The command deck of the Kinetic Regret hummed with low-level panic, as it always did before a major move. Captain Gobbins stood at the head of the briefing table, one hand on a steaming cup of Deathwish Quafe, the other gesturing vaguely toward the holo-map. Systems blinked and pinged behind him—none of them helpfully.
“Alright, folks,” he said, trying to sound calm, authoritative, and slightly less bitter than he felt. “I’ve got some news you’ll love. We’re moving. Again.”
A chorus of groans rippled through the crew. Someone dropped a datapad. Someone else just swore softly into a ration pouch.
Gobbins took a long sip from his mug and continued.
“Our new home is E8-4. Yes, E8-4. No, I don’t care that you just memorized the jump routes from MJ-5. That system is now dead to us. Forget MJ-5 ever existed unless you enjoy nostalgia and painful travel.”
He brought up a flashing icon on the map. “E8-4 is perfectly located to project fleets into the southern gates of our glorious, chaos-ridden territory. Which means—surprise!—we’re now a lot closer to the trouble.”
He pointed his mug dramatically. “Everything goes. Everything. From G-Q to E8-4. Subcaps, capitals, titans, your weird little loot cans, your awful decorator keepstars—pack it up. Set your deathclones to E8-4. If you forget and wake up in G-Q after a welp, that’s on you.”
Lieutenant Keleios Shizaru raised a hand. “Sir, what about Pankrab?”
Gobbins didn’t miss a beat. “Staged in E8-4. Standing fleet, too. So yes, you’ll be dying much closer to home now. Efficiency!”
He flicked to a new screen. “Seeders, move your junk. Market tax is now 0% to make it marginally less painful. No excuses. You want to restage a doctrine fit for 200 ISK less, now’s your moment.”
“Captain,” someone mumbled from the back, “what about the O-V Keepstar?”
Gobbins sighed. “Ah, yes. Some of our less-than-essential real estate is going away. For example, that charming yet utterly indefensible Keepstar in O-V? Unanchoring. Say your goodbyes. If you’ve got ancient, shameful assets still rotting there from the last war, please extract them and move them to 9P4 at least. Or don’t, and let them be someone else’s loot pinata. I’m not your mom.”
There was an awkward pause.
Then Gobbins finished, voice steady, a little smug. “Also, for those asking—yes, we’re in direct bridge and cyno range from G-Q. Just bridge, wait out fatigue, rinse, repeat. Use Ship Maintenance Bays for the small stuff. Logistics has made it very clear that if you complain about hauling frigs, they will turn this ship around and no one gets to go to E8-4.”
He shut off the holo-map with a flourish. “Questions?”
Silence.
Then from engineering: “Do we get a moving day pizza?”
Gobbins grinned. “You get a moving day. You want pizza, bridge it in yourself.”
A Pixel Nomad 