The Defias Blog

Sacrifice

Havohej — Wed, 20 May 2009 07:43:23 +0000

The young man glanced furtively over his shoulder before ducking around the corner into the alleyway. It was dark here, and damp, but he knew he was long past any concerns of physical comfort. The sound of his footfalls was largely masked by the constant, overbearing thrum of heavy machinery from the Camal IX Water Treatment facility nearby. He had a very important job to do in service to a cause greater than himself; he wondered if his name would ever be remembered, but even if it wasn’t he knew his sacrifice would be remembered as the act of a hero — a true Minmatar.

He dropped to one knee and slung the heavy satchel off his back. It was an old bag and he had to fumble with the zipper a little to get it open. No use bothering to replace it now, anyway. He removed his grey WT cap from the bag and put it on, but for now he just slung the grey uniform shirt over his shoulder. He had been told that the small but weighty blocks were molded from the most potent non-nuclear explosive known throughout the cluster. They’d said that his own death would be swift and painless and that the sheer force of the shock wave would most likely see to it that the deaths of his co-workers was equally humane. The object here wasn’t to inflict direct human suffering, after all. The target was the water treatment facility itself.

The man who had spoken to him said that the only way to fully liberate those still trapped in the Mandate was to force the Amarr to abandon the Mandate; the way to do this was to make the Mandate more trouble than it was worth. The way to do that, they said, was to give the people sufficient cause for uprising and revolt. And nothing pisses people off more than a lack of clean, running water…

“Early this morning, an explosion rocked the water treatment facility on the Ammatar Fleet Testing Facilities outpost at Camal IX in Derelik. Authorities are still investigating, but preliminary reports indicate the presence of high explosive residue which suggests that the explosion was no mere accident. Authorities have not released casualty numbers at this time. However, the water treatment facility’s duty roster lists eighteen employees scheduled for work during the shift in which the incident took place.

Representatives for Nurtura, the corporation which operated the facility, estimate nearly 13 billion ISK worth of damages and just under a month’s worth of clean-up and construction. Due to the location within the plant that the explosion originated from, not a single system at the facility was left unaffected. Nurtura Distribution Manager Thisb Intahra promises that shipments of fresh water are already underway, but says that it’s unlikely running water services will be restored to the outpost before the end of the month.”

–Ladri Reliari, Amarr Certified News Correspondent

When Havohej turned from the wall monitor in his office, his face was clouded over with a troubled expression. He knew that most of the people remaining in the Mandate were loyalists who had chosen not to make use of the opportunity afforded them by the Elders’ surprise attack months before. But he also knew that there were others, like the young man who had sacrificed himself to destroy the water treatment facility, who were less fortunate than that. Eighteen people, minus his operative, left seventeen; of those seventeen people, he wondered, how many might have been innocent? Still, he thought, better seventeen innocent men die for their people than seventeen million Minmatar be abandoned to slavery-by-proxy under some half-assed vassal of the Empire.

He had found several believers in the Mandate, and they would find him several more until he had the makings of a revolt. He had to let them do their job and concentrate on his own, which was to challenge and harass the capsuleers of the Ammatar Mandate and Amarr Empire and hopefully find others like himself — capsuleers who could see the Mandate for what it still was and who were willing to do whatever it took to cause trouble for them, their Amarr masters and anyone else who would support them. But Havohej knew that he would need support.

Over the last two weeks, the CEO of Du’uma Fiisi Integrated Astrometrics had made contact with the diplomats of several well-known, powerful capsuleer corporations and alliances, and he still had several more on his list. He had made no mention of his specific intentions, or the methods that he intended to employ in reaching his goals. Only that his primary objective was the betterment of the Minmatar people, wherever they may be. From one such discussion it became clear that, in order to garner the support of the more mainstream organizations he would need for DF1AS to establish a record of activity as well as proficiency. If people were to look the other way regarding his organization’s less socially acceptable methods, they would need sufficient reason. There was only one way to do that…

Havohej walked back to his desk and sat down. He reached for the intercom on his desk and instructed his secretary to put him in contact with his friend in the Republic Fleet Surveillance Division, Lt. Jaerl Orn. Less than five minutes later, Orn’s troubled face stared out at him from the wall monitor across the room.

“Havohej,” the officer said, “I hope you’re not going to tell me you had anything to do with Camal.”

“Why would I do that?” the capsuleer replied coolly. “I called to ask you about the TLF.” Lt. Orn was visibly surprised by this.

“The Tribal Liberation Force? I thought you said you weren’t interested in joining the militia.”

“Yes, I did say that,” the capsuleer acknowledged. “However, things have changed. I want to enlist Du’uma Fiisi immediately.” His hard eyes shifted toward the office’s huge window, his glare set upon all those Caldari and Ammarians coming and going as they pleased, making their fortunes off of the Minmatar People right here in Molden Heath. “For the time being, I am a servant of the Republic.”

Whispers

Havohej — Wed, 29 Apr 2009 20:59:11 +0000

“Du’uma Fiisi Integrated Astrometrics seems a straightforward enough corporation. With the discovery of the first wormholes, they look to be just another start-up vying for a small piece of the multi-trillion ISK in potential profits to be gained from exploration of this new, unknown frontier. Spending much of their time in covert ops frigates or recon cruisers, their capsuleers seem well-equipped to face the dangers of w-space while taking as few risks as possible — just like everyone else seeking to make their fortune on the unknown. There are whispers, however, that DF1AS’ goals may not be as clear as they’d have us believe.

Their CEO, a Sebiestor known as Havohej (birth name unknown at the time of this report), is known to have pirated for some time in Derelik, Domain, The Citadel, The Forge and several other regions in the cluster. After being labeled as an outlaw and rated -10.0 by CONCORD’s DED, he fled empire for the lawless reaches of nullsec space; Havohej spent time in Omist, Curse, Outer Ring and Deklein before vanishing without a trace. Having not been seen for months, it was presumed that he’d met his final death on some obscure pirate outpost somewhere far, far from the safety of empire space. Then, just recently, he was spotted by one of our agents on the Thukker outpost in M-MD3B, apparently travelling in secrecy. What he was doing there is not known at the time of this report.

A few weeks after his visit to Great Wildlands, Havohej emerged once again in Molden Heath, this time as the founder and CEO of Du’uma Fiisi Integrated Astrometrics. DF1AS has not made any official announcement of intent, but rumors among the hangar crews in Gulfonodi where Havohej seems to have made his base of operations suggest that they’ve been stockpiling equipment and ammunition in preparation for some sort of offensive. While it’s certainly possible that this equipment is meant for use in w-space, the CEO’s history makes this improbable. However, given the very small size of the DF1AS corporation, it is unlikely that Havohej and his followers will be able to execute anything larger than a very minor pirate operation and as such, it is our assessment that the threat posed by this particular start-up is minor at worst.”

– Kaalakiota Corporation Senior Security Consultant

Havohej set the datapad down and turned his eyes toward the large picture window. There was much activity here at the Republic Fleet’s Gulfonodi X - 13 station; lots of movement for him and his operatives to blend in with. Unfortunately in New Eden there were always plenty of other people blending in as well and there was always the risk of being discovered whether you wanted to be or not. He turned his tired, yellow eyes back to his visitor.

“You’ve done very well to bring me this,” the capsuleer said. “Knowing that my movements are still being monitored will effect the way I do business. Has there been any mention of me in the Amarr Empire?”

“Not that I’ve heard of, friend.” The visitor, Jaerl Orn, was wearing a Republic Fleet uniform; his rank insignia identified him as a lieutenant. His security clearance was slightly higher than most lieutenants, though, as he was attached to the Surveillance division. Havohej had done a lot of work for this man in the past, not all of it official, and the two had developed a close working relationship over the years.

“Good. Hopefully I can keep it that way for a little while longer…” The capsuleer looked out again at Gulfonodi… at Molden Heath… at his peoples’ home. In dozens of systems, there were planets, moons and colonies full of people who wanted nothing more than to be free. Free of pain, free of fear, free from the uncertainty brought on by the continued hostilities between the Empires. But the fighting brought billions upon billions of ISK in profit to so many corporations across New Eden that it looked impossible that there would ever be a real end to the war. And to make matters worse, the conflict distracted his people from what Havohej felt was a more important goal: bringing the seven tribes together again.

Millions of Nefantar and Starkmanir refugees huddled in the Wildlands, waiting for the Republic to open its doors. Sanmatar Shakor was doing everything in his power, even going so far as to conduct meetings in secret with Thukker leaders, but every public effort seemed to be met with subtle opposition. Of course, none of the politicians would come right out and say they didn’t want anything to do with the Thukkers or the refugees, but when every last cent of ISK that could be directed toward relief efforts and finding a place for the displaced Minmatar to call their own was pushed back into the war effort it was hard to believe that everyone involved has their people’s best interests at heart.

“No…,” Havohej mused, “they certainly don’t.”

“I’m sorry?” Lieutenant Orn said, not knowing what to make of the capsuleer’s mumbling. Havo blinked once and then visibly returned to the here-and-now.

“Nothing,” he said with a little shake of his head, as if to impart that it really was just a trifle. “Thank you for showing this to me, Jaerl. I can’t share my plans with you for fear of putting our friendship at risk by jeopardizing your career, but know that I am going to need friends like you more than ever in the coming months.”

The surveillance officer nodded and they both stood up. The capsuleer shook hands with the man and accompanied him to the office door. As soon as the door slid shut behind the departing visitor, Havohej returned to his seat. After a few moments’ thought, he reached for the intercom button on his desk. “Get me Wisler.” Jama’al Wisler was a Thukker he’d met on a pilgrimage to the Great Wildlands a few months before. The man had put him in contact with an old man who was instrumental in helping the pod pilot find his way. In return for this, Havohej had promised to get Wisler a posting somewhere in the Republic Fleet, which Lieutenant Orn had been happy to do for him. Now Wisler was assigned to a small patrol of frigates monitoring the border between the Republic and the Caldari State in Metropolis. Apparently they weren’t very busy, as it didn’t take long before Wisler’s likeness was projected above his desk.

“Havo! You never call me anymore; I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

“Of course not. How goes it on border patrol?”

“Quiet,” the frigate captain replied. Behind him, Havohej could make out two other men on the Slasher’s bridge. “I’d rather have been stationed on the Bleak Lands or Devoid border.”

“I’m sure you would, Wisler,” the capsuleer sympathised. “But maybe you can still do some good along the less-violent Caldari border…”

“Whatcha got in mind, podder?” Jama’al sat up a little straighter in his captain’s chair, keen on the prospect of participating in a little bit of capsuleer intrigue to break up the monotony of his Republic Fleet assignment.

“How often do you see Kaalakiota industrial convoys crossing the border in either direction?” Havo asked.

“Daily… why?”

“Kaalakiota’s intelligence division is very good at what they do. Perhaps if you could talk your squad commander into giving their tree a little shake once in a while, something interesting might fall out. Interesting enough for you to get a promotion and more exciting assignment; not to mention a gift of gratitude if it’s something that I find interesting as well.”

“Say no more,” Wisler said, nodding appreciatively. “I’ll see what I can do. Wisler out.”

Havohej stood and walked to the window. Every Amarrian and Caldari hull he saw entering and exiting the station angered him. Across the cluster, there were people — his people — suffering. Some of them still enslaved, some of them homeless, some of them not even knowing that there could be anything better for them in the world. And all the while, these enemies of his people could come and go as they pleased, right in the heart of his ancestral space. The time was quickly approaching when he would do something about it. He couldn’t make his government do the right thing, and he couldn’t wage a full-scale war against the entire Amarr Empire by himself, but he could spark a tiny light through the fog of war. Maybe if he sparked enough tiny lights, the way forward would be clear to more of his people and they would join him. Maybe… maybe not. But one thing was certain, Havohej knew.

He would kill millions of Amarrians and their collaborators along the way.

Havohej couldn’t force events to unfold any faster, and there were things he needed to have in place before he could begin his campaign in earnest. So to pass the time and ease his mind, he decided he would have to get out of the station for a while; he needed to log some pod time. He had spent much of the last week patrolling low-security Caldari, Amarr and Ammatar space in his Rapier-class force recon cruiser Zulfagar and his efforts had seen the destruction of a Cerberus-class heavy assault cruiser, but tonight he wanted to try something different. He’d come into possession of several ships of Amarrian design and rather than strip them down for scrap, he thought he might be able to put them to good use. After all, deception is another form of stealth and with what he had in mind, stealth would be of the utmost importance to success.

He had devised a number of unconventional outfittings for his new ships and was eager to test them in practical application. Unfamiliar with the feel of their interfaces, though, Havohej decided to start small; first would be Bad Juju, his Punisher-class frigate. A quick patrol of Molden Heath revealed no suspicious Amarrian or Caldari activity (thought there was a shady-looking Gallente poking about), so he set course for Derelik. The Ammatar Mandate in Havohej’s eyes was perhaps even worse than the Amarr Empire itself. The descendants of Minmatar who collaborated with the Amarrians and benefited from the suffering of their own tribesmen, today’s Ammatar may not be directly responsible for what had happened centuries before but the sins of one’s fathers leave a weighty burden not easily forgotten. In fact, some would say that their failure to rebel against their Amarrian masters after the Elder War constitutes a brand new batch of sins against their blood by the current generation of Ammatars.

In Ubtes, a quiet beep from his frigate’s long range sensors interrupted Havohej’s thoughts. There was a Hurricane-class battlecruiser somewhere nearby and it didn’t take long to narrow it down. The pilot’s record was brief, and Havohej thought it unlikely that a true Minmatar would wander so far from home on his own. Despite the Republic Military School ticker being broadcast by the Hurricane’s IFF transponder, he was suspicious. Quickly entering tight orbit around the battlecruiser, Havo activated his Bad Juju’s warp scrambler and hailed the suspicious vessel.

“Renounce all ties to the Ammatar Mandate and return to Minmatar space,” he demanded. “Now.” The Hurricane’s pilot did not respond. Giving the young capsuleer the benefit of the doubt, Havohej reiterated, “You have thirty seconds to renounce all ties to the Mandate and return to the safety of your own space, otherwise your vessel will be destroyed.” In reply, the Ammatar Hurricane pilot closed the channel and opened fire.

Staying alert for drones that were never deployed, Havohej systematically dismantled the larger vessel, worth over 100 times his own frigate. His Tech 2 autocannons quickly battered down the battlecruiser’s electromagnetic shielding with Republic Fleet EMP ammo, and after a few seconds he was pounding at the ship’s armor with advanced Barrage rounds. The battlecruiser’s 425mm autocannons weren’t able to track his frigate’s movement and the advanced Amarrian armor techonology served well to protect Bad Juju’s critical systems from the rockets and light missiles sent his way. The Punisher’s offensive systems aren’t designed to work with projectile weapons, so it took a little longer than Havohej would have liked but the end result was the removal of one Tier 2 battlecruiser from the Ammatar Mandate.

A small beginning… but a beginning nonetheless.

So much has changed…

Havohej — Mon, 27 Apr 2009 04:52:14 +0000

As long-time readers already know, I’ve been gone from EVE-Online for a good six months at least. I took my leave after the siege of Deklein was pretty much won (there were just a couple of IRON towers left in a couple of systems, but it was as good as over). This was before the Quantum Rise expansion hit and changed almost every game mechanic I built my solo and small group strategies around.

My ‘Hurrycane’ (fit mostly stolen from flashfresh) doesn’t work anymore, my Stabber Fleet Issue is about 2km/sec slower, the Rapier isn’t quite as scary… the only thing that still seems to work exactly as before (if not better) is my old Wolf fit. Once upon a time, AFs were considered absolutely useless by the majority of the playerbase, particularly the Retribution with its single mid slot. The Wolf wasn’t highly regarded, either, as it has only two mid slots and couldn’t really be made to go fast. The lack of speed especially had many people considering it to be inferior to the Rifter, its Tech 1 counterpart! But now, my old fit is considered a cookie-cutter build and the ship is widely feared - go figure.

So, in addition to largely re-learning PvP, I’m also in the process of starting a new RP-themed corporation. I apologize for the infrequency of blog updates right now, but my free time is kinda occupied. I’ll try to have something interesting to read up here in the next couple of days - hopefully it’ll be good news!

The Return (3 of 3): Crisis of Self

Havohej — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 21:49:44 +0000

Without further adieu, the conclusion of “The Return”. (+5 Internets if you recognize the cinematic reference herein).

“I wish to visit the Oasis,” Havohej said. His voice was firm, as if a challenge to any who would deny his right to visit the very heart of the Thukker Tribe.

“Why?” Surprisingly, there was no antagonism in Harun’s tone. It came forth as an honest question.

“I wish to visit my grandfather,” Havo answered.

“No, pilot,” the elderly man replied, “I mean why now? What makes you want to touch base with your Thukker roots after so many years away?”

The capsuleer’s eyes narrowed somewhat as he regarded the wealthy Thukker. He glanced over at the Brutor who had brought him to see this man, not sure if he trusted either of them enough to speak openly about his intentions. Picking up on the pod pilot’s hesitation, Harun gestured for Jama’al to wait outside in the hall. When the door clicked shut again, Harun said, “You can speak freely with me, capsuleer. There isn’t much about you that I don’t already know - it’s not often the Thukker Tribe has an offspring grow up to be a pod pilot and we tend to follow the careers of those who do with keen interest.”

The old man’s words seemed reasonable enough. Havohej decided that since this man appeared to be the conduit through which he must pass if he wanted to reach the Thukker Oasis, he was better off being honest. “I’ve lost my way,” he said. “I’ve had a taste of conquest, and it wasn’t what I desired. And now that I’ve been to the top of the mountain I sought so long to climb, and now that I’ve found that there’s really nothing up there, I don’t know what to go. For all of my money, all of my power, I feel… impotent.” As he confessed his crisis to the old man, anger slowly welled up through the words as if from a dark chasm in the capsuleer’s heart until the last word was spat more than spoken.

“I see,” Harun said thoughtfully. “And what do you think your grandfather can do to help you?”

“I don’t know,” Havo said honestly. “I haven’t anywhere else to turn. I’ve been from Omist to Deklein looking for my answers, and I’ve come up empty. The only place I haven’t looked is home, and he’s the only family I’ve got left.” Havohej’s father had been a midlevel officer in the Republic Fleet and his mother had been a half-Thukker, half-Sebiestor. His father was killed in action while he was still too young to remember the man. Shortly after Havohej graduated at the top of his Republic Military School class and just before he entered into the Republic’s Capsuleer Training Program, his mother had been on a transport ship carrying passengers from a Thukker Mix outpost in Heimatar into the Great Wildlands when it was discovered by a roaming pirate gang and destroyed. Rather than break his will, the anger and grief propelled him to excellence in the CT Program and he went on to kill more than enough Angel Cartel pirates to satisfy his lust for revenge.

His grandfather had come to his mother’s funeral service in Muttokon. He told Havohej that he was proud of him for not letting tragedy stop him from pursuing his destiny and that should Havo ever need, all he need do is seek out his family. His grandfather had then given him a Compass and explained its use. The Compass is a hard-coded, heavily encrypted chip containing the navigational data needed to locate the Oasis that activates when slotted into the vessel’s navigation systems and can only be used once. Once it gets back to the Oasis, it self-destructs and the Caravan must be issued a new one. Unfortunately, Havohej’s Compass had been destroyed when a jump through a stargate landed his cruiser in the middle of a Tech 2 Large Mobile Warp Disruptor’s field of influence. At the time, though, he thought nothing of it — he had no intention of ever taking his grandfather up on the offer anyway… until now.

“Hmm,” Harun nodded his understanding of the pod pilot’s predicament. “We Thukker are a nomadic tribe, as you know,” he said. “Many of us spend our entire lives searching for something that we never find; I understand searching.” He sat up and drew his legs in beneath himself as he considered the man standing before him. “What would you do, Havohej, if you found your grandfather but he didn’t have the answer for you either?”

“I don’t know,” Havo said. After a moment’s thought, he added, “I’d probably return to piracy.”

“Because it’s what you do, yes?” the old man prodded. “It’s what you’re good at?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“Or is it because you enjoy it?”

Havohej didn’t want to say yes. He felt he shouldn’t. On some level, there was a part of him that wasn’t so completely poisoned by the millions of deaths he had caused and that part of him understood that a person wasn’t supposed to enjoy killing. That part of him understood that if a person was to kill someone, let alone hundreds of someones aboard a starship, that there should be a valid reason. For example, defense of one’s home, furtherance of one’s nation’s goals, or championship of some grand and noble cause. It shouldn’t be just for the sake of a few million ISK. It shouldn’t be just to alleviate boredom even when you knew there was nothing to gain from it. But Havohej had resolved at the beginning of this conversation that he was going to be honest.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I enjoy it.”

“Then it sounds like you won’t find what you’re looking for at the Oasis, either,” Harun said gently. It was obvious from the capsuleer’s face that he was struggling with something, something that he’d avoided confronting for a long time. “You need the hunt; the kill. You need the thrill of it, the satisfaction of it. You see a man like you, Havohej, has got a great big hole right in the middle of him. And you can never kill enough, or steal enough, or inflict enough pain to ever fill it. And the more you kill, the more grief you mete out, the bigger and deeper that hole gets until suddenly it’s in danger of swallowing you whole.” Harun’s dark eyes seemed to take the measure of the pilot’s very soul. “That’s where you are now,” he guessed.

Havohej turned away from the merchant. He walked over to one of the numerous small bureaus around the edges of the room to take a closer look at a fine ivory statuette. It was of a pair of Achuran White Song Birds. Once symbolic of the Achuran Empire, these rare and beautiful creatures were often given as diplomatic gifts between powers seeking to cement alliances and so had come to be regarded as a symbol of peace. He could afford to buy hundreds of the rare birds, but if what the old man said was true — and he could find no words to argue against it — they’d be as close as he would ever come to peace.

“If what you say is true, then what am I supposed to do about it?” Havo demanded of the merchant-turned-wiseman. “How do I avoid falling in? How do I avoid insanity?”

“You must find a reason to kill,” Harun replied. “You must find a purpose with which to support your destructive acts. You need a cause. Something more than yourself.”

Havohej’s laughter was bitter, nearly venomous. “Like what? The Republic? Republic never gave me anything I didn’t have to kill for, and usually by the thousands! I don’t care any more about the Republic than they care about me or any of the thousands of other capsuleers who handle their dirty work.”

“Then don’t do it for the Republic. Do it for your people,” Harun offered. “There are Minmatar suffering throughout New Eden, Havohej. You saw some of them for yourself right here on the colony. There are hundreds of millions more still trapped within the Empire. You don’t have to tie yourself to an artificial authority to make your actions count for something! Whether you like the Republic or not, whether you agree with Sanmatar Shakor’s actions or not, promoting greater unity between the seven tribes enriches us all.” Harun stood up and moved a little closer to the capsuleer. “And, just maybe, if you can find a way to fit a little bit of good into the destruction you might not feel so trapped by it all.”

As Havohej walked along the observation deck overlooking the cavernous hangar, proximity sensors activated the huge lighting arrays on the walls and ceiling one by one. He looked down at the ships assembled there. A Wolf-class assault frigate, a Hurricane-class battlecruiser, a Hound-class stealth bomber, a Cheetah-class covert operations frigate and his most recent acquisition, a Rapier-class force recon cruiser. Everything was just as he’d left it; nobody had set foot in this hangar for months. It was time to breathe life back into these dormant hulls. He never did make it to the Oasis, but now he thought it was probably for the best. His talk with the Thukker merchant Harun had helped him to understand himself a little better. He was a scoundrel, a thief and a murderer. He didn’t want to rule the cluster like he once thought, he merely wanted to destroy things. Well, now that destruction would have a focus, however loose.

He would go on doing what he’d been doing, only now he would be more selective of his targets. He didn’t kid himself, though; he knew he wasn’t going to dive headlong into the factional conflict raging between the four empires. He was never going to be a hero about whom tales were spun and songs were sung in the streets. But he would find his targets of opportunity here and there and he would make a serious effort not to hinder any progress the Thukkers made toward bringing the seven tribes of Matar closer together; maybe if a real trust could be reached between the tribes, the Republic could become something different… something better. Perhaps while he pursued his own interests he could even find ways to be a thorn in the side of those who opposed the Thukkers’ goals. After all, a Thukker had given him more than the Republic (or anyone else) ever had: a sense of purpose.

Havohej’s crisis of self was over.

The Return (2 of 3): Out of Place

Havohej — Sun, 19 Apr 2009 18:07:53 +0000

Yesterday I published the beginning of this short story detailing Havohej’s return to action in New Eden. Here is the second part of the story, Out of Place. The third and final installment will be posted tomorrow. Enjoy!

The Trust Partners Warehouse in M-MD3B was a much more active place than Havohej expected it to be. The spaceport was crowded with open berths in short supply and there were people everywhere! Forced to push and shove past one another to get where they were going, literally thousands of Minmatar were conducting various types of business here along with a few scattered Gallente and Caldari traders. As soon as the passengers emerged from the airlock, there were no less than a dozen guides clamoring for their attention, promising the “lowest rates to be found this side of Egbinger!” As the crowd from their transport dispersed into the throng, Wisler and Havohej found each other.

“There’s no need to hire a taxi,” Wisler said. “The colony isn’t far.” The Brutor struck off into the crowd and Havohej had to hurry not to lose track of him in the press of bodies. They fought their way through to the other side of the primary corridor and Wisler turned to pass through a narrow, dimly-lit alleyway. Noting the capsuleer’s suspicious hesitation he said, “Trust me or not - your choice. You could always take your chances with the Angels.” Wisler nodded in the direction of a Ghalen pastry stand on the plaza where two men wearing Angel colors were standing. Eyes narrowed, the pod pilot followed his dubious guide into the shadows.

Havohej stumbled once or twice on unseen obstacles before his eyes began to adjust and he made a point of not considering the nature of the sludge he felt beneath his boots. At least the overwhelming stench was of machine oil and reprocessed air instead of the myriad other things it could have been. The path Wisler chose saw them through so many twists, turns and cut-backs that the podder found himself struggling to maintain some sense of direction. At times he’d swear there were eyes in the darkness, marking their passage though he could see no one. Finally, after what seemed like hours, the Brutor led him to the mouth of a dead-end street deep in the heart of the Thukker colony.

“Wait here,” Jama’al told him, “and try to keep out of sight.”

Havo started to question this, then thought better of it. He’d had dealings with some nefarious figures in his lifetime and understood the old truism ‘everything ain’t for everybody’ better than most. He simply nodded and walked back a ways up the path they’d come down. As nervous minutes ticked by, he was more and more pleased with himself that he’d chosen to wear dark, nondescript clothing. At least two people shuffled past him through the darkness, taking no notice of his presence. Finally, the Brutor emerged. Havohej considered him for a few moments, examining his body language to determine whether there may might be some betrayal at work. The longer he waited, Wisler seemed to become impatient more than anything else. Havo waved his arm and the movement caught his guide’s attention.

“You’ve secured passage to the Oasis?” he asked when Wisler was within earshot. He was perturbed when the man shook his head.

“No, but I got us some protection,” he replied. He pulled the bottom of his leather jacket aside and produced a small automatic pistol. The design was crude but effective, a drastically miniaturized version of the autocannons he armed his spacecraft with. With a 30-round box-type magazine, the primary differences were that it fired 10mm projectiles rather than 425mm and that these projectiles were not irradiated. The capsuleer checked the magazine to satisfy himself that it was indeed loaded and then tucked the weapon into his waistband.

“I appreciate your thoroughness, but why is this necessary?” Havohej demanded. “You know the Angels want my blood, so just avoid them!” It wasn’t that the pod pilot was scared to get into a confrontation, just that he knew his strengths were best suited to spaceships. His enhanced perception might help his marksmanship, his augmented willpower might allow him to push through more pain than the average man, but that didn’t make him an action hero. He’d just as soon not run into any trouble while he was here.

“Oh, don’t worry ’bout that,” Jama’al said reassuringly, “we passed as close as we gonna pass to any Angel cats when I pointed ‘em out at the pastry stand.” He lowered his voice a little, stepping closer to his erstwhile captain to say, “Ever since the Elders liberated the Nefantar and Starkmanir from the Mandate, shit’s been a little tense. Republic won’t take ‘em and the Thukkers can’t very well send them back, so there are millions of ‘em crowded into these outpost colonies - and they were crowded enough already!” He started walking again and motioned for Havohej to follow, speaking as they went. Now that they were armed, Havo noticed that the Brutor seemed much less concerned with stealth than he had been previously.

“Make matters worse, many of ‘em didn’t even have time to grab a change of clothes or something to valuable to barter with; you know ISK don’t mean that much to these Thukkers, right? At least, not as much as it means to the rest of the cluster. So now, there’s like this entire civilization of people with their weird, twisted, half-brainwashed ideals tryin’ to figure out how to get along with ‘real’ Minmatar again. Then you got the natives…” Jama’al brought them out of the alleyways onto a wide street lined with residential apartments. There were people gathered in the alcoves, under awnings and makeshift lean-tos — people everywhere. Some of them even had fires lit in waste barrels for warmth in the cold, dank corridors that passed for streets in this poor sector of the colony.

“At first, the Thukkers were ecstatic to have the Nefantar and Starkmanir returned to their people. Every transport and shuttle full of Nefs and Starkies was met with welcome and celebration; the Thukkers welcomed the poor liberated souls with open hearts and open arms. Chief Aeboul extended every courtesy.” The man’s tone changed as he continued; he sounded almost sad. “Then things started getting strained. The Reppies were dragging their feet on setting up protocols to ensure the reunited tribes could be re-assimilated into Minmatar society, so weeks turned into months and supplies started to run thin what with a few million MORE mouths to feed. And since most of the refugees are broke, naturally they do what they gotta do to get by. Unfortunately, that means they’re getting by at the Thukkers’ expense and that don’t fly, see? So it leads to conflict. Now you get animosities buildin’ and a situation where there ain’t really nothin’ anybody can do about it ’til the Republic figures itself out about takin’ all these people off our hands.

“Tension around here’s so thick you can run your fingers through it,” Jama’al told him. “And around this time of night, when they start to dim the lights on the colony, it can be a very dangerous place.”

As they went forward through the streets toward the central Grand Qariyyah where Wisler said he could get Havohej in touch with people who would take him to the Oasis, Havo paid more attention to the unfortunate people they passed. With Wisler’s explanation, he could see them now in a new light. He, too, had expected good things for them when news of the Elder fleet’s actions reached him in Deklein. Though he wasn’t closely tied to goings on in Empire space, he felt genuinely pleased that so many people had been set free from the Amarr Empire and Ammatar Mandate. Never once had he considered that their suffering might not so easily be at an end.

He was distracted from these thoughts when he saw his guide reach behind his back for the automatic tucked beneath his belt. Immediately he saw the cause for Jama’al’s alarm: two lean young men with hungry eyes had begun walking toward them and the look in their eyes was short of friendly. When they saw the Brutor’s defensive gesture, though, they quickly turned their attention elsewhere and made an effort of looking as if they weren’t about to try to rob the two pedestrians.

Fortunately, that was the closest they would come to trouble in their journey. Wisler relaxed and said no more as he led the rest of the way to the marketplace. Havohej ruminated over what he had seen and heard thus far on the Trust Partners outpost at M-MD3B.

The Grand Qariyyah was a different world from the poor sector in which the Refugees has been housed, yet it was also very different from the primary trade corridor at the spaceport. Here, Thukkers met to trade their wares and everything was available from pieces of fine, hand-crafted decorative pottery to more practical things like clothing and fresh foodstuffs. There were even kiosks set up where merchants were trading industrial goods from tritanium to ferrogel. But the shops and stands weren’t what you’d expect of a New Eden space station; there were no whisper-quiet automatic doors, no holographic spokeswomen spewing sales pitches at every passer-by. This place was just as crowded as the primary trade corrider, though — perhaps even moreso. But the marketplace seemed to have retained its customary Thukker flavor inspite of (because of?) all of the intertribal drama taking place over the last few months in the Great Wildlands. These shops were smaller, more intimate affairs with open doors and long tables set up beneath thin colored canapies of some soft, wispy material which smoothed and filtered the bright lights overhead in ways that were flattering to the products on display beneath them.

Jama’al stoped in front of one such tent and told Havohej to wait for him out front. Havo watched Wisler exchange a familiar embrace and friendly words with the shopkeeper and then they both turned to look at him. Havohej couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he could see that their dialogue had gone instantly from that of a fond reuinion to something far less cordial and far more secretive. At length, the bearded shopkeeper nodded and Jama’al beckoned the capsuleer to follow him through a doorway which seemed to be guarded by nothing more than a hanging curtain of light metal beads which clanged together musically as the men passed through into the hallway beyond. As Wisler led him down a flight of stairs, Havohej caught the scent of some exotic incense being burned and the sound of unusual music playing just loud enough to cover the thrum of heavy machinery ever-present on a space colony.

At the bottom of the stairwell, they turned a corner and met two armed men guarding a single door. Jama’al handed over his pistol butt first and turned his back to the men, holding his arms out at his side to let one of the guards perform a pat search. Havohej followed the Brutor’s lead and when the guard was satisfied, the other opened the door for them. The room beyond was like something out of One Thousand and One Nights, all ornate and pillowy cushions, tapestried walls and bright candlelight. One could almost forget that he was aboard a vast and sprawling space station in this room. Reclining on the largest pile of cushions was a tall, olive-skinned Thukker with a shaven head and a long, greying beard. His attire was that of a wealthy trader, much more contemporary than the room’s decor. His eyes met with Havohej’s and there was a spark of interest there that made the capsuleer just a little uncomfortable.

“Hello, Harun,” Jama’al greeted their host. “This is Hav-”

“I know who he is, Jama’al,” Harun interrupted. “He is called Havohej. Capsuleer and CEO of a little known pirate corporation that used to operate in Molden Heath and Derelik, among other places. I hear they even attacked Foundati0n forces here in the Wildlands once or twice.” His eyes held Havohej’s and his face betrayed not a hint of whether or not he bore the capsuleer any animosity. “Yes, I know all about Havohej… what I don’t know,” the trader went on, “is why he is in my abode.”

Havo was very uncomfortable with his predicament. He’d been forced to hand over his only means of defense, meager though it was, and was now trapped in a room with no way out that didn’t involve getting past two large armed guards, up a long flight of stairs and out through a crowd of dozens of people who were almost certain to be loyal to this Harun person. But he wouldn’t turn back now — he’d come out here for a reason and he meant to see it through.