by Kal Spriggs
“Now, then,” Commander Bonnadonna said. “What does it mean to fight fair, Mister Regan?”
He straightened, “Sir, I suppose it means to face your opponent head on, to follow the rules of war.”
“Ah, a rules lawyer, are you?” Commander Bonnadonna nodded. “What are the rules of war?”
“Uh, the Guard Charter, I suppose, sir,” Regan replied. “No use of biological weapons, no destruction of inhabitable planets, that sort of thing, sir.”
“Tell me, Mister Regan, are the Erandi or the Culmor signatories of the Guard Charter?”
“Of course, not, sir,” Regan answered. “They're aliens...”
“Exactly, and any contact with aliens is strictly prohibited under the Alien and Telepath Act of 451 SP, which, while we also aren't signatories of the Guard Charter, we're still kept to,” Commander Bonnadonna's voice took on a hard note. “And why would that be, Miss Senacal?”
“Uh, because they make the rules?” Senecal replied her voice hesitant.
“Yes, but why do they make the rules?” Commander Bonnadonna asked. “Are they the bastions of morality? Do they possess some divine insight into the nature of right and wrong?”
No one answered. “It's not a difficult question to answer. Perhaps, Miss Armstrong, you could shed some light on the truth?”
I felt sweat bead my brow. Yet I'd begun to learn that when he asked a question like that, Commander Bonnadonna knew that the person would provide an answer. I thought about my fight in the alleyway with Bolander. She would have preferred I fight her fair, I knew. That might be it. “Because they're stronger than everyone else.”
Commander Bonnadonna cocked his head, his dark eyes contemplative. “Which means?”
“If people fight according to their rules,” I said, thinking of my last two encounters with Bolander, “then they'll win.”
“Exactly,” Commander Bonnadonna nodded. “Exactly as a medieval peasant stood little chance fighting a mounted knight in hand to hand combat, the rules are designed to favor those in power. The moment those rules change, such as to say the introduction of longbows and later gunpowder, the paradigm shifts.”
He looked around the classroom. “Now, in some regards, the rules are designed to make warfare more merciful, less destructive, and to prevent atrocities. What we know of as war-crimes: willful murder of innocents, use of indiscriminate weapons such as biological weapons and chemical weapons, and use of weapons of mass destruction against inhabitable planets, among others, are checks and balances to prevent warfare from becoming too heinous... yet these rules have been violated on occasions, even by those charged to implement such safeguards.”
“Plebe Drien, your paper addressed one such incident, please tell the class about it,” Commander Bonnadonna said.
“Sir,” Sashi stood up. She still had a black eye from our fight in the alleyway. I didn't feel any better about it for the fact that I hadn't given it to her. After all, I sported one, too. “In the Sepaso Sector, during the War of Persecution with the Culmor. The planets Kutai, Bengalon, Wreath, and Idalia surrendered to the Culmor on terms. Their human populations reportedly provided material aid to the enemy and they did not pursue any significant insurgency against their alien occupiers. When the Guard recaptured those systems, they utilized chemical and biological attacks to kill off the surviving human and alien populations of those worlds.”
I'd read about that, of course, in history books, but it took on a deeper meaning after having gone through all the training that I had. The Guard had killed billions of humans at Kutai alone. The men and women who dropped the bioweapons wore uniforms. They'd signed up to defend humanity... yet they had murdered billions of their own people.
“So,” Commander Bonnadonna said to the quiet class, “does might make right? Were they justified to take such action through the fact that they have the power to state that it was the right thing to do?” It was a trick question, I knew, but I wasn't sure how.
“No, sir,” Duchan said from the back of the room. “Might doesn't make right, but they did the right action in order to win the war. Human worlds that surrendered gave the Culmor an edge. They could occupy those planets with minimal forces, which allowed them to conquer other planets with more forces. By not resisting, they gave the Culmor the ability to shift more forces forward. The Guard had to make an example of those worlds or else it might have cost us the war as other worlds surrendered.”
To my surprise, Regan spoke up next to me, his face flushed, “No, that's not right. The Guard had already defeated the main Culmor attack at that point. The Culmor had begun to withdraw, the war was already won when the Guard reached the Sepaso system. At that point, it didn't matter what happened on Kutai and Bengalon.”
“Interesting,” Commander Bonnadonna nodded, “please, go on.”
Regan flushed, but he continued to talk, “The Guard abandoned Kutai and a dozen other worlds. They evacuated their personnel and ships and even stripped police stations and their planetary militias of weapons, in a panic because the border systems were overrun within days. When the Culmor arrived, the planets that surrendered had nothing to defend themselves with. Those planets did the only thing they could do. And as a matter of fact,” it was clear that Regan had warmed to the subject, “this was the first time that the Culmor ever accepted surrenders from human worlds.” He swallowed, “I think the Guard forces that murdered those billions of people did so to cover up their own incompetence.”
“Interesting, very interesting,” Commander Bonnadonna nodded. “Duchan would you care to counter?”
“Humans have a duty to oppose the Culmor or the Erandi,” Duchan snapped. “The Culmor have killed us in the billions and the Erandi have enslaved millions of humans. The Guard is all that stands between humanity and extinction and any action they take is justified.”
“Ah, Mister Duchan,” Commander Bonnadonna said, “you said 'justified' and I think that's a very particular word to use. When someone kills another person in self-defense, this is often termed a 'justifiable' homicide. It is not accepted that this killing is 'right' but that it is the better of two evils.”
“Of course killing a billion people isn't right, sir,” Duchan replied. “But this is the fate of humanity. The Guard had to show that anyone who joins the enemy, human or alien, will not receive mercy.”
“But they didn't join the enemy!” Regan protested, “They surrendered when faced with no other option to but be massacred... and then the Guard did it to them, instead!”
“Yes,” Commander Bonnadonna nodded, “I think this conversation has been very fruitful, but let's avoid bickering. Both of you have some important points, and I'd like to move back to the original topic: what is the grounds for an ethical form of warfare?” He nodded at Martinez, “Miss Martinez, in your paper you mentioned treatment of prisoners of war. Please elaborate.”
I wasn't sure whether Commander Bonnadonna wanted us to come to a decision about the War of Persecution. I really hadn't thought about it, much. I couldn't imagine commanding a ship with orders to do such a thing. Yet as I thought about it, I wondered if his goal had been just that: to make us think. Perhaps there wasn't a right answer... and maybe that was another lesson entirely.
***
Chapter Ten: I Have A Name
“Morning, Biohazard, you ready to take her out?” Mackenzie asked.
“Sir?” I blinked at him, not understanding for a moment. Then I flushed as I realized what he meant. He knows, somehow, he knows about my fight with Bolander. “Sir, I can explain...”
“Relax, Armstrong,” Mackenzie grinned. “We're a bit more informal here at practice, it's nothing to worry about. I haven't officially heard of it as Cadet Commander Mackenzie. I doubt that anyone will go that route. It's purely informal, word of mouth.” He gave a shrug, “It's a funny story. People are going to talk.”
“I thought fighting was against the regulations,” I asked.
“It is,” Mackenzie nodded, “and
if you were caught on campus, you'd face some charges. If you do get caught on campus in a fight, don't try to deny it either, or else you'll face charges and an honor board investigation. Then you'll probably get thrown out.” He shrugged, “But stuff happens off campus. As long as the authorities don't get involved and no one is seriously injured, the regiment doesn't care and the staff is generally willing to look the other way. Besides, some companies have rivalries that go way back. Ogre and Sand Dragon is one of them. Dust and Tiger is another. These things happen, especially when there's pressure on plebes to 'prove' themselves.”
“So if I got roughed up by the three of them...”
“Three of them?” Mackenzie asked.
“Yeah,” I said, choosing my words with care. “There were three of them and three of us.”
He cocked his head, “I can imagine who was involved from Sand Dragon. I don't know Ogre well enough. Sorry to interrupt, continue.”
“If three of them had roughed me up, but they didn't seriously injure me, then I wouldn't have had any recourse?” I asked.
“That depends what you mean,” he said. “If they'd done something really vile, trust me, they'd face charges, possibly expulsion, and maybe even jail time if they really crossed a line. But a few bruises, about what we get during an intensive drill day? Most of us would just take it as a lesson learned: don't go anywhere alone, don't pick fights that you can't win, and learn how to fight for yourself.”
I flushed, “Sir, are you saying that I can't defend myself?”
He gave me a level look, “Armstrong, while half the Academy has heard the story and some of them might think you ate something vile to intentionally throw it up in the face of someone beating on you, I think we can both be honest here: you got lucky.”
I looked down. I couldn't meet his eyes when I found my voice, “Yes, sir.”
“That's fine. Luck is a part of combat,” Mackenzie gestured at the grav-shells in their racks. “It's a part of racing, it's a part of life. But you don't plan for luck. You're a target for Bolander and the rest of Ogre, now. You made them not just look bad, you embarrassed them. And they're not dumb, they know you don't know how to fight, so they're going to keep coming at you that way until they think it won't work.”
I winced at that. “I don't really see much of an option, then...” I'd just try to avoid them as much as I could. I'll try to go places with classmates, too, when I can.
“You're probably thinking dodge and hide, which will get you through some of it for a little while,” Mackenzie seemed to read my mind, “but that's not going to work forever. They're acting like bullies, Armstrong. You know the best way to take on a bully?”
I shook my head. It wasn't really something I'd thought about. Back at Black Mesa Outpost, there were only a half-dozen kids. Bullying wasn't really a problem.
“You punch them in the nose. Hard. And when they try again, you punch them again,” Mackenzie shrugged. “Bullies go after people that they see as weaker than themselves. It's human nature, we like to have a social pecking order. We're in a physically demanding profession, so physical roughness is what the human mind defaults towards. You want them to leave you alone, you show them that you're not weak.”
“I did fine in the final exercise,” I grumbled.
“That was with a weapon,” Mackenzie nodded, “which is a different sort of game. Guns are the great equalizer. Your small size actually gives you an advantage there, you're a smaller target than someone like me. And you've got a good natural movement with a weapon and killer instincts... as I'm sure you know after your experience at Champion Enterprises.”
I felt a chill at his words. I'd almost pushed all that out of my mind, especially with how busy I'd been over the past few weeks.
“Honestly, that whole bit has probably made you more of a target to them,” Mackenzie rubbed his chin in thought. “You've seen combat, of a sort. They haven't, so they want to see what you're made of in order to decide if they are capable.” He shrugged, “Either way, your best bet is to learn to fight and go after them. Bolander for sure, but I'd suggest you take down one of her cronies first, she's a big girl and I'd wager she knows how to fight.”
“Any recommendations?” I asked.
“Don't fight fair,” Mackenzie shrugged. “She'll clobber you if you let her. Jump her, hit her when she doesn't expect it. Don't get caught. Don't do it on campus, or you will get caught. Don't hurt her too bad, or else you'll still get in trouble. And if you get in trouble, I'll have to train up a new coxswain for my grav-shell. I wouldn't like that.”
“Sir,” I nodded. It felt odd to be getting advice on how to beat someone up, especially from someone who was nominally in charge of enforcing rules against such things.
“Now, I think we've wasted enough time, Armstrong,” he nodded at the rack, “Let's do some racing, eh?”
I nodded and helped to get our grav-shell down. In the past few weeks, I'd learned a lot about the sport. I still didn't feel skilled, but I felt able to at least steer and control the craft. “Sir, did you have a chance to talk with Dawson about joining the team?”
“Yeah, Dawson's good, but Farmer's not going to make the cut,” Mackenzie said. He shot me a look, “this stays between you and me, as my coxswain, understand?” I nodded. “Dawson's doing well with his grades and on the military side of things, but Farmer's barely keeping his head above water. I don't think he'd make it with twenty hours of sports practice a week to endure.”
I considered that, “But Dawson seemed pretty intent on getting in as a pair...”
“We can match him up with some of our other rowers. Besides, I'd already viewed his performance, I endorsed his application because I watched him race. I just wanted to see how he handled getting on the team.” He rolled his eyes, “I wanted him to come to me. That would have been the best way. Going to you, as my coxswain, was smart, but the more professional way would have been for him to talk with me directly, as the Team Captain.”
The analysis in his voice shocked me a bit. I hadn't thought organizing a sports team involved so much thought. I wondered if that was a product of the training here at the Academy or if that was simply how Mackenzie's brain worked. “We'll match him up with Rufus. He's a plebe from Ogre.”
“I thought you said Ogre and Sand Dragon don't get along,” I replied.
“Glad you were listening. Normally that's true, but you need to remember we won't always be at school. Someday we'll all be officers in the Planetary Militia and we'll need to work together.” He finished adjusting the strap on the grav-shell and we pushed it out of the bay. “Besides, Rufus is alright for an Ogre and Dawson is pretty easy-going. The two of them might be a good way to bridge some of our differences.”
“Okay, sir.” I didn't know enough to really say one way or another.
Stroud showed up and he and Mackenzie started to get ready while I got into the coxswain seat. “One other thing, Armstrong,” Mackenzie said. “Signups for Cadet Instructor slots start this week. I think you should put your name on the list.”
“Me, sir?” I asked in shock.
“You learn a lot, it's a great leadership challenge, and it's a good way to get ahead in points. You need all three.” I winced at his words. Clearly I wasn't doing that good of a job if he felt the need to say such a thing.
“Don't get me wrong,” he said, “you've got lots of potential, but you signed the technical track on your application. It's going to take a lot to come back from that. Best way for you to do that is to switch back over to tactical and then do a stint as a Cadet Instructor.”
“How did you know...”
Before I could finish asking, he and Stroud mounted and we started going, “Focus on the task at hand,” he puffed. “Get us in position. We'll wait until the others get on-line, then we're going to do a mock race, forty kilometers down the main course.” There was a set of markers leading out into the desert. Forty kilometers meant going the full distance out and back. It would be a brutal
challenge.
I still wanted an answer about how he knew my selected track, but I didn't have time. I had to focus on the simple controls for the grav-shell, not only getting it into position, but then keeping us steady while the other craft formed up around us.
Once all five of the crewed shells were in position, Mackenzie blew a whistle.
I brought our speed up slowly, but several of the other craft dashed ahead. Two of them swooped down low, almost scraping the ground to gain speed. I could hear their coxswains shouting encouragement and they weren't alone. There was something exhilarating about the speed, the feeling of being just out of control.
One of them came sideways at me and I tweaked the controls over, diving down and then accelerating. The light aircraft swooped down and the outrigger of the other grav-shell seemed to pass only a few centimeters in front of me. I found myself shouting at the top of my lungs, calling out cadence to my rowers, and tweaking the controls at the same time.
I felt more alive than any other time I could remember. Stroud and Mackenzie were panting behind me, cranking in synch on the rowing machine, feeding power to the grav-coils and keeping us aloft even as we slid through the air, just above the ground.
As we flashed past markers, I lost all sense of time, all sense of movement, everything was a measure of tweaking the controls and shouting commands to the rowers. As we reached the end of the course, it barely registered, except to realize that Mackenzie and Stroud had stopped rowing.
I brought us to a slow halt and looked around, realizing that my face was covered in dust and sweat. I blinked at our surroundings, only then realizing that we'd covered the entire forty kilometers.
“What a rush, right?” Mackenzie panted.
I couldn't even form words.
The other shells came to a stop around us. We hadn't finished first, but a solid third place. I was stunned that I'd done so well. “Was that okay?” I asked, “I mean, the commands and piloting and everything?”
“Yeah,” Mackenzie grinned, “you'll make a good Cadet Instructor.”
