upon thousands of dead. Bodies adrift in the arc of space.

Knowing that guilt had no home in him made no difference. It wasn’t guilt that tore upon his soul. It wasn’t why he had done it or due to sympathy for his enemies. It was simply the numbers and the time spent. He had grown too old and seen too much. War was no longer what he craved, peace was. He knew it was time to stop.

Standing bent over his open kit bag he lifted a small metal shovel from inside. Placing a hand on both ends he pulled firmly, the shovel extended to full length. With purpose in his stride that he had not felt for years he walked slowly to the remnants of a building. He looked around and pushed the working end of the shovel into the hard floor. After some minutes of digging through soil and rubble he smiled. He had hoped, but he was never sure, it was there. The old man reached down and gently pulled his prize from the ground. He rubbed it clean against his harsh overcoat.

He held it to his scarred face. Breathing deeply, he buried his nose into the mottled, grubby fur. He smiled as the memories flooded back. Tears started rolling down his cheeks, quickly wetting his face. Tears that he had kept inside for over sixty years, now free, ran down his face and onto the soil. He laid down on the floor and clutched his past tight to his chest. Sobbing, smiling, he closed his eyes.

The wind whispered through the ruins of the, once, village of Tussat. In the remains of a child’s home lay a man cold on the floor. His face was streaked with mud and clear lines where tears had run. He was smiling. Held tightly in his hands, clutched to his chest, was a once lost, but never forgotten, worn, brown, slaver hound.

Little Lost Hound

Acrid plumes of smoke gestated skywards from the ruins of Tussat, just another village on Caldari Prime that had been ripped apart by the aerial bombardments of the Gallente Federation. Misery was abound tonight amongst the remains of residence and human life. The sounds of crying crawled inside those who had survived and wrenched emotions until raw. When the crying ceased those emotions were pushed into the deep well of despair as yet another survivor broke down, adding to the stream of blood, sweat, and tears now filling this once passive land.

Amongst the living, a small boy sat dejected in snot and filth, cradling a small, brown rendition of the Slaver Hound. These animals were not known for their kindness or companionship towards small children, but the soft cuddly toy covered in clotted brown fur was never meant to entice fear from its owner, but something altogether different, love. The hound was all this lonely boy had left, and he clung to it as if it contained the world, for to him, it surely now did.

He had stopped crying a few hours ago. The realisation that his mommy was now gone mellowing into deep loss. Her image stored in the memory crystal that was installed at birth for all possible elite. His father had been elite and his father’s father before him . He was expected to follow the footsteps of once glorious captains, and if it should not happen, well, what was the price of one cheap implant compared to the possibilities his future offered?

Hunger gnawed at the edges of the small child’s thoughts. Hunger for food. Hunger for drink.Hunger for something unfathomable, something deep that disturbed him, yet he could not understand why. He lifts himself from the befuddled floor and wreckage of his once glorious compartment. Eyeing the tattered remains of the ship collection his father had bequeathed him when clone regeneration had failed two years ago. Making slow progress, stumbling over sharp edges of once family wares he steps into the dining area. One wall still stands, the propaganda poster fluttering precariously by a magnetic tack.

“With might, we become right! Join the fight today!” The words etched into the fabric alongside the proud Caldari holding fast against the Federation onslaught.

As he prizes open a tin of standard supply rations his eyes wander back to the poster. He reaches down and pulls a grimy, filth ridden fork out from under the remains of his home. Cleaning it upon his stained Caldari Science and Trade Junior Institute clothing. Prodding and poking the contents of the tin, stirring the food around as he feels the hunger from earlier inside him. He never did like supply rations. His mother would often threaten some embargo or other on his play unless he finished the tin completely. Tears flow freely once again as the thoughts of mother run fast through his mind. The tears cleansing his unwashed face with unnatural lines.

As he eats, he glances around the ruins once more. Passion stirs within. Passion mixed with anger and vengeance as tears and filth drip uncontrolled into his food. He starts to eat now with vigour as if something inside him needs the energy to break free of his bodily confines. His eyes stray once again to the poster on the remaining wall. The man standing proud is now his Father and Mother in one. His friends who he knows he will never see again in this life, he sees them, too, as one solitary figure standing with all there might against tyranny.

He finishes his food and stands up. The tears now stopped. He knows they will never flow again until his hunger is sated. Steadfast and solid, he walks towards his future. The ruins of the past shall never again be his. From this point on he shall only see torture in his enemy’s eyes and he shall help bring it to them.

In the ruins of his once home, a small brown Slaver Hound sits in the dirt. Lost. Alone. Forgotten.

_______________________

This work of fiction was also published at Eve Network News:

http://www.eve-news.net/biomassed/2009/little-lost-hound/

Routine

A deep sigh emanated from the lips of Gerhardt Lowmanson as his ship, the Fathom exited the docking ring of the Amarr station.

“Another day, another haul. Damn I’m bored of this crap.”

The novelty of the step up from his old vessel, the Iteron MkIII hauler up to the Tech II variant, the Occator had lost it’s sheen now. He’d worked long and hard to earn the ISK to make the upgrade possible, now what was there to work toward?

The difference between the step from Iteron III to Occator, and Occator to a freighter, the Obelisk, was massive Enough to make him feel that his ultimate goal, an Anshar, the Tech II variant of the Obelisk, may be unattainable.

The Anshar would be the pinnacle of his profession, allowing him to garner contracts from some of the biggest most powerful alliances in New Eden, jumping in and out of outlaw space to supply their much needed supplies. “That’s where the real money is” he thought quietly to himself on many a long journey.

He set in the course, eighteen jumps through empire space on this occasion, passing through a couple of Caldari systems on the way. In these times of relative peace that shouldn’t be a problem though. As was his routine, he hit the autopilot allowing his ship’s AI to guide him and his cargo on the journey; he sat on the flight deck for the first hour of the journey, depending on the size of the systems this was two sometimes three jumps. He’d then retire to his quarters instructing the ship’s complex AI to alert him when they were 1 jump from the destination.

Today he made a slight detour on his journey to his quarters. He stopped in to see Trent, his chief engineer. “How’s she running Trent?” Gerhardt enquired. “Like a dream boss” came the reply.

Trent had been with his captain now for four years, he’d been chief engineer on Gerhardt’s second ship, an Iteron II for a short while and had gone through the step up to the Mk III, and now the Occator with his captain. Trent was drafted in after his predecessor decided to try his hand among the engineering crew of an Amarr Navy Battleship. It turned out that he was, in his words “Just what the Navy were looking for” a young ambitious engineer, with the skill and prowess to go far in the Navy. This turned out not to be the case after the Armageddon class Battleship he was serving on was obliterated in a firefight with some smugglers and their pirate escort. Not a single member of that crew survived in the only Navy loss of that confrontation.

Trent was less flair and more workmanlike, never shied away from the difficult tasks. As the previous vessel had aged those had come thick and fast, he was now making the most of the comfort of a new, technically improved ship. Big problems were few and far between at the moment, this of course would not be the case as again age set in and the ship underwent the general wear and tear of regular journeys. That’s when he’d really start earning his ISK again.

Gerhardt said his goodbyes, and left the reliable Trent to carry on with whatever he’d been doing prior to his captain’s visit.

Wearily he trudged to his quarters and settled down with a book. He was working his way through the complete works of some average detective novels by an over-rated Gallentean author. He’d figured out who’d done it seven chapters ago, but with the absence of anything more exciting to pass his time he marched on through the pages.

Gradually sleep overtook him, “One too many in the station bar last night” he thought “I really need to stop trying to keep up with Trent and the guys”.

He set his head down and let himself drift the rest of the way into sleep.

*****

“What the fu…?” his sentence trailed of as he leapt from his bunk.

Slowly, his brain registered that the ships Target lock alarms were sounding loud and clear through the internal intercom systems.

“SHIT!” he cried out loud, not caring that there was no-one there to hear him. “Who the hell is locking a defenceless hauler in Empire space??” again, to the four walls of his personal quarters.

As he shook the residue of sleep from his brain he exited his quarters and broke into a run toward the flight deck “how long have I been sleeping?” “where are we?” he asked himself, aware that he would have these answers in a few short minutes.

His lungs burning from the exertion of his mad dash, he hit the switch that opened the pressure doors onto the flight deck.

As the doors slid open he heard the voice through the communications array.

“Gallente Industrial Vessel '’Fathom’, respond!”

desperate to get over to the communications array Gerhardt stumbled jarring his knee on the unforgiving floor “Shit!” More pain as he regained his feet and straightened the leg.

“Gallente Industrial Vessel ‘Fathom’ respond!” “This is your final warning, if we receive nothing but your AI’s automated response one more time we will be forced to……”

“I’m here, I’m here” Gerhardt cut the voice short “what the hell’s going on?”

“This is Customs vessel 10784 of the Caldari Navy, we have run a scan on your vessel and have reason to believe you are carrying items that are considered contraband in Caldari space”.

“bu….”

The voice cut him short this time

“You are currently warp scrambled and WILL allow Caldari customs officers on board to check your cargo”

“Hold on one mome…..”

Cut off again

“Captain. This is not negotiable, please bring your vessel to a full stop and disengage your autopilot.”

“Ok, ok. It’s done” replied Gerhardt, very well aware that the Fathom was target locked by two Scorpion class battleships, and two Harpy class Assault frigates, the Harpys were also orbiting closely, doing a very good job of disrupting the Fathom’s warp drives.

The Fathom’s shuttle bay doors now closed behind a small shuttle which had been expelled from one of the Scorpions not five minutes before, carrying two Caldari customs officials, accompanied by three very heavily armed Marines.

“Gentlemen, welcome aboard the Fathom” Gerhardt sarcastically muttered as the shuttle doors opened, to allow the five strong party egress.

“Captain!” chimed the quite clearly highest ranking marine. “You will show the customs officials to your ship’s cargo bay whereupon you will be allowed to be present as your cargo is scanned and checked in detail.” “Be warned, any attempt to interfere with the officials or movement of items from the cargo bay will not be tolerated”

Gerhardt put up with the Caldarian’s presence aboard his ship for what seemed like a life time…. What choice did he have? He followed the delegation at a distance, so as to make his presence felt, but not to be deemed to be interfering. He was really feeling his knee now, where he’d jarred it on the flight deck. He kept shifting his weight from the leg that was causing him discomfort, he soon realised though, that the discomfort was present throughout his whole being, he’d never been in this situation before. He wracked his brain…. Did he take the job from a reputable corp? Did he check their standings first? Did he…..

“Captain?” The lead marine addressed Gerhardt, interrupting his train of thought. “Our analysis of your ships cargo is complete.”

“Finally” Gerhardt started. “It’s only taken six ho…..” Once again the Fathom’s captain was cut short.

“It appears your cargo is all in order captain, we shall now take our leave”

Gerhardt couldn’t believe this “You mean to say you gave me the fright of my life, and wasted six hours of my time.. Just to tell me everything’s ok?”

The Caldari delegation swept past him, without acknowledging his outburst and headed back toward the shuttle bay.

“What!? Not even a Thanks? a Sorry? a FUCK YOU!?”

Not even this dose of vitriol could raise a reaction from the departing ‘guests’.

As the shuttle became a smaller and smaller speck on his viewing portal, Gerhardt flipped the bird in their general direction and popped a dose of painkillers.

“Gallente Vessel ‘Fathom’, You are clear to depart”

“Yeah, thanks, have a nice day, no need to apologise for your mistake….. assholes”

Gerhardt closed the comms channel, initiated the warp core, and aligned for the next gate on the journey….. “Only three more jumps to go.”

As the ship finally pulled into warp Gerhardt raised his troublesome leg onto the seat next to him and let out a deep sigh.

“Goddamn!!! Give me the routine any day”

Concerning Recloning

By Langour, State War Academy

I've read so many descriptions of the re-cloning process over the years. A fountain of polysyllabic words to render wild imaginings of blinding lights, searing pain, doctors, scientists, the most marvellous technology and incredible machines. Yeah, it's so nice to believe that you will wake in a bright, white, sterile lab, surrounded by doctors, and a host of technology monitoring your vitals.

Well I've been there, done that, and puked down the fucking t-shirt. Next time I'll just stay dead, thank you.

Take it from me, as one recently regurgitated by the whole process, that it is fucking grim.

When I woke I could not open my eyes. I lay on my side on a hard, cold surface, my knees pulled tight against my chest. I could feel my hip bone digging into the surface on which I lay. I parted my lips to draw in my first breath and my mouth was flooded with a tepid glutinous liquid which clotted in my airways.

At this point I panicked. I thrashed my legs, my arms, my head, my entire body until somehow I turned face up, lifted my shoulders against some kind of wall and managed to wheeze in half a lungful of damp air. I must have opened my eyes during the panic because now I could see. Looking down, my body was submerged in a viscous white liquid, redolent of thick sperm, approximately two foot in depth. My shoulders rested against the inside of of a grey, semi-transparent cylinder and my head was above the surface of the liquid, unfortunately affording me the ability to breathe. I say 'unfortunately' because as I took a breath, I drew in the dark, organic stench of blood and bile which settled in my stomach and caused me to retch uncontrollably. After a few moments of painful contractions, my stomach forcefully ejected it's surprisingly abundant contents into my oesophagus, then through my mouth and nose into the pool of sperm.

When had I eaten fucking onions!?

The relief of pressure following the expulsion of vomit came with a moment of relative mental clarity, which I used to locate the top of the cylinder in which I was currently enclosed. The wall ended a few feet above me, and I reached for the rim with both hands. I gained purchase on the edge of the cylinder and with a surge of effort, pulled my body out of the tepid liquid. The strength drained from me as I heaved myself over the edge and I was left with my head and upper body outside the cylinder, my legs on the inside and the rim digging painfully into my lower abdomen. The pressure on my middle induced a further surge from my stomach and bile ejected from my mouth with just enough force to thrust my naked torso over the edge of the cylinder, and onto a cold, solid metal floor.

Examining my surroundings, I saw that I was in a small square room with rusted metal walls, a riveted metal floor and no apparent ceiling. The room was dimly lit, as if by moonlight, however the light source was not apparent. The room contained five grey cylinders, including my own, each approximately four foot high, filled to a depth of two feet with white turbid liquid. It was not clear whether the other cylinders contained life. In the centre of the wall directly in front of me, roughly ten feet distant, there appeared to be a door, slightly ajar and topped by a green metal sign which read in bold white letters “Out”.

I clambered to my feet and struggled to the door, the cold metal floor made slick by a puddle of my own bile and the white mucus still dripping from my body. I reached the door, and squinting in the faint light I saw upon it a notice scribbled on yellowing paper:

“Thank you for re-cloning with Phaze-9. Your capsule awaits. Please close the door on your way out.”

Jump!

White searing light flashes across his vision as the last salvo hits the outer hull of the ship. Computer consoles erupt into flame as monitors blink out of existence, their wires and modules burnt to a crisp. Stumbling forward he slams the emergency evacuation button with his burnt right hand.

“Goddamn electro-magnetic missiles! Dark, give me a full diagnosis, how long do we have left?”

Captain James Cartwright, proud combat veteran, stands amidst the ruined bridge of his Hyperion classed battleship awaiting a reply.

“Shields are out. Armour is healing, but at a reduced capacity .We have hull leakage in sectors three through twelve. Turrets are offline. Neutralizers are feeding back to my core, I shut them down. Estimate five minutes before structural failure. Recommend you leave now, Captain. Do you wish me to initiate portal jump?” The deep monotones of Dark, the Hyperion A.I, rumble through the speaker grilles and sonic filaments surrounding the bridge. “Starting clone backup in 3, 2, 1.” A micro pause later. “Clone backup complete, Captain.”

Cartwright, happy in the fact that at least his clone will be up to date should anything untoward happen, gives a slight flicker of a smile. He then requests ship comm access.

“Crew of the good ship Dark Forbodings; hear me. It has been an honour serving with you, but our time is over. Emergency evacuation cylinders are at your disposal. As always to those that cannot reach one in time, you will always be remembered. Comms out.” He doubts he will ever escape the guilt associated with a ship’s captain when crew are lost. He, of course, was safe. As one of the elite he had that privilege.

He turns to the E.Y.E, one of many set about the ship, which offers direct contact with Dark.

“Give me a projection on those bastards Dark. If we’re going down I intend taking some of that scum with me. “

The implants in the Captains head instantly receive the trajectory of the three Caldari Navy war birds circling down towards their target. “Three minutes left till hull integrity is compromised. Advise portal jump within two minutes, Captain.” Dark intones. The Captain rapidly plots a collision course for the two nearest birds. “Give me a five gee burst of the 100MN. NOW!”. Dark pushes the Microwarp drive to full thrust and cuts at five gees. “Ten seconds to intercept Captain, it has been a pleasure flying with you”. Again that short, curt smile from the Captain. “Same” He replies. “Portal ready” Dark rumbles.

“JUMP!”

White noise. A sudden rush of speed. Blinding hot light and pain, then…

The portal jump systems instantly lock onto the belt module around the Captains waist. The same technology that all system gates use, but broken down from lumbering machines into nano compounds and pathways. The molecules, thoughts, and patterns of the jumper instantly travelling across the broad light spectrum. Stored within the ships optical links, shoved into buffer zones and re-fabricated elsewhere on command.

Captain James Cartwright feels nothing save a split second of void as he is knitted back together inside his emergency capsule. Instantly onlining his hardwires and bringing up a view of the outside. Already he is several hundred metres from his ship, just in time to see Dark Forbodings ram through one bird. Causing its hull, armour, and crew to career into the next.

“One down, one in the ship yard for a month. Not bad work, eh Dark?”

Having transferred itself into the capsule, the ship A.I. replied.

“Yes Captain. I estimate that thirty-four percent of our crew survived. At 3:1 ratio over the enemy’s losses.”

“Plot our course home Dark, and while you’re at it can you dissolve this impact foam? Moving would nice. I feel like a Long Limbed Roe in a keep fresh tin.”

“I fail to see the analogy Captain. The impact foam is there for your safety and …”

“Ok ok!” Cartwright interrupts. “Remind me to introduce you to humour when we get back.”

Thesis on Khan Syndrome

By Biomassed, University of Caille.

Background:

Named after Khan Noonien Singh, a person said to suffer from the Khan syndrome often endures extreme panic attacks swiftly followed by short yet intense pain as their body parts disintegrate back down to atoms and star stuff. Upon re-cloning the effect seems to last until the next pod disintegration. In the most extreme of cases Khan syndrome is said to be incurable.

Ironically the syndromes namesake was brought to life using techniques remarkably similar to the Jovian cloning technology. Khan was without a doubt the most savage of the Augments, a force of genetically engineered "supermen" from Earths early history. Despite his intellect, strength and sheer tenacity he passed away in the SOL year 2285 suffering from the first documented case of Khan Syndrome. The fact that the mental aberration is named after him should not be taken as a compliment to the man or the problems this devastating state of mind causes.

Thesis:

So, does Khan syndrome exist?

The answer of course is indifferent to the effect. It exists in pilots seemingly incapable of grasping the simple fundamental laws of physics, gravitational excess and 3-Dimensional thinking. The problem lies not in asking if it exists but in proving if it did so at the time of death. Naturally proving something of this nature is not the easiest of matters however with some clear handling of the situation it can be done.

Let us run a mental mock up of one Khan Syndrome victim one minute before he succumbs to the routine we call "a close call".

Pilot A is in a war against Pilot B. Pilot A is experienced in life and has so far enjoyed many years of successful space faring. Pilot B is a new pilot, his experience in life leaves most newborns grinning in superiority.

Pilot B is camping the station of Pilot A. Pilot A knows this and isn't even slightly worried. Why should he be? He locks faster, fires harder and his ego is tripping the light fantastic over this "easy" kill.

Pilot A un-docks. Pilot A is locked. Pilot A feels the five heavy scourge hit him with full force. Pilot A still cannot see Pilot B. The fact that Pilot B is roaring bright flashing red on his scanner is immaterial. Pilot A feels another five scourge hit him before coming to his senses and locking the "invisible" target and firing back. He watches his torpedoes drift aimlessly in space because Pilot B has already warped to relative safety.

Pilot A wordlessly sets to re-dock wondering how he will explain the large dent in his armour from the tenth missile once his shield had faded from existence.

So what exactly happened?

The odds were stacked completely against Pilot B and yet he is the one with full bragging rights and if he had slightly more damage power per hit he would be the one warping home with his first kill under the belt.

Pilot A suffered from Khan Syndrome, the lack of 3-Dimensional thinking.

Upon un-docking Pilot A did what 99% of all space pilots do. He looked for his target. It is a natural process for any human to wish to see with his own eyes that which he is about to kill. All very well you might say, because he did look, in-fact he did so repeatedly with no visual contact either time. The more he was hit the harder he looked and the more he panicked and yet still he could not find his target. This is the crux of Khan Syndrome. A person who suffers can only contemplate 2-Dimensional thinking. He looks left, right, forward and behind but nearly always fails to look up or down.

Khan Syndrome in normal human occupations will seldom show itself because everything we do is in the majority 2-Dimensional. However, space is not a level playing field. It has a full rotation of movement that most pilots completely fail to take into account.

A simple test of pilots to see if they suffer is to un-dock at a station and "sit" atop or below the station and then ask a corp mate to un-dock and find you. Most pilots will take an average of 30-45 seconds to actually visually spot you. Even with auto locking systems most pilots will still go for the "visual lock". 30 seconds is a lifetime in space combat and as shown with Pilot B, can make all the difference.

So do you suffer from Khan Syndrome?

It is easily verified with the symptoms shown below.

• Repeated loss of ship.
• High cloning bill.
• Nervous tick upon being locked once more by an "invisible" target.
• Lack of 3-Dimensional thinking.

Is there a cure for Khan Syndrome?

Yes. Like most problems of the mind, Khan Syndrome is effectively beaten by using one simple technique.

• Get into the habit of looking up and down.

If Khan Noonien Singh had realised this then the battle of Regula 1 might well have turned out differently and his legacy would not have been one of the most embarrassing syndromes in human history.