It’s a quiet day here; a peaceful day. The single star of this system shines brightly. It is a system that seems Devoid of activity (see what I did there?*).

We are hiding here, salvaging what we can to make much needed repairs. A recent encounter with a wandering Amarr scout fleet has left us in less than optimal condition. Most systems have been powered off. Life support has been minimized, and many decks sealed.

That’s part of the fun of recon. You’re on your own. It’s a blessing and a curse. Being comm silent brings with it a certain freedom, a certain clarity of your situation. It also reminds you that no help is coming. You are off the charts, off the record. It’s all a propaganda spin. Should we succeed, the media back home will play it up as another successful campaign by our government in the continuing war against the Amarr. Should we fail, well I doubt we’ll get any media coverage at all.

The interesting part of all this is that we’re not even here for the Amarr. We’re here to meet a longtime colleague who left the Republic militia, and has hired his fleet out to the Gallente Federation. For me, it’s a win/win.

The Caldari/Gallente conflict seems to have not spilled over into our space, but it’s only a matter of time. The Minmatar and Gallente have had a long history together. I hope they prevail. Means I can go home sooner. I miss home.

Aura sends me a warning. Another ship has entered this system. I focus my thoughts on the present. It’s more than likely our contact, but in my experience, assumptions only result in needless corpses.

We had agreed to meet near the first planet, at an abandoned pirate facility on an asteroid in a nearby belt. An interesting gas cloud lingers near the asteroid and was probably mined by the previous occupants. Were they Blood Raider? Angel Cartel? Does it really matter? I suppose not.

My HUD overview flashes the incoming ship. It’s my contact, yet I don’t feel a sense of relief. I am one of those pilots who relies on more than his instruments. I rely on that mysterious and elusive “gut feeling”. Those who don’t prescribe to that belief, shrug it off as superstition. Those who follow their guts simply nod knowingly. It has saved me before. I trust my gut completely.

We exchange ship identifications and hail each other. It’s a quick cordial exchange. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, even amidst the viscous liquid that engulfs me within my pod. The sensors show nothing amiss. Still.

The incoming ship lazes it way towards us, currently at about 20km straight ahead.

Without warning, the audible “lock warning” siren sounds. We’re being targetted. I urge my ship instinctively into evasive maneuvers. It doesn’t respond. I remember most systems are powered down. My HUD displays that we’re scrambled and webbed. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway.

That is when the cyno field appears. That is when I know we’re in serious trouble.

* Asghed lies within the Jayai constellation, Devoid Region – editor

My great, great grandfather was not a famous man. He loved his people. He loved his family more. He started his enlisted service in an infantry unit, before the first great war. Military life was harsh. You did what you were told, or their were reprecussions. Cleaning the latrines with a toothbrush, running until you puked, doing pushups until your arms were completely numb were some of the easier penalties. Ironically, he was thankful for these things. They instilled discipline, conditioning, quick response to command, things that would keep you alive in the battlefield. He even watched some suffer demotion for insolent behaviour. It was all with the goal of forging a unified military unit; one cohesive and deadly force.

When the great war came, we were faced with very dark and terrible times. My great great grandfather had a young wife and children at home and missed them dearly. On the frontlines, our troops were dying by the hundreds of thousands. My grandfather was a true patriot. Yet beyond that he loved his family. When his infantry unit was called upon to go to the frontlines, he knew his fate was sealed. He did not want to die. He did not want to leave his family behind. But what could he do? Duty was duty.

“There is something greater than duty.” he wrote in his journal. “Love.” He assaulted his commanding officer. Beat him good. As a result, he was thrown in the brig. He spent most of wartime there. Many accused him of being a coward. Many hoped he would die in that cell, but he didn’t. In fact, he went on to become one of the greatest military tacticians of the war, eventually achieving the rank of Colonel. That’s not my story today however.

I tell you about this great ancestor of mine so that I can relate him to our pilots of today.

We are at war. I think.

Sometimes it’s hard to tell really. I mean, my crew and I are out there every day, securing our systems, routing the enemy, destroying those we can, and I know other brave pilots and crews doing the same, but they are few and far between.

Back in my ancestor’s day, our government threw every bit of funding they had towards the war effort. There was no choice. We were on the verge of extinction, or complete slavery, a fate far worse.

In this war, the government cannot do that. They cannot supply us ships. They cannot supply us ammunition. There are trillions of our people in Minmatar space. Our new recruits complain to me all the time about this. They believe there should at least be a discount for our service. I will come back to the angering irony of that remark shortly. Even if our government were to discount us on ships and ammo, they would still have to pay the manufacturers, the miners, all the civilians involved in the process of getting us these things. To us capsuleers, isk is easy to come by. Really. A single isk would set a civilian on the good life many times over, yet you whine for a discount?

We are immortal. We are revered. We are capsuleers.

Now back to the angering irony. The militia is not some plaything. You enlisted to serve. You enlisted to bring all you have to the liberation of our enslaved brethern. You enlisted to secure our borders, to push back the Amarr incursion. You enlisted for the glory of the Republic!

Everyday, I see pilots refusing to follow orders. They can’t afford to replace their ships. They couldn’t be bothered to jump ten systems away to assist. They only feel safe if they are in a fleet of fifty or more and can attack enemy squads of two or three. The excuses are endless.

I have told you some of the things that happened in my great great grandfather’s day for this kind of insuboordination. There were reprecussions for your actions, or lack thereof. What penalty is there now?

Well, the obvious one is that Tribal Liberation Fleet Commanders are getting fed up with the new recruits. They are less and less willing to lead our fleets because they realize most of these green pilots have no sense of team. Capsuleers are an arrogant bunch. Everyone wants to be alpha. Everyone wants to be in charge and do their own thing. And none are reliable to a fleet commander engaged in this war. The Amarr thank you.

Another consequence is that we are seeing great withdraws from our militia. Pilots, tired of being on the front lines with no support coming. They abandon their posts, desert the military, and they are the ones called traitors. I think it’s the ones left behind, still in our militia, that should be branded as such. Had they done their jobs, those who were doing their jobs wouldn’t have felt so alone and betrayed.

If I were in charge, there were would be penalties. If you refused the order of a superior officer, that officer could flag you as insuboordinate, ground your ship and crew, and penalize you where it obviously hurts the most, your precious isk. How do you like me now? You can’t fly. That means no isk. I take away some of your isk. That means no isk. You think our universe is too harsh to you now? Be thankful I am not in charge.

I have spoken with my fellow fleet commanders. Not one of us buys into the excuses. Every fleet we have flown with has aided in covering the expenses of ship and fitting losses, whether personally from the FC or from group donations.

Really, there is no excuse for our pilots except cowardice. Give me ten willing and able crews over fifty skittish, isk worried pilots and crews anyday. I need to know that when an order is given, it will be followed. Period.

So where does that leave us? I honestly do not know. It is heavy on my heart. I cannot win this war alone, yet I will try with my very last breath if that is what it takes. I know what is to be a Minmatar. A Minmatar goes the distance, regardless of cost.

As my ancestor said, duty is second only to love. My duty is to the Republic. My love is for our people.

Come get some.

It was a typical first day back from RNR. The crew was anxious, as was I. Time off is pleasant and all, but I yearn to be back in the thick of things. I got my choice of assignment this time round, a rare treat. I chose a destroyer, a Thrasher that had only seen a handful of flights. We were to go into contested systems deep in dead space, off the beaten path of the war. It would seem the Amarr had been delving deeper and deeper into our territories.

We traversed the expanse to our destination without encountering a single soul. No merchant ships. No war targets. We began our sweep of the planets. Nothing.

We moved to an adjacent system. No contacts. Once again, we began scanning down the planets. A blip. No wait, nothing. Another full sweep with no results.

Third system. Maybe this one’s the charm?

Planet I. Clear. Planet II. Clear. Planet III…

15 seconds from a full analysis, a Taranis warps in on top of us. Locked and scrambled instantly. Shields already down one third. Systems seem sluggish.

I order the gunners to fire back, put up a fight. I know we have no chance. I urge the ship to start plotting a course for the nearest moon. I give the impulse for all hands evacuation.

The ship blows. My pod is intact. I align towards the locked moon. No response. My pod is scrambled. How could that happen so quickly?

A bright flash. I awake, gasping for air, in a Tribal Liberation Force cloning capsule fifteen systems away. It is quiet. The sounds of war still ring in my mind.

How did this happen? My mind instantly recalls the blip that I had disgarded as pilot error. Was it more than that? Had someone sabotaged my pod? Mutiny? Perhaps Red Shirt #5 had friends amongst the crew. Perhaps it was more? Maybe he was a spy?

I shake my head clear of the quickly forming multiple conclusions until I have at least an informed hypothesis to go on. My crew was dead.

I squeeze my eyes closed. It never gets easy losing a crew. As a capsuleer we enjoy more than just the physical isolation our pods afford us. More than immortality. We have mental walls that protect us from gazing upon the deaths of the loyal men and women under our command. We don’t hear their screams. We don’t see their bodies implode in the coldness of space, or get blown apart by enemy fire. They are the lucky ones. Their fate at least is instant. They aren’t scooped up into enemy cargo holds to be drugged into submissive slaves by our enemy.

We aren’t the ones who make the calls to loved ones, informing them of the valiant and noble deaths made by our Minmatar soldiers. The children that cry knowing their parent will never be coming home again.

I open my eyes, anger flashing before me. It’s not about the hundreds of millions in lost implants. It’s not about the months of physical training gone to waste. It’s not about another ship blown to salvage. It’s about the people. That is why we fight. That is where the heart of our people lay.

I am filled with anguish. I am consumed with rage. Remorse.

I will make things right. I swear it.

Ever have a hangover so bad you just want to kill anyone and everyone who comes within your immediate radius? Ever have such a throbbing headache that you want to puke your guts out when the motion sensing lights come on in your quarters as you roll over to drag yourself out of bed? Ever have that annoying shipmate who just insists on trying to cheer you up, won’t piss off, and just seems to yell every word he says?

I had one.

I woke up this morning with the worst hangover I can remember. Must’ve been a good night, but damned if I could tell you anything about it. Thankfully, I woke up alone. I’ll never forget that time I went on a bender and woke up with three achuri females in bed with me the next morning, but that’s a tale for another time.

This morning, I dragged my sorry ass into the shower, threw on some clean smelling clothes, and headed towards my pod. We had powered down under cover of an asteroid field in our issued Huginn, on day three of a five day recon mission. Recon can be relaxing and today was the perfect day for some relaxation.

As I made my way to the bridge, I received the usual salutes, a few smiles of pride at my shiny new Talon Commander pin, but for the most part, my crew was busy with their preflight checks. I had trained them well, and had no doubts in any of their abilities.

There was a new face today however. I’m sure he told me his name but don’t ask; I can’t remember. He wore our standard security uniform, with his red shirt blazing underneath. It hurt my eyes. His constant yammering hurt my ears.

I was checking over my pod with Aura, making sure everything was in optimal condition, and “red shirt # 5”, as I had already come to call him, was doing his best to impress irritate me.

Maybe it was the hangover. Maybe it was something else entirely; let’s call it fate. After some choice words to red shirt #5, I somehow ended up at the airlock controls, him stripped naked in the airlock. Next thing I know he’s floating through space in front of our ship. There he was, floating peacefully, content, for all eternity. The bastard.

I quickly got into my pod. If I wasn’t going to get any peace, any contentment, then neither was he. The crew worked quickly to release the anchoring cables which secured us to a nearby asteroid. Powering up the reactor, I bumped him. Then I bumped again. It brought a pure and joyous smile to my face, and suddenly my hangover didn’t seem so bad.

I think I may have found a new hobby.

So I am currently testing a beta app for an iPhone Skillwatcher by PyjamaSam ( a fellow Minmatar). It’s very basic so far, but it works!!! Also did up some designs for the developer, and  hopefully the two of us can polish this up into an official App Store application.

Here’s one example mockup I did:

You can see more photos of this project in Roc’s Reels.

What an attractive title to today’s little ditty.

So I’m still enjoying my shore leave, taking in sights, sounds and smells most people never have the pleasure of enjoying. It’s been a great experience so far.

Contrarily, I am still a crotchety old man. A stick in the mud. That hasn’t changed.

Please don’t misunderstand the following statement. I like my people. I am proud to be one of the fortunate souls in the Minmatar Republic. Even if they are pigs.

I was waiting for the station monorail to arrive earlier today ( I seem to spend a lot of time waiting for transports), when a random citizen caught my attention. He was unwrapping some type of nutrition bar, and discarded the wrapper on the platform. This in and of itself is a whole other rant about saving the environment, etc, etc, but that isn’t what I want to talk about right now. If you were to look literally two feet to the right of this civvie, there was a waste disposal unit. Laziness knows no bounds.

Boy did I see red. When I think of why I fight for our people, it’s for all the freedoms we enjoy at a very high cost. One of my ancestors was in the original Eve wars, so through every generation since, it’s always been ingrained into my family to have a great sense of honour and pride in every little thing that makes us the people are. One thing we are NOT is lazy.

Being the person I am, I decided to rectify the situation. I walked over to the civilian, picked up the wrapper from the ground, and began a polite dialogue:

Roc: You seemed to have dropped this my friend.
Ignorant Civilian Cuss: What?
Roc: There’s a waste bin right there. I figured you just didn’t see it. (See how nice I am?)
ICS: Fuck you.
Roc<fuming mad>: I’m sorry. I must not have heard you correctly, civilian.
ICS: I said fuck you capsuleer. Who the hell do you think you are anyway? Are you part of the garbage police now or something? Don’t you have anything better to do with your goddamned time? Piss off.
Roc: Actually, you’re right. I do have something better to do.

At that point, I grabbed the insolent little whelp by the back of his hair, making sure my hand was solid against the roots before squeezing into a fist. As he screamed a little, involuntarily standing on his tiptoes as I knew his body would, I grabbed with my other hand at the belt buckle, and moved to our right. Stepping on the “Open” pedal for the disposal unit, I then forcefully shoved the little pissant into the opening. It was actually quite the tight squeeze and I broke out in a mild sweat from the effort. As the flap closed, a satisfying swoosh sounded, and I knew that somewhere, either stuck in a tube, or in a pile of refuse, this civilian had learned a valuable lesson.

Don’t litter.

I turned back to wait for the monorail, smirking contentedly, when I noticed an older woman staring at me, drinking some Quafe. I let the smile leave my face, and let my brow drop into a stern look. I’ve never seen an old lady move to a waste receptacle so fast.

It’s good to have an influence.