Graham Paul - The battle for Commitment planet

Mind churning, he stood there, staring into the darkness at nothing. What the hell was he…

It was all too much; he could not handle it anymore. Comming drugbots into his bloodstream, he threw himself into his bunk and was asleep a few minutes later. Tuesday, August 7, 2401, UD FWSS Redwood, in pinchspace en route to Nyleth-B

"Okay, everyone," Michael said. "We drop into Nyleth nearspace in six hours. So we need to finish this business. It cannot drag on. Agreed?"

A chorus of "agreeds" followed.

"Good. Okay, first things first. What happened yesterday was conspiracy to mutiny. You know it, I know it. I cannot begin to describe how proud that makes me, that you are prepared to lay your careers on the line for me like that, but that's only me being emotional… and this is not the time for emotion. This is the time for cold, hard logic. This is the time to do the right thing for the right reasons. So let me be very, very clear… I will not allow any of you to do the right thing for the wrong reasons."

Michael paused. Shock flickered across the faces of all present. He knew his opening remarks were not what they expected. "Enough talk," he said. "We have a decision to make. I can ignore what happened yesterday, I can pretend it didn't happen, I can hope it all gets forgotten. I must say, that's a good option, the best option for you guys. Not so good for me," he said with a lopsided smile, "but without any doubt at all best for you.

"Second option: Go along with what the XO has proposed. Lot of work to do, lots of problems to sort out, but nothing this team can't resolve.

"Third, comm into the provost marshal the instant we drop into Nyleth nearspace and have you all arrested and charged with mutiny. That's my duty; it's what I should do. I think you all know that.

"So those are the options, but before I tell you what I want to do, I have one question. I know what you think, but why? Why have you decided to risk it all? I need to understand that before I make my decision."

Faces stared back at Michael, silent, unmoving. Chief Fodor cast a glance at Ferreira. "May I, sir?"

"Be my guest," she said.

Fodor dragged in a deep breath before speaking. "I see things this way, sir," he said, turning to Michael. "If this was just a hypothetical discussion, I would never have agreed with anything so crazy and screwed up. And if it was just about you and Lieutenant Cheung, I would not have agreed. Never. But reality has a way of making you see things as they are, not how you'd like them to be. For the first time, I've had to look long and hard at the war and where it's going, and let me tell you, I did not like what I saw. Not at all. All my life, I've been content to go wherever Fleet wanted me to go, to trust the brass and the politicians to lead us through, but not anymore.

"We talked about this a lot before we met with you yesterday, so I think I speak for us all"-again heads nodded in unison-"and it's quite simple. We all read the strategic assessments Fleet pushes out. I know I'm only an engineer, but I read them carefully, if only because I want to know that there's a good reason why I risk my life every time we go into action. Problem is, I don't see it now. I'd been kidding myself. We started fighting those Hammer bastards way more than a century ago. My grandfather wasn't even born, for chrissakes! And here we are, more than a century later, still at each other's throats, only this time the scumbags might actually win this damn war. Fleet says we're in for at least another four years, maybe five…"

Fodor's voice cracked, forcing him to stop; he paused for a moment to recover.

"We're in for years of stalemate," he continued. "Years and years! And even then we may not be able to destroy the Hammers. If they build a new antimatter production plant to replace the one we blew to hell at Devastation Reef, we're screwed 'cause one thing's for sure: It'll be that and more before we get our own antimatter missiles operational. So what's it all mean? Five more years, chipping away at the Hammers, not making a difference, more deaths of good ships, good spacers, good marines, that's what it means, and for what?

"I'll tell you what for, sir," Fodor said fiercely. "To postpone the inevitable. That's all." He took another deep breath to steady a voice trembling with emotion. "Let me go through the price my family has paid. I lost my father back in '80, killed at the Battle of Mendes Reef when Kercheval and Kronos were ambushed. I lost a nephew and a cousin at the Battle of Comdur. The Hammers have torn my family apart, and they'll go on doing it. That's what five more years means. And it's not only me. There's not a spacer or marine here who hasn't suffered at their hands."

Fodor stopped to look around the table.

"Aunt, cousin, cousin, sister, brother, uncle, sister, father, cousin," he said, finger stabbing in turn across the faces of everyone present, "and that does not begin to account for all the people we counted as good friends."

Fodor looked right at Michael. "Let's take you, sir," he said. "Mother and sister captured by the Hammers when they hijacked the Mumtaz; you're lucky they came home. Damn lucky. Most people taken by the Hammers never come home. You were lucky, too; 387 nearly didn't make it back. How many of her crew died? Then you had the Ishaq blown out from under you. You were fortunate-you escaped-but hundreds of Ishaqs didn't, including people I joined Fleet with, good friends of mine. How many friends did you lose, sir?"

"Too many, Chief, too many," Michael said.

"Aye, sir. That's right. Too many, and there'll be thousands more before this stops. Now we have that evil bastard, what was his name, Hart something?"

"Hartspring, Colonel Erwin Hartspring."

"Yes, him. He has the crap beaten out of you, and now he wants to have your woman shot because she's the one you love. It's total bullshit, sir, the sort of blackmail only the truly wicked could dream up. So here's the deal. I understand rescuing Lieutenant Cheung is a one-way mission. I know we won't be coming back any time soon. I realize we'll be stuck dirtside on Commitment until this damn war ends, and that means joining the Nationalists, doing what we can to help that raggedy-assed army of theirs, the NRA. I know we'll be putting our lives on the line. If we can make a difference by teaming up with them after we've rescued Lieutenant Cheung, I'll do that… and be happy to do it. Trust me, sir. I'll gladly spend the rest of this damn war killing Hammers," he said, his face twisted into a bitter scowl. "At least it'll be face to face. At least I'll be doing something that might make a difference. At least I won't be sitting back waiting for a Hammer antimatter warhead to blow me to hell. And let's not forget there's a bunch of Fed spacers in that camp with her who'll be more than pleased to see us. I'm sure they have a few scores to settle after what happened at Salvation."

Overwhelmed by the raw emotion that infused every word Fodor had said, Michael sat, stunned. He'd had no idea Fodor held such strong views. He always assumed he was the only one who carried a burning, corrosive hate of the scum who ran the Hammer Worlds. He struggled to control a growing feeling that things were spiraling out of his control, to push away the feeling that maybe, just maybe, he might be able to save Anna.

Recovering his composure with an effort, Michael looked at each person in turn. "You all agree? The way Chief Fodor puts it, you all see it the same way? I need to be sure, because if I agree with what the exec has proposed, there's no turning back."

"Chief Fodor is right, sir," Bienefelt said, "though it's not only about the deaths of friends and family, though that's a huge part of it." Her voice was soft, subdued. "I've lost family, too… nobody close but still family… and some good friends, but there's more to it, for me, anyway."