As I started writing today’s memoir, I found myself struggling; deleting what I had already recorded, pausing while giving serious consideration to the topic, realizing there is no definite answer to the question I had posed to myself when motivated to pen this in the first place.

What is command?

—

“Colonel Wieler, what brings you to -A- space?” Paik asked cordially. I was enroute through nullsec towards Ushra’Khan’s primary station of operations in Catch Region. Unfortunately, Kinda’Shujaa’s director hadn’t established our status as allies ahead of time; something that would’ve been useful for me to research prior to my trip. On the plus side, I was flying a cloaked Hound stealth bomber named Tique, having already acquired a healthy paranoia from my solo flights in Curse Region.

“Requesting blue status, sir. Kinda’Shujaa is the Ushra’Khan’s military division, fighting the good fight against the Amarr. I’ve come here to offer my services to our alliance, and their partners, of which -A- is most notable. Unfortunately, I’m KOS right now, which is making for a nerve wracking flight.”

“One moment, Colonel. As a diplomatic liason for -A-, and already being familiar with your career record, this shouldn’t take long.”

“Understood, sir. I appreciate your assistance in this matter. Wieler out.”

—

Is it rank? Perhaps authority? Power, respect, inspiration, leadership?

On the surface, they might seem like simple answers we each can answer for ourselves, but therein lies the issue; defining command is as unique and individual as our own personal experiences with the subject matter itself. One might find a defined approach exemplary, while another might find that same methodology deplorable.I suppose that is one more thing to add to the mix of questions when trying to derive an answer: Do those commanded determine what is good command?

—

“Your status has been set to blue, Colonel. Welcome to Catch.” Paik notified me shortly thereafter. Already I was impressed with the efficiency of diplomatic process out here; back in Empire, there would’ve been countless channels and endless red tape to get a security request of this nature processed. Seems the nullsec alliances knew how to cut to the chase.

“Roger that, sir. And thanks.” I replied.

“Not a problem, Roc. And lose the sir out here; we’re all brothers. Paik out.”

No small talk. No wasting time. I was feeling better about this with each passing moment.

—

My initial conclusion is that I can only share my own opinion; I cannot hope to authoritatively define command, and have others take it as fact. I can only attempt to present my point of view with supplemental arguments, and let any readers of this page extract from it what they will.

—

V2-VC2
V2 FREEDOMS FORGE STATION
USHRA’KHAN SOVEREIGNTY

“Your request for docking permission has been denied, Colonel Wieler. I advise you to put some distance between yourself and this facility now.” the docking manager stated over the comm.

I wasn’t a fool. Sitting cloaked 70 km off of the station, I had already watched several battleships, cruisers, interdictors, and every other type of ship in the Ushra’Khan armada fly by. There was only one opportunity to make a first impression, and if that went poorly, there might likely not be a chance for a second impression.

“Understood. Tique leaving station perimeter. Could I trouble you to be put in touch with someone with the authority to grant docking access?” I inquired.

“Not my job, pilot. You’ll need to talk to a diplomat.” he replied with disdain and annoyance in his voice.

“Roger that.” I disconnected the comm.

—

Every individual experiences the responsibility of command at some point in their lives: whether it’s with offspring, coworkers, pets, or even just themselves, command is an aspect of humanity that we all must learn to further progress our own, or someone else’s, objectives.

—

“Sorry to trouble you again, sir.” I said to Paik in a private comm.

“No trouble. And stop calling me sir.” Paik replied with humour in his voice.

“I need to get in touch with a U’K diplomat. I know you might not be the best suited to ask this, but you’re the only person I know in this region currently. Could you help me out?”

There was silence on the other end of the comm for a few moments too long.

“Get in touch with Maestro Ulv. He’s expecting you now. Paik out.”

—

Master Cho had commanded me with intimidation and violence. I feared failure. The cost of failure was often physically brutal and unrelenting. Through Master Cho I had come to fear God. Eternal damnation because of fate choosing the race I was born was more frightening than any of the beatings I had suffered at Master Cho’s hand. There came a point in my adolescent life where I no longer respected Cho, but the fear remained.

Fear is a tool of command.

—

“THE Roc Wieler, geez. What brings you out here, celebrity?” Maestro Ulv chirped cheerfully. Great. A fan. Well, at least I could use that to my advantage.

“I’m having some issues acquiring docking permissions in V2-VC2, sir. I was hoping you could help me out.” I replied in as friendly a demeanour as I could muster. I was growing impatient and trigger happy. It was taxing on the nerves being a minnow in a sea of hungry sharks.

“Hmmm, nobody showing online and available status with authority over that station. Let me see what I can do, though I can’t promise this will happen quickly. You ok waiting?” he asked, genuine concern creeping into his voice.

“Just sitting cloaked outside of the station perimeter for the last hour or so. What’s a few more?” I said, trying to appear lighthearted with just enough sarcasm to let him know I was losing patience.

“Understood.” Ulv said through laughter. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

—

Blade Commander Stone was a man I respected. Even though he was my basic training officer when I joined the Tribal Liberation Force, which to most would harbour immediate resentment, I admired the man. He was harsh, strict, disciplinary, reprimanding when needed, but never with malice or hatred. He was a soldier, and a professional, through and through. I learned a lot from Commander Stone, and attribute him with the disciplined attitude I have today in all I do.

Respect is a tool of command.

—

Several hours passed, filled with growing trepidation. Every wing of ships that docked and undocked seemed to pass closer to my cloaked ship, threatening to break my veil of invisibility. I had blue status to U’K of course, but my instincts still told me to be wary. This was there territory after all, and I was the unwelcome visitor still.

“Alright, I’ve had you cleared. You should be able to dock now.” Ulv announced unexpectedly.

“Thank you, sir, for your diligence.” I replied, moving my Hound, Tique, towards the station, requesting permission to dock.

“No problem at all, Roc. Quit calling me sir. It bugs people out here. We’re all brothers.”

“Military training, sir … brother. I will do my very best to adapt to your standards.”

Ulv laughed. “Relax, Colonel. Things aren’t all by the rules out here. It’s a lot more casual than what you’re used to, I’m sure. You’ll be fine. What are you flying anyway?”

“Hound, sir.” I replied without thinking.

“You torpedo capable then?” Ulv asked, his rising curiousity evident in his voice.

“Not yet, … brother, but I can be if needed.”

“I’d start training it up. Definitely a need for that out here. I look forward to flying with you, Colonel. Enjoy your stay in Catch. Ulv out.”

—

Valkear General Sasawong was an inspiration to us all. His unrelenting aggression against the 24th Imperial Crusade had sent tremors of doubt throughout their ranks for years. Wherever the action was, there was Sasawong on the front lines, leading our pilots to victory after victory against our oppressive, tyrannical enemy. There were stories told of his feats for decades, inspiring new generation of pilots, and even though I was considered an old veteran by then, Sasawong had been not only a friend to me, but an inspiration as well. He practiced what he preached; he led by example, not by textbook theory. He put his money where his mouth was, and when needed, he could always be counted to stand the gap.

Inspiration is a tool of command.

—

“Tique cleared to dock, Hound pilot Wieler.” The docking manager said over the comm. “Please proceed to birth 72A-12. Steam shower and fresh clothes will be waiting for you upon pod egress. Have a nice day.”

That made me grunt in amusement. A fresh shower, clean clothes; Ushra’Khan paid attention to the details that mattered to its pilots. Nobody liked walking around in their own pod filth.

“Roger that. Wieler out.”

Half an hour later I headed to the pilots lounge, the entire time surprised to see how active and busy the station was. There weren’t many civilians here, just contractors under Ushra’Khan employ to meet the many needs of the V2 Freedoms Forge station.

I was warmly greeted by the other pilots there, and quickly we were swapping tales of glory.

“So they want you on stealth bomber duty? That should be amusing for a while.” a young, female Caldari pilot said to me. She had rejected the ideals of her people only two years ago, choosing to stand alongside the Republic instead of standing idly by watching Tibus Heth destroy the her beloved Caldari State. Of course, Tibeth Heth had proven more than capable, and with his military prowess had completely conquered all contested Gallente systems months before.

I don’t recall how many hours I spent there, enjoying my newfound brothers and sisters in arms, or how much beer we drank, but I had no trouble fitting in. It felt like home.

—

Maleatu Shakor stood with his arms behind his back, gazing out over the capital city of Pator, breathing deeply. He had come so far in his career, overcome so many obstacles. The Republic was in disarray around him, and that burden ultimately fell squarely on his shoulders. He was the leader of the Minmatar Republic. He was the embodiment of all his people strived to be. He was a fair man, an intelligent man, one which could see the endgame approaching, and knew he had to play his pieces carefully in order to achieve the victory he desired. Shakor understood the affect power could have, the influence position gave. How he used those understandings would shape the fate of an entire people.

Power is a tool of command.
Position is a tool of command.

—

I reported for duty the following morning, my pilot suit pressed and cleaned, walking tall with proud posture, my boots polished. I was ready to work under the command of whomever the Ushra’Khan had in place for the stealth bomber squadron.

“Colonel Wieler.” a pilot of unknown rank greeted me. I saluted crisply. With only a slight hesitation, he returned the salute. I remained standing at full attention.

“Your pilots should be here shortly; not everyone is as punctual as you it would appear.” he said, a smile on his face. I had been ordered to report for duty at 0900. It was 0900. There was no room for being late in the world I knew.

This wasn’t my world.

Then his words sank in… my pilots.

“Sir?” I asked. He frowned his brow.

“You really need to lose that shit, Wieler. It’s gonna look condescending, like you’re better than us, and nobody wants to fly for a smart ass ego prick. We’re all equals. Better get used to that and quick. Good luck on your first flight with the Ushra’Khan, Colonel.”

With that, he walked away, leaving me to figure out what the hell had just happened. Had my reputation proceeded me? I had led many fleets before, but had been working mostly on solo ops for a good eight months. I hadn’t a pod kill to my name in almost as long a period.

As my pilots slowly staggered in to report for duty, I realized once again I was a wing commander.

What kind of commander would I prove to be?

UNDISCLOSED SYSTEM
CURSE REGION

The crew of the Kubwa, my Hurricane class battlecruiser, were growing restless. We had been sitting 200km from the warp bubble we had dropped in a fairly quiet pipe between lowsec and 0.0 space. So far, we hadn’t caught anything; not a single ship had appeared in local. My scanner was placed on my HUD, and I was ready, aligned to a bookmark between the jumpgate and the warp bubble.

Being this deep into Angel Cartel space, I expected more traffic. Over an hour had passed when I received a hail on my private comm channel. It was Mynxee. I took the call.

We spoke briefly, her playing poker, me playing fish (see what I did there?), when she invited me to the public channel for her HellFleet alliance. I considered the potential ramifications, but in the end, being a public channel, figured there was nothing out of the ordinary by me participating. For all they knew, I could simply be gathering intel for the anti-piracy effort.

There were many familiar names and faces in the vidchannel, and I gave my regards to many, including Shae Tiann. Some were surprised to see me, citing my status as a famed militia persona as the reason for their reaction, others were happy to see an old and familiar face since our time together in Evati so long ago.

Local still showed nothing.

After some engaging dialogue and meeting another interesting woman with the last name “Orchid” (no relation to Venom apparently, and you’ll find out shortly why I can’t remember her first name), I said my goodbyes, deciding to call my one-man bubble camp quits for the evening.

Before I left, this other Orchid woman left an impression by flashing me her breasts, and I have to admit, they were quite stunning. Shae blew me a kiss, Mynxee unabashedly sent her love with me, and as my face turned quickly red, I disconnected. Maybe that hadn’t been such a good idea joining that channel in the first place.

There is almost nothing more tempting than ripe breasts.

One of my long range scanning team members reported a faint signal, a distress call. “… heavy turrets, several battleships, need help before the Angels destroy us completely…”

We got a lock on the system; it was two jumps away. I smiled.

It was time to bring harsh justice to some pirates.

UNDISCLOSED 0.0 SYSTEM

It almost reminded me of my days in recon; sitting for hours in a Rapier, enjoying the isolation and peacefulness of space. There had been times it almost teetered over the edge to boredom, but right when you found yourself drifting off into woeful ignorance, action would inevitably occur, sending adrenaline coursing through your veins, alerting your senses and driving you into full wakefulness.

Such was this day, in a new experiment I had decided to try. The process itself wasn’t new; it was simply new to me. I had been learning about anchoring, warp bubbles, etc, etc, and decided I needed some field experience over theory.

In a move towards being a more aggressive pilot, I had fit a fully offensive Rifter, loaded a small warp bubble into the hold, and headed for nullsec.

Deploying the bubble at a strategic position between the only two gates in the system wasn’t difficult. Determining an optimal range wherein I could prevent my prey from getting to the gate when caught, while allowing me ample opportunity to retreat if needed was a more delicate decision.

Finally, with the decisions made, the bubble deployed, and all systems on my Rifter set to standby, I settled in to see what I could snare in my little trap.

For the first hour I could hardly look away I was so excited about springing my trap; I envisioned snagging a Punisher, or an Omen if I was lucky and it wasn’t Navy Issue. I knew that with an overheated alpha strike and a surge of acceleration, I could potentially destroy my enemy before they had a chance to implement defensive tactics. I just had to wait.

Three hours later, I was beginning to think the war against the Amarr was elsewhere in the universe, and pulled up my galactic map, having Aura filter for most recent wrecks and pod kills. I knew how Murphy’s Law worked, and fully expected  that the moment I began looking at my map was when the enemy would appear, and I would be caught offguard.

It didn’t happen, and I spent another forty minutes waiting with ever growing impatience, ready to call it quits, when the trap was sprung!

An Archon with a half squad of supporting Abaddons, Armageddons and Apocalypses were viciously yanked out of warp. Lovely.

I did the only practical thing a heroic Matar Colonel could do in such a situation: I ran like hell. Before the thought was even fully formed Aura had overheated the afterburner and I was straightlining for the gate thirty kilometers away.

By the time I hit twenty kilometers, I was targeted by the enemy, now the predator, with me the fleeing prey.

A dozen Templar drones quickly crossed the void, their engines screaming as they bore down on me. I pushed forward, willing my ship faster, knowing the gate was my only chance of surviving this encounter.

I didn’t make it.

My Rifter exploded, a shower of sparks and metal twisting uncontrollably through space. Aura took control of my pod, warping us away to a nearby moon while I regained my bearings.

I docked at a nearby station and purchased a shuttle, then proceeded back to Dal. Was I ashamed? No. I had learned something valuable, and that was always a good thing.

Would I try this again? Hells yes. I was positive it was a worthwhile technique and I would be fitting up another Rifter quickly and heading back out to nullsec.

I sat in the dark of my personal quarters onboard my Claymore, Tribal Glory. The ship had been drydocked for months, never seeing the action it was originally intended for. A thick layer dust covered the outer hull, and as I had walked through the hallways inside, the echoing of my boots on the metal flooring reminded me of how lonely the life of a Capsuleer could be sometimes, usually by choice.

I had planned on being a great leader when I bought this ship. I had the ambition to become a fleet commander of great reknown, a hero in the war; and perhaps to some degree I had achieved that, in the past.

It wasn’t melancholy or self-pity, there was no emo need in my thoughts. Rather, just an objective analysis of my path thus far in the hopes of gleaming some insight into what was in store for me next. I wasn’t one to ride the wave of fate; but if you’ve been reading these memoires, history has already told you that.

If anything, I was sitting alone in the dark, reflecting on life out of pure vanity. In my hand I held the release form for the Scope news broadcast, one of New Eden’s most popular and widespread news network. They wanted to do a “Up Close and Personal” segment featuring me. I had seen these bits in passing before, they always ended up embarassing the subject in some way or another.

I wondered what questions they would ask? How would I respond? Would I keep my cool or lose my temper? Was it going to actually be about my personal life, or simply a thinly veiled attempt at a biased agenda? Were they trying to help me rebuild my tarnished reputation or looking to further put the screws to me about murder and slavery?

I sighed deeply, feeling the stale air of the ship enter my lungs. I coughed, feeling lightheaded.

What the hell. I digitally signed the form, sending it back to the correspondent.

This is going to be interesting to say the least, I thought to myself.

—

Want to help me make this interview interesting? Ask me any “in-character” question you want by filling out the form located HERE. It can be about the war, my music, working out, my views on politics, my relationships with the opposite sex, piracy, recipes, favourite ships and fits, market trading for profit, or whatever the heck you want. While I may not answer every question, the more questions I have to choose from the better.

Another billion isk lost, I thought to myself with dismay, and the Republic has put a freeze on military bursaries. Just perfect.

No matter how I tried to spin the rationale in my mind, it just didn’t make sense. How did the Sanmatar expect us to win a war without funding? Was this a kneejerk reaction to the growing peace protests on Pator? Were the general populace really that naive to think there could ever be a lasting coexistence with those that enslaved us? My gut told me it was all part of the slippery slope the Sanmatar had fallen prey to when he passed the legalization of those brainwashed Matari spreading their virus of Amarr belief.

Whatever his reasons, it had a profound ripple effect on morale. Immortal or not, pilots were less willing to engage the enemy for fear of financial loss; even I was feeling the fiscal pain at this point, having lost close to 4 billion isk in the war effort to date. Resignations and desertions from the Tribal Liberation Force were at an all time high; pilots no longer believed in a war that could not be won.

I found my own motivation lacking. It wasn’t about the isk for me, though I had resigned myself to flying Rifters for the forseeable future, Wensley style. It was about the principle. Knowing your government had your back and offered you complete support was something to depend on. It made you want to fight for leadership that put their money where their mouth was.

Politics had become too political.

I was tempted to talk directly to the Sanmatar about it, but my relationship with him had been strained since my incarceration last year, and the public outcry denouncing me as a murderer. In the end, I had been proven innocent, but the damage to my reputation had been done. My good name had been smeared, and I was still suffering the fallout from that, to a degree.

My fame still proceeded me, with sales of both the Bio CD and One Night of Roc doing well, but I had also gained infamy as a man who lived by his own moral rulebook, and damn any who got in the way. It wasn’t the image I tried to portray, not the role model I would’ve chosen for myself, but I had learned you could never please everyone.

I sat in the Flight Deck office, looking over recent communications, and was stuck on an inbox item from Mynxee, someone I never expected to hear from again, literally; I had my communication systems locked down tight to prevent her from accessing me in any way. Apparently her security people possessed higher aptitude than mine.

Dearest Roc,

I know you’re probably seething already just hearing this, but please hear me out. By now you must know I didn’t kill poor Daul; you know I wouldn’t murder someone in cold blood. Our choices might seem drastically different, but our morals are very parallel; it’s part of the attraction we’ve always shared.

I’ve kept tabs on you, as you can clearly see by this communique in your inbox. You’ve grown weak and complacent. Don’t get offended by that, I’m just calling like I see it. Your heart doesn’t seem in it anymore, and I wonder if you truly still believe in the war you fight.

I’m not lecturing you, or going to get into a political debate over this. I just wanted to let you know that we’ve recently been very busy in our neck of the woods, and I wanted to extend an invitation to you. Join the Hellfleet. You already know most of us, and you’d be a welcome addition, no interview required. Say the word and you’re in, hun.

Part of me doesn’t expect to hear from you again, and I will respect that. I just know how stubborn we both are, and wanted to reach out to you and let you know that there are still those that believe in the man you are.

Mynxee

A week ago I would’ve laughed at her comment about people still believing in me if it hadn’t been for a random encounter on a Gallente pleasure hub. I was finishing up some business there, heading back to my ship when I was saluted by a teenaged civilian wearing knockoff military gear. His left arm had a black sash wrapped around the bicep with a stylized tribal bear on it. As I walked by, he shouted “Colonel Wieler, the Renegades salute you!”

I had no idea what he was talking about, but had noticed more of these sashes on people, even in my homebase of Dal. A simple query with Aura revealed that there was some type of cult following of my war against the Amarr, and against piracy. They had adopted the name “Roc’s Renegades“, the name of my old fleet, and while I was initially flattered, I found references to this group in the Scope, committing acts of arson, vandalism, assault and other crimes all in the name of the Hero of the Republic, Matar Colonel Roc Wieler. Lovely. That’s just what I needed; more bad press.

A few months ago, I would’ve deleted Mynxee’s message without even reading it so devote to my duty was I.

Now, I read it again carefully, confused by my own hesitation to instantly dismiss her offer. Hellfleet. Was that my destiny? Was that the next step in my journey? To become a pirate?

Part of me rejected the idea outright. It defied everything I believed in. But did it? The more I recalled of my relationship with Mynxee, the more I remembered that she was fighting for a free Republic, just not under the rules of a failing government. Was she right? I couldn’t say she wasn’t, given how things had been going as of late.

And I knew Mynxee’s people were fiercely loyal to each other: Shae, Venom, the rest of the ladies. All of them despised by authority, but still cleaved to each other by a bond greater than any I knew.

Yes, my future was unclear. Loyal soldier, cult hero, pirate … maybe I should just jump through a wormhole in my Zephyr and never come back. I laughed to myself. I was never one to run away from a fight I couldn’t win.

I needed to talk with my therapist. I needed to sit with Maleatu Shakor. I needed to speak with the Ushra’Khan, to see if there was anything more they could offer me about the legacy of the Brutor Tribe. I needed Mynxee.

“Alright lad, she be ready fer ya!” my Chief Mechanic Leo bellowed, entering the office. He was wiping his greasy hands with a rag, his trademarked toothy smile etched broadly across his face. He was filthy and covered in sweat and grease, but he was the best damned mechanic I had ever known.

I had ordered a dozen Rifters, and tasked my team to get them fit for flight. Apparently that order had been executed, and my time for introspection was over.

“Alright, Leo, let’s see what you’ve come up with this time.”