LOCATION: Somewhere in Heimatar

“Ok, I haven’t moved for 7 minutes now, you should be able to pick me up soon.” I tried to sound a little frustrated but not actually annoyed. We’d been at this for a while. “Ok, I have you on scan, commander.” That was good. I smiled to myself. These recruits were learning quickly. “Alright then, Mercedes. Narrow down the scanning constraints, and come to my exact location.” The comm channel double clicked in acknowledgement. They were new and eager, but I was still a little frustrated at how slow this was going.

—

“Alright ladies, settle down. Welcome to day one of Freeform Industries Basic Combat Flight Training, or as I like to call it, the school of Roc. ”

Even though it was mandatory training for all corp members interested in flying as part of Roc’s Renegades, I was surprised to see how much our pilot ranks had swelled in number. Some had flown engagements with me during the war, others had heard my name attached to some software I helped develop, and I am sure some had seen me on that blasted government commercial. Regardless, it was good for business.

“Today, we’re going to cover the most very basic items: scanning and not wetting your pants in combat.” This brought the few anticipated chuckles. “You might laugh now, ladies, but I’m dead serious.” I furrowed my brow and heavily stressed the next words. “Dead serious.” The laughter died.

—

“Sir, I’m having trouble finding you.” she stated after two more minutes had passed. Were this a real scenario, she would either be dead or her prey would’ve easily escaped long ago. “It’s just like what we covered in class today. Start with a 360 scan, then a 180. Those are the easy ones. Then look out your viewscreen. Aura will overlay grid markers for all the various entities and structures on your screen. So scan each of those within the confirmed arc.” Another double click.

It was a straightforward approach taught to me when I began, and now something I am passing on to others just budding in their careers:

1. open scanner, 360 degrees, max AU radius.
2. progressively narrow your search to 30 degrees using your viewscreen and cosmic markers for reference. The faster you can do this, the better.
3. While this won’t work for those hidden in “safespots”, it will help you target anyone not SSed pretty damn quick.

I’d give her another two minutes, then we’d move on. The rest of the class was waiting.

—

As the class packed up their notebooks and headed for the Freeform hangars, Director Cytral appeared just inside the door to the classroom. He patiently waited until every pilot had left before closing the door. “What is it?” I asked, already anxious to get into my Fleet Republic Cruiser, the Tribal Vengeance. It’s not that I didn’t like Cytral; in fact, the opposite was true. It was Cytral, and the person he is, that motivated me to join Freeform Industries in the first place; a smart decision as it turned out. 

“Got some intel is all.” he began. “You were taking them out to Dal, right?” I nodded. “Yeah, we have reports PIE traffic has been increasing there dramatically over the last 30 minutes. Just wanted to give you a heads up was all.” New recruits flew Rifters. They were a nice frigate; sleek, cheap to fit, and very effective when used properly. I still fly a Rifter often. Or it’s big brother the Jaguar. We use frigates to minimize life loss in the case of accidents; and because many pilots really haven’t the feel for the bigger ships this early on. It was just practical. However, if PIE was about, and Veshta, then a group of noob frigs might not be a good idea. Many of my pilots joked that I fly a fleet cruiser during basic frig training because it would be embarassing if I were to get popped by a green pilot. Maybe that’s true. It’s also true that I want to have some type of firepower available, and a trained crew to utilize it, should we encounter anyone who wishes to interrupt our training exercises. You can only be so safe. That is something these pilots would learn soon enough.

—

“Sir, I have you to 60 degrees. I should be with you .. WTF? Holy … !!!” An xxx appeared on my HUD.

—

“xxx in your HUD so that everyone knows you’re under attack and can come to assist you.”

—

“Malediction, Crow, Arbitra…” the comm went silent.

—

“If possible, identify what ships are attacking you, so your fleet knows what to expect. And when, not if, a distress call is signalled, allied ships should align to that fleet member immediately. Renegades don’t leave each other behind.”

—

It had happened. We had tarried too long in one spot. That was one of the first things I told them in class today:

—

1. Always be moving. Never sit still. A moving target is much harder to hit than a stationary one.
2. Always be aligned to something. I don’t care if you’re mining, ratting (a common term we use to describe working for freelance agents), or out sunbathing. Always have your ship aligned to something.
3. No comm chatter during an engagement. Listen for your Fleet Commander and do as ordered. No arguments, even if you disagree. Simply do.

—

“Aligning now. Warping fleet in 3…2…warping now.” Our small fleet of frigates entered warp. I could sense the anticipation in the new pilots. I remember how I was. Terrified really, my hands shaking with adrenaline at the thought of tangible engagement. It’s an exhilarating experience. Too often though, in the beginning, it’s over before you really register it had begun, and if you’re lucky, you’re warping away in your pod.

—

“Have multiple overviews setup on your HUD. While Aura is irreplaceable, you need to rely on yourself as well. If you’re close to losing your ship, switch to your Moons overview, pick a moon, and keep hammering the command to warp until your ship responds. Often in combat, a ship’s systems overload, and data will lag.”

—

The comm came alive. “I lost my rifter, commander. Warping to planet IV, moon 6 now.” Good girl. You got out alive. That’s better than I did in my first encounter. That’s better than I still do in some of my encounters. I pushed the conscious thought command for Aura to open the Tribal Liberation Force Intel Channel. “Colonel Roc Wieler, requesting intel on all gates surrounding ###### (system masked for security reasons). Engaging hostiles, need to know what traffic’s like around the system ASAP.”

—

“When your fleet is travelling, always have a scout in front and rear. Many fleets don’t opt for the rear scout, but in my experience that is costly. The only comm chatter should be your fleet commander, and those two scouts, unless otherwise designated by the fleet commander.”

—

The elongated light around us reverted back into normal space. Our enemy lay before us. “Alright Renegades, we’ve trained for this.” I barked.

—

“Know yourself before worrying about knowing your enemy. Know your ship; weapons range, deceleration speed, capacitor drain and recharge, everything. You need to know your ship as intimately as you would know a lover. Otherwise, you’ll betray her. Very rarely will our ships betray us.”

—

“Close to point range, watch your caps. Get on that Malediction. Squad One, talk to each other. Get that ship disabled now!”

—

“Check your voice system before you undock. Make sure everyone is clear, volumes are good, and you are speaking in the right channel. It is a MUST to be voice capable.”

“Have a common terminology. Point means webbifying to me. So when I ask ‘Who has point?’ you will know how to respond. Having terminology agreed upon beforehand will reduce confusion on the battlefield, and there is always confusion.”

—

I watched my Renegades quickly move into position. They could easily outflank the enemy if they kept their cool, and remembered everything I had forced them to learn about Rifters. Their formation was loose, but they were responding well to direction. Aura informed me that the Crow was moving to engage them at 5500 m/s. I had seen faster Crows, but it was fast enough to cause my Renegades genuine concern. I pushed my ship to fullspeed, 6400 m/s. I wondered if the enemy was expecting that.

As I descended upon the Crow it was clear its pilot had not considered me an immediate threat due to range. That would be the first and last mistake in our encounter. I quickly webbed and scrammed it, reducing its speed to 10% of what it was, nullifying the ability to warp away from our engagement. Barrage ammo was loaded, and I let loose with a full volley from my five 200 mm Autocannon II. The Crow pilot knew it was over. He/she knew they couldn’t run, and he/she had strayed too far from his/her wingmates. They would offer no support. Within ten seconds, the ship exploded. I was already turning to assist my fleet. Ordinarily, I would’ve taken the pod, and their life, but right now my priority was to not lose any lives of my green pilots.

—

“Always pod. While it’s possible your enemy is cloned insystem and will just be back with another ship, it’s more likely they are at least a few systems away, and won’t be back in time for the current engagement. Plus, it just feels good.” The pilot trainees laughed in unison.

—

I switched to the squad channel.

“I’m low on cap, need someone to take over webbing.”
“Roger that two, I’ve got web. Recharge now.”
“Whose on the Arbitrator? It’s tearing my shield to pieces!”
“We’ve got it into armour, five. Just hold rank and we’ll see this through.”

I smiled to myself as I hurtled through space to my fleet. They weren’t backing down. That is something you can’t teach. That’s something you either have, or you don’t. I quickly viewed my fleet HUD to see the overall status of my pilots. Most were well into armour. If we didn’t end this conflict soon, we were going to lose ships, and possibly lives. Most of these pilots had never even cloned before.

—

“While we are immortal as capsuleers, don’t treat that lightly. Cloning is not an easy process, and sometimes things do go wrong. It’s traumatic physically and mentally, despite what you may think. Your goal is the same as it was before you became a pod pilot; stay alive.

When you start flying larger ships, be considerate of the lives of your crew. They don’t have our gift. They are not an expendable piece of equipment.”

—

I locked both targets at maximum range, choosing the Malediction as my primary target. I yelled into fleet channel of my intentions, and quickly closed to optimal weapons range.

—

“Always have backup target callers; primary, secondary, tertiary. When one goes down, the next starts calling targets until either they’re all dead, or we are.”

—

The Malediction had been slowly losing its armour to the Rifters. While they were more maneuverable, they didn’t have the tanking nor firepower the Malediction boasted. My ship changed that dramatically, and after thirty seconds of concentrated fire, the Malediction fell.

There was whooping and hollering over the voice system. “Quiet down ladies! We’ve still got enemy out there!” I know the elation of surviving an encounter, of being the victor. There would be time enough later for celebration. Local channel showed one of my pilots trash talking the pilot we had just killed. I would have to reprimand that pilot when we were done here.

—

“There’s no need for trash talk. Destroying your enemy is trash talk enough. Don’t show your lack of experience or age by engaging in mindless banter.”

—

The Arbitrator tried to escape, seeing that alone it was no match for our coordinated effort. It didn’t escape, and we took its pilot as a bonus.

—

“Look to your left and your right. Every time you encounter an enemy, one of those two pilots beside you will die. Make sure it’s not your fault.”

—

We got very lucky. One cruiser, six frigates on training exercises, and we survived our first real encounter as a fleet without a single loss. The intel channel signalled me.

“No traffic spikes, Roc. Doesn’t look like any Amarr militia are around. Seen a few pirates, and a couple of pods heading out of system, figure that’s your doing. You need anything else?”

“We’re good, Megan, thanks for getting back to me so quickly.”

It was time to go home.

47 MINUTES LATER

I walked into the pilot co-ed locker room amidst an ad hoc celebration. They were half naked, half drunk, but fully pleased with themselves.

“Alright ladies listen up!” I bellowed, the echoes of the tiles reverberating my voice far more than I intended. It was a nice effect though. “We got very lucky today. Don’t think otherwise.” I let my words sink in to sober them up a little to the reality of the harsh life New Eden offers. “That could’ve gone very differently, and we could’ve lost ships and lives.” They were slowly becoming somber to my words, hanging their heads, looking at the floor, covering up with towels. 

“Nevertheless,” I smirked. “You kicked ass, Renegades. I’m damn proud of you.” I threw a crisp salute, which they all immediately reciprocated, then turn stiffly on one heel, and marched out the locker room door. 

“Roc! Roc! Roc!” was the chant behind me. 

We had accomplished far more than a victory in combat today. They were becoming a team. Well done, ladies.

I’ve been working out of the Ortner Constellation in Heimatar for quite a while now. Even before the war began, this was where I was often found. 

It’s not just the women; nor the fact that it’s home. While I enjoy both of those immensely, what really has kept me here these past couple of years is a dirty little dive of a bar on Rens VI – Moon 8 called “The Hole”. Go figure.

I’ve been a regular there since first coming to this region. I’ve had quite a few intimate encounters there, as well as some most memorable brawls. I’ve passed out there. I’ve worked there. I’ve done other things there that I probably shouldn’t mention.

I could tell you countless stories until your eyelids become so heavy you can’t even stay awake, and not because of boredom, but from sheer volume. That’s what life is really about isn’t it? If you don’t have any stories to share when you’re done, well, you didn’t live much of a life did you?

As a regular, I haven’t had to actually place my order in months. I simply walk in, slide up to the bar, and within seconds my usual drink is placed in front of me. It’s the small pleasures in life that make me smile.

Last week, the owner decided it was time to have a signature drink in the bar, so opened it up to the public for entries. You know, the typical marketing ploy to drive more busienss to the bar.

Without my knowing, the fulltime bartender entered my regular brew into the contest, and it won. No real prize. No real thrill. I will admit though, it’s amusing to have a drink named after me. Here’s the recipe if you’re Matari enough to try it, and yes, it’s a real drink:

Roc’s Revenge

Half fill a regular glass with a mix of tomato juice and a double shot of vodka.

Layer french mustard on top of the tomato juice. Do NOT mix.

Squeeze fresh lime on top.

Serve with an unused feminine hygiene product instead of an umbrella.

Enjoy, ladies.

Another enemy territory secured. It’s been much harder as of late. The Amarr are really on top of their game. And with the internal struggles our militia has been facing, the risk of loss has increased dramatically with each mission. The coronation of their empress has really been a positive boost for them, much to my dismay.

A few of my crew and I were descending in a lift, fresh from the military hangar we had berthed in. There wasn’t going to be much downtime as we were needed out on the frontlines again, and soon.

While the lift descended, I reached my beefy hand up to massage my strained neck. I’d been feeling a bit stiff lately. That tends to happen with age and stress.

The monitor in the front of the lift caught my attention.

“Heroes like General Sasawong, who continually push forward the glory of the Minmatar Republic, advancing our ideals against the hated Amarr, freeing more of our people each and every day.”

I chuckled to myself as a very out of date image of Sasawong appeared. Poor sucker. I guess our politicans had decided on a path to counter all the hype surrounding the publically broadcasted coronation ceremony. I tuned out the monitor, my mind concerned with more pressing issues, as we reached our destination.

The monitor caught my eye again as the lift doors opened.

“Heroes like Colonel Roc Wieler, brave fleet commander of the Republic, scourge of the dreaded Amarr…”

Oh hell no.

But it was too late. The doors had opened, and I was assaulted by a thousand camera flashes.

I don’t know how word spread so quickly that we were in the station, or what lift we were on, but standing before me was my worst nightmare. You may have guessed by now, but I’m not a horribly social person. So to lay my eyes to rest on the crowd of hundreds crammed into the narrow hallway on this level of the station was not something I was excited about.

“Roc! Give me your autograph!”

“It’s him! It’s the Mad Dog!”

“Roc! I’ll have your babies!”

Sweet mother of all. I repeatedly hit the close button on the lift, awkwardly smiling and waving to the crowd. I really wasn’t in the mood for this. Unfortunately, the crowd was already barring the doors. There was no escape as they reached for me, clinging to me, as if I were some kind of saviour. I wondered if Sasawong was the one chuckling now.

My crewmates weren’t helping any, cheering along with the crowd, pushing me towards them. They obviously weren’t thinking of how badly I was going to beat them when this was over.

The next couple of hours were spent with pen and paper shoved in my face, along with other various body parts, and me signing autographs. It was completely degrading; until I saw her.

There she stood. Even if the crowd were ten times its size, I would’ve noticed her. Flaming red hair, strong tribal markings on her face. She stood quietly, not caught up in the hysteria surrounding us both. She caught my eye, and even with my sunglasses on, I knew she was looking directly at me. She had the bearing of a warrior, and moreso, a pilot. Undoubtedly she was a capsuleer.

I pushed my way towards her, breaking free of the clawing fans that slowed my every step. The mysterious woman smiled ever so slightly, and I was determined to meet her. She held up a camera as I approached, and the flash momentarily blinded me. 

As the spots in my eyes cleared, she was standing much closer to me than I had anticipated. I could smell her sweetness. She handed me the photo.

“One pilot to another. Could you make this out to the Hellcats?” She didn’t sound like a crazy teenaged girl meeting her idol of the week. In fact, I wasn’t sure if she was going to attack me, kiss me, or spit on me. I was completely stunned.

I took her pen, and signed the message. She smiled, saluted, turned on one heel, and walked away. I never even had the chance to ask her name. What a minx.

I’ve been around for a while now. I’ve been employed by various agents to do various things for profit. I’ve bought and sold on the market for profit. I’ve killed others simply to take what was theirs and make it my own, for profit. I’ve even tried smuggling illegal goods across the various borders of the four races, for profit.

Are you sensing a theme here? To survive, you must profit. And I’ve done well so far at both.

Then I got to talking to Sam the other day. Sam’s been around a lot longer than I have, yet he doesn’t do any of the things I’ve listed above. Ironically, his accounts are far more well padded than my own. This begets the question “How?”.

Sam is a garbage hauler. 

I know you’re already going “WTF?!”, as did I. But apparently it’s one of the lesser known ways of making hundreds of millions of ISK for little effort. 

Being the curious sort, and one who enjoys huge rewards for little risk, I insisted he take me with him on his garbage run, and he did.

I was very excited. I figured I didn’t want to involve my crew in this until I saw it with my own eyes, so I booted up my Republic Fleet Firetail, the Renegade. I won’t bore you with the pre-flight inspection and startup sequence details today, as I really want to talk about the garbage!

Sam and I rendezvoused just outside of a station that will remain nameless in this story. He was in a massive hauler, completely dwarfing my little frigate. I have never flown a hauler; to be honest I’ve never had an interest in one. I don’t mine. I don’t transport corporation assets en masse. I’ve never done whatever else people might use haulers for. I’ve never had a need for that much cargo space. 

“Alright, you ready, you arrogant sod?” the incoming transmission stated. “Sure am, bud. You wearing your flannels or the ones with the pink bunny slippers built in?” We both laughed at our banter, knowing each other far too well as to let these jabs pierce our skin.

I angled my small and far more maneuverable ship towards his, extending the docking tube once we were in parallel rotation and velocity. The resounding thud of the tube locking into place, followed by the hiss of pressurization and oxygen flow let me know it was time to go.

After extracting myself from my pod, and wiping clean of as much goo as possible, I made my way to the egress hatch. I hit the release panel, crossing to the far end of the tube, closing and locking the hatch behind me. 

I let Sam know I was ready at his end, and he remotely unlocked the portal. 

Let me tell you some blunt truths at this junction in time. We all shit. We all fart. We all have body odour. We’ve all smelled sewer gas. We’ve all smelled rotten food. We’ve all experienced some pretty nasty olefactory input. 

Nothing, and I mean nothing, can describe the potency of the stench that assailed me when that entry portal opened its iris to let me in. My gag reflex instantly kicked in. My eyes began to burn, tears streaming down my face involuntarily. And it wasn’t just the overwhelming stench alone. The smell seemed to have some kind of heat to it. It was all I could do to not puke then and there, though I did dry heave several times.

“What?” I heard from in front of me. Standing there, eyes alight with joy at my discomfort, stood Sam. I say his eyes were alight with joy because I couldn’t see the ear to ear grin I knew was there under the breathing apparatus. He handed me a rig of my own, which I scrambled desperately to get in place in record time. 

“You’re an arse you know.” I said to him once I was breathing clean filtered air. He chuckled, then turned and walked away, waving me to follow. 

We didn’t go far, stopping at a railing that overlooked the main cargo hold. He spread his arms wide for effect. 

“There it is, Roc. 200,000 metric tons of garbage.” Really I wish I could describe it to you. I have never in my life even imagined such a putrid treasure. It was beyond mountainous. It was like a small continental island all unto itself. But, and I can’t stress that word enough, it was money in the waiting.

“You know, ” I began, a smile creeping onto my face, “It’s hard to tell it apart from the rest of your ship.” He punched me in the shoulder, and we both laughed. He led me to the bridge, where we took off our rebreathers and had a seat. 

He set the course for our delivery. It was only two systems away. Can you believe that? 

Anyway, to make a lengthening story short, we delivered the garbage to the reprocessing plant, verified funds were deposited into his account, and returned to where we started, all in under one hour. 

1 hour = 100,000,000.00 ISK

Brutors aren’t reknowned for our mathematical prowess, but even I can tell you that is PROFIT. Looks like I might have to learn myself how to fly a hauler in the near future … right after a long, hot shower with a scrub brush.