Free Assault on Ambrose Station: A Seth Donovan Novel by Jim C. Wilson

motivated to get home again.” That brought a fresh round of nodding from the men. “I think I just set my sights on fresh targets each time I eliminated my current one. Set myself objectives, ones that were reachable. Each new objective brought me closer to my goal.”
    “ Naga-zak was smart.” agreed Kekkin, “Achievable objectives, even easy ones, are morale boosters. Warriors make progress, win war, not battle.”
    It was then that I noticed that several of them had small field notebooks out and were scribbling into them.
    “How did you identify where supplies were located? Food and water, especially?” asked Ormund.
    “Water was easy. Ion drives use water for fuel. I’m a frontiersman and grew up on a ship. Learnt a lot about water lines and how to process the water so it’s potable. Food was a bit harder. Luck, mostly, got me through there.”
    “Any insights you might have about Ghantri thinking?”
    “Insights? They’re bloody savages. They walk around, they speak and they’re smart. Deep down inside, though, they are animals. They have some sort of social contract with the Jaani, and I think they treat them almost like pets. Kill them first, if you can. Drives them into fits of rage, but that makes them predictable. The Jaani might look harmless enough, but it was the Jaani who make their starships, maintain their weapons and defences and the Jaani who made it possible for the Ghantri Betrayal to work in the first place.”
    A few looked at each other again, as if passing knowing glances.
    Ormund nodded, “We haven’t tried that. We always saw them as civilians.”
    “They might not pick up weapons, but they are most certainly not civilians. I think the Ghantri forbid them for picking up arms, even to defend themselves. They will attack you unarmed though, if they think they can kill you.”
    “Fuckers, I knew it!” cried Harris.
    Renthal turned to Ormund, “They killed Tucker. Lied to our faces and cowered like children and we bought it.”
    “We had no way of knowing that.” said the Lieutenant. I had the feeling I was witnessing a prior argument resurface, clearly regarding the loss of one of their own.
    “Well, from now on, Jaani are targets of opportunity.” declared Renthal.
    “Stow it, Corporal!’ ordered Ormund, “I will not have my men firing blindly into unknown targets. You will consider them a threat at best. Use situational discretion while in the field. Is that understood?”
    “Yes, sir.” he snarled.
    The conversation went on, after that. They traded war stories with me, and it was actually rather cathartic. These men had seen a fair deal of action, and suffered losses like any fighting unit. They bore scars that were physical as well as psychological, and they knew when we were encroaching on tender subjects. No one pressed for more information than was offered. They invited me to hang around for a while, going over past operations. It felt good, like I was part of the team, part of a unit again.
    There is something that all fighting men share, something that veterans of any conflict carry within them, regardless of nation or planet. It’s hard to describe; it’s an understanding of the limits sentient men and women can go, mentally. The fortitude and mental endurance required to engage in wilful ending of life is something that can’t be taught, but must be learned if one is to survive a war. Many see veterans as proud people, proud of the death they caused. That is an unfair and inaccurate assessment. They are proud, not of death, but of life. Of their service, not their actions. Of their sacrifices, not their victories. They celebrate the lives that they shared with their fallen, and celebrate their comrades who faced death with them.
    I loved my crew, my family aboard the Dreaming of Atmosphere, but I sometimes still felt an outsider among them. How could I explain the things that I had to do to survive, how could I expect them to understand? There was little