“Aura, narrow that last search down to those who meet criteria from filter Omega-4.”
I had been searching the military and public sector records for hours. I knew they were out there, I just had to find them. Those capsuleers who were …
“Three matches found.” Aura’s familiar feminine voice chimed.
“Show me.”
—
Was out shopping on the weekend, something I tend to do far too much as a healthy hetero male, when I saw a friend I hadn’t seen in a while walking the other direction with her husband. Being the social butterfly I am, I thought it would be nice to catch up to them, and say hello to her, so I did just that.
I reached for her arm, gently saying her name, a huge smile on my face, and was actually excited about seeing her again, until she turned around, and was someone else.
She looked confused, but friendly. “My apologies. I thought you were someone else.” I said. I let go of her arm, backing up slightly so as to be non threatening. A simple case of mistaken identity, until her boyfriend started in.
“You got a problem, Minmatard?” he started, obvious hostility in his voice. Before I could even reply, which we all know I was going to do, his girlfriend interjected, pushing her arms against his chest, standing between him and I. “Stop it. Please, you just got out of jail. You don’t need to go back. He didn’t mean anything by it. You don’t want to do this.”
My heart went out to her in truth, from superficial judgement it didn’t seem a healthy relationship. Then again, how many really are? Being helpful by nature, I added my two isk worth. “She’s right.” I began, trying to form the words with enough sarcasm and vileness as to bait him into the desired result, “You don’t want to do this.” I don’t know if it was the giant smirk on my face, the effect of my words, or some other factor beyond my influence, but he pushed his girlfriend aside violently, and telegraphed a right hook towards my head that a Brutor infant going through his first combat lessons would’ve seen coming.
I stepped into the punch, instead of jerking away, the common, untrained response when someone swings at you. I caught his elbow under my armpit, his fist and forearm uselessly passing me by. Wrapping my own arm around his now snagged limb, I used my forward momentum, as well as his entire mass driving forward towards me, to drive my elbow square into his nose. At the same time, I smashed my heel down on top of his foot, with the outside of mine braced against his ankle, and using that same driving forward motion, pushed my knee against his. This would snap his knee. I saw the look on her face; the look of confusion; the look of fear. I quickly stepped off of his foot. It saved his knee, but with all my force pushing forward, and him now pulling backward from the blow to his nose, he fell.
As he dropped onto his ass in a most undignified fashion, two local Concord Enforcers were already racing to the scene. I put my hands up in surrender. “What’s going on here capsuleer?” One of them demanded. “I thought this lady was a friend. I was mistaken. Her boyfriend didn’t appreciate me talking to her I guess, and assaulted me. I defended myself.” And it was actually the truth. That felt weird.
The boyfriend was groggily standing to his feet, with the help of one of the enforcers, blood splayed across his face. He held the fragments of his nose in place, cursing incoherently. The enforcer questioning me turned to the lady. “Is this true, ma’am?”
She stood shock still, wide eyed at the entire proceeding. It had happened in less than two seconds. I don’t think she knew what to make of things. “Ma’am? Did this happen the way he said?”
She snapped back to attention, nodding. “Yes, yes it did. He did no wrong.” Her boyfriend reached for her, but she pulled away from him, her face flushing, her eyes darting away from my stare in embarassment.
I heard a beep as the enforcer scanned me. “Colonel Roc Wieler, eh? Well Colonel, you’re free to go about your business. Sorry for the inconvenience. Hey, can I get your autograph for my kid?” I signed the paper he handed me, and happily put on a show, though not for him. I could see her staring at me. I smiled a genuine smile, winked at her, then started to walk away to go about the rest of my day.
I overheard one of the enforcers talking to the boyfriend. “Seems you’ve violated your parole just now. Looks like you’re going back to jail. You think you’d learn to control that temper.”
I snickered. Then I felt a tug on my arm. I figured maybe he was anxious for round two, but I would’ve heard him running at me, would’ve heard the enforcers yelling after him.
So I turned, hands relaxed, to find myself looking at the girlfriend. She didn’t say a word, just simply slid me a piece of folded paper, then quickly walked away, taking an entirely different path than that of her boyfriend.
I unfolded the paper. On it were her name and phone number. I shook my head, laughing to myself.
Women are crazy.
My crew really was getting out of hand as of late. I was trying the gentler, more patient approach as recommended from some fellow Liberation Force Fleet Commanders. They aren’t Brutor, nor Matari for that matter. Not all of them at least. Kind and nice doesn’t always work with us. Sometimes you just need to knuckle up and splinter some skulls.
“Why do you even take public transport? You have a personal hangar full of ships worth more than they could ever dream of earning in a lifetime!” He grabbed his stomach and doubled over, his own amusement uncontainable.
“Seriously, Colonel Roc Wieler, ‘hero’ of the Republic, taking the magrail across Matar with the common people.” He slapped his knee repeatedly, mimicking that he was close to wetting himself. They didn’t even hear my grunt of displeasure.
“That is exactly why I do it.” I said with menace in my voice. It was a tone used when challenging another Brutor for position within the tribe. Or in my case, the alpha male warning the young ones to settle down or someone would die.
“They are common people, just like us. They are the reason we fight. We are all Matari. How can you be so blind? So ignorant?” I let the last question drip off my lips with disdain, seeing how far they would push it. I didn’t blink. I slowly took my sunglasses off so they could clearly see the sincerity and intensity in my gaze. They both backed down.
“It seems to me, you both need to be reminded of how very common you are.” I pointed one finger at the blade commander. “You’ll be polishing the latrines until I get back, with your toothbrush, and I will be eating off of those floors, so they better be spotless.” He opened his mouth to sass me, but I growled under my breath and he promptly shut the hell up.
“And you,” I moved my finger to point at the mid level mechanic beside him. “You will be cleaning the entire engine room until not a drop of grease remains where it shouldn’t.” He had no fight. He didn’t even have bark.
I saluted them both, waiting for their quick return salute. “Dismissed” I said with disgust, releasing them from my presence.
That incident had bothered me all the way to the surface of our homeworld. I was in a much better mood now though. I had just spent the last few hours shopping, and was sitting on the magtrain from downtown to the eastern suburbs.
I made some interesting discoveries about this thing they call the “commute”. Just thinking of the name makes me chuckle, as I am constantly yelling at my pilots during combat “COMM! MUTE!”, and honestly as I look around, I can see it applies here too. People are crammed in like sardines in a can two sizes two small yet nobody says a word.
Of course, the other meaning of the word commute was first used in my life when I was much younger and in trouble with law. The judge “commuted” my sentence, meaning it mysteriously vanished. I could see how doing this commute every day would be like a sentence; how you could vanish into the faceless crowd.
I also discovered mag trains weren’t built by brutors. They were built by some miraculous race of engineers whom couldn’t have weighed more than 120 lbs, or been taller than 5’2″, not to mention they had never been to a gym in their lives, nor wore a jacket. I mean, I’m not huge by Brutor standards, I’m a runt 6’1″, 220 lbs. I am broad across the shoulders, and wearing my insulated flight jacket isn’t helping; my shoulders are crunched up as bet they can yet still I am spilling over into the seats on either side of me.
And yet they do this everyday, just sitting there, plugged into audio devices, reading the dailies, some just sleeping, their heads bobbing back and forth like a children’s toy. And how is it not a single person snores? They go about their trip completely unaware of anything around them, not a care in the world.
I wish I could experience that.
And why will nobody look me in the eye? Or anyone else for that matter? With this many people around, where exactly are you supposed to look? Ah, the advertisers got it covered. There are small video monitors on all the upper walls of the magtrain. Smart.
It was right about then I got the urge to go to the washroom, and by urge, I meant it was happening right now one way or the other.
“Excuse me, pardon me” I tried to say politely in my bassy voice, as I forcefully shouldered my way down the aisle towards the incar restroom. Again, these magical engineers really need an ass stomping. I could barely fit down the aisle sideways, or inside the half width door to the lavatory.
I looked down at the small hole. How was I supposed to sit there? Where would I hang my jacket? Shit. Literally.
At first, I decided to make the herculean effort of holding it and just relieve the pressure on my bladder. One quick shake of the train midstream quickly stopped that exercise. I HAD to go.
Without going into detail, I finally worked it out.
A few more apologies, and I had made my way back to my seat, only to discover someone had sat there in my stead. Didn’t really surprise me any. Nor did the fact they wouldn’t make eye contact. So I decided to stare. That’s right, stare.
As a child I learned it’s important to always be dominant. My buddies and I used to hang out at the local malls, just staring down people. Never blinking, never looking away, no matter who it was. The best part was, once you got the hang of it, 99% of the time you would “win”, and that other 1% percent, you were glad you had your buddies with you. My mother used to slap me silly for the fights we would get in.
I kept staring. The train jostled again, and a woman bumped up against me, making that “sucking” sound with her lips, as she looked in disdain at my jacket. By the planet’s standards, it was late summer, and nobody was wearing an outdoor jacket except me. Granted, I spend a lot of time in space, and tend to feel cold most of the time without it. Just a habit I suppose.
I switched to staring at the woman instead. I felt a childlike immaturity and glee to my actions. There was a certain freedom to be experienced by just losing yourself in the commute I discovered. You were just another nameless worker on their way home. You could be exhausted and let your guard down. You could find comfort crammed up against everyone else with their body odour. You could simply be.
In the end, that is why I take public transport. It reminds me of who I am. Not some hotshot pod jockey, too big for his own britches. I am a Matari, like so many others, who just wants to make a difference.
It felt good to be reminded of my place in the grand scheme of things, and as the doors opened at my stop, I was at peace, at least until someone yelled “Look! It’s Roc Wieler! Can I have your autograph?” The crowd quickly turned my way. I scoured the direction the voice had come from, but they had ‘commuted’ and were just a nameless face in the crowd.
I really need to have something done about these commercials.
We all remember our first time…
For me, it was 30 months ago, almost to the day, that my true destiny began. I was working as a freelance shuttle pilot back then, and was damned proud of it. Having the skill to fly any sized ship required a great deal of proficiency, and I seemed to take to it with a shine.
I had even applied for capsuleer training. After several months, I was accepted. It was the most intensive training I had ever undergone. The physical demands were exhaustive, even to a Brutor, while the mental stresses left me clutching my skull some nights. Even my emotions would escape me at times, leaving me curled up in a ball on my dorm room floor, weeping. That particular experience happened after I was fitted for a pod.
It was my first assignment. I was given a brand new Reaper class ship, and assigned an escort duty of some low ranking diplomat across seven high security systems. I accepted with great enthusiasm of course, thankful to be moving forward in my life. I had come from a hard upbringing, but had made myself into the man I am today through consistent effort, strong self belief, and natural abilities I thank God for everyday.
Thirty seven minutes later, we were ready to depart.
It was an expectedly boring trip. Just the same, I wanted to make an impression with my passenger, who could potentially refer me to better paying gigs. I wanted a Rapier Covert Ops vessel, and those weren’t cheap.
We were two uneventful systems away from our destination system. Still nothing. There was the usual local traffic in each system, but nothing of note. I could see them out there, other capsuleers, in their magnificent ships. I wanted to touch them, be like them, be recognized by them. They were so close. So close. Close.
I was too slow on the uptake back then. A frigate was hurtling towards us at a velocity I couldn’t escape. I did my best to react, but I froze up. I didn’t know what to do. This was completely unexpected. I finally managed to get the guns online, but it was too late.
I was tumbling through space in my pod. My ship was destroyed, my passenger killed. I hadn’t even been able to give the warning call to abandon the small craft. I had failed.
I watched Concord warp into the exact point of our engagement, and quickly destroy my attacker. That gave me no joy at the time. I was too busy trying to figure out what to do. We had done pod training of course, but I couldn’t remember where I was supposed to go or how I was supposed to get there.
After ninety seconds of mental debate with myself, the proximity alarm sounded. The same class of frigate was within attack range. I saw the autocannons firing in quick succession. I was boned.
My essence was painfully torn from myself. My soul forcefully torn from its shell. I screamed until I went hoarse, and even then, continued to scream in silence for four additional minutes.
The first time hurt like hell.
It always saddens me when I have to fire one of my crew. With the heavy losses the Minmatar have been sustaining lately, it’s just not practical to keep drafting civilians into duty. I’ve been hiring from my own pocket.
I am pretty demanding as a commander, but I am just as demanding of myself, if not moreso. Still, it’s never easy having that one on one conversation, where you know emotions will run high, and no positive will come from it.
“But, but this is all I have! I swear I can improve, Commander!” We’d been at this for ten minutes already. He was a likeable enough fellow, but reviewing his file I could see he’d already been given numerous opportunities to improve his performance, and he hadn’t.”
“Look son,” I said sympathetically, “I just need to know that every single member of my crew is of the same top caliber. I’m not saying this to hurt you, but I just don’t think you’re cut out for this line of work.”
He bit his quavering lower lip for a few moments before he couldn’t contain himself anymore and the tears burst free.
“But I really have nothing else; no girl, no family, nobody to go back to. This is it!”
I learned long ago that it’s important to balance out your life. Never rely on just one or two things. I mean, if you think about it in that context, losing one thing in your life means you’re now 50% empty. I try to fill my life with as many things as possible. That way, if there is loss, it’s not as impactful.
“What about friends? Or hobbies? Any other interests or skills? Religion? School? I’m sure there are plenty of things that you are passionate about.”
He sobbed quietly, shaking his head.
“Well what about politics? Or sports? Anything?”
At the mention of sports, his eyes lit up momentarily, before glazing over subdued once again. I seized the moment.
“You know, I don’t tell many of the crew this, but I’m a bear racer.” The room became deafly quiet. His eyes bugged out of his head, his jaw reaching as far as possible towards the floor.
Bear racing was a common practice thousands of years ago, but outlawed in recent times. Nevertheless, it wasn’t difficult to find an illegal bear race among any of the Brutor Tribes. There’s just something about grabbing a hand full of fur, and inflicting your will against that of the beast that is a bear. It gave me a thrill second only to the feeling of ship combat.
And the term Bear Racing is really just a technicality. More often than not, the crowds that come to these events could care less about the race. They are more interested in the brutality of how the racers struggle to reach the finish line. Hand to hand combat, unmuzzled bears, it all adds to the thrill of the sport. I was already starting to daydream.
Back to the present.
“You ever been to a bear race?” He shook his head violently in the negative. “Tell ya what,” I began. “I’m gonna take you to my next race ok? Introduce you to my bear. If he likes you, maybe I’ll hire you to feed and clean up after him. How’s that sound?”
With the amount of excessive nodding he did, I was astonished his neck didn’t snap. I patted him on the shoulder, telling him I would be in touch, and again, to keep his chin up. We all have a potential to fill.
As he left, I realized I forgot to mention what happened to my last bearkeeper…
You know, hard as it is on the mind to adjust to being in the heat of combat, then suddenly waking up in a cloning chamber, I have discovered another side effect that made itself painfully aware to me today… forgetfulness.
Let me try to break it down for you.
As part of my daily exercise regimen, I engage in some good cardio, some free weights, and some machines, to push my body to greater limits and to keep me in peak condition. As anyone who works out will tell you, it takes time, consistency, and discipline. Working out is not an easy thing.
Recently, I have engaged in a new program for muscle gain. That’s a good thing. The ache the next morning of sore muscles trying to repair themselves, the promise of greater strength and better physical appearance, it’s all attractive to those of us who do this to ourselves.
But then I got podded.
It’s happened before; it will happen again. But my mind forgot something very important. This is a new body. So what did I do? I went to the gym of course. I did a fantastic leg workout at the same intensity I had before. That was my mistake.
Now it’s four days later and I can hardly walk. I look worse than had I been anally raped by a group of Amarr priests. It hurts to sit. It hurts to bend. It hurts to walk. It pretty much hurts to do anything.
My body isn’t the same as it used to be. Next time I clone, I’d better remember that.
Some random day. Some random location. Some random woman, on some random bench. I sat there also, though we had never met before. I had never actually seen her before, and wouldn’t have noticed had she not been crying.
It was a busy spot apparently, as the crowds passed us by in both directions, not a soul so much as paying attention to her distress. That is how I came to be sitting here. I am not the type of person to simply ignore and walk by.
She was sobbing into her communication device, talking to someone on the other end. She was shaking, her face swollen from the tears, her voice hoarse from the screaming and crying. Yet still, I just sat there.
I wanted to help. Truly.
What was I to say? “It’s ok?” I don’t know her situation. Do I offer to help? What could I possibly do to actually make things better. Do I offer to listen if she wants to talk about it? Why would she want to talk to me? These, and a thousand more questions entered my mind, none with a solid answer.
I felt very inadequate.
My own day thus far had not been much better. My commanding officer had barked at me all morning until I finally told him where he could stick his opinions, then stormed out of the military complex to get some fresh air. I started my day getting a sound tongue lashing from the CEO of the corporation I belong to. I didn’t get much sleep last night either, out late on recon patrol.
I ran more scenarios through my head. She could just tell me to get lost. How would I react to that? Would I feel angry? What right did I really have to feel angry at that? Would I feel rejected, trying to offer help only to be turned down flat? She might think I was trying to hit on her. Do I look like that kind of sleaze? I was becoming annoyed; not with her, but with myself.
It reminded me of the vids for charities you see so often. “Please give generously” they always say. Do we actually give because we care about whatever the charity represents? I often wonder. If we really cared, wouldn’t we give of our time? Wouldn’t we tangibly help? Giving money is the easiest fix I think. It doesn’t cost us our time, nor sweat, nor effort. Just write the cheque and make the guilt go away.
We give for ourselves. Seriously. That feeling of doing “right”. It makes us feel less condemned. We aren’t one of those horrible people that does nothing, even though in fact, that is exactly what we are doing. It’s the very minimum we could do. Why do you think the charities ask for our money? They know we won’t give anything more.
I didn’t need the rejection and self condemnation today. I was already getting myself worked up over the “what ifs”. We do that to ourselves a lot too. I sighed audibly, then stood up from the bench, and continued on my way. She would be ok, right? I mean, are we really that vain that we believe people won’t be ok if we don’t intervene? I couldn’t stop the thoughts from hammering me.
It wasn’t my most shining moment. Maybe I should’ve helped. Maybe I’m a selfish bastard for worrying more about myself.
Maybe I’m just like everyone else.
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:
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:
—
—
“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.
ROC'S RAMBLINGS 