MATAR
PATOR SYSTEM

 Though tribal by nature, the Republic had advanced remarkably over the last one hundred years. Vast highways ran throughout the various metropolises of the planet, as well as one superhighway that connected all the major cities. This roadway was recently renamed the “Highway of Heroes”, in honour of the many fallen soldiers from our history, both recent and past.

It acquired this name primarily as an honorific to those fallen in the first great war of our people, but in more recent times its name was apt due to the fact that most returning from the frontlines in caskets found their motorcades following this great path for their final journey home.

It had become routine for information to slip onto the interweb when a new shipment of dead soldiers would arrive planetside, and inevitably this knowledge had been acted upon. On every major overpass across the continent, countless civilians and service personnel would stand in wait, regardless of time of day or weather, draping the proud Minmatar flag over the railings; a final tribute to those who fought valiantly for the freedom of our people.

It was raining heavily today, but that didn’t deter any of the assembled mass. Veterans in dress regalia stood tall, their standard placed firmly against the concrete, their stoic posture testament to the respect they were giving to these newly fallen comrades. Civilians had parked their vehicles on the side of the overpass, bringing local traffic to a crawl, yet none of the passing motorists were agitated or angry; there was quiet understanding and acceptance of this gesture. 

Daul stood amongst others from his infantry unit, waiting patiently. He could see the red bearded man-mountain fidgeting nearby. He had learned since his first battle that this man’s name was Corm. He was well respected, well feared, and well deserving of those sentiments. Daul had heard stories of Corm’s antics both on and off the battlefield and held the man akin to something between a monster and a god. He continued surveying those gathered, noticing firefighters, police officers, Concord Security officers, and other civilian professionals. His eyes fell on a small child in a stroller, her mother comforting her in this dreary weather. Daul knew by her demeanour that this woman had lost her husband to the war.

It left a sickened feeling in Daul’s stomach. There were those even in his own life that couldn’t stand the thought of war; wouldn’t discuss it, wouldn’t acknowledge that it existed in all its gruesome detail. Yet it did exist; ignoring it didn’t make it go away. He wondered if in fact the opposite were true, that if perhaps every Matari was aware of the gore of battle, the lives not just lost but violently taken, then perhaps as a whole they would do more about it; perhaps this war would end all that much sooner resulting in less lives lost. 

He was sure Sanmatar Shakor did all that a politician could, but his energies were diverted elsewhere of late; land disputes, religious cults and terrorist bombings seemed to be the order of the day for the Prime Minister. And even his attitude towards the war had changed when he did make public speeches. It seemed as though his support was dwindling and he was therefore adjusting his stance to maintain public favour. Daul had no respect for politicians. He had no respect for someone who couldn’t stand by their own beliefs regardless of status quo. But was he any better? Was he any less of a hypocrite?

His eyes wandered amongst the crowd some more until they fell upon something they had never thought to see in this lifetime; a capsuleer. He had only glanced at the back of the man’s bald head, but he knew without a doubt the telltale implant at the base of his skull. The man had quickly pulled up the collar of his brown leather jacket, whether in an effort to ward off the elements or to hide his giveaway implant, Daul couldn’t tell, but regardless, he started making his way through the crowd to catch a better look at this man.

Capsuleers were an entirely different beast; an entirely different factor in this war. They were technically immortal, able to be reborn upon each death they experienced, though Daul had heard stories that capsuleer cloning technology was greatly exaggerated and they were capable of dying just like any other. To some, pod pilots were the pinnacle of evolution; the ability to fly great starships with a minimal crew, to engage in adventures that most people couldn’t even dream of. Their abilities were greatly respected, revered by many, giving them a divine attribute. But not everyone felt that way. To the growing majority, capsuleers were an abomination. They were the very reason this war continued. It was the capsuleers that brought hell to the stars. It was the capsuleers that callously watched as the lives of entire crews were exstinguished while they were simply reborn to fight again. A small political group had recently been gaining local media attention with their push for Shakor to ban military cloning technology, focusing the abundant funds it used towards civilian emergency facilities only. 

Daul didn’t have an opinion on pod pilots. He had never met one, and he was the type of man that evaluated someone based on face time, not heresay. 

The capsuleer he had been slowly edging towards had stopped, finding a suitable position to gaze across the Highway of Heroes, waiting as were the rest for the military motorcade to pass underneath. Daul believed he was the only one to have noticed the capsuleer, the attention of everyone else too busy looking down the highway in anticipation. But he was wrong, he realized, as he saw Corm approaching the pod pilot from an intercepting path. The look on Corm’s face told Daul instantly that his intentions weren’t happy ones. Corm was shoving his way through the crowd, some people cowering away from his mass, others being forcefully pushed aside. Corm had that look in his eye; it was the same gleam of insanity and ability that Daul had seen on the battlefield. He hurried his pace, trying to get to the capsuleer ahead of Corm.

Daul could hear Corm’s raised voice as he watched the man-mountain gain the attention of the pod pilot. The smaller man turned from the overpass railing to see what was causing the disruption, then turned back to wait for the motorcade. Those closest to the man had backed away, sensing he was the focus of the larger, well muscled man’s fury. Someone, the lady with the baby in the stroller, was pointing at the capsuleer’s neck, outing him for what he was. Murmurs went through the crowd, some shouting their disapproval of the man, others unsure of themselves and not giving into mob mentality quite yet. 

Corm arrived at the man five meters before Daul did. He watched as Corm screamed profanties at the back of the man, commanding him to leave this place or face the consequences. Obviously, Corm wasn’t an admirer. Upon failing to get the man’s attention, Corm spat on the back of the man’s head, his fists clenching and unclenching, the veins of his forearms visible even from this distance. His face was flushing red, and Daul knew that he had to try to talk down his comrade. But what was he going to do? They had fought only one battle together; they were not friends, and Daul damn well knew he wasn’t physically able to stop the behemoth. 

The wad of mucus ran down the back of the capsuleer’s head, the rain accelerating its slimy progress until it disappeared beneath his leather jacket. Still, he did not respond. Corm grabbed the man’s shoulder, spinning him with one meaty hand, his violent intentions clear. Corm never had the chance to bring his intentions to bear.

The capsuleer used the momentum of the spin to drive his straight armed fist into Corm’s solar plexus, his hip pivoted to deliver maximum driving force. Daul could hear the air expunged from Corm’s lungs, as the man-mountain doubling over from the blow. The capsuleer continued forward, following the momentum from the punch, to deliver a solidly driven knee to Corm’s groin. The bigger man’s hands went from holding his stomach to holding his balls. Still, the pod pilot drove forward. He grabbed Corm’s red hair in his hands, driving his rear knee upwards with impressive force. A loud crack could be heard amongst the crowd, and Corm dropped to the concrete, blood pouring from his nose. He didn’t get up.

The capsuleer turned his attention back to the motorcade, which could now be seen approaching in the distance. Daul watched as a few others from his regiment dragged the limp form of Corm away from the scene. The crowd seemed to have let the moment pass, either from newfound fear of the small man that had toppled the man-mountain, or from disinterest now that the reason for their being in this miserable weather was so close. 

Daul was torn. A part of him knew that he should go with his brothers-at-arms, but another part of him wanted to meet this capsuleer. He chose the latter. He easily made his way to the pod pilot, greeting him. “Excuse me, I don’t want to…” Daul began.

“Show respect.” The capsuleer said in a voice filled with gravel. The pod pilot stood at full military attention, surprising Daul by throwing a crisp salute towards the motorcade. Daul followed suit, immediately knowing he was in the presence of authority. The crowd also saluted, cried, cheered, or showed respect in whatever way they thought was most appropriate.

It was a sobering moment. Daul wondered if many would gather when it was him that would inevitably be in the back of one of the vehicles passing beneath them. He chastised himself for his lack of respect. These men and women had died defending the Minmatar Republic. They had made the ultimate sacrifice for their people, same as Daul would do, wouldn’t he?

Memories flashed before his eyes of his own cowardice, of his own wanton abandon of duty at the first sign of real threat. He felt strongly ashamed suddenly, not worthy of being in this place, not deserving to be amongst these people, least of all the pod pilot. He turned and began walking away, when he was interrupted by the voice made of gravel.

“What’s your name, son?” The voice asked. Daul stopped in his tracks, turning his attention back to the capsuleer. He was about the same height as Daul, but the man was thick as an ox. His face had hard lines on it, chiseled from experiences Daul didn’t even want to think on.

“Daul Halwick, first class private of the 501st infantry regiment, sir.” He found himself nervous beneath the hidden gaze of this man, unnerved by the sunglasses and scowl the other man wore. There was no way of knowing what thoughts went on behind those hidden eyes, what intentions may lay within the man. 

The capsuleer extended his hand. 

“Colonel Roc Wieler, Tribal Liberation Force. It’s an honour to meet you, soldier.”