People should either be caressed or crushed. If you do them minor damage they will get their revenge; but if you cripple them there is nothing they can do. If you need to injure someone, do it in such a way that you do not have to fear their vengeance.
― Niccolò Machiavelli
Hate is a very powerful word. It fuels intolerance, murder, and war. I hate rarely, though when I hate, I hate murderously. But if the actions on Anhur and Torfan have taught me anything, it's that no matter how much you hate or how much you suffer, you can't bring the dead back to life.
Elysium made me a war hero at the age of twenty-two and I was pegged as a 'streamer'. Within the Alliance Marines, and certainly within every other element, there is an informal council of elders – senior or retired officers who remain intimately connected to the life of the Marine Corps. These elders determine that Corps' individual culture and character. One of their key responsibilities is to select the so-called 'streamers'; the young men and women who the elders believe have the right stuff to become future generals or admirals. There is never any official announcement or acknowledgement of this process, but once you are chosen, it's as if an invisible hand is reaching out to guide you, nurturing your career through a carefully selected series of command and staff positions that test and prepare you for higher command.
I got my first real taste of higher command in the winter of 2177 in the midst of the Anhur Rebellions. With the legalization of slavery on the human dominated world, a civil war had broken out between those who sought to end slavery throughout the system and the other, primarily a batarian faction called the Na'hesit, sought to keep the slaves they had.
The Na'hesit had a significant advantage in ships, labor, and weapons, forcing the Anhur militias to hire mercenary companies to even the odds. A small contingent of Alliance Marines was sent to Anhur to oversee peace talks between the two sides, but at no point were we to intervene. We were meant to be referees, not coaches, and especially not players. We were there to create a climate of security, as any direct involvement would have resulted in an all-out war between the System's Alliance, and the Batarian Hegemony. It was a very delicate situation, and a very frustrating one.
Our ROEs (Rules of Engagement) were very clear; we were only to fire in self-defense. Our weapons were mostly just for show.
In some Allied systems, self-defense is controlled through ROE. Under the Alliance system, the use of force in personal, unit and force self-defense is separate from ROE. Whereas ROE may change during an operation, personal, unit and force self-defense is a constant. All members of the Alliance must know that, with or without ROE, they are entitled to use force in self-defense.
Without further written or oral direction Alliance personnel are entitled to use force in self-defense to
protect:
a) oneself;
b) other members of the Alliance; and
c) non-Alliance military personnel who are attached or seconded to an Alliance force against a hostile act or hostile intent.
The use of force in self-defense does not include the woman being beaten or raped on the side of the road, or the child being ripped from his mother's arms and dragged away to a slaver camp. It does not include the family whose home is being burned to the ground, or the business owner whose shop is being looted.
We did not have Peace Officer status. Therefore, we had no duty or obligation to become involved in any crime situation, other than to report the occurrence of any crimes to the civilian law enforcement authorities. Nevertheless, Alliance members may intervene to stop the commission of a serious crime where there is an immediate risk of serious injury or death of any person. The only caveat was, we could not hold them prisoner, or charge them under international law. They had to be turned over to the local authorities.
We did what we could. But I never got over the gut retching feeling when I watched a slaver being hauled away by police, knowing he would be released hours later to commit the same disgusting crimes over and over again.
I always did my rounds with a crusty old sergeant and a veteran of the first contact war. My troops needed constant reminders of the nature of the operation and they also needed a sounding board to talk over their difficulties. The sergeant and I spent countless hours out in the cold reinforcing and encouraging them. I have often been criticized for being an 'emotional' leader, but even during this early stage in my career, I believed that the magic of command lies in openness, in being both sympathetic to the troops and at the same time being apart, in always projecting supreme confidence in my own ability and in theirs to accomplish whatever task is set for us.
One bitter evening, my fifty-three soldiers were guarding the Anhur Ministry of Justice and central courthouse. I was inside with a small reserve force of five or six men. Everything was quiet, so quiet that the troops had actually been complaining of boredom.
All of a sudden, a car came screeching down the street and stopped dead in front of one of my soldiers. The driver got out of the car, cursing my troop up and down, and without any provocation, started beating up my soldier so severely that he ended up in the hospital. I had guards posted around the building so that everybody was covered off and no one was isolated, but none of them could move from their positions to help their buddy because of the possibility this was a trap or decoy.
They radioed for backup and we rushed to assist, and hauled the guy off and proceeded to make him regret whatever impulse had caused him to attack my soldiers.
I was proud of my men. They had endured incredible provocation and responded exactly as trained. It pleased me that my Sergeant and I had been able to build that level of skill and discipline in the troops, and they had used their heads and followed orders. It was my first taste of true command.
But it was also draining to stand there and watch and not be able to act. To hold back every impulse I had to kill every batarian slaver I saw. It was a true test of my discipline, and more than that, my ability to instil discipline in others.
In the end the abolitionists won out, though at the cost of much of their infrastructure. I was sent back to Earth with my unit and took on a staff officer position at Alliance HQ in Vancouver. When I caught wind of a major retaliatory operation on Torfan known as Op NEMESIS, I immediately began petitioning to be a part of it. The name Nemesis is related to the Greek word némein, meaning, "to give what is due".
I wanted to give back to those slavers what was due. But before I was going anywhere, I was summoned to meet with Captain David Anderson; the Operations Officer for all N7 qualified soldiers, and the man who had the ability to assign me to such an operation.
When I stepped into his office for the first time, I was astonished, like many others, to see a small keyboard piano jammed against the wall in the small office space.
He sat at his desk with a steaming mug in his hand as I snapped to attention at the door and fired off a salute.
"I hear you want in on Torfan." He stated as he motioned for me to sit. David Anderson was always one to get right down to business.
"Yes, sir."
He placed his mug down and leaned across the desk towards me. "Why." He knew why. He just wanted to hear me say it. But I knew better, and decided to tell him what I thought he wanted me to hear.
"Because I want to be a part of the war on piracy."
"No." he replied, very matter of fact, "You want revenge for your family."
My fists clenched and I felt my cheeks flush red with anger as the bitter truth spilled forth. It was exactly what I wanted, and I knew it would be the deciding factor in sending me on such an operation. I said nothing as David called his secretary on the intercom and ordered a cup of tea.
"Would you like a cup of tea?" He asked me, as if nothing had happened.
"I don't want tea," I replied, with muffled force. "I want to find the ones who burned my home. And then I want to find the ones in charge and then I want to kill them."
"Unfortunately we're all out of bitter revenge at the moment, so it's either tea or nothing."
"Nothing then." I said, and started to rise.
"Sit down, Shepard." He raised his voice a little. Anderson's voice had a way of conveying authority when he wasn't trying to. "Anhur was a test, you know. To see if you could control yourself. If you could control your troops."
"Beware the fury of a patient man." I replied.
"You know," he started, "sometimes stories about heroes get on my nerves. Especially the ones where unfair things keep happening to the hero over and over, for no reason at all, and they valiantly overcome it all." He stood and walked over to his window before continuing.
"Life isn't like that. Not every hero can stay valiant. Sometimes, they can't even stay a hero, so what does that make them?" He turned and looked at me, expecting an answer.
When I didn't answer, he smiled and sat back down and looked at me almost sympathetically.
"It makes them human." He said softly. "You're angry, I know. Hell, if anger were mileage, I'd be a very frequent flyer, right up there in First Class."
"Sir?" I felt like I was seventeen again, being lectured on the curb.
"So I don't let it dominate me. Don't let it define you." He opened a file on his desk and I watched his eyes scan the pages. "I'm sending you to Torfan." He finally said, almost dejectedly. "You'll be under the command of Major Kyle. You'll have a full company under you."
I was shocked. From the way our conversation had gone, I was sure there was no chance in hell I would be going anywhere. My heart jumped and I couldn't stop myself from cracking a small smile.
"Thank you, Sir." I stood and extended my hand to shake his. "I won't let you down."
He gave my hand two or three vigorous shakes before clamping down hard and drawing me in closer.
"Don't let yourself down." He said, very seriously. He released my hand and I made my way to the door, snapping again to attention and saluting. He returned the gesture and I turned on my heels.
Every soldier hopes for a major war in his lifetime. This was mine.
Torfan represented one of the largest deliberate offensive operations since the First Contact War and I learned every single detail right down to its bones. I was to take the headquarters building and secure potential high value targets, specifically Elanos Haliat, the orchestrator of the Blitz.
Haliat was a Turian who had been dishonourably discharged after the First Contact War following a fairly high profile torture scandal. He blamed humans for his downfall and was an extremist and a radical who could not abide by the peace established between humans and Turians. A respected former general in the Turian Hierarchy, he was able to amass a large following in a few short years and commanded the loyalty of a very well trained cohort of pirates and slavers. Their main objective was to drive humanity out of the Traverse.
Intel had located a possible base of operations for criminal activity deep underground about fifty kilometers from the capitol city on Torfan's most populated province, Caval. This particular base was thought to hold all the major players responsible for the Skyllian Blitz.
The problem with an underground base was that reconnaissance would be almost impossible, artillery would not be effective, and tanks could not act as a firebase, assault force or provide intimate support. Infantry elements would be entirely on their own and on foot.
Other options had been thought out, of course. Flooding, burning and even collapsing the underground facilities had all been considered. But in the end, someone much higher up than I decided it was best to send in ground troops in order to minimize collateral damage and likely ensure the capture of Haliat or his lieutenants.
I remember waiting in the rain with a single platoon behind me as the engineers breached one of the three entrances for which my company was responsible. When the doors flew open, we were immediately bombarded with heavy machine gun, turret and rocket fire. The batarian pirates had been expecting us, and they were very well prepared.
Three of my men went down almost immediately and we pushed forward, throwing down rocket fire on the machine gun position and eliminating the threat. I left half a section behind to stay with the wounded as the rest of us pressed on.
Contact reports were flooding the net, and were almost immediately followed by 9 casualty reports. I tracked the enemy contacts and friendly sit reps, which indicated that we were taking heavy losses, but making gains as well.
To a significant degree, the social barrier between officer and enlisted, between sergeant and private, exists to enable the superior to send their troops into mortal danger and to shield themselves from the inevitable guilt associated with their deaths. Even the best leaders make some mistakes that will weigh upon them forever. Just as any good coach can analyze their conduct of even a winning game and see where he could have done better, so does every good combat leader think at some level that if he had just done something different these soldiers – these men and women he loved like family – might not have died.
Two out of three of my platoons were pinned down and unable to push into the main facility. I radioed up to Major Kyle that I was able to press on with the platoon behind me, and he accepted my suggestion. I told my troop leaders to hold their ground, so they would at least draw enemy fire and attention towards them as we made our way across the field and into the main facility.
Tactically, I had done everything the way it was supposed to be done, but we lost some soldiers. There was no other way. We could not go around that field we had to go across it. So did I make a mistake? I don't know. Would I have done it differently another time? I don't think I would have, because that's the way I was trained. Did we lose soldiers by doing it that way? That's a question that'll never be answered.
When we entered the facility, I had six fatal casualties and a handful more wounded, but when I looked at the soldiers who remained, I knew they wanted to carry on. They wanted to make the sacrifice of their brothers and sisters worth something. I was their commander, and I owed them that much.
By the time we had cleared the first floor, other Alliance personnel were entering the base and the facilities all around us. We had broken through but at great cost.
I took five troops and we stacked along the wall, ready to burst through a large set of double doors. When we breached almost ten batarians in heavy armour threw their hands up in the air and surrendered immediately.
"Down on the ground!" I bellowed. "Weapons down! On the ground, NOW!"
"Put your fuckin hands in the air and get on your belly, now!" A young corporal was screaming.
"Which one of you is Elanos Haliat!" I barked as my soldiers were kicking weapons out of reach and training their rifles to the pirates on the ground, watching for any sudden movements.
No one responded so I barked it again.
I must have looked quite the sight, covered in mud, blood and grime. I was almost shaking with a mixture of adrenaline and pure hate for these pirates. I had discovered a hornets nest of pirate leadership and I had them all to myself.
"He's not here." A batarian at the end of the line finally managed.
"Who's in charge here?" I asked. When no one responded again, I drew my pistol and aimed it at the head of one, now cowering, batarian.
Batarians recognize pistols as a symbol of execution. They don't use pistols themselves unless conducting an execution and Alliance often used brandishing of pistols to clearly communicate the seriousness of a particular situation. What he didn't know was that I had no intent to execute him, I just wanted him to thing that I would.
"I am." Said the deep, hoarse voice on the other side of the room.
I walked over to him, hauled him to his feet and directed two of my soldiers to search his person.
"I am Klythe K'vack. This is my facility. These are my men."
I recognized his name from the target profiles I had rigorously studied and knew he had been one of the architects behind Mindoir. My blood was instantly boiling when I had the revelation. Suddenly, I wanted to use my pistol for its intended purpose.
I hated this man instantly without ever knowing him because he was involved in the attack on Mindoir. He could have commanded the squad that murdered my family; he could have orchestrated the entire thing. But it was then that I realized that killing him wouldn't bring my family back. Killing him wouldn't bring my family justice. It would only cause more pain.
I was so angry at the ones who had done harm, and since I hadn't been able to forgive, I was chained to them. I could feel the emotional truth of that. The trauma was so severe that I dreamt of revenge often. Above me was the mountain of peace and prosperity where I wanted to go but that desire for revenge was weighing me down. It's a personal choice whether or not to let go. No one can tell you how long to mourn a death or rage over a murder. But you can't move forward until you break that chain.
I wasn't ready to forgive, or forget, but I wasn't ready to destroy the last piece of myself for a sort of hollow vengeance.
Klythe had closed his eyes and was prepared to die, so I understood when he was surprised when I stepped away and radioed to higher that I had captured ten high value targets.
"Search them, tag them and get them top-side." I ordered. "Constant guard of no less than 3 pers per prisoner."
Many authorities speak and write of emotional stamina on the battlefield as a finite resource. It has been termed as the Well of Fortitude. Faced with the soldier's encounters with horror, guilt, fear, exhaustion, and hate, each person draws steadily from their own private reservoir of inner strength and fortitude until finally the well runs dry and then they becomes just another statistic.
Though an exemplary officer, the loss of so many soldiers under his command was too much for Major Kyle to cope with, and he was given an honourable discharge after a psychiatric evaluation showed he was no longer fit for duty.
The honours and decorations that are traditionally heaped upon leaders at all levels are vitally important for their mental health in the years that follow. These decorations, medals, mentions in dispatches, and other forms of recognition represent a powerful affirmation from the leader's society, telling them that they did well, they did the right thing, and no one blames them for the lives lost in doing their duty.
The difference between Major Kyle and I was that his well had run dry, and mine was only just starting to be drained.