“Oh for the love of crap!” I screamed in pain. It felt like I had been lashed with a metal whip.

1 more set of lat pulldowns
1 snapped cable
1 raised and bleeding welt across my collar bone and chest

Priceless. 

They had replaced the broken cable in the gym only a week earlier. The “new” one was frayed and was more difficult to pull, but I figured it would just add to the workout. I had warned the facility management several times that it would snap and there would inevitably be a lawsuit. They had laughed.

On the one hand, I’m thankful it was me that it happened to. I liked to think I was tough enough to handle pain. On the other hand, I wish it had been someone else so I didn’t have to waste half my day sitting in the medcenter waiting to be told it’s a welt but nothing was broken, which I knew.

I just wanted to go visit management after this and share my own special brand of pain with them.

I just wasn’t having a good week with cables.

As a young Brutor slave under the care of Master Cho, I endured much, but I also learned a great deal. My daily tasks started early and often took me into the long hours of the night. Everything I did was to please my Master, to please the Emperor whom was revered as God, and to expunge all blasphemy from my soul, though I could never be pure and holy by simple virtue of being a Minmatar.

There was a small pond near our home, and I often would stop there during my work for a quick break. I had taken to putting tadpoles in a bucket and watching them develop over the season into frogs. It wasn’t that I had a particular fascination for frogs, it was just of utter interest to me to watch how something so small and simple could transform into something else so entirely complex.

I learned Amarr religion was paramount to their cultural existence; the two could not be separated. From top level politics to every bylaw, state and religion were one and the same, and still are to this day. I absorbed the beliefs of the Amarr like a sponge does water, always thirsty for more. I yearned to be whole, to have my soul cleansed and set free.

The key to the Amarr beliefs was their Saviour, whom the Emperor was the physical incarnation of. It was the Emperor who forgave sins, who led us into the destined future we were promised since the Saviour originally appeared to man and sacrificed himself to God on our behalf, washing away our sins. 

I don’t know why it struck me the way it did that fateful summer afternoon, but as I sat by the pond looking down into the bucket of maturing frogs I had collected, my heart went out of them. It had been drilled into my head that I myself was nothing more than a dumb animal, a subclass of humanity, and if it wasn’t for the Saviour’s sacrifice I wouldn’t even have the opportunity to embrace the truth. Well, frogs were animals too. I wondered if anyone had every told them about the Saviour’s grace.

I gathered them all up on the grass, and began to preach the truth at them. I was pretty sure they weren’t understanding, but being young and naive I assumed it was my inability to communicate at a level they understood.

God inspired me with an idea. My heart felt lifted as I set about fulfilling His calling. 

I picked up one of the frogs and crucified it, nailing it to a nearby tree. As it hung there, mangled and bleeding, I positioned the other frogs in front of it so they could visually reference the story of the Saviour. It was then that Master Cho came by, and I was keen to show him what I had done, not thinking of any potential trouble I could’ve been in; not aware of the time I had spent here this afternoon and how my duties had suffered for it.

Master Cho stared at my beaming face, then at the frog hanging on the tree. “What have you done, dog?” He snarled at me.

I felt my joy sucked away like stars into a blackhole. I was suddenly fearful, feeling foolish, and began crying. “Tell me what you have done, cur.” Master Cho repeated with impatience.

With a sobbing voice I began to explain my intentions with the frogs to Master Cho. I didn’t even see his first backhand coming, which caused a white flash in front of my vision. As I lay on the ground, tasting blood in my mouth, my Master physically taught me the mistake of my blasphemy. 

He broke my bones. He pierced my organs. I was numb from the pain, and don’t recall blacking out, but I do remember believing that I would die, and that I deserved to.

—

DAL SYSTEM
REPUBLIC FLEET LOGISTICS

“You’re a sick fuck, Wieler.” Sard Caid said, as I gave him a personal inspection of my newest Firetail. Sard and I had been discussing lately what possible virtue I could see in this ship class. We had debated it at length, each conceding points to the other, but eventually I figured you really just had to see it up close, to experience it personally to understand its appeal.

Sard stood there, shaking his head. 

We all have our own rituals I suppose. Many of us took pride in naming our ships. But more than that, many pod pilots, myself included, added our own little flare to our vessels. For me, I enjoyed nailing an Amarr corpse from a previous kill to the bow of my ship. It served as more than a visual deterrant to the enemy, it was a mockery of all they were. And it made me smile. The frogs would understand.

“To each their own.” Sard continued, as we turned and walked out of the hangar bay together towards the Black Hole Pub, continuing to discuss a great many engaging topics.

“Get on those frigates now, *Fantastic! Freyla, watch your range on that Harbinger, you don’t want to get in too close. Metal, I need shields; get one of your drones on me now!” Roc commanded.

“You need to stay within seventy clicks, Chief.” FullMetal Basilisk replied as he cackled insanely. 

Cytral listened, his gut wrenched in knots, as the play by play of events continued. He stood in Ops at Freeform Industries HQ, feeling helpless, but willing every good thought he had towards his pilots. 

“I’m into hull!” Doc Gigawatts screamed. 

“Wordsworth, get on Doc’s agro; give them something else to target!” Roc shouted into fleet comms. 

It had gone on this way for the last thirty minutes. The Renegades had made good speed into Amarr space, not pausing to engage the Amarr militia at any junction. Doc’s squad had quickly formed up under Roc’s fleet, and they had been making their way back towards Heimatar. Roc wouldn’t recklessly hurry through the jumpgates, pausing the fleet at each point to send a forward scout through to the next system. They had worked their way as far as Jaswelu, in Domain Region, and while every jump was bringing them closer to Minmatar space, every system found Roc’s Renegades facing more hostiles. The 24th Imperial Crusade had joined the battle in Vashkah, deep in the heart of Amarr high sec, and they were well coordinated; Cytral’s pilots having already pushed their way through several enemy gate camps.

Ah Niko, you would be proud and terrified if you were here. Cytral thought to himself. Niko had been the corp’s Fleet Commander before Roc had come along, and due to other extraneous circumstances was on a leave of absence, nobody sure when or if he would return. But Roc Wieler had stepped up to the task with enthusiasm, and transformed the motley group of mining pilots and industrialists into a passable fighting force. They weren’t going to be declaring sovereignty in any nullsec systems anytime soon, nor go against the likes of the Red Alliance, but they were learning to trust each other, to know each other’s strengths and weaknesses, and to work like a team. 

Cytral found Roc Wieler to be a most interesting character. Short-tempered, flirtatious to a fault, yet not always sociable, the Colonel had proven his worth with his hard work ethic, his consistency, and his extreme sense of duty of honour. He was a proud Brutor through and through, but there was something more to the man. He had an intrinsic sense of rightness about him, carrying himself naturally as a leader, though if you were to ever confront him with this observation you would see the more awkward side of Roc Wieler. Still, Cytral believed the man was possessed of more potential than any of them knew, and once that was utilized, the Republic might never be the same.

“We got incoming!” Freyla spoke heatedly into comms. 

“Negative, darlin. Check your overview. They’re Amarr alright, but not the 24th. My guess is pirates, meaning if we end up engaged with them it’s because they shot first. Last thing we need to add to the mix right now is Concord breathing down our necks.” Roc spoke with a fevered pitch, but his voice was controlled, calm, even in the midst of the chaos. It was just one more quality he possessed that made him an excellent fleet commander. So far, they hadn’t lost a single pilot. Cytral knocked on the warfare logistics table he was leaning on. Let’s hope it stays that way. He thought to himself.

Momentary feedback bled through the comms system, then resumed. A new voice could be heard through the fleet. It was one some of them would recognize. It seemed Roc had patched his personal comm into fleet.

“It’s been a while since I’ve had the pleasure of killing you, Wheeeeeler.” Veshta Yoshita drolled sarcastically. Veshta was one of the top Ace pilots of the 24th, and the longstanding hatred between her and Roc Wieler was well known to any whom had served in the Tribal Liberation Force under his command. 

“Well, good to know I bring you pleasure, Veshta.” Roc replied without missing a beat. “Shows you at least have good taste in men, picking a Minmatar. Can’t say I blame you really. I’ve heard what little Amarr boys have to offer.”

A second private comm could be heard over the system. “General, where’s your fleet at?” Roc said. He had contacted Sasawong prior to entering Amarr space to see what kind of support could be garnered from the Tribal Liberation Force. For the most part, militia pilots were hungry for any kind of killing they could engage in, so it was more than likely the Minmatar would respond.

“Wouldn’t really call us a fleet, Roc.” Sasawong said. “But we’re  three squads in Sifilar. Want us to move or stay put?” Sasawong and Roc Wieler had quickly become friends early in the war, flying numerous times together against the Amarr. Each knew the other was trustworthy and dependable, and this had been proven many times over.

“Move towards Hati system, Sasa. We’re gonna be coming through hot if we get that far. Lock down that system and roll out the red carpet.” Roc said.

“I enjoy nailing your corpses to my wall, Wheeler.” Veshta interjected over the comm. 

“I’d like to say I enjoy nailing you too, Veshta, but even the thought of it repulses me.” Roc replied witfully.

The skirmishes continued around them, though the Renegades had been ordered not to warp scramble anything. The goal here was escape, not destruction. If any of their enemies were foolish enough not to warp away when their ships were going down, so be it, but by letting them warp away, the hope was for a short hiatus while pilots docked up in stations for repairs before re-engaging Roc’s forces. Hopefully, it would buy them enough time to make it back to Minmatar space.

Cytral squeezed the console tightly, closing his eyes against the headache that suddenly hit him. He felt nauseous and dizzy, monetarily feeling his knees go weak before regaining his composure. His condition was worsening. Soon he would have to tell the corporation.

“Alright, Squad One, jump. Renegades, hold back and cover.” Roc blared over the comms. The forward scout had declared the all clear in the next system on their route. Each jump was one step closer to home. After all of Doc’s squad had made it safely through to the other side of the jumpgate, Roc gave the order for the Renegades to follow, the Amarr fleets right on their tail.

As Roc urged his ship to jump, he couldn’t help but smile. If they could make it to Sifilar, the Amarr would be in for a helluva surprise. Doc’s wormhole accident might turn into a major victory against the enemy. 

The universe definitely had a sense of humour sometimes.

Editor’s Note: *Yes, that’s his real name, Captain Fantastic.

PART ONE:

Wormholing (verb) – The act of completely obliterating a pod pilot trapped within wormhole space without mercy.

Wormholed (noun) – The nominative used to describe one who has suffered wormholing. Example: “Dude, you were totally wormholed.”

A new and interesting phrase I encourage you to incorporate into your regular trashtalk. I am curious to see how quickly it spreads around New Eden.

PART TWO:

3AM, my emergency chrono sounded; code red. I scrambled to my datapad, plugging into our secured intra-communications network to see what was going on.

Doc Gigawatts: “We’ve been trapped here for hours, barely keeping ahead of the Sleepers. They’re like nothing anyone has ever seen. Our entry point collapsed. We’re trapped. I’m nearly out of probes. Require immediate assistance.”

I raced to our headquarters, finding Cytral already monitoring the situation.

“What’s the plan, Cy?” I asked, unsure of what could be done. Wormhole exploration was something that many explorers had done throughout the space age, but it had only come to mainstream attention with the recent events that transpired in Evati, though not many were privy to that information. I had no experience nor knowledge of wormholes, but was concerned for my corpmates.

“Nothing to be done, Roc. They’re on their own. We have no way of getting to them, and no way of providing a point of egress for them. They could be gone for days, weeks, months; I really have no idea. We can only monitor the comms and hope for the best.”

The following hours were one of terse frustation. I paced back and forth countless times, figuring I would eventually wear a groove into the flooring. Doc had taken some of the more anxious corp members on our first “official” wormhole expedition. So far, things weren’t going that great. My own inward understatement made me chuckle nervously.

“They could’ve waited. I could’ve taken the Renegades for wing support.” It was only the night before that I had finished purchasing and fitting a new Firetail in Rens. Doc had taken some of our experienced warfare pilots along, but still, I wanted to be there.

“Shoulda woulda coulda.” Cytral said, a growing look of concern on his face. “Need you to prep a rescue team. Set your pilots to high alert standby. Have your ships fueled and ready to go at a moment’s notice.”

I saluted Cytral once, then left ops, heading for the corporate hangar bays, sending alert status notifications to the Renegades.

Quickly and efficiently, my team was assembled. It was a hurry up and wait situation. We sat and played cards to distract ourselves from the peril of our comrades, each of us thankful to not be in the situation of our colleagues, yet hopeful we would see them again soon.

An overhead speaker squelched. Cytral was relaying the message directly from our squad in wormhole space. Obvious urgency was implied.

Doc Gigawatts: “I located another wormhole. Sleepers are in close pursuit; damn they hit hard. Fleet entering wormhole … now!”

We collectively stared at the speaker, wanting more information, wanting to be there to fight side by side with our brothers and sisters. Not a sound could be heard in the hangar bay, not even of breathing.

Doc Gigawatts: We’re all through; pulling up the starmap now. Shit! Double shit!

We could hear through the speaker channel the sound of target locking, and the ominous warning being issued to Doc Gigawatts, and presumably the rest of our team.

Doc Gigawatts (heard from speaker): Enemies of the Amarr. This will be your last trespass into Empire space.

Oh hell no! I thought to myself.

Doc Gigawatts: “We’re being targetted. We’re in Amarr high sec. We won’t last long with the damage we’ve taken from the Sleepers. Require immediate assistance! Please!”

Amarr high sec, bloody hell. “You heard the man, let’s move!” I bellowed, stirring my pilots, crews, and ship workers into action. Within moments we had the all clear for launch.

Way to go, Doc. I thought to myself. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.