Chapter One

 

North Vancouver, North America

Terra

Terran Dominion

 

July 1, 2632

 

I was five years old the day I first saw a Man O’War. Given how things turned out, I would have to say it was a bit of a defining moment in my life. I’ve been all over a good portion of this galaxy since then, and God alone knows all that’s happened out there, yet still, in all that time, nothing has ever truly overshadowed my memory of that astonishing moment. I think nothing ever shall, and, in any event, I doubt I would welcome anything that possibly could.

As I recall, the sun was shining brightly, gleaming off of battle finished metal; a slight breeze was stirring the leaves on the nearby and heavily laden apple tree. A hint of fresh oil wafted my way, and I could smell the fresh bread my mother was baking. I watched intently as a Diablo crashed to the ground, the dust that was kicked up from the soft sand that cushioned its fall swirling up in whirlpool eddies all around it. Thunder rolled in the distance, which I thought was a nice touch given how the mighty machine had fallen, cut down by artificial lightning and all. Looking back with a greater experience I’d immediately know it to be a bit odd for a clear summer day. Nevertheless, at that young age, it increased the grand drama of the whole situation immensely, filling me with a vicarious sense of total victory.

The triumphant Battle Hammer, having just felled the other mighty Man O’War, slowly circled its dispatched opponent. Squeaks and creeks reverberated with each step the Battle Hammer took, itself sporting the wounds of many such deadly encounters. In fact, of the two machines, the conquered one looked to be in far better condition than the conqueror. Nevertheless, it was the Battle Hammer standing triumphant. It stopped near the head of the other Man O’War and ponderously raised a metal foot. In that brief moment, massive limb poised to crush the Diablo’s head, the pilot had a change of heart. Instead of squashing the Diablo’s cockpit into a metallic Rorschach inkblot test, the Battle Hammer reared back its mighty leg and began kicking sand on the unmoving form of its foe. Also spitting on it.

“Stop it!” Jonny yelled as he pushed me toward the edge of the sandbox. Shocked fury lent his muscles strength beyond their five years. “You’ll get sand in the gears!” He snatched up his precious Diablo and frantically began rubbing off the surface dirt, horrendously scratching the formerly pristine paint job, and trying to shake out any granules that may have worked their way inside. Thunder rolled again, louder and closer. “I’m gonna tell Mom what you did!”

“Wait,” I begged, “I’m sorry.”

Of course, I wasn’t really sorry, what five year old ever is? It’s not like it mattered anyway. As soon as the dog got a hold of Jonny’s new Diablo, it’d have a lot worse than sand in it—just like my teddy bear. Having Mom give me another one of her little “talks” about playing nice, however, was a fate worth lying to avoid, and lying was something I excelled at.

It wasn’t that I wanted to deceive my parents as often as I did, but most parents just act like they know everything. At least, they do until the moment you start asking them important questions about where babies come from, or why they always lock the bedroom door when cartoons come on. Then they’re suddenly stupid. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t already learned all about sex the same way everyone else does, on the street.

I watched Jonny cradle his toy Man O’War to his chest and walk toward the house, pouting the whole way. He was always a gentler soul than I, and he treated his possessions with far more respect, even at that age, than I ever would. That would probably explain why, after receiving them only two days before, his Man O’War still had both arms attached and mine looked like a special edition Picasso rendition.

Anyway, left to play alone, I felt bad that I was now going to have to use my green infantry men to fight against the Battle Hammer. One at a time they posed no threat, so I’d have to use the whole bucket’s worth and arm them with caps or firecrackers to give them a chance. I already knew how effective Man O’War weapons could be on infantry, one of the reasons I had a magnifying glass and a lighter stashed nearby in a place Mom would never look. Somewhat later in life I would learn just how accurate my budding imagination was, and how very painfully real those images of burning soldiers could be.

I began placing the evil infantrymen in positions where they could best surprise, and perhaps kneecap, the gloriously heroic Battle Hammer. The whole world shook and it sounded as if, by some strange twist of cosmic justice, the proverbial chicken’s warnings were true and the sky really was falling. Mom had assured me that it was but a child’s story and could never happen, but things appeared otherwise at the time.

I was knocked off balance and fell face-first into the sandbox, discovering one of Spice’s buried, sand-encrusted treasures. I’ve never much cared for dogs since, the filthy creatures, and perhaps that event had some small part in it. Shaking my head and spitting, I levered myself up onto my elbows and knees, ready to cry for Mom once all the faecal matter cleared from my airway, only to stop short at the wondrous sight before my eyes.

A gigantic metallic foot had crashed its way right through the fence of our backyard, smashing Mom’s little crab apple tree. Splinters had blown away from the trunk, flung like shrapnel in all directions, scratching my face and arms, but I could not yet feel the sting. I blinked my eyes rapidly a few times to clear the sand, poop, and dismay from my senses. Yes, that was definitely a metal foot with the shattered remains of an apple tree scraping up against it. Craning my head up a couple score degrees I saw before me an Archangel. A real live Man O’War, if such a term can be used.

It rested on one foot and one knee, a result of the poor jump its pilot had made. The barely controlled descent had resulted in a significant impact, and not just for me and Jonny. From rather uncomfortable personal experience, I can now attest to the degree of pain involved in cushioning a poor jump with one’s own spine, having it compressed harshly into a cramped jump seat. It causes a unique sensation that can only be simulated properly by entering an elevator on the third floor and having some accomplice sever the cables. To this day, I still swear that the machine, mirroring what its pilot was undoubtedly doing, actually shook its head and shrugged its shoulders to clear out the cobwebs and the kinks. I will continue to swear to that, no matter how unlikely the techs tell me my story is.

The incredibly real monstrosity regained its footing, rising up to its full ten plus meter height, towering over all the neighborhood houses and gleaming like a recruitment poster as it posed against a pure blue sky lightly streaked with gauzy clouds.

The machine was just like the storybooks, only more so! It was painted in crisp urban camouflage colors and sported a beautifully rendered Home Guard sigil on the front of its left torso. Other unit markings also graced the surface of the Man O’War, but I had no idea what they were, and they barely registered in any event. My stare was firmly locked on the steely gaze of that metal visage, and I felt I stared deep into the face of destiny. I could almost make out the pilot’s form through the cockpit’s reflective tinting. I saw myself there in his eyes, years older and eager for adventure, piloting an appallingly expensive piece of equipment into combat against the enemies of Truth and Righteousness. Those reflections echoed through my being, seeming to speak to me of ages to come, and those few fractions of a second felt like an eternity as I gazed down the endless hallways of the future.

Then the Archangel pivoted quickly, firing off a salvo from its large-bore cannon. I realized in a very maturing way that the distant thunder had come much, much closer, and I ran screaming (shrieking like a girl, really) for the shelter I instinctively thought our home would provide. Jonny, almost to the porch, had also been rooted to the spot when the Man O’War first appeared, but was now fleeing headlong for the backdoor of the house. His Diablo toy lay arched and twisted, forgotten on the ground. With a roar and a flash of silver-blue flame from its jump jets, the Archangel bounded off again.

Jonny and I crashed into Mom as she came running out of the house to check on us. Our nanny, Ruth, was right behind her, holding the baby. We sobbed and cried while Mom held us close and rubbed our backs, whispering soft words of comfort through her own ever so tangible fear. I looked over Mom’s shoulder, wiped away tears, and saw Ruth, pale enough to do any ghost proud, gently bouncing the baby, who was, predictably, sleeping peacefully through all the commotion.

The Man O’War and its combat action retreated as quickly as the thunder had, and we calmed down almost as quickly. A growing sense of excitement and wonder replaced my fear. I glanced over my shoulder, but could no longer see any sign of that frightening, incredible machine. As we finished our last sobs, Mom released us and turned to herd us inside the inadequate shelter of our home. Without thought or plan, I dashed away from her, through the brand new hole in our fence. As fast as my stout little legs could carry me, I was down the back alley and off up the street before Mom even cleared the fence. Having shaken my own pursuit, I made my way up the hill we lived on, hoping I would be able to see more from the crest.

As I continued my mad dash up the hill, a burning sensation manifested itself in my legs and I began to feel the sting of all the cuts I’d received from the demise of Mom’s apple tree. None of it mattered. Abrasions and lactic acid buildup were of no importance when compared to the need to see that Man O’War again!

I crested the hill to see a stunning display of what happens when giant robots of destruction go rampaging after one another in a residential zone. Fences, trees, cars, even several houses lay wrecked and burning in a path extending for what I thought must have been dozens of kilometers. In retrospect it was likely less than a single kilometer, but that didn’t un-burn the houses or un-smash the cars. At the end of that path of destruction my Archangel and several other Man O’Wars seemed to be fighting a running battle.

I glanced up at a noise and saw a helicopter flying overhead, a woman’s voice blasted out of the large speakers mounted astride the vehicle. She proclaimed herself to be a part of something called the Emergency Broadcast System, and assured everyone that the situation was under control and that no one should panic, but that we should all seek shelter in the corners of our basements. As if, somehow, such a flimsy structure as a house’s cement foundation would keep the full weight of a Man O’War from making you very, very short indeed. This particular bit of wisdom must come from the same people who decided that school children, when threatened by a bomb scare, would be better off staying in their classrooms when what they really should be doing is pulling the fire alarm and running like hell.

Far from finding a corner or hole to crawl into and hiding, I climbed a big tree nearby, and perched on a branch. I didn’t understand the whos, whats, or whys of the whole situation before me, but I was totally mesmerized by the things I could understand. Even a young child dumb enough to chase a firefight understands laser and missile battles between the greatest toys man ever invented!

As near as I could tell, the Archangel was being helped by a Sniper and a Diablo, though the Sniper lacked its massive gun. The three of them seemed to be hunting a Flak, which was busy smashing its way through a heavily developed part of North Vancouver much the way I was always wont to kick my way through Jonny’s artfully and carefully crafted sandcastles and snow forts.

The pursuing Man O’Wars occasionally traded fire with the Flak as they hounded it. They weren’t causing much less damage than it was, though. Despite the limited distances separating them, none of the Man O’Wars were able to get in a good, clean shot at the Flak because of all the multi-story buildings in the way. It was an interesting display of the difficulties these ultimate weapons of war face in urban settings. The Flak pilot was doing a wonderful job of using the twists and turns of the streets to his advantage, occasionally laying down some suppressing fire with his own multiple cannons and chain guns.

The pursuing Man O’Wars did all they could to box their prey in, but they were having a rough time of it, as their limited numbers would always miss an alley or back road which the Flak would then unerringly find its way down. Likely the pilot watched the broadcasts being sent out by the multitude of news choppers now circling the area and thus gained enormous amounts of intelligence from the media’s generosity.

I watched intently as the Flak stepped around an apartment complex and fired a salvo into the Diablo’s right torso. A puff of bluish-green smoke told of the destruction of a heat exchanger. It wasn’t an immediately crippling blow, but the older Diablo design runs so hot with its poorly insulated high energy particle cannon that the pilot would almost certainly be feeling the loss the next time he fired. He (or perhaps she) must have been unaware of the damage, or just didn’t care, because the Diablo replied with the HEPC and both laser cannons. One shot, emitted by the right arm HEPC, grazed the side of the building the Flak was now retreating behind. Such a miss is actually quite common in close-range urban combat environments when pilots fail to compensate for the angles at which they are shooting.

The missed shot had the effect one would expect, shredding several balconies, breaking dozens of windows, and scorching the fire-retardant surfacing. The other bolts of light, emanating from the Diablo’s two torso mounted cannons and unseen to my naked eye despite the searing pain they caused, struck the Flak’s right arm. Armor boiled off and both the cannon and the chain gun barrels melted before the lower half of the limb dropped to the pavement below.

The Flak was then behind the building, and with a few quick steps the Diablo charged after. Such recklessness cost him as the Flak had not continued its flight, but instead had aligned for the savage kick that now shuddered the Daiblo’s right knee joint just as the Man O’War’s weight was coming down on it. The Diablo trembled violently, then toppled to the ground, its leg twisted at a severe and unlikely angle.

This brief victory was about all the Flak pilot could really hope for and he had to have realized that. The Sniper and Archangel both jumped over lower buildings, trying to catch the Flak between them. Before either Man O’War could complete their landing and fully regain their balance, the Sniper was already being knocked flat and trampled by the much heavier Flak. The Sniper must have been piloted by the bravest warrior around. To dive into a situation like that armed only with a relatively small Man O’War designed for stealthy, long range operations takes cajones of the largest caliber. It was no surprise that the Flak chose to engage the significantly lighter machine rather than taking a chance with the Archangel’s large cannon at such close range.

Even as it went down, the Sniper launched a volley of rockets into the pelvic region of the Flak. Explosions blossomed as the warheads’ shaped charges detonated all around the Flak’s legs. The light armor there chipped away and some internal actuator or structural damage was apparent in the way the Man O’War attempted to limp away, but the blow had not been completely crippling.

With a clear shot at the back of his fleeing opponent, the Archangel took careful aim. Time seemed to slow again and I remember clearly the way fire spurted out of the right arm-mounted barrel, as though some unlikely, angry dragon had taken up residence there, and its flames been harnessed to the weapon’s destructive power. Bright flashes of light accompanied the beast’s deafening roar, which was produced by a half-dozen high-yield, hundred millimeter cannon shells being explosively launched to several times faster than the speed of sound. Those shells flew out of the barrel and toward their target, dragging behind them a plume that disproved the theory of smokeless ammunition. At fifty meters, and with a carefully aligned shot on the Flak’s head, the one shot kill was all but guaranteed. Hot death raced across the space between Man O’Wars in a fraction of a second. Impossibly, death missed.

It took me a moment to realize that the Flak hadn’t actually lost its head and that the Archangel had missed an easy shot. In that moment, however, those large, explosive rounds had to go somewhere, and they went right into the fourth story of a fifty story government complex just down the block. Just as they were designed to do, the shells penetrated deep past the walls, windows, and insulation right into the reinforced superstructure where they exploded, completely eating away one side of the towering structure. A properly constructed building wouldn’t have done much more than shudder, anything built in an area as prone to earthquakes as Vancouver has to be built to take a beating of a far greater magnitude than even Man O’Wars can dish out. My parents still talked about the Big One of 2619 when the seismographs had topped out at 9.0 on the Richter Scale. While it’s readily conceivable that the facade, walls, and even floors could be damaged and completely destroyed by such a shock as those cannon shells dished out, the internal structure should have barely bounced. This one bounced and a whole lot more.

Years later, with the wreckage long since cleaned up, they would tell us all about how the general contractor had been arrested and tried for his fraudulence and deceit in constructing a building nowhere close to zoning code just to save a little money on a project gone way over budget. They would also mention, in passing, the inspector he had bribed. They would go on to assure us publicly that they had traced the Archangel’s targeting problem to some sort of terrible mechanical failure and blame it all on a poor tech who would then hang himself after being dishonorably discharged. We would also be informed that the pilots in the Archangel, Diablo, and Sniper had been ordered to cease their pursuit through the city, and that it was their disregard of orders that cost so many lives, including their own. Years later, I would know better than to simply accept and believe everything I am told.

For now, the whole building came tumbling down. It was, as I remember it, much like a waterfall only not made out of water and it wasn’t anywhere near a cliff. Perhaps not the best analogy but it made more sense when I was five. I watched as hundreds and thousands of tons of concrete, steel, glass, and people rained down into the street as hard and fast as a meteor bombardment. The Flak, the Archangel, and the other Man O’Wars disappeared immediately, and the whole scene was quickly obscured by the dust cloud kicked up.

My view blocked, I looked to the sky where I could see dozens of emergency vehicles, news helicopters, and military and police aircraft vectoring in on the area, circling on the wind like vultures waiting for some large animal to finish dying beneath a harsh desert sun. Shortly this animal did die, the smoke blowing away in the breeze and the dust settling to the ground. Behind that hazy curtain, an unbelievable sight waited to greet my eyes.

Everything for several blocks to the east of the hit building was in ruins, felled or crushed by the impact or shockwave. A mountain of rubble lay strewn and toppled where once, just moments before, an Archangel had had a clear shot at a Flak’s unprotected back. It wasn’t at all like in the vids, where they would have us believe that a Man O’War buried in tons of debris, be it from a fallen structure, rockslide, or avalanche, would simply dig its way free. Oh, certainly, there would be a few scratches on the paint job, and the pilot always had that obligatory cut on the forehead from smashing into something during the bouncing and jostling, but the great propaganda machine would have us believe that only a nuclear weapon or another augmented armor unit could possibly harm a full blown Man O’War.

The stark truth greeted my young eyes, and I gained a slightly better, if intuitive, understanding of the physics I would later be forced to study. A lot of mass and velocity make for a lot of kinetic energy and no Man O’War weighing a hundred tons or less, to say nothing of the warrior inside, is ever going to be able to survive the damage inflicted by that much material falling on it or him. A few thousand tons of feathers falling from over a hundred meters up will pound anything flat. Make those feathers out of steel, duraglass and ferrocrete and all you get is a debris strewn death-scape. Nothing stirred where those giants had last been seen, save what was induced by settling rubble, helicopter blades, and the wind.

I must have perched on that branch like a pole-axed cow, if pole-axed cattle could perch on branches, that is. Rescues teams, security guards, police units, fire crews, electrical workers, military units, medical personnel and just about everyone else and their dog converged on the area. Their response time spoke well of their training, especially considering the level of security one grows used to when living on Terra. I’ve no idea of just how long I clung to my seat watching the tumult, but eventually some instinct said the show was over, it was time to go.

Moving numbly, I climbed back down the tree. My mind seemed to be simultaneously in a state of shock yet racing a thousand kilometers per hour. My feet knew the way home, though, and without conscious direction from my brain, they mechanically took me there. It wasn’t until I approached our humble abode and its recently re-landscaped yard that I began to feel the fear course through my veins. Mom was going to kill me!

Ruth was running out the front door with tears streaming down her face as I approached from the street, a strange sort of choking sob escaping her as she ran past me. Actually, now that I think of it, that was the last time I ever saw her. When I was fourteen Dad told me what he knew of her life story. I had no way of understanding, until now, how such a thing happening so far away (over a kilometer!) could so affect a person and her delicate emotional balance. She didn’t know any of those people and, after that initial brief incident, she wasn’t ever in any real danger. I didn’t know then what she must have lived through during the Agamemnon War, or what had caused her to move to Earth. Even if I had, I couldn’t have related to the stress this incident caused her; how it must have brought back the very real waking nightmares of the war. Now I can begin to relate somewhat better. Since Gottenheim I…well, I’ll get to that part soon enough.

Mom sat on the couch holding the baby, rocking gently. She looked at me with a strangely tired face as I crossed the threshold. She blinked slowly, then just told me to go play in my room with Jonny. I noticed she had the holovision turned on, and they were showing the rescue efforts live interspersed with replays of the entire incident. She must have watched the whole thing as it happened, perhaps with a better view than the one I had commanded.

I kicked off my shoes in the entryway and trudged upstairs. For some strange reason I remember paying close attention to the way the carpet fibers felt as they stuck up between my toes. It was as if I were a Man O’War and these small woven creatures mere buildings to be crushed underfoot.

Jonny was waiting for me in our room, and he suggested we go play in the rumpus room. We dragged our other toy Man O’Wars along, forgetting the ones laying discarded in the backyard, and wondering how these pathetic, plastic creatures could ever compare to the awful majesty and splendor of what we had just witnessed. The awesome reality and imposing might of a Man O’War dwarfed all of our expectations and childhood fantasies, inspiring such reverent feelings of respect so as to almost preclude us from the hubris of pretending we were them.

Then we built buildings out of toy wooden blocks and reenacted everything we had just witnessed in person and on the newscasts respectively. We even added in a few toy soldiers to stand in as pedestrians getting smashed flat by falling debris.

It was probably a good two hours before we tired of repeatedly tumbling objects down on our Man O’Wars and civilians, laughing outrageously as little green army men were often catapulted across the room by falling rubble. Jonny didn’t even mind that some of his toys got all scratched up. We were all smiles and giggles as we packed our toys none too neatly in the toy box, too cheerful to even grumble at the task Mom always insisted we perform.

By the time we were done thrashing our mighty machines Mom was preparing supper. The smell of liver pervaded the house and we were too young to know better when she assured us that she was preparing steak. Spice was asleep so we went over and gently slapped at him until he woke up and ran off. Then we had to chase him down and jump on him for a while. His mock little whimpers, whines, and nips did nothing to dissuade us. That poor mutt, the way we treated him it’s no wonder he was dead a few years later.

I’ve killed a lot more than a dog over the years, yet I still feel a disproportionate amount of guilt over the way we treated Spice. Strange what irrelevant things the mind will hold onto and make us feel guilty for, even years later.

It wasn’t long before Dad returned home from his mystical job as an actuary (something about using numbers to predict the future or something, which he didn’t seem able to explain to my satisfaction). Later that evening, he gathered Jonny and I together in the living room. We had already enjoyed supper (well, Mom and Dad had enjoyed supper, we had just eaten as little as we could get away with), and Mom had made us bathe while she treated all my scratches, including one long, nasty one I’d gotten on the inside of my left thigh while climbing the tree. I hadn’t noticed when I’d gotten it, but it stung like anything when Mom cleaned it. All that time we’d not been allowed to talk about what had happened earlier. Now Dad had a big hug for each of us, like he always did, and he finally asked us to tell him about our day.

“We saw a Man O’War!” Jonny blurted out, wide-eyed.

I nodded. “It broke Mom’s tree, and Spice pooped in the sandbox, and Ruth was crying, and I climbed a tree to watch the fight, and we played with our toys, and it was loud.” I knew that wasn’t the best summary of the days events, nor did it present my adventures in the light I felt they deserved, but somehow, in all my excitement, the eloquent speech I had intended to give got all jumbled up somewhere between my brain and my mouth.

Dad just smiled at me and drew us both in for another big hug there on the couch. “I’m just glad you’re all safe, that’s what’s really important.” We nodded, still a bit too naive about life to truly appreciate the importance of a strong, stable family. For as long as they would last, those days would be the happiest ones of my life.

The dog started pawing Dad’s leg, so Dad gave him a bit of a shove with his foot, sending him across the pseudo-hardwood tiles. Laughing, Jonny and I quickly sprang to our feet and gave chase. We pursued that canine around the house, shoving him along not-too-roughly using similar foot techniques. Dad always said we should have had a pit bull so that we wouldn’t have gotten away with treating Spice so badly. We were five, though, and we didn’t know any better.

Mom and Dad sat cuddling on the couch. They started discussing what they knew about the Man O’War incident, using nothing more complicated than rumor, prejudice, and innuendo to conclude somehow that the entire incident had all been the work of one of the Holdings in the Badlands. I had no idea how that made any sort of sense, and even with wiser eyes can only shake my head at the prejudice to which even my parents occasionally fell prey.

The evening concluded, as it so often did, with a few holovids, but we also got to play with Dad for a change. I didn’t really have any understanding of just what it was he did all day in his office downtown, beyond knowing it was some sort of number magic, and it was nice to actually be able to spend some time with him during a weekday. I guess he was worried about us after all we’d been through, but young minds bounce back quickly. Soon enough it was off to sleep, and I had the most fantastic dreams of being a warrior that any little boy could ever have.

 

In school the next day the teacher brought in a special lady; a psychologist. The lady said that she had been sent because Tommy, who wasn’t even in class that day, had lost some relatives in yesterday’s happenings. Apparently he got to stay home because of that. She said that she would be talking to a few of us individually and asking us about what had happened, because those horrible machines had smashed right through our neighborhood and she wanted to make certain we were all okay. Of course, she went alphabetically, and that meant she started with me.

I was really nervous when she took me into a little room just beside the principal’s office with the words Evaluation Center written on the door. I had been in there once before at the beginning of the school term, and had had to sit in the dark and push buttons when different lights flashed or different sounds blared out of speakers along the walls. It wasn’t the most calming of experiences, and I could remember it perfectly. Granted, it also didn’t help much that my classmates kept telling me that it was run by the Dominion to weed out the bad kids and the ones who weren’t smart enough. It was even said that a couple of kids hadn’t passed parts of their evaluations and they hadn’t come back to class or school since. If I had known then that those children were actually put into schools specially designed to help them learn at the rate and in the style they were comfortable with, I might not have peed my pants when the special lady stopped to slowly push the door open.

The psychologist lady ignored my little accident and sat me down in the big, padded chair. Pity the kid who had to sit there next. She had me tell her everything I could remember about the incident with the Archangel and the Flak. Then she had me tell it again. And again. Each time she would look at me intently and occasionally scribble something down on her notepad. After the third time she told me that I had a remarkable memory, and asked me if I had any questions about what had happened.

I asked the first things that came to my mind. “Why did that Flak go off like that? How come the Archangel missed? That warrior was stupid. And why’d Tommy’s relatives have to die?”

“Those are very good questions, Chase,” she said with a startled little smile. “I’ll try to answer as best I can.” She paused, probably trying to decide how best to explain such things to a small child. “Now, I don’t want you to tell anyone about this, okay? It’s just our little secret?” I nodded, and she began a speech that I can now see had been well rehearsed. At the time, I had no way of understanding what all the big words the lady used really meant. It sounded like something about a security breach at the psychopathic personality using a stolen Man O’War for terrorist extreme party activities under the influence of a militant cult mannerism, or something like that. Basically, even after her answer, I still had no idea what had happened.

Many years after, shortly after being commissioned, I attempted to use my brand spanking new security clearance to find out the truth behind this pivotal incident in my young life. I found that the Flak had been stolen by its assigned pilot, an apparently loyal Terran Dominion citizen who had been participating in even more highly classified psychological warfare experiments. That was all I could ever find. Had he been a traitor, or perhaps a spy? Maybe he was just another poor mental patient. I couldn’t find out, but he had been amok with a Man O’War and I guess that meant he had to be killed for everyone else’s safety. Not a satisfying answer, but one we should be able to live with.

The psychologist lady continued to answer my second question by explaining about S.L.A. Marshall’s findings so long ago during the World Wars: that humans simply do not want to kill other humans even during war. She explained that one of the reasons Man O’Wars are so effective is because they depersonalize combat to the point that you believe that you are killing a machine rather than a person; at least most of the time. She told me that this pilot was inexperienced and had likely choked at the last instant, when he realized he would be killing another human being with that point blank head shot. Rather than do that, he had instinctively tried to posture or frighten the enemy by firing a warning shot rather than a killing blow, oblivious to his surroundings. Armed with Man O’War weapons of mass destruction and standing in a large city, the results were predictably catastrophic. The phenomenon of posturing rather than killing had been studied in depth for the last half thousand years, but there was still no guaranteed way to avoid it.

“Do you understand?” she asked.

I nodded my head and she began to smile again. “Uh, no.”

Her smile froze and her eyebrows dropped together. “And I cannot tell you why Tommy’s family had to die. That’s more a question for your religious leaders.”

“Oh.”

She shook her head and told me that I should go back to class and change my clothes. As I got up to leave, she spoke the rather cryptic words that, once I gained enough years and painful experience, would haunt me to this day. “Try not to judge that poor pilot too harshly, Chase. Someday, perhaps you’ll be the one in a terrible, perhaps impossible position where innocent lives are at stake. Though I do hope you’ll make a more appropriate choice than he did.”