The Last Rifter

The feed had gone galactic.

Live relays from New Eden’s largest newsnets flickered across the command deck of the Kinetic Regret, each one centered on the bright burning corpse of the 1DQ1-A Imperial Palace—the Imperium’s long-standing Keepstar, now in its final moments. Years of history, thousands of pilots’ stories, and enough market tax revenue to fund a small war were vanishing in a hail of ceremonial autocannon fire.

The terms of the sendoff had been simple: bring a Rifter.

And bring Rifters they did. Over 3,800 pilots descended on the Keepstar in a rust-colored swarm, celebrating the final breath of the station that had, for so many, meant something. Top damage and the final blow were both delivered by Rifters, as per tradition.

There were no dread bombs. No gate camps. Just a mass of enemies and allies, sitting shoulder to shoulder in tribute.

Except, of course, for Pandemic Horde.

Back in E8-4, Captain Gobbins stood at the front of the deck, holding a datapad with far too much smugness for a man in Crocs and a ratting shirt. He tapped the display like it was a punchline.

“No way,” he said, grinning. “We stole the 1DQ Imperial Palace Keepstar Core. And got away with it. LMAO.”

The bridge crew exchanged glances. Someone coughed, uncomfortably.

“Massive props to Nestor X85, by the way,” Gobbins continued, undeterred. “Dude just yoinked it right out from under them. In front of three thousand Rifters.” He let the number hang in the air like a trophy. “Imagine going to a funeral and coming back with the casket.”

Ensign Brin cleared her throat. “Sir, if I may… that Keepstar was—”

“A monument to hubris, Brin,” Gobbins cut in. “Let’s not forget what they did with that thing. Endless ganks. Nullbloc politicking. Remember when they charged 3% market tax and called it a deal?”

“Still,” she said cautiously, “it was meant as a tribute. To an old director of theirs, I heard. The Rifter thing was symbolic. An homage.”

Gobbins waved his hand dismissively. “If they wanted it to be sacred, they shouldn’t have left the core in. That’s like building a shrine and forgetting to lock the donation box.”

From the corner, Gallente Citizen 4586793463 blinked, then returned to typing quietly. The title on their notepad: “When a Warlord Steals the Gravestone.”

“I’m just saying,” Gobbins went on, pacing now, “this sends a message. We’re not just winning on the map. We’re winning in the mind. Every Rifter in that system was firing blanks. We were taking.”

He held up the datapad again. A grainy image of the core being dragged out of the dying station, pixelated and triumphant.

“No structure is sacred,” he said. “No space is safe. And no farewell is without cost.”

“Sir,” Brin said after a moment. “Should we… say anything? You know, public comms. Condolences, or…”

Gobbins raised an eyebrow. “You want me to issue a condolence ping for a Keepstar we robbed during its funeral?”

“…Right,” Brin muttered. “Never mind.”

The bridge fell quiet again. Outside the viewport, a Rhea freighter drifted past—likely full of “salvaged” Keepstar fittings. The war went on. The map changed. And in some forgotten subchannel, three thousand Rifter pilots raised a toast to the fire they’d lit, unaware that the core had gone missing while their backs were turned.