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

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

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

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

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

I chuckled to myself as a very out of date image of Sasawong appeared.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

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

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

Oh hell no.

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

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

“Roc! Give me your autograph!”

“It’s him! It’s the Mad Dog!”

“Roc! I’ll have your babies!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam is a garbage hauler. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1 hour = 100,000,000.00 ISK

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

A small grunt escapes me. “Try to stay still please.” the tattoo artist says in his most clinical voice. “We wouldn’t want me to slip.” That’s for certain. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no pansy when it comes to pain; I’ve endured my fair share. There’s just something about get a tattoo on your face that seems to hurt anew on each clone I need to get it done to. You would think with all our advanced technology they could simply clone me with my tattoos intact, but apparently tattoos aren’t considered part of my genetic makeup. They really don’t understand what it means to be a Minmatar. To be without your markings is worse than being naked in the public square of a market hub. They define who we are. They let others know who we are. They are a form of communication within the Tribes. They are warpaint to strike fear into the heart of our enemies. They are a ritual. They are a birthright. They are a part of me forever.

I bite down as the tattoo artist continues his work. Shut out the pain. That is what we are taught when we first get our markings. The mind controls the body, not the other way around. It is an act of self descipline as much as a rite of passage to manhood. Still, it hurts like hell. I don’t think the ancient ancestors thought ahead far enough to cloning technology to realize that some of us would have to endure this ritual numerous times.

Ah well, it is what it is.

I bite down again as another stab of pain sends tendrils of electricity up and down my spine. Either I’m going soft, or this artist isn’t that good.

“There.” he stands back a foot, admiring his work as only an artist can. “We’re done.” He hands me a mirror. Holding it up to see my face, I must admit he’s done a good job. Looks identical to my last one, which was the goal. I hand him the mirror. “Looks good. Thanks.”

I pay him for the fine work, then head off to the food court. I’m hungry …

“Alright, then we’re agreed. That’ll work.”

I slide myself out from under the engine fuselage, wiping the grease from my brow with an even greasier rag. We’ve been at this for a few hours now, but I think we’ve reached the end. My chief technician harumphs his agreement. “Aye Colonel, she be a fine ship and we’ll be gettin’ more outta ‘er than I e’er seen elsewhere.” My computer techician agrees. “It’s really quite unbelievable actually. These modifications you’ve come up with, Colonel, are nothing short of sheer brilliance. To stabilize the capacitor indefinitely, while maximizing throughput of the systems is remarkable. You are a continual amazement and inspiration, sir.”

There she sits, our new Command Class Claymore, dubbed “Tribal Glory”. It’s a fitting name really; inspiring both our allies while threatening our enemies. Milita command rewarded me with it recently “for service above and beyond the call of duty.” Whatever. I do what needs to be done; nothing more, nothing less.

“Yeah,” I begin. “What were the final numbers again?” There have been so many different setup scenarios, I honestly can’t keep track of what we finally decided to go with. My technician happily refreshes my memory. “91,000 effective hitpoints, sir, with a stable capacitor, and power enough to last you for 32 minutes in the most intense conflict scenario. It’s … awesome.”

I smile at that. For all his brains and wordiness, he’s still a geeky kid at heart, but he knows his stuff. Between their extensive expertise and my own, we’ve worked out a configuration that is simply awe inspiring.

“How long to make the modifications?” I am anxious already to take her out, to let her fulfill her destiny, yet I also understand you can’t just say “do” and it’s done. “It’s going to take approximately …” he punches a few buttons on his keyboard, “Six days, six hours, and 29 minutes, sir.” I smirk at him. “That’s approximate, eh?”

“Let’s get to ‘er then” my chief mechanic declares. “She ain’t be building ‘erself.” I nod my consent. They both scamper away, gathering their teams. It’s going to be a busy week.

Six days.

Only six days and then the Amarr will truly understand what they face. They can bring their battleships, they can open they cyno fields; six days and I will be able to bring more to the fight than just this machine. I will be able to bring hope to our troops, inspiration with tangible results.

It’s going to be fun.