The familiar burn of Quafe Ultra seared down Roc’s throat, chasing away the metallic taste that always lingered after a night of too many cigars and too little sleep. Outside his hole-in-the-wall establishment tucked into the forgotten corner of a station somewhere in low security space – the reinforced viewport displayed an asteroid belt being pelted by a micrometeorite shower, tiny impacts flashing like distant lightning against the dark canvas of space.
The bar itself was a symphony of contradictions – polished durasteel countertops juxtaposed with worn metal walls scarred by decades of use. The scent of exotic Caldari whiskeys mingled with Amarrian spiced rum, overlaid with the distinct smell of gun oil, reactor coolant, and the rich aroma of Brutor tribal tobacco that wafted from his cigar. In the background, the station’s recycling systems hummed a constant, mechanical lullaby – a sound that had become as familiar to Roc as his own heartbeat.
Roc Wieler ran calloused fingers over his facial tattoo, tracing the intricate Brutor pattern that stretched from his left temple down to his jawline. The ink had faded slightly over the decades, but the meaning remained – freedom earned through blood. He’d gotten it days after joining the uprising at thirteen, fresh from breaking his chains. Some nights, like tonight, he could still feel the phantom weight around his wrists.
“Hello, ladies,” he rumbled to the empty bar, his voice echoing against the worn metal walls. The phrase escaped without thought, a habit from a different life. He checked the time – 0300 station standard. Three hours until the local miners and mercenaries would begin trickling in.
His gaze drifted to a small patch mounted behind the bar – the stylized snowflake emblem of Stay Frosty partly hidden behind a row of bottles. Few knew of his honorary membership in the pirate corporation, and he preferred it that way. The association gave him access to information networks that most retired militia members could only dream of.
The private comm unit beneath the bar pinged. Only five people in New Eden had that frequency.
“Wieler,” he answered, muscles tensing instinctively. Despite his retirement, his forearms still rippled with the dense muscle of a seasoned powerlifter. His chest and shoulders remained massive, even as his midsection had softened slightly with age and a bartender’s lifestyle.
“Been a while, Colonel.” The voice belonged to Tarek, a former squad mate from his militia days.
“Not a Colonel anymore,” Roc replied, reaching for a cigar from the carved wooden box beside the ancient projectile casing he used as an ashtray. The tobacco was a special blend from the southern plains of Matar – earthy with hints of sweetness and spice. “What’s the emergency?”
“Mynxee’s ship went dark near Providence. Last transmission mentioned Angel Cartel activity. Somewhere in the H6-CX8 constellation, close to D61A-G.”
The cigar snapped between Roc’s fingers, tobacco spilling across the polished bar top. His heart hammered against his ribs – a sensation he hadn’t felt since his last firefight years ago.
“Details. Now.” His voice had transformed, the easy-going bartender replaced by the commanding officer who had led fleets through the blood-soaked battles of factional warfare.
“She was investigating some tech smuggling operation. Had intel the Angels were moving Sleeper artifacts. The region’s been even more unstable since those Triglavian incursions reshuffled everything. Her Jaguar’s transponder went offline eighteen hours ago.”
Roc’s mind raced through calculations. Providence. Angel Cartel. Mynxee. That fiery red dreadlocks that smelled of engine grease and wildflowers. The woman who had seen past his bravado to the wounded warrior beneath. The only one who understood why he had walked away from it all.
“Send me the coordinates,” he said finally. “And don’t tell anyone. Not even Stay Frosty.”
After ending the transmission, Roc moved with methodical precision. He activated the bar’s security protocols with a few taps on his datapad, the holographic sign at the entrance flickering to “Closed for Restocking.” Behind the false panel in his private quarters, the capsuleer implants at the base of his skull hummed to life for the first time in years, sending sharp pinpricks of pain down his spine as dormant neural pathways reawakened.
He pressed his palm against another hidden section of wall, and started his dormant capsule’s bootup sequence. He quickly stripped out of his clothes, as hungry tubing moved towards him from his aged capsule, eager to be united once again. He caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror – older, harder around the edges, softer around the middle but still impressively muscled from his daily weight training regimen, the lines around his eyes deeper. But his gaze held the same intensity it had when he’d commanded fleets.
Minutes later, Roc stood in the forgotten hangar bay adjacent to his establishment. Dust covers draped over the sleek form of the Ripsack. His fingers trembled slightly as he punched in some keys on a nearby console, the protective sheeting pulling away, revealing the scarred hull of the Rifter that had carried him through countless battles. Beside it sat his Republic Fleet Firetail – a reminder of his service, a gift he’d never wanted.
“Sorry for the neglect, old friend,” he murmured, running his hand along the Rifter’s hull. The ship’s systems activated sluggishly, like an old warrior rousing from deep slumber. Warning indicators flashed across the diagnostic panel – misaligned autocannons, outdated targeting systems, and depleted shield emitters. The ship was in no condition for combat. The Firetail, however, had been maintained by automated systems. It would have to do.
As the ship prepared for launch, consuming his capsule like its favorite fruit, Roc accessed an encrypted channel he hadn’t used in years. Contacts across four empires – favors owed, debts unpaid. Information was the most valuable commodity in New Eden, and Roc had amassed a fortune.
“One last time,” he whispered to himself as the hangar doors groaned open, revealing the vast emptiness of space. The Firetail’s micro warp drive ignited with a roar that vibrated through his bones, its dual 200mm autocannons spinning up with a satisfying whir as the targeting systems came online.
The capsule fluid flooded around him, invading his lungs with familiar, suffocating pressure. The momentary panic – a primal fear that never fully disappeared no matter how many times he’d done this – gave way to a rush of sensory expansion as his implants fully engaged. His consciousness merged with the ship, the neural interface flooding his mind with data – radiation levels, gravitational anomalies, electromagnetic readings. Through the Firetail’s sensors, Roc felt the universe expand around him – stars, stations, gates, and the distant signatures of other vessels. The targeting systems highlighted a dozen potential threats in the vicinity, but none posed an immediate danger.
Providence was Angel Cartel territory – dangerous even for a capsuleer. But Roc Wieler had survived slavery, rebellion, and the meat grinder of factional warfare. He had carried comrades from cracked pods while their blood soaked his uniform. He had executed Amarr slavers with his bare hands.
For Mynxee, he would face worse.
“There are no new battles,” Roc muttered to himself as the ship aligned toward the first jump gate, its navigation system plotting the fastest route through the D61A-G system. “Just the same old ones with different ships.”
And this time, he wasn’t fighting for a flag, a faction, or even freedom. He was fighting for the only thing that had ever truly mattered.
ROC'S RAMBLINGS 