“Reiko, I’m not sure we should take on this contract. I’ve scanned the wording and…”
“Can it ORI. This contract is big! 100K just for hauling three small cargo containers a measly seven systems away!”
“About that. I don’t think you read it-”
“I can finally get that power relay diagnostic system for you. Boosting the power so I can fit all the shield enhancers WHILE fielding seven weapons systems. Its a win-win for us.”
“But-”
“No buts. I’m going to meet the agent now. Keep the ship warmed up and notify me once we get hanger clearance to move the cargo containers.”
“You’re the boss, boss.”

With that, the bridge of the ship dissappeared, along with all tactile feeling of standing on a floor. A brief moment of vertigo grabbed hold of Reiko and wouldn’t let go. She couldn’t open her eyes and something slimy and cold was drapped down her back. Another long slender slimy sensation brushed past her leg. Count to 10, she reminded herself. Count to 10 and wait for the ground to come back. And it did. Her vertigo eased and she felt her nude body lie prostate on the cold metal floor. Opening her eyes she was greeted to the long slender tubes retracting back into the walls – where the slimy sensations came from. She got up as the door to her pod opened and walked outside to the real world of her ship.

Capsule pilots are a different breed of pilot from all others. Only a small fraction of space pilots are able to directly interface with their ship through the capsule/neural interface. It is through this interface that capsuleers have near instant access to the information provided by their ships sensors, and have the ability to quickly react to such input. Through mere thought they can drive the ship and align it for warp. The rest have to satisfy themselves with the clumsy analog interfaces of stick, buttons, switches, and readouts. The capsuleers on the other hand seal themselves in small circular containers, called pods. There they wait while interface cables and nutrient feeds are plugged into them, and fliud fills the capsule. The body then floats in suspension while the fluid provides cushioning against harsh acceleration/decceleration maneuvers during ship transit.

It is said that each capsuleer experiences the neural interface in his own unique manner. Some experience themselves as the ship itself, their eyes providing an out of body experience as they feel themselves flying through space. Reiko, who grew up flying manually, interprets the direct brain signals as the familiar environment of an old-style ship bridge. Complete with seat, switches, buttons, and viewscreen. The illusion was simply how her brain interpreted the direct neural signals, and to an outside observer the ship still responded at the speed of thought. But because it felt so real it was always disorienting for her during interface shutdown.

Minutes later, a groggy yet excited Reiko Yutani found herself seated across from the mission agent. “So, are we in agreement then?” The courier agent smiled his half-smile as he held out his hand. As Reiko grasped his hand and shook it tiny biosensors embedded in the agent’s skin recorded her unique bio-signature and transferred the information to the agent’s computer. There it was cross-referenced to the contract that hung in the air on the agent’s desk, courtesy of his holo-generator. Truly the handshake had become the gesture that bound one to a contract in more ways than one. It was then, just after her acceptance of the contract, that she saw what her ship AI was worried about. It wasn’t three small cargo containers. It was three large cargo containers. Each with a volume of 350 cubic meters. That meant one would barely fit in her ships cargo hold. Which also meant she would have to ferry each container individually, bringing the total travel time to 35 system jumps. She sighed and told herself this was the last time she would accept missions before calling it a night.