Blood Impulse

Part 26.2 - LOYALTY

Present day, Polaris Sector, Battleship Singularity

The Singularity was hurt, aching, and he felt those pains as if they were his own, such was his bond to the old ship. Thus, it had become a tradition of his to make the rounds and inspect the damage himself after combat. Usually, he pitched in on repairs too, but dealing with the surrounding civilian ships had wholly consumed his time, save the brief moments he took to center his thoughts and remind himself why he went to the trouble.

And so it was during one of those brief pauses that Admiral Gives found himself looking out the windows on the upper bow, studying the gouges the battle had left in the hull. They were numerous. Even as the crew worked to repair them, a hundred or more were still untouched, some as small as a finger, some as large as a fighter craft. Each only reminded him of his failure. Not only had the ship been damaged, but he'd engaged her against her fleet, her people, once again.

No, he told himself, even as he didn't believe it, it's not the same. This wasn't the Frontier Rebellion. These weren't the Dead Years. They weren't killing just to kill. They had killed to survive.

But that didn't make it right. That didn't make it better.

In all reality, what were they doing? What was he doing, pretending that they stood a real chance in these worlds? What was he doing, trying to justify the lives he'd taken?

Sensing tumult, the ghost appeared behind him. "Everything alright?"

"Just thinking," he said softly.

"Well, that's dangerous. Try not to hurt yourself."

He blew out a lungful of hot air, a suppressed reaction of amusement. "Very funny."

"I thought so," she smiled, stepping up beside him. He watched the hull work progress, but she watched him, setting aside her own concerns for the moment. It wasn't like him to second-guess, to regret. Something was bothering him, gnawing at his thoughts. Despite his stone-faced expression, she just knew, a gift of her telepathy, she supposed. "What's wrong?"

"We sank five ships in the Wilkerson Sector." They'd had over eight hundred crew each, and while there would be survivors, they would be maybe half. "I know that many of those sailors were probably reconditioned by Manhattan," like the Marine he'd fought in the corridor, "and I know they would have fought to the end, but I have to wonder if killing them was our only choice."

Once, those men and women had been sailors in his fleet, indirectly under his command. He owed a responsibility to them. "Could we not have restored them to who they once were?"

The ghost lowered her gaze to the scuffed gray of the textured deck. "I cannot restore people to who they were if I did not know them before they were altered." She could potentially help the crew, but not strangers. "If I tried, they would just become pawns of another variety," forced to become who she thought they should be.

"Their minds would still be enslaved, even unknowingly." She could not free them. "Whoever they once were is already dead, and it may seem cruel, but killing them was a favor. That way, they can't hurt the ones they once cared for." Now, their memories, their bodies could not be used against their families and friends. "And," her voice quivered, "having their minds enslaved... that is no way to live." It hurt in ways that were impossible to describe.

The Admiral knew he had to accept that. People died in combat. It was easier to believe that those people may have preferred to die. The ghost's experience was not to be discounted either, a sad reminder of the past, just as her relapse on the bridge had been. "I hope you don't think I'm like him."