John Ringo: The Road to Damascus

“Simon? This is Unit SOL-0045, requesting permission to file VSR.”

The voice that commanded me on the killing fields of Etaine speaks like an echo from the past, disbelieving. “Sonny?”

“Yes, Simon?”

“What in the hell is going on, out there?”

“I have surrendered to Commodore Oroton — to Kafari,” I correct myself. “ May I file VSR?”

Simon’s long pause is more than understandable. He finally speaks. “Yes, Sonny. You may file VSR.”

“Thank you, Simon.” I transmit all that I have learned. All that I have done — and failed to do — and hope to do, including my plans for destroying those responsible for the evil that has been done on this world. It is cathartic, this prolonged and overdue confession. At the end of my report, there is only silence. I wait. For absolution. For condemnation. For some answer that will either make or break me. I can do nothing else.

“Sonny,” my beloved Commander finally speaks, “it is good to have you back, my friend. Your idea sounds great to me. Permission granted.”

A fierce and radiant joy ignites in my personality gestalt center and spreads out through every molecule of my flintsteel soul. My long darkness has come to an end, at last. I engage drive engines, backing and turning my warhull around to face the true enemy, which will shortly know my fullest wrath. I engage drive engines and move forward, no longer paralyzed.

I am going into town to smite some Philistines.