New Directions

I am sending this transmission from ForeRight, a small pub with a spectacular view, it is perched at the tip of the starboard control wing on the Silver Sword. Our faithful ship is a battlecruiser of the Gallente faction. My beaker of lager is kept slightly cool by the icy,laminar flow of air sinking from the expanse of plexiglass that makes possible this incredible vista. Serving girls keep drifting by to check on me, but I am lost in thought. New options as a Gallente officer are stretching before me like the great black sheet of nothing beyond the window. In the distance are the bright, knife-like projections from the glowing stars in the next galaxy.
I've spent the last year in rigorous education. My company has depended upon my leadership for numerous roles. We have spent countless hours watching displays and the gauges of mining drills, taping the rich core from giant rocks floating in the void. We have felt the adrenaline course through our veins while blasting pirates from the 'roid belts. We have ventured into the deepest regions of the outer planets, the Wildlands and Skaven, struggling against the most fearsome capsuleers and pirates alike. All the while, I have trained the skills so desperately needed by my loyal crews. Now I find myself with a host of abilities, but complete master in no area. Is mastery of a narrow field the ultimate goal? Is knowing more about far less our vision?
Others have pushed ahead with shocking mind transplants, vat clones, and other tricks. Maybe a clone of my body with a transplanted brain would give my crew the edge they need...
The questions continue to haunt my rapidly fogging consciousness, as the lager beakers continue to pour. A new direction in the military would be exciting but expensive. Engineering is a great field, and the corporation has countless blueprints from which to build. Among the outer planets, there float mountain size rocks made almost entirely of solid gold, diamond, and silver. The strip miners are dusty, but sit expectantly in the lower cargo holds. Confusions settles on me like the ethanol cloud.