Milla, watching his motions with ill-disguised horror, found her voice again. “You actually enjoy this?”

Stephanos turned sharply after hearing the note of censure in her voice. “Enjoy? I suppose. Firing a rifle requires focus. It’s almost meditative in its own way.”

“But…You like being a soldier?”

His eyes narrowed at her tone. “Yes, I suppose I do. I’ve accomplished a lot of good in my life. Saved a lot of lives.”

Milla digested this for a moment before trying another tack. “I suppose you see yourself as a warrior for peace, then?”

Stephanos felt his face harden. As many times as he had heard that fallacy, he could never understand the people who uttered it. Taking a deep breath, he called to mind all the patience he could muster before replying, “No soldier worth the title would ever make that claim, Milla. Peace is the one thing we don’t fight for.”

A look of shock crossed her face. “Then why?”

“Freedom. That’s the core of why we do what we do. Peace is a fallacy in itself. Personally, I only know of two forms of peace—peace in death and the peace of slavery.” He snorted in amusement. “And I’m not certain about death.

Milla found herself staring at him blankly for a time as he spoke, uncertain whether she abhorred or understood what he was saying. Perhaps it was both. Since her encounter with the Drasin, she’d found that many of her old belief systems had been shattered, and she had no idea how to even begin picking up the pieces.

“Obviously, fighting for peace is stupid. That’s why we don’t do it,” he continued flatly. “If you make peace your only goal, then you lose sight of reality. We fight to be free, we fight to defend ourselves and others, and we fight to win.” Stephanos paused, letting his words sink in. “Let me ask you something, Milla. What do you believe is a soldier’s primary function?”

Her answer was as fast and wrong as Stephanos expected. “To fight.”

“Wrong.” Steph shook his head, his face an iron mask.

Milla looked startled. What else is a soldier for?

He looked at her calmly, considering his answer for a moment, but only for a moment. It was something he had often thought about himself, wondering if killing was what he existed to do or if there was something more.

He had decided that it was something more. Those who flung this accusation at him were people who had never worn a uniform, never made the commitment that Steph had.

“A soldier’s first duty, his reason for being, is not to fight. Fighting is the final recourse for any civilized people. His duty is not even to preserve the peace; that is a police officer’s job,” Comdr. Stephen Michaels of the NAC military said by rote, remembering the many long nights of arguments and discussions that had brought this to his mind. “A soldier’s first duty is simply to stand between his nation and any who might wish it harm.”