First, there was light, blurred into great, soft dollops of almost brightness. The dollops condensed slowly, forming bars of brilliance against light blue veined with cracks as if the sky were splitting into fragments and letting dead space spill through. Then eyes finally focused and the broken sky resolved into peeling, painted rock strung with fluorescent lights.
"I'm not dead." The words didn't quite come out, hanging up somewhere within a rusty throat.
"No, Ethan, you're not dead."
Stark turned his head with great care, until the face of Vic Reynolds swung into his field of vision. "Then you're no angel."
"Not yet and probably never." Vic's face contorted with sudden anger as she jabbed a finger so close to Stark's nose that he flinched in reaction. "You idiot! Don't ever do something that goddamn stupid again!"
"You're welcome."
"You said you wouldn't stay too long. Well, guess what? You were about one second this side of a body bag when we came back over that ridge with a brace of tanks and four APCs behind us. If one of the APCs hadn't been rigged as a life-support field ambulance you wouldn't have lived long enough to reach friendly lines."
Stark managed a smile, wondering why his face felt so stiff, abruptly glad he couldn't see himself in a mirror. "I knew you'd come back with reinforcements."
Vic sat back, eyes aflame. "Then you were wrong. The tanks, the APCs, they were going to sit on their fat butts while you got shot to hell. First we pleaded, then we threatened, then we started back on our own. That's when they followed. Brigade couldn't afford to lose all of us. The civs would have been real unhappy with that many casualties and the General would've been sacked, great vid ratings for your heroic sacrifice notwithstanding. So we got back to you, rolled over a bunch of enemy infantry who thought they'd just won, picked up your damn-near-lifeless carcass and hightailed home with half the enemy expeditionary force snapping at our rears. Understand all that, Ethan? They would have left you." She leaned forward, staring into his eyes as if seeking answers there. "Why the hell did you do it, Ethan?"
"I had my reasons."
"I know." Vic ignored Stark's reaction, speaking crisply, her words clear and smooth in the hush of the hospital room. "Patterson's Knoll. You were there."
"How'd you find out?"
"I looked it up, on a hunch. Worst disaster in recent American military history. About a decade ago. Two companies of U.S. soldiers, trapped on an open hill and cut to pieces because no one could get to them in time. Only three soldiers managed to escape during the night before the position got overrun the next day. You were one of them, Ethan. Why didn't you ever tell me?"
Stark studied the white-painted wall before his face as if it held some special significance. "Never talk about it."
"So I noticed." Vic's hand reached out, turning Stark's head with carefully precise force to face her again. "So that's your demon. You never really left that hilltop, did you, Ethan? Part of you is still there, on that grassy knoll."
Stark tried to escape her eyes, but his head was held steady in Vic's grip. "I left a lot of friends up there, Vic. They died. I didn't."
"Fate works that way."
"There had to be a reason"' Stark insisted. "I survived for a reason, and maybe that reason was just to make sure it never happened to anybody else. Maybe I lived so I can make sure other soldiers don't have to die the same way."
"And maybe it was all chance. The luck of the draw."
"Dammit, Vic, it had to mean something!" Stark was trembling, he realized, as a hundred points of pain sprang into being where his body had been battered by projectiles meant to kill. The bedside med monitor hummed louder, as if disapproving, and began dosing more drugs into Stark's intravenous feeds. His pain fell away, along with the agitation, not really gone, but somewhere behind a wall where they could rage without hurting him. "It had to mean something," he repeated.
Vic stared down somberly. "Now do you want to talk about it?"
"I dunno."
"Ethan, I've been in nasty battles. Plenty of them."
"Not like that one."
"And it was a long time ago."
"No." Stark shook his head, eyes staring into the distance. "No. It's every night, Vic. Every night." He looked back at her, eyes slightly unfocused from the combination of medications and memories. "They hit us all day, raking us with small arms, dropping artillery and mortars on the knoll. Couldn't dig in 'cause there was rock right under the surface. Nothing to hide behind, nothing but the grass. Grass cut by shrapnel and spattered with blood and trampled into the dirt." He fell silent for a moment.
"Were you hit?" Vic prodded gently.
"Me?" Stark questioned, then shuddered. "No. Private Ethan Stark didn't get hit. I'll never know why. I was so damned young, and so damned scared and so damned tired I couldn't even hold my rifle anymore and I just hugged the dirt and stared at the damned grass and prayed. Finally it got dark. New Moon, thank God, so it really was dark. They couldn't see us anymore. And I couldn't see all the bodies around me. They were my friends, Vic."
"I know. Why didn't the enemy come up on the knoll and finish you off?"
"Scared of us. Even though they'd kicked our butts all day, they were still scared of going up against us in the dark. That's what Kate guessed."
"Kate?"
"Yeah. Corporal Kate Stein. Big sister, I called her. She called me little brother. Kept me alive, taught me how to fight smart." Stark blinked rapidly for a moment. "My armor had died already. Power supply exhausted. I pulled it off, went looking for anybody else still alive, and found her."
"She'd survived, too?"
"Sorta." Stark gulped at the memory. "Lost both legs. Only her suit's med kit had kept her alive until then." Oh, Christ, Kate. I'll get you out. I promise. Carry you. Carry you all the way.
No. Get out of here. You and anybody else who can still move.
I won't leave you. I won't. I'm staying with you and the other wounded.
No you ain't, little brother. Waste of your life. Mine's gone. Forget it. Save yours.
I'm not leaving you for them!
Won't be alive when they get here, bro. Got a grenade handy, though, just in case.
No. No. Look, there's got to be relief coming.
Relief? Her bitter cough had been weak and wet. Get real. They've jammed our calls for help, they've got antiair enough to hold offevac assets, and all our stupid, worthless officers who hung us out to dry on this hill are dead. Any relief that's coming won't get here in time.
There's got to be another way.
Sometimes the only other ways are worse. Get out of here, Ethan. I didn't teach you to fight so you could die for nothing, and staying here would be worse than useless.
I. . .
Go. You can't save me. Save someone else someday.
I will.
"Ethan?" Vic leaned close again, one hand on his cheek. "You there?"
"Yeah."
"What happened? To you and Stein?"
"She couldn't be helped. Couldn't be moved. She had a grenade, though." Vic nodded, face grim. "Told me to get the hell out of there." Stark smiled, so suddenly that Vic frowned in surprise. "You know what else she told me? To unload my weapon before I tried to sneak through the enemy line."
"Unload your weapon? Why?"
"'Cause if you've got a loaded weapon, and you get scared, you'll shoot," Stark explained. "And that would mean they'd be all over me. But if my weapon was empty, I'd hide instead and maybe save my butt."
Vic nodded again, this time judiciously. "Good advice. I take it you followed it."
"Uh-huh. We had a hard time getting down off the knoll into the vegetation, those of us who could still move. We made sure all the survivors who couldn't move had weapons first, though. The enemy spotted our movement, but some of us made it to the tree line. God, it was dark, Vic. Never seen anything so black, even up here. Couldn't see the enemy until you fell over them. Couldn't move without worrying about tripping over stuff you couldn't see. Longest night of my life."
"But they didn't spot you."
"Almost. Almost. Kate saved me, Vic. Twice, they were so close I tried to fire, but I couldn't because my weapon wasn't loaded. I was still cursing her each time when they turned away. Some other guys, I heard them open up. They died real fast." He paused. "It was almost morning when I heard heavy artillery again. They hit the knoll really hard. Then there was a lot of small-arms fire. Grenades. It didn't last long." Another pause. "I kept moving, fast as I could. A few hours later I sorta fell into the arms of an American patrol coming up the trail."
"A relief force? That close?"
"Not close enough and not strong enough." Stark closed his eyes briefly. "I told them what had happened. They didn't want to believe me, thought I was a deserter, but soon two other survivors got picked up by other patrols and told the same story. Thanks to the warning, that 'relief force' was able to retreat fast enough to save itself."
Vic leaned back, biting her lower lip. "At least we kicked butt later. I've talked to people who were in on the retaliatory strikes."
"Yeah, we kicked butt," Stark agreed, his tone acid. "But all the butt-kicking in the world couldn't bring the dead back, could it?"
"No," Vic nodded.
"Nothin' else I could do. Nothin' else anybody could do. Not by then."
"What else could you have done earlier, Ethan?"
"I could've stayed, Vic. Up on the knoll, with the ones who couldn't move."
"Until you all died together at dawn? Now that wouldn't have meant anything, Ethan. I'm glad you listened to Kate Stein."
Stark lay silent for a moment. "I'm still listening."
"Good. Save your sacrifices for when they matter."
"Like holding off the pursuit across the dust plain so our Platoon could escape, you mean?" Stark needled in sudden triumph.
Vic glared at him. "Dying in place wasn't the plan. You were supposed to delay them and then run."
"There wasn't any plan, and I had to hold them long enough to keep you safe."
"I don't need you playing hero to keep me safe! I want you alive and watching out for your Squad. You're a helluva lot more valuable to everyone that way. Remember that, and remember nobody was supposed to go back to haul your nearly lifeless carcass to safety."
Stark tried a shrug, wincing as a body cast halted the movement. "I knew you'd come back."
"Then you must think I'm as stupid as you are." Vic stood, shaking her head. "Ethan, we can't afford to lose you. I'm not telling you to forget the past, but don't let it rule you. Be more careful." She dug in one pocket, pulling forth a packet that she pitched onto Stark's chest in a dreamy low-gravity trajectory. "Your very own Silver Star, along with four Purple Hearts for our heroic Sergeant Stark. Got that, Ethan? Four Purple Hearts. You get one, you're lucky. You get two, you should be dead. You get three, you usually are dead. You got four, Ethan. Next time you're getting shot at, for Pete's sake, try to duck." Vic strode out, letting Stark's privacy curtain drop slowly shut, some of its creases holding their own against Luna's weak tug. Stark lay still, staring up at the cracked sky over his bed.
Sanchez stopped by later, a brief nod, the barest flicker of a smile turning up the edges of his mouth for a moment as he asked, "You okay?"
"Okay as can be expected."
Another brief nod. "Your Squad's fine. Gomez, she's keeping them in line. You got a good Corporal there."
"I know." Stark tried to reach out a hand, halting in frustration as his body cast limited the movement. "Thanks for keeping an eye on them, Sanch."
"Least I could do." Sanchez started to leave, pausing briefly on the way out. "Thanks for holding them off."
"No problem."
Sanchez might have quirked another smile as he left, but Stark couldn't be sure.
There weren't many other visitors as the days of healing turned into weeks. Even with the best medical technology, the human body required a certain amount of time to fix the sort of damage the best weapons technology could inflict. Stark knew only senior enlisted or officers were allowed to visit the medical wards, and both Vic and Sanch had their own Squads to watch over while the war continued its apparently endless course. One day, however, some unexpected visitors stopped by, bringing a fair share of confusion and concern in their wake.
The first person in the room carried what appeared to be a considerable chip on his shoulders along with a pair of Colonel's eagles. He nailed Stark with a disapproving glance, then lifted his sheet to check the body cast. "Is this as straight as you can lay?"
"Yes, sir."
The Colonel obviously didn't care for that answer, poking at the cast a couple of times. "Well, try to look military, for God's sake."
Stark kept his face expressionless and his mouth closed, though both took considerable effort. He was still cycling through replies he would have liked to have given when the curtain parted again to reveal another Colonel accompanying several men and women in civ clothes. No. They are civs. What the hell?
"This is Stark," the first Colonel announced coldly.
"That's Sergeant Stark, sir," Stark replied in equally frosty tones.
"Sergeant Stark," the Colonel grated out with a look that promised dire consequences. Stark simply gazed back until the Colonel looked away.
An awkward silence followed while Stark wondered what the purpose of the visit could be. "You were injured in battle?" one of the civilians finally asked.
Stark glanced toward the second Colonel, who nodded to indicate he could reply to the question, though her sour expression indicated she liked this even less than the first Colonel did. "That's right."
A female civ came closer, peering at his face. Not that Stark minded, since the woman had a nice face of her own and he could peer back to his heart's content. "You must have been hurt very badly," she finally offered.
"Yeah." Stark, never inclined to discuss physical ailments with anyone, found himself even more reticent than usual with these civs.
Her eyes strayed to the flat panel at the foot of the bed displaying Stark's vital signs. "You'll be all right? All your injuries will heal?"
"That's what they tell me."
The civ bit her lip, looking back toward the other civs in apparent uncertainty. Another civ, male and about Stark's age, nodded politely. "Can you tell us how it happened?"
The female Colonel stared ahead as if not willing to be involved in the conversation while she spoke in sharp tones. "Sergeant Stark conducted a delaying action against enemy forces while his Platoon retrograded to American lines following a successful operation against part of the enemy industrial complex."
The civs all looked puzzled, as if the Colonel had spoken in another tongue, while Stark fought down another urge to verbally abuse a high-ranking officer. Retrograded? What the hell's wrong with calling it a retreat? A momentary vision of bullets flaying the rock around his lonely outpost while he had held off the enemy flashed through his mind. And why does this rear-area waste-of-human-flesh Colonel have to make the whole action sound like no big deal? Stark tried to shrug, finding the habitual motion blocked by the cast he still wore. "I did my job. I guess you saw it on vid." The last almost came out as a harsh accusation, Stark catching the words as he issued to change them to a bland statement.
The civs all seemed surprised. "We don't see the military vid," the woman who'd spoken to Stark first explained. "It's not broadcast here."
"It's not?" Startled, Stark looked toward the Colonels for confirmation.
The male Colonel nodded once. "Security. We can't risk the enemy deriving information on current operations from the military vid."
Then why the hell do you show the mil vid on Earth where the enemy can watch it just as easily as the civs there can? A growing unease filled Stark, born of these unusual civ visitors, the clearly disapproving demeanor of the Colonels, and the feeling of having suddenly been dropped into the middle of some civ-mil issue he didn't understand and that seemed likely to cause him troubles he didn't need.
The civs exchanged glances but said nothing in reply to the Colonel, then nodded politely once more to Stark as they filed out. The female Colonel left last, pinning Stark with an all-purpose warning glare as she dropped the curtain behind her. I don't suppose it'd do me any good to ask anyone what that was all about. God, I can't wait to get back to my unit.
Eventually the body cast came off and the physical therapy ran its course. A tired-eyed medic checked Stark out, shaking her head as her laptop flipped through Stark's medical file. "I shouldn't let you go," the medic complained.
"Why?" Stark demanded. "Something still wrong?"
"Not with you." The medic sighed, keying a few entries before closing out the file. "Look, Sergeant, I'm like a technician who fixes the finest equipment in the world, and then gets to send it out for other people to try to destroy. It doesn't generate a lot of job satisfaction."
"If it makes you feel any better, I'll do my best not to be back here."
The medic grinned, though her eyes stayed tired. "You do that, Sergeant. Not too many decades ago the wounds you received would have killed you, or at least crippled you for life. So try not to let it happen again."
Stark grinned back. "It seems all the women I meet give me that advice."
"That's because it's good advice." The medic offered her hand for a shake. "Good luck, soldier. You're officially discharged to return to your unit."
"Thanks." Stark shook the proffered hand, standing to go.
"By the way," the medic added, "you've been eating about six full meals a day for a while. Your body doesn't need that anymore, but you're in the habit, so you'll have to make an effort not to overeat until you're back on a normal routine."
"Six meals a day? Why didn't I notice?"
The medic quirked another grin, which this time almost reached her eyes. "The miracle of modern medicine, Sergeant. We don't just watch the body's healing process, we turbocharge it. You've done the equivalent of more than six months' healing and recovery in about a month. Of course, that process speeds up a lot of your perceptions. We just keep patients on their own accelerated time schedule so they don't get disoriented. You're slowed down again, so don't worry about it unless you keep eating like you're on fast forward."
"Thanks." Stark left, walking down the white-painted corridors, stopping only to check on the date and time at a wall terminal. I don't believe it. The medic was right. It's only been a month. Memories he'd shied away from, of his body being torn by enemy fire, finally surfaced, so that Stark stared in wonder at his dim reflection in the terminal's screen. Incredible. But the medic's right: They do all those miracles just so grunts like me can go out and get shot up again.
He started to leave, paused, then punched in his unit identification to find out where his Squad had been billeted during R&R. Only a month. Thought I'd be a stranger when I got back, but I guess not.
Awkward. Stark hated what he knew was coming, knew he couldn't avoid it, and knew he'd be a lot happier when it was over—none of which made it any easier to walk through the doorway before him. Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, Sergeant Ethan Stark walked through that doorway to face his Squad.
Corporal Gomez, it appeared, had been alerted to Stark's discharge from the hospital. She had the Squad drawn up in formation waiting for him, every soldier ramrod straight, every uniform sharp. Stark halted in midstride, balancing easily on one foot as all the lunar veterans could, then broke into an involuntary smile. "What the hell do you guys think you are, the Pentagon Color Guard?"
Gomez maintained a straight face, marching with precise movements to stand before him and render a perfect salute. "Ready for inspection, Sergeant."
Stark fought down the smile, returning Gomez's salute as crisply as still-slightly-stiff muscles would allow. The Squad hadn't moved, not even a twitch, putting on a far better show for him than they'd ever given to any high-ranking officer.
This ceremony was important to them, he suddenly realized, an unspoken way of saying thanks in the way his Squad thought would mean the most to him. He followed Gomez down the line, sternly eyeing each soldier in turn, finding only the tiniest variations from regulations on each uniform. The last individual inspected, Stark marched to face the entire Squad, allowing himself a small smile again. "Damn, you look good."
Gomez swung up another rigid salute, face professionally expressionless. "Thank you, Sergeant."
"No. Thank you." He trained an index finger down the line of soldiers. "This is how good you apes can be, how good I always knew you were. Thanks for letting me see it. Now fall them out, Corporal Gomez, before all their joints lock and they get stuck that way."
"Sí Sargento" Gomez finally grinned, big and sort of goofy on her usually intense face. "You heard the Sergeant," she addressed the Squad. "Fall out!"
Rigid military bearing dissolved magically into a clot of individuals milling about uncertainly. Finally, Murphy stepped forward with an anxious expression, saluted Stark, smiled, then stepped back. Mendoza followed suit, then Hoxely, then Billings, then the rest, one by one. Then it was over. There aren't any really adequate ways to thank someone for saving your life, Stark reflected, and even fewer adequate ways of accepting such thanks. "Okay, you apes. Our time off the line is almost over, I hear. I spent all of it so far in a hospital bed and rehab. Hope you guys made more productive use of the time."
A series of grins told him they'd had a fine time, indeed. "Too bad you missed it, Sarge."
"I had other commitments. How've they been doing on refresher training, Corporal?"
Gomez twisted her face in a vaguely dissatisfied way. "They been doing okay."
"We've been doing great!" Murphy protested. "Top scores, Sarge."
"Top scores? In what?"
"Across the board," Chen announced proudly. "We knew you were coming back, Sarge, and we wanted to be ready, so we've really been bearing down. Just like you'd want."
"Sure," Gomez noted derisively. "I never had to kick you guys' butts once, did I?" She turned back to Stark, permitting herself a smile this time. "They done good, Sargento. Real good."
"Outstanding. I'm proud of you. Now get out of those dress uniforms and get into working gear. I need to get into better shape pronto and I could use some workout partners."
The Squad scattered to their cubes to change as Stark beckoned Gomez to wait. "Anybody else know I'm back?"
"Just the rest of the Platoon."
"Just the rest of the Platoon? How'd you know I was coming?"
Gomez grinned. "I got my sources, Sarge."
"Great. You and Sergeant Reynolds. Everybody's got their sources but me."
"Hell, Sarge, you don't need sources. You got me and Sergeant Reynolds, ¿verdad?"
"I guess."
Vic Reynolds chose that moment to stick her head in the room, focusing on Stark. "Welcome back, soldier."
"Thanks. To what do I owe the honor of this visit? You inviting me to a welcoming-back parade?"
Reynolds shook her head in mock seriousness. "Sorry. No parade. We couldn't lay on any elephants and clowns. They were all busy at headquarters." She sobered, canting her head to indicate the direction back down the hall. "I came by to give you a heads-up. Captain Noble is headed your way."
"Captain who?"
"Noble." Vic shrugged. "Our new company commander. He rolled in while you were being put together again."
Stark sighed heavily. "Any assessment on him?"
Reynolds shrugged again. "Too new. Only been here a week. He hasn't done much damage yet, though."
"He hasn't had much time," Stark pointed out. "Is Lieutenant Conroy with him?"
"You didn't hear?" Vic looked uncomfortable.
"No, I didn't hear. I never hear anything unless you tell me, remember? What didn't I hear this time?"
"She got canned, essentially, while you were still in the hospital. Rotated out early to another assignment."
Stark frowned in puzzlement. "Why? The raid succeeded, right? She do something else?"
"Nah, she didn't do anything else, besides thinking she owed you an attempt at a rescue. We did something, Ethan. Going back to get you against orders and risking armor in the bargain. Generals don't like that. Conroy paid."
"Damn," Stark muttered. "Conroy didn't seem half bad. And she really wanted to come back for me?"
"Yeah. Didn't fuss too much when we started back, either."
Stark shook his head. "She'd probably have been a good officer someday."
Vic smiled sardonically. "Then she wouldn't have lasted anyway, right?" Then she was gone.
Stark became aware again of Gomez standing nearby. "Hey, Anita, how come you didn't tell me about Conroy?"
"Not my job."
"Then how about this Noble? Heard anything about him?"
"Just that his name don't have nothing to do with his character."
Stark grinned, then looked around the room as if searching for something. "Hey, I forgot to ask Sergeant Reynolds something. Who's Conroy's replacement?"
Gomez raised both shoulders in an I-don't-know gesture. "Nobody, yet."
"Nobody?" Stark's smile faded into a frown. "That's strange. Usually there's a backlog of Lieutenants looking for a tour in charge of a Platoon."
"Well, there apparently ain't any backlog right now, Sargento. Noble seems to have come up with the last batch of officers, and there's no enlisted replacements coming in either."
"That's funny." Stark scratched one temple, frowning. "Almost sounds like they're winding down the war and getting ready to draw down forces up here."
Gomez shook her head emphatically. "That's definitely not the case, Sarge. Just before you got back we got dragooned into a work detail helping unload one huge shipment of munitions. Somebody's getting ready for serious combat action."
"Lots of bullets and no bodies. Doesn't match."
Whatever else Stark might have said went unspoken as Gomez yelled "Attention!" to announce the presence of an officer. He came to attention automatically, facing the door.
The Captain standing there nodded, waving one hand negligently. "Carry on. Are you Stark?"
Stark took a step forward, face carefully expressionless. "I'm Sergeant Stark, sir."
Captain Noble smiled in what he apparently believed to be a comradely fashion. "We're glad to have you back, Sergeant. We've got a great opportunity."
"Thank you, sir. That's nice, sir," Stark stated warily. In his experience, whenever officers said "we" it meant trouble. So did "great opportunity."
Noble gestured toward the empty suits of battle armor ranked along the walls for maintenance. "You know the biggest problem with those things?" Without waiting for Stark's reply, he held up one emphasizing finger. "Limited mobility."
"Captain," Stark began, "if I—"
"That's right. Limited mobility. It's amazing, isn't it? We're way into the twenty-first century and our infantry is still getting around the same way they did in the Dark Ages."
"Captain, the armor does do some of the work for us."
Noble shook his head firmly. "Walking work, Sergeant. That's not good enough. But here's the great opportunity, Sergeant. Combat Systems Development has it ready for field trials and they're looking for a squad good enough for the job. Your Squad is as good as they come, right, Sergeant?"
Stark tried to project simultaneous pride and discouragement, his disquiet growing with every word the Captain spoke. "Well, there's good and there's good."
"And there's great, Sergeant. Which is what this Squad will be while it combat-tests the new Enhanced Mobility Battle Armor. I'm sure a soldier with your record will be happy to volunteer for the chance."
Volunteer. In Stark's experience, that one word carried more danger than most weapons. Stark mentally backpedaled even faster, even as he wondered what the phrase "a soldier with your record" actually meant. "What exactly does 'enhanced mobility' entail, Captain?"
"A rocket-assist pack, Sergeant. Instead of walking, you'll be able to zoom—"
"Flight?" Stark demanded, ignoring the Captain's frown at the interruption. "They want to do that again? Captain, sir, with all due respect, survival on the battlefield is usually a matter of not being noticed. It's impossible not to be noticed when you're flying."
Captain Noble held up his hands in a calming gesture. "It's only limited flight, Sergeant, just for a few seconds at a time."
"Damn right it's limited to a few seconds. That's because the instant you get off the ground a half-dozen enemy systems will spot you and blow you into little pieces!"
"Sergeant, you need to give the enhanced mobility system a chance—"
"No, thank you, sir. No, thank you," Stark repeated. "Captain, I know our Combat Systems people are always trying to kill us with their bright new ideas and stuff that doesn't work in the field, but for God's sake, if they want us dead that bad it'd be a lot simpler for them just to design in illuminated targets to hang on our butts."
"I see." Captain Noble smiled crookedly. "I'll be sure to keep your opinion in mind, Sergeant."
"Sir, I respectfully request my Squad be removed from consideration for field-testing that new armor."
Noble smiled slightly again, his eyes avoiding Stark's, then turned and left. Stark glanced at Gomez, who had been following the conversation intently. "Did he agree to my request or not?"
"I dunno, Sarge. He didn't say anything."
"That's what worries me. You think maybe I laid it on too intense?"
"With him?" Gomez laughed. "No way, Sarge. Too bad the Captain didn't find time to tell you that you did a good job on the last op."
"Sure he did. He talked about my record."
"With a guy like that, that kinda statement could mean anything, good or bad, Sarge."
"I know. Ask me if I care."
Within a couple of days Stark felt as if he had never been gone, as if the last op and the hospitalization had been products of some unpleasant dream. Every time he stripped for a shower, though, he saw the scars still visible despite the medics' work. Those are the scars that show, anyway. I don't know what's inside. Not sure I want to know.
Just to further confuse life, the standard rotation policy was suddenly changed, leaving the current units either on the front line or in R&R for another few weeks. "How'd you swing that, Stark?" Sergeant Nguyen demanded from the bunker where Stark's Squad had been scheduled to relieve Nguyen's Squad.
"Not my work," Stark protested. "Sorry you're stuck out there."
"Who's work is it? What the hell's going on?"
"Either nobody knows or nobody's saying. Look, I'm heading to headquarters today to try to get some stuff done. I'll ask around."
Paperwork had stopped being paperwork decades before, but it still took up enormous amounts of time, primarily because many senior officers seemed addicted to the idea that accumulating huge quantities of data was the same thing as understanding what was going on. Stark stood before the counter at Division Administration, drumming his fingers on the worn surface and trying not to project the furious annoyance he suspected every admin clerk secretly sought to generate in their victims. "Ethan Stark? How's life, old buddy?"
Stark turned at the voice, frowning as he tried to tie it to a memory, then smiled as he saw the woman who'd spoken. "Sergeant Bev Manley. How come you haven't retired?"
She smiled back, yanking a thumb over her shoulder. "I'm still having too much fun, soldier. Come into my office for a private chat."
Manley's office could have doubled as a closet, which still made it a tremendous perk in lunar offices tunneled out of rock. She sat opposite Stark, then nodded toward her computer monitor. "Congratulations."
"Thanks. For what?"
"I've got correspondence here from Captain Noble saying you volunteered your Squad to field-test the new enhanced mobility combat armor."
"That damn little pissant."
Manley grinned. "You don't sound like a very enthusiastic volunteer."
"I'll kill him," Stark ground out. "I swear. Next time we're in combat together, assuming the little bastard ever goes near a battlefield, I'll put a round right between his beady little eyes."
"Don't waste the ammo," Manley advised. "I thought this didn't sound like something you'd do."
"Great. So what can I do about it?"
Her grin widened. "Ethan, stuff gets lost in the system all the time. Just kinda disappears." Manley reached over to punch a key. "Captain Noble's message just disappeared."
"Really?" Stark grinned back. "Is there any chance Captain No Balls will find out?"
"Not a one. He'll rotate out in a few months, fat, dumb, and happy, thinking he's done a major suck-up to some General in Combat Systems Development." Manley's grin took on an evil glint. "Me, I'd like to be a fly on the wall when he tries to call in a chit on the deal."
"What if the General tries to find out what happened? Won't your system leave fingerprints?"
Manley rolled her eyes. "Gawd, no. Mind you, when it was delivered we were told it was one hundred percent foolproof and maintained an unalterable track of every piece of correspondence that entered the system."
"How long did it take you to find a back door?"
"First day. We've found a lot more since then. Don't worry about me. There're no fingerprints."
Stark reached to shake her hand. "I owe you one, Bev. Big time."
"Nah, we're even. You saved my ass back on the World when those insurgents tried to overrun our base camp on Madagascar, remember?"
Stark scratched one temple. "Oh, yeah. Heck, I'd forgotten all about that."
"I haven't." Manley waved him out. "Watch out for yourself, you big ape."
"I'll try when I'm not busy protecting you rear-echelon jerks." Stark paused as he started to rise. "Hey, can you help me expedite this paperwork I'm stuck here trying to get processed?"
"What do you think I am, a miracle worker?" Manley demanded. "Ah, hand it over. I'll see what I can do." She frowned over the material displayed on Stark's palmtop. "What the hell is this?"
"I figured you'd know."
"Individual reliability assessments for every soldier in your Squad? Dates of last security reviews? Consolidated disciplinary report? Who the hell ordered this?"
Stark spread both hands. "No idea. My Captain said the report was required, not that I can trust a word he says. Supposed to go back up through him, but I can't get the guy to answer his calls, and he's never in his office, so I figured I could turn it in here."
"Huh." Manley turned to her terminal again, keying in data rapidly. "Security block? No access authorized for me? Fat chance. Just use a few skeleton keys . . . ah . . . there we go. Damn. They're asking for this stuff on every soldier in First Division. Why wasn't I told?" She glared at Stark. "This should have gone through me."
"Maybe you don't have a good reliability assessment," Stark joked.
"Maybe not," Manley grumbled, her fingers dancing over her input board. "Top brass ordered this. Hell, I could've put together all the security and disciplinary info from my database and saved everybody a lot of time. Something screwy's going on, Ethan."
"So what else is new?" Stark eyed her searchingly. "This has got you worried, doesn't it? So the brass went off on a wild tangent again. They always do that."
"They went outside channels, Ethan. They want reliability assessments for everyone and they went outside normal channels to get them. What does that tell you?"
"That they don't trust you, or me, or the guys who work for us."
"That's what I think, too." Manley shook her head, all levity fled. "We don't trust our officers and they don't trust us. Helluva way to run a military, Stark." She tapped her screen again lightly with one finger. "One more thing. You better be ready for some cramped quarters until you go back on the line."
"Why? I heard there're no replacements coming in."
"There aren't," Manley confirmed. "But there're orders here to prepare to double up all existing temporary barracks occupants."
"Why?" Stark repeated.
"I'll try to find out," Manley vowed.
"Thanks, but I think I know somebody else who might have the answer."
Half an hour and several kilometers later, Vic Reynolds stared back dispassionately from her chair as Stark took a seat nearby. "What's the word, Vic?" Stark jerked his thumb backward to indicate the barracks complex behind him. "Why the doubling-up?"
Vic pursed her lips. "How'd you hear that was coming down?"
"I got a source of my own. Amazing, isn't it?"
"Sure is."
"So what's going down?"
"There's no official word, Ethan."
"I know that. I didn't ask for official word. I want to know what's going on, and I know you know if anybody does."
This time Vic grinned tightly. "A reputation can be a terrible thing. Okay. You want to know why we're going to be doubling up here? To make room for reinforcements."
"No way." Stark squinted at Vic in a futile attempt to try to read any trace of mockery. "Reinforcements? Real honest-to-God reinforcements? Who's showing up next, Santa Claus?"
"If Santa does show up, you better be ready with some good explanations."
"I got plenty of those." Stark frowned, fixing his friend with a suspicious glance. "So why aren't you happy? Isn't this good?"
Reynolds avoided his gaze, expression still noncommittal. "Depends what you consider good."
"Okay, Vic. Stop playing games. What's going on? Why reinforcements, and why aren't you happy about it?"
The stars outside crawled millimetrically across the black sheet of endless night while Reynolds pondered her response. "Fair question. Ethan, aren't you wondering where these reinforcements will come from?"
"I hadn't gotten around to that yet." Stark scowled in frustration. "Where the hell do they come from? Second Division is supposed to be completely tied up with commitments back on the World."
"It is," Vic confirmed.
"So?"
"So they're sending Third Division up here. All of it."
Stark just stared, the words slowly entering his brain and hanging there, unable to progress because they wouldn't fit anywhere. "Third Division is the Strategic Reserve. The Continental Guard."
"Yes and yes," Vic confirmed dryly.
"They wouldn't send those pretty boys and girls up here. Who backs up the Armored Brigade if anything happens?"
"There's no more Armored Brigade to back up, Ethan. It's been disestablished, cannibalized to provide bodies to bring Third Division up to full strength."
Stark's eyes twitched as if of their own volition, focusing away from the face of Vic Reynolds and onto a nearby remote vid of the outside. Rocks. Dust. Black shadows and white light. People didn't belong here, didn't fit, and right now the things Vic was telling him didn't fit either. "Why?" he finally spat out.
"Big push. We're going to break the enemy perimeter, Ethan. End the war with total victory." Vic stayed expressionless, reciting the words without emotion.
"Ah, sweet Jesus," Stark whispered, closing his eyes tightly for a few moments. "Tell me it's a joke, Vic. Tell me you made it all up."
"Sorry. No can do."
"They're sending our entire Strategic Reserve up here to try to break the stalemate?"
"That's right. They'll start disembarking within the next twenty-four hours. The whole force is supposed to be here by the end of the week."
"That's pretty damn fast. They must have crammed them awfully tight into the transports."
"The idea's to achieve surprise, Ethan."
"Well, they sure as hell surprised me. What are these fresh troops supposed to do, mop up after we miraculously walk through the enemy lines?"
"No, Ethan. They'll be the spearhead."
Stark's fist hit the wall, causing the image of the lunar landscape to jump in response. "That's too damn flippin' idiotic for even our brass to have dreamed up. Those new troops'll be green, totally unused to the environment up here. They'll be too busy learning to walk to think about fighting. They'll be—"
"Tell it to someone who doesn't know all that, Ethan," Vic interrupted coldly. "They didn't ask us, and they won't ask us, and they won't listen if we try to tell them."
"I know that." Stark stared from his hands back to Reynolds. "Why them in the spearhead? I sure as hell don't want to do it, but why them?"
Vic smiled in self-mockery. "Because we lack fighting spirit, Ethan. They say we're burned out."
"No kidding. War does that. Someone finally noticed?"
Vic ignored Stark's gibe. "Third Division, on the other hand, has great morale."
"Sure they do. They probably think they can catch bullets with their teeth, but that's 'cause they ain't been shot at in, what—fifteen or twenty years?"
"So," Vic plowed on, "their fighting spirit will enable them to overcome the enemy. Then we mop up in their victorious wake."
Stark glared at the outside remote view again, anger and futility warring within him. "Just how many millimeters of protection does 'fighting spirit' add to battle armor?"
"It's not my idea, Ethan."
"If it was I'd personally blow your head off."
"Tell that to General Meecham."
"Who?"
"General Meecham." Vic's mouth twisted in a bitter half smile. "Our greatest strategic and tactical thinker."
"I've done quite a bit of tactical stuff in the past few years and I've never heard of him."
"You will. He's coming up here to implement his, uh, 'revolutionary force-multiplication' concepts. Something called Synergy Warfare."
Stark rolled his eyes in mockery. "Be still, my heart."
"Yeah. Anyway, we'll get lectures on the whole framework for the offensive before the attack goes down."
"They're going to give us the whole plan in advance?"
Stark questioned, not trying to hide his surprise. "That's not bad."
Vic laughed as if the effort pained her. "I didn't say a lecture on the plan, Ethan. Lectures on the framework, the theoretical basis for, um"—Vic's eyes closed as she dredged up a memory—"'overwhelming the enemy mass with our fighting spirit and superior idea paradigm.'"
Stark's jaw dropped. "What the hell.. . ?"
"Don't ask me. Just be glad we won't be leading this attack."
By the time Stark got back to his quarters, a notice awaited, ordering his Squad to vacate half the quarters they'd been occupying. His soldiers were still grumbling when the first members of Third Division arrived, staring around like hick tourists visiting the big city as they stumbled, bumped, and bounced about in the unfamiliar gravity. Mostly, they stared at rock. Rock hallways and rooms tunneled out of the lunar soil. Rock floors left fairly rough to provide traction in a place where gravity didn't help nearly enough. Overhead, mostly raw metal sealing in the little things humans needed, things such as air and heat and moisture.
Stark had seen the city from the outside, staring down at it from some of the heights where American troops held positions. Sometimes it made him think of a spread-out anthill, with big and little humps scattered around to mark high ceilings, and raised strips over subsurface corridors. Here and there, higher towers and clusters of low buildings rose, heavy masonry walls formed from lunar rock pulled out of the subsurface excavations. Not heavy because gravity required it, but because heavy helped keep in that air and heat, and keep out falling rocks and radiation. Nothing like the fairy-tale towers rising under transparent domes in the really old pictures guessing at mankind's future. Fairy tales, after all, are nice to look at, but hideously expensive to build in a place where everything was already really expensive, and far too vulnerable to the threats posed by nature even if other humans hadn't been targeting weapons there as well. No, for fairy towers you had to look at some of the industrial complexes, open to the lunar environment, lights flashing amid skeletal frames rising what seemed far too high for their light structure. Mankind's future, where the fairies had been sent to build and labor in factories on the lifeless rock of the Moon.
The new soldiers, Stark noticed, tended to cluster in the courtyards, small rooms with thick windows set in the ceilings or walls to offer direct views of the outside. Apparently none of them noticed the airtight emergency doors ready to slam shut if one of the windows failed. Stark, like most of the veterans, preferred remote views over standing near a window with vacuum on the other side.
"You guys need any help?" Murphy offered as a Third Division Squad moved into part of his old quarters.
"Not from you," one of the new Privates cracked, drawing laughs from his comrades.
"What the hell's that mean?" Murphy demanded.
Stark stepped in before the Third Division personnel could answer, staring them down with a steely gaze. "It didn't mean anything, right?"
The new soldiers exchanged uncertain glances before one answered. "No, Sergeant."
" 'No, Sergeant' what?"
"Uh, no, Sergeant, it didn't mean anything."
"Good. You'd be well advised to accept any help lunar vets can give." Stark turned to Murphy. "Why don't you and the rest of the Squad take the night off? Go out and have a good time. Probably be your last chance for a while."
Murphy shot a now hostile look at the Third Division soldiers, then nodded. "Okay, Sarge. You coming along?"
"Nah. I need a drink right now." The All-Ranks Club down the hall no longer felt large, not with the floor cluttered with gear belonging to the new troops and most of the chairs occupied by the same. Stark tried to ignore the eyes that followed him as he headed for the bar, suddenly aware again of how easily he could move in the low gravity compared to the stumbling, uncertain efforts of the recent arrivals.
"Stark? Ethan Stark?"
Stark turned, already smiling as he did so. "Rash Puratnam? Where'd you come from? I haven't seen you since—"
"Since I transferred over to Third Division?"
"Yeah. Why the hell did you do that, anyway?"
"My kid sister got sent to that outfit and I wanted to kinda watch over her." Puratnam grinned. "Now she's tough as nails. She's the one who watches over me." He gestured toward the nearby wall unit. "You want some coffee, tough guy?"
"Sure you don't want a beer?"
"Nah. On duty. Got to get back to my unit soon." They sat at a small table, nursing their steaming cups, while Puratnam stared into his drink morosely, as if oblivious to the crowd around them.
"You sure you're in Third Division?" Stark finally teased. "You don't seem all rah-rah, like the rest of them."
Puratnam didn't smile. "That's because I saw combat up until I transferred in. The rest of these guys . . . hell, they're trained real good, Ethan. Maybe overtrained. But they're not veterans. They've been the Continental Reserve so long they've never seen action." Puratnam grimaced as if in pain. "They don't know. They think being ready to kick butt means you will kick butt."
"That's part of it," Stark offered. "Yeah, you need combat time to really learn the ropes, but if your morale ain't high enough, you can't win."
"Morale alone won't do it, Ethan. I saw you walk in here, and I saw how the guys in my unit are trying to walk. There ain't no comparison."
Stark waved depreciatingly. "I been practicing for a few years."
"That's the point. We've been told to be ready for offensive action within a week. A week! They gave us more time than that to acclimate to jungle countries back on Earth."
"Yeah." Stark gazed into his own drink for a moment.
"What do you want me to say, Rash? That you're gonna suffer a lot of casualties just because your people can't move up here? If it was up to me this wouldn't be happening."
"Sergeants don't run the army," Puratnam noted.
"No, they don't. What can I do? You tell me, and I'll do my damnedest."
Puratnam grinned suddenly. "You would. Of course, when any officer heard Sergeant Stark wanted to talk to them they'd just run the other way."
Stark laughed back. "You saying I got a reputation in Third Division, too?"
"Let's see, how'd the Colonel put it? He said, 'I don't want to see any wise-ass senior enlisted in this unit. I expect you people to follow your orders and keep your mouths shut.'"
"I follow orders. Usually."
"Hah." Puratnam grinned again before turning serious. "Thanks for the offer, but I think we've got to fight this battle."
"Rash—"
"No. Please. Don't offer anything you can't hope to deliver." Sergeant Puratnam turned his coffee cup slowly, first in one direction, then the other. "You ever been to Greece, Ethan?"
"That's in Euro, right? I don't think so."
"I have." Puratnam bit his lower lip. "A border-protection op, I think it was. Or maybe something else. Anyway, there's this place where a bunch of guys died a long time ago. I forget what they called it, but these soldiers were named Spartans."
"Never heard of 'em."
"Like I said, it was a real long time ago. About a hundred of these Spartans were ordered to hold a pass against an army, a real big army, and they did for a while. They were like the very best troops around in those days. Then they got overrun and all died right there. They wouldn't retreat or surrender." Puratnam nodded to himself, confirming the memory. "There's a monument at the pass. Kinda nice. It says something like 'go tell the Spartans we're still here just like they ordered.' "
"Huh. What made you think of that?"
"I was wondering. Those Spartans stayed and fought just because they were ordered to. I mean, the Greeks with us told me their home was a long ways from this pass. Would we do the same thing, stand and die like that?" Puratnam suddenly looked embarrassed. "Oh, hell, I know you would, Ethan."
"Knock it off. I did my job."
"No," Puratnam corrected. "You did something you thought you should, and you did it to save your unit, right? The soldiers you fight with. But suppose some Colonel or General had ordered you to do that? Ordered you to hold alone and die right there?"
Stark's laughter rang out harshly. "Hell, they'd just be trying to cover up something they'd screwed up, and make me the fall guy."
"See what I mean? We don't trust the people who give us orders. We do our job, do our duty, but would we do that Spartan stuff? Or would we fight our damnedest for a while and then fall back because we can't assume what we've been told to do is really important?"
Stark thought about it for a long moment, then for another long moment. "I dunno," he finally admitted. "I wouldn't let down anybody who was depending on me. You know, just surrender and leave the grunts on either side hanging or let the apes in the rear get overrun. I'd hold the line."
"Yeah. Me, too. But I get the feeling there's another line out there somewhere. A line I might cross someday. I never even thought about that line when I first enlisted, but now I know it's out there." He sat silent for almost a minute while Stark waited patiently. "It's kinda weird. Charging into the attack is pretty easy. You don't have time to think. You just do it. But holding is hard. You've got to sit there and take it. They're going to order us to attack, Ethan, and we're going to do it. Can you guys hold if need be?"
Stark glared back. "Why the hell are you asking me that?
Damn right First Division will hold. There's not a grunt in the unit who would let you guys down."
"Sorry. Sorry. Didn't mean it to sound that way. We've been fed a lot of crap about you guys being worn out and unreliable."
"Tell that to the enemy soldiers who get real bloody noses every time they try to push us."
"Good point. I didn't believe it, not really, not about you guys, but I know what years of combat can do to even the best units." Puratnam drained his cup, rising from his chair and wobbling as he did, so that he had to grab for balance. "Nice seeing you, Ethan, but I got to get back to my unit. Get them settled in. We're supposed to start low-gravity training tonight."
"Headquarters going to let you guys sleep anytime?"
Instead of laughing, Puratnam looked weary. "Probably not. Full press, you know, hit the ground running, keep the momentum going."
"Slogans don't stop bullets, Rash."
"I know that. You got any advice?"
"None that'd help," Stark stated flatly. "Getting prepped to conduct ops on the Moon takes time and practice. A lot of practice. Moving around up here has gotta be almost reflexive. You make a mistake, push off too hard or too high, and you're a target, a slow-moving target. We survived long enough to learn how to move up here because the other side had to learn the same lessons, but now they're vets, just like us. You're not, and you're not gonna learn how to be vets in a week or two."
Puratnam turned red, squeezing his empty cup so hard it crumpled into a small cylinder as his fingers quivered. "I know," he finally whispered. "I told 'em, my officers. They don't care. We got our orders, and we're going to follow them, come hell or high water."
"There's no water on the Moon, Rash."
"Then that only leaves the other alternative, doesn't it? See you around, Ethan."
"Yeah. Take care of yourself."
Puratnam shook his head. "I got a lot of other people to take care of first, Ethan, just like you do." He moved out of the room, staggering from table to table, bumping into other Third Division soldiers, who were bumping into him at the same time.
Stark lowered his head to the table and closed his eyes, trying to see only the darkness, trying not to think. After a while he rose and walked out, once again ignoring the curious/disdainful eyes of the Third Division soldiers. I've got to get out of here. How many of these fools are going to be dead within a few weeks? He headed on out of the barracks area, his feet carrying him down raw stone corridors toward the Out-City bars.
The bars presented uniform faces to the world, usually a one-window/one-door facade formed from local materials, their only distinguishing features the small signs that hung outside, some illuminated by weak spotlights and others buzzing erratically in neon colors. Stark paused before a half-dozen entrances, hesitating at the sounds of loud voices that could only be those of the new Third Division personnel, then headed on again. Finally he stopped at one that seemed relatively quieter than the others. Glancing inside, he saw why.
The bar, as cramped inside as the other "establishments" in the Out-City, held four small tables. Two of them had been pushed together to form a larger focus for a squad from Third Division, while the other two served the same role for several members of Stark's Squad. Oh, yeah. I told them to head out and have a good time. That might have been a mistake. Stark hesitated again, watching from just outside the doorway for a moment.
Billings stole a sidelong glance toward the noisy celebrants from Third Division. "Kinda loud, aren't they?"
Gomez shrugged. "They're just off the transports, Nance. And they're green. Give them time to blow off steam."
A voice rose above the buzz from the other table. "Hey, First Division, you guys need any help getting home safe tonight?"
Murphy, flushing, started to reply but was restrained by Gomez's hand on his shoulder. "The Sergeant wouldn't like it," she cautioned, then turned to face the other group. "Take it easy, you guys. The low gravity and the canned air make you a little disoriented at first."
"I feel fine," one of the new soldiers stated. "Ready to win this damn war."
"That's a big job. How about we buy you guys a round to welcome you up here?"
"I don't need advice or beer from gutless wonders," someone muttered.
Gomez jerked, lips in a snarl, eyes tracking for a target. "Now you're getting personal. Which one of you Earthworms said that?" Silence and smirks answered her. "So you can talk but not fight, eh? I'd heard that about Third Division."
Feet hit the floor, soldiers rising at both tables. A big Sergeant came over from the Third Division table, moving carefully but still making slightly ridiculous bobbles as he walked, until he stood looming over Gomez. "What did you say?"
Gomez stayed seated, denying her foe the chance to compare heights directly. "I said fighting the enemy is hard enough. We don't need to be slamming each other."
"That's not what I heard."
Gomez shrugged, pretending indifference. "That's what I meant, compadre."
The big Sergeant leaned forward, one blunt finger hovering near Gomez's chest. "I guess you've been up here too long to remember military courtesy. I'm not your damn compadre. I'm a Sergeant. Remember that."
Gomez's eyes flicked from the offending finger to the angry visage of the Sergeant. "Get your hand out of my face . . . compadre."
"I said I'm a Sergeant—" the Third Division man began ominously.
"So am I." Stark strode into the bar and over to the table. The other Sergeant had perhaps an inch advantage in height, but Stark somehow overtopped him in presence. "What the hell's going on here?"
"Your Corporal—" the Third Division man started.
"He's an asshole," Gomez interrupted casually.
The strange Sergeant's face darkened to match the lunar sky as his fingers closed into a fist. Stark raised his own hand, flat palm interposed like a wall between his Corporal and the Third Division noncom. "That's enough. Gomez, you're out of line."
"But—"
"But nothing. You know what to do."
Gomez's own face darkened, but she came to her feet, facing the Third Division Sergeant. "I apologize for my lack of respect, Sergeant. It won't happen again."
Stark switched his attention to the Third Division soldier. "Satisfied?" he challenged.
The other Sergeant shook his head like an angry bull facing a red cloth. "She—"
"I asked if you were satisfied by Corporal Gomez's apology," Stark stated forcefully.
Something about Stark's tone penetrated the anger of the other man. He began to speak again, then caught sight of the decorations on Stark's blouse. His eyes shifted, reading the name tag on the other breast. "Stark? Oh. Okay." Biting his lip, the Third Division Sergeant nodded sharply. "Yeah. If you say so." Turning, he stomped back to his table, or attempted to do so. Unaccustomed to the low g, his heavy steps only resulted in propelling the Sergeant into high, slow arcs, as if he were skipping across the distance. "Come on," he announced loudly to his companions. "Let's find another place." The Third Division contingent filed out, trying to look tough as they went.
Gomez followed their progress with eyes like lasers targeting sights. "Why'd you make me apologize to that big, fat—"
Stark held up his hand again, palm out toward Gomez but still commanding. "You don't insult a noncom in front of his troops. Period. "¿Comprendo?"
The fire faded abruptly from Gomez. "Ah, hell." She sat, avoiding Stark's gaze. "Sorry, Sarge. I oughta know better."
"Yeah, you oughta. You're just lucky he backed down instead of making a case out of it."
"Hell, Sarge," Murphy offered, "he backed down because he recognized your name."
"I doubt that. I don't know him."
"He knows you, Sarge," Chen stated. "Everybody does. You've got a reputation."
"The hell I do," Stark noted sarcastically. "I'm just a Sergeant."
"You're the Sergeant who saved the line years ago after the enemy counter invasion," Billings corrected softly. "You're the Sergeant who stayed behind so the rest of his Platoon could escape. Everybody knows, even these idiots from Third Division. Those who weren't there saw it on vid."
"So what?" Stark demanded. "I did my job. That's all."
"You did more than your job," Murphy insisted. "Sarge, if we're in a bar and other soldiers find out we're in your Squad they want to buy us drinks and stuff just so we'll talk about you."
"You've gotta be kidding."
"No, Sarge." Murphy bent his head, trying to hide an uncharacteristic blush of embarrassment. "Heck, I'm really proud to tell other guys I'm in your Squad. You're sort of a hero."
"Oh, hell." Stark looked around, trying to project disgust. "You apes ought to know better than that. A hero is just a bum who happened to be in the right place at the right time."
"And did the right thing?" Gomez suggested.
"Okay, I guess I did the right thing. So what?"
"So if you hadn't," Chen pointed out, "we'd all be dead."
"Maybe. Maybe not. You guys said your thanks a while back. I appreciated that. But let it drop."
"Okay, Sarge," Billings agreed. "But everyone else is still gonna remember."
"I guess that'll be my cross to bear." Stark looked around, then focused back on his Squad members. "I probably shouldn't have told you guys to go to the Out-City tonight. There're too many new troops around."
"Yeah," Murphy agreed. "And they're looking for a fight, Sarge! Guess they never been in combat."
"They haven't." Stark felt his face harden. "They're going to be. They're going to get the worst fight of their lives if what I hear is true. So just stay clear of them. They've got a real bad shock coming up."
"Maybe we oughta just go back to the barracks," Billings offered. "It's pretty crowded, now, though," she added. "I'm sleeping on the floor."
"You can share my bunk," Chen suggested.
"In your dreams, Earthworm."
Stark leaned toward Gomez as the others bantered. "Anita, you know where Mendo is?"
"Yeah, Sarge. He headed into the Patton Bar on the way here. I guess he and the guy who owns the place like to debate philosophy or something."
"Thanks." Stark tilted his head to indicate the rest of the Squad. "You need help getting these guys back safe?"
"No, Sargento. We're already there."
Stark headed back out into the street, sparing a rare glance upward as he did so. Never look up anymore. Why bother? Nothing but rock or an ugly metal ceiling inside, and nothing but stars, a sun you can't look at, and an Earth you can see but not get to outside. HUDs tell us if anything is going to fall on us. Funny how life up here changes things in ways you never even think about most of the time. He turned left, heading back toward the outer edge of the Out-City.
A few minutes later, in the sort of wide underground corridor that marked the main drag in this part of the Out-City, Stark stood under the small, flickering red, white, and blue neon sign that marked the Patton Bar, its multiple colors casting dim illumination onto the poorly lit central area where people and an occasional electric cart passed in a spasmodic stream. No sense in wasting light fixtures, and the power to light them, in a place where the civs hardly ever went, Stark reflected. He leaned against the stamped metal sheet that made up the facade of the bar, watching the neon colors shift as he waited, until the soldier he'd been waiting for stepped out of the doorway a short distance away. "Mendoza."
The Private jerked in surprise at Stark's call, then came to stand near him under the garish neon light. "Yes, Sergeant?"
"There's been something I've wanted to know for a long time. Why the hell aren't you an officer?"
Mendoza hesitated, staring first at Stark, then into the dimmer areas beyond the light. "My father was an officer, Sergeant."
"The hell." Stark felt suddenly awkward, wondering what fate might have consigned an officer's son to enlisted ranks. "Look, I—"
"That is all right, Sergeant." Mendoza brushed aside Stark's half-formed apology. "My father left the active service as a Lieutenant. He could rise no higher, because he was a man of honor who refused to treat officer rank as a political prize. He advised me that unless I could forgo honor myself, I could have no future among the officer corps which rules our military in this day."
"That's tough advice."
"Yes, Sergeant, but true. The enlisted personnel"—Mendoza smiled sadly—"they are not angels, but they are at least true to each other. Why did you ask me your question now, Sergeant? I have been in your Squad for years now."
"Because we need good officers, Mendoza. The things I've been hearing lately have made that need a lot more obvious. Couldn't you change things, try to make the system better?" Even as Stark spoke, he knew the words were wrong, the sort of thing someone with no experience in getting run over and crushed by the real world would suggest.
Once again, though, Mendoza failed to take offense, instead shaking his head and speaking with earnest seriousness. "Sergeant, it is not so easy. There are always some bad officers, obsessed with their own careers to the exclusion of the tasks they swear to carry out. It has always been that way. But when an officer corps begins to go bad, when too many of the good officers leave in disgust and too many of the poor ones stay on to play political games, it is something that can happen fairly quickly and yet take a very long time to correct. Because now the self-obsessed careerists control the promotions and the job assignments, and thus they can eliminate anyone who does not play the game their way."
Stark nodded somberly. "So anybody who tells the General his idea is screwy gets canned, while the ass-kissers who tell him he's a genius get promoted."
"This is so," Mendoza agreed sadly. "The corruption worsened during the long draw-down after the twentieth century's Cold War, when so many officers were discharged in just a few decades, and of course it was the political ones who survived because they cared more for their own survival than for the people they commanded and the missions those people were ordered to carry out."
"So you're saying there's nothing we can do? The mil is just stuck like this?"
Mendoza hesitated. "Usually, in history, such a corrupted military would eventually fall in the course of a war, but the United States is too powerful, Sergeant. We hold an unmatched strategic arsenal, of which nuclear weapons are just a part. No one may threaten the United States itself, and so the military never really faces crucial, total defeat. I do not know how this can end. A losing war would purge enough of the bad officers to help rebuild a decent officer corps again, but how can such a thing ever happen? How, now, can enough officers be removed at once to allow good men and women to prevail?"
Stark frowned, eyes hooded under the glare of the bar sign. "Something about the way you said that sounded scary, Mendoza."
"I meant nothing frightening, Sergeant," Mendoza advised hastily. "I am afraid I think too much inside. Sometimes, when I speak, the inside thoughts come out too easily."
"Huh. You think good, usually, Mendo. You're wasted as a Private, but I can't tell you to become an officer, not after your own father told you different and not when I know you're right about the officers who run things these days, but I hope you're wrong about one other thing. This can't last. We can only hold the mil together for so long if the people in charge are worried about everything but their people and their jobs."
"Is something about to happen, Sergeant? All these new soldiers are arriving, and they seem very sure of themselves."
"Yeah, that they do." Stark exchanged brief glances with a group from Third Division as it passed with wobbling footsteps. "You know a lot about history, Mendo. How much do you know about corporations?"
Mendoza made a face. "Some, Sergeant."
"What motivates them? I mean, they want to make a lot of money, right? Is that all?"
"Not entirely. A lot of money is nice, but they also always want to make more. No matter how big the profit is, they want it to be bigger."
"Always? They're never satisfied?"
"No, Sergeant, they are never satisfied. Every year they must grow larger, and have larger profits, or the corporation is seen as failing. It is strange. A corporation could gain total control of every market in the world, but then it would be a failure because it could no longer keep growing. I have never understood it, but then I was raised military." Mendoza looked puzzled. "Does this have something to do with the arrival of the new soldiers?"
"It might. The enemy holding us inside this perimeter are certainly keeping the corporations from growing here on the Moon. But I don't know for sure. Thanks, Mendo. The rest of the Squad's heading back to the barracks. You probably ought to do the same." Stark gripped Mendoza's shoulder in a brief gesture that brought a sudden smile to the Private's usually anxious face, then left, walking toward the barracks on his own. Not sure what's happening. Not sure why it's happening. Life in the army. I bet Mendo would say it's always been that way. His steps quickened, as if faster movement on his part would somehow make the next several days pass more quickly.
Mail call. A very old name for a very important thing. The form of the mail had changed over time, from rice paper with a few precious words scribbled in smeared ink, to archaic computer discs with a little magnetic memory precariously balanced in their guts, to the current almost indestructible coins that provided vid playback when popped into any convenient reader. The ancient cliché had it that strong men wept if they left mail call empty-handed. Not anymore, of course. Now you'd have to say strong men and women wept.
Except Stark. With his mil "family" around him at all times and a consistent dearth of long-term girlfriends he'd never expected mail, never been disappointed by empty hands when the last coin had been tossed to an eager receiver. But now he stood, not just one but two coins in hand, wondering what they could mean and who could have written.
At least he didn't have to hunt down privacy, like most of the rest of the soldiers in the barracks. Stark slid his cube door shut, then popped the first coin in. "Greetings, Ethan Stark." A woman. A civ. Looking bright and precise in good clothes and one of those nice gravity-defying lunar hairstyles that the civ women favored. He knew her, from a hospital visit whose purpose he never had figured out. "My name is Robin. Robin Masood. I need to talk to you on your next visit to New Plymouth. My number is enclosed. Please use it. I'd really like to see you again." The screen blanked as the brief message ran its course.
"The hell," Stark muttered, rubbing his chin warily. A civ, a good-looking civ with presumably her pick of civ men, wanting to see a mil noncom. Not that he minded the implied compliment, but this Robin Masood seemed out of his league. He could see her, maybe, on some officer's arm, but not his. She didn't look like a beer-and-then-another-beer kind of woman, and whatever virtues Stark believed he had, he knew he was that kind of man. "What's she want?" he wondered aloud. Guess I can go into town tomorrow. Beats hanging around the barracks staring down Third Division Earthworms. But she won't be living in the Out-City. Not a high-class civ like her. Maybe I shouldn't . . . ah, hell, Stark, what are you afraid of? If some civ cops give me a hard time, I'll take them apart. He keyed the attachment on Robin Masood's letter to call up her number, then downloaded it into his palmtop before reaching for the next coin.
The second coin slid in smoothly. Stark frowned in momentary puzzlement as a man appeared, some sort of distorted and older version of himself, like the fake aging mirrors played back in cheap funhouses. "Ethan?" the older, different version of himself faltered, and as it did, realization flooded in. He'd had it backward, for Stark was the younger version of the man on the screen.
"Dad." Ethan only had time for the single word before the old man began speaking again, face twisting as if words were unaccustomed to it.
"Ethan," his father repeated. "I, I got your mail. I, uh, I. . . ah, hell. Thanks. Maybe you were ten kinds of fool to get into the military, but I'm glad you're still alive. I didn't understand a lot of what you said, what all you do, but I guess you've got a lot of responsibility now. People depend on you. That's . . . well, that's really important. Me, I was never good enough for that. Just a fish farmer, like you always said. Only things that depended on me were the damn fish. And you and your mother, I guess. And I thought I'd let you down. For a long time. Only one kid, one chance, and I screwed it up."
Stark's father looked down, mouth working in remembered anguish. "But maybe not. Your friend, I guess she is, somebody named Reynolds, she sent us a copy of some award you got." Suddenly his father's eyes shone with something Stark had never seen there. No, two somethings. Not just tears, but also something more. "You were going to give your life for your friends. Almost did. After we got that letter from your friend Reynolds we called up a copy of the vid broadcast and watched. How did you do it? All those people trying to kill you, all those bullets, and you stayed because you believed you should."
His father glanced up, as if looking Stark in the eye, shaking his head in wonderment. "My son. Here I thought you'd never be half the man I'd been and instead you're twice what I ever was. Three times what I was. I don't care about that hero crap, but I sure care that you protected those people. You don't ever let them down, Ethan. I know I let you down, but you're more than me now, and I'm proud of that. Don't let them down, because they need you, and maybe you need them."
His father looked frantically to the side, as if searching for a forgotten text. "I, uh, I. . . I'm glad you wrote. Good to know you're okay. If you, um, ever get down here, please, um, stop in. Wear your, uh, uniform if you like. I'm sure you look real good in it. It's . . . been a long time." Screen static replaced his father's aged face; then the coin popped out, ready for replay or reuse.
Stark took the coin carefully in his hand, weighing it like a talisman. "You didn't let me down, Dad," he finally told it. "Not really. And thanks. Don't worry. I won't let these apes down." He pulled out a fresh coin, inserted it, then laboriously began recording a reply, trying to ignore the way his halting delivery mimicked that of his father.
Stark fidgeted outside the door to Robin's apartment, wondering anew just why the civ woman had called him, and feeling extremely out of place in uniform amid the civ furnishings, decorations, and people who filled this portion of New Plymouth. He stood stiffly as a police officer paused nearby, then walked over. I'm not a kid anymore. If this guy tries to ride me, I'll—
"Excuse me." The officer spoke politely, not trying to hide his curiosity but without any obvious hostility. "Can I help you?"
"No. Thank you."
"If you need directions—"
"This is where I want to be," Stark interrupted, with a sharp gesture toward the door.
"All right. If there's anything you need, you let me know."
Stark finally turned his head, frowning at the officer. "Sure. Mind telling me why you're being nice to me?"
"I don't understand."
"Neither do I. I'm a soldier, right? I'm in a civ neighborhood. That doesn't bother you?"
The officer frowned back. "I've seen very few military people here, so naturally I'm curious. It's my job to look out for this area, just like you look out for the colony."
Stark paused in mid-reply as the officer finished his sentence. "You're not worried about me?"
"Most of us worry about the soldiers on the perimeter."
"That's not . . . never mind. Thanks. I'm okay." He watched the officer walk on down the corridor, well lighted here, with actual living plants growing in occasional planters set along the walls. What was that about? Damn strange. Maybe I should have listened to Vic.
"Ethan," Vic had offered in tones of utter seriousness after he'd discussed his plans for the evening, "you want me to come along?"
"Two women on one date?" Stark joked. "That'd sure boost my reputation."
Vic hadn't smiled. "Ethan, you know mil, like me. You don't know civs, and you sure don't know women. I just want to keep you out of trouble."
"Thanks, Mom. But I think I can handle this alone."
"Famous last words." Vic had let him go, watching with worried eyes.
Robin's door finally slid open to reveal the civ woman smiling in welcome. "Thanks for coming by. It's important."
"Mind if I ask why?" Stark wondered, standing rigidly in the small room that made up the apartment's living room/bedroom/office.
"I've a friend who needs to talk to you." Robin gestured toward the kitchenette. Another woman stood there, middle-aged with streaks of gray along each temple, a woman who radiated the kind of confidence that comes with high rank in any profession. Stark had to fight down a sudden urge to salute as the woman walked up to him and extended a hand.
Stark shook it, sitting awkwardly in an offered seat as the two women sat opposite him. "Would you like something to eat or drink?" Robin offered.
"No, that's okay." On a small shelf nearby stood a short, fat figurine, a silly grin plastered on its comical face. Stark smiled in sudden memory. "This yours?" he asked, indicating the toy.
Robin half smiled back, as if embarrassed. "Yes. My mother gave it to me when I left Earth. It was hers. She thought it would remind me of home."
"Does it?"
"Yes. Why do you ask?"
He touched the figurine's face gently with one fingertip. "My mom has one, too. Back home. Guess all the women that age bought 'em, huh?"
"Many did," the other woman admitted. "It was quite a fad. Where is your home?"
"You mean, where did I grow up?" Stark smiled at the silly figurine again. "Seattle Area."
"Really?" Robin asked. "I'm originally from the Portland Area. I didn't know there was a fort in the Seattle Area."
"There isn't. My parents weren't mil. Military. I grew up just like you did, I guess."
"That's fairly unusual, isn't it?"
"Yeah, well, that's me. Fairly unusual." Stark felt himself relaxing, as if the ridiculous figurine were a talisman summoning memories of his life as a civilian. "Funny, you from the Pacific Northwest, too, and having the same whatchamacallit."
"Pacas. They're called pacas. I don't know why. Did you ever go to the beaches?"
"Sure. Everybody did."
"I miss the beaches," Robin remarked wistfully. "I wish the Moon had an ocean."
"It's got seas," Stark joked.
"That doesn't count," she laughed in reply.
A momentary silence settled. "What's this about?" Stark finally questioned. Nothing about the encounter seemed social, despite the relaxing atmosphere, sparking reminders of Vic's worried attitude.
"Mr. Stark," the older woman began.
"Sergeant."
"I beg your pardon?" The woman seemed genuinely bewildered.
"Sergeant," Stark repeated. "That's my title. In the mil. The military. It's what I do."
"I see." The older woman nodded in apparent understanding. "Well, Sergeant Stark, I'm Cheryl Sarafina. My title is executive director to Colony Manager Campbell. Do you know who that is?"
"Sounds like the head civ."
"That's right. James Campbell is the senior elected civilian official in New Plymouth, which means he's the top elected civilian on the entire Moon, though his actual power is severely limited as long as we're under martial law." Sarafina paused, then stared grimly at Stark. "Mr.—I'm sorry—Sergeant Stark, I'd very much like to ask you some questions about the military."
"I can't divulge any operational stuff to you, ma'am, not without clearance from my chain of command."
"Ma'am?" Sarafina seemed amused by the title. "Don't worry. I don't want to know anything you can't tell me. No, I'd just like to know your opinion on some issues."
"My opinion?" Stark laughed. "I'm a Sergeant. Nobody cares what I think, except the grunts in my Squad."
"I care." Sarafina leaned forward, eyes intense. "Sergeant Stark, would you regard a negotiated peace settlement here on the Moon as a betrayal?"
"Huh?" Stark scratched his head, glancing at Robin and then the paca on the nearby shelf. "Why would I do that?"
"Because of all your comrades who have died up here. All the fighting you've done to achieve victory."
"Ma'am, most of the fighting I've done was to achieve my personal survival. As for my comrades, yeah, I've lost too many, here and a lot of other places. And let me tell you, one is too many. But it happens, and nobody cares all that much except us."
Sarafina frowned in puzzlement. "Surely your officers care."
"A few do, most don't. A lot of them, the higher-ranking ones in particular, seem to think of us as nothing more than spare parts sometimes."
"I don't understand."
Stark shrugged. "Neither do I, ma'am. Why are you asking me this?"
"Because," Robin chimed in, "we, the civilians here in New Plymouth, would like the war to end. Everything we want to accomplish on Luna is being limited and stymied by the need to fight, by the resources we're forced to send back to Earth as what we're told is our share of the war's cost, by the partial blockades that make getting people and materials up here harder than it needs to be. And, of course, the heavy taxes on anything and everything up here."
"Taxes?" Stark questioned. "I thought civs could elect people who wouldn't make them pay a lot of taxes. Has that changed since I enlisted?"
Robin Masood smiled bitterly. "It's not that we don't expect to help pay for the military forces that protect us, but we seem to be taxed beyond that, certainly much, much higher than our counterparts on Earth. And there's nothing we can do about it. We can't exercise the same rights to self-government that Americans back on Earth can, because as long as the war lasts, we'll remain under martial law. We're not even allowed to vote for representatives in Washington."
"In addition," Sarafina noted, "the corporations that sent us up here invested heavily, and as a result continue to demand ever larger output from our mines, labs, and factories. Yet we cannot meet those output goals as long as the war demands resources from us and limits our ability to expand."
"So you're between a rock and a hard place. You saying your bosses don't listen to you either?"
Sarafina smiled grimly. "Sergeant Stark, are you familiar with the term 'chattel labor'?"
"Can't say I am."
"It refers to workers who are so indebted to their employers that they must continue working. Workers who have no say in their own fates. Workers who are effectively little more than slaves. We are tired of living such lives, Sergeant Stark, yet there is no hope of improvement as long as the war continues. Therefore we want to negotiate a settlement."
Stark shrugged again. "So negotiate it. That issue's way above my pay grade."
Sarafina speared Stark with another intense gaze. "Sergeant, as I noted, we've been told by your officers, the most senior ones, that any attempt to negotiate a settlement would be regarded as a betrayal by the enlisted personnel. We've been told you would never stand for it."
"Nobody ever asked me." Stark screwed up his face in puzzlement. "Hell, I've been in more than a dozen campaigns. They all ended, and a lot of them didn't end the way we wanted. Nobody asked me if I cared or liked it then, and nobody's asked me up here."
"Are you saying you'd actually like a negotiated settlement?"
"Ma'am, I generally like it when people stop shooting at me."
The two women exchanged glances. "It appears your officers may be lying to us," Sarafina noted.
"They lie to us all the time," Stark agreed, then frowned in sudden concern. Damn. Shouldn't have said that. Way too relaxed. So what if Robin's from Portland Area and her mom had one of those dumb smiley things, too. They're civs. "I probably shouldn't be that blunt with you. I'm sure my officers would be real unhappy if they heard what I've been telling you, even if it is just my opinion."
"Sergeant, I swear anything you have or will tell us will remain confidential," Sarafina promised. "Your officers will not be told you ever spoke to us."
Can I trust that? Hell, I don't know. They seem nice, but . . . Vic's right. I'm out of my depth here. "Suppose I asked you not to tell anyone else."
"No one?" Sarafina didn't seem pleased at the prospect.
"Right."
"Please reconsider. I believe this information is very important to Mr. Campbell, and therefore to all the inhabitants of New Plymouth."
If she was lying to me, she' d just promise anything to keep me talking. Yeah. No question. "That's okay. You can tell Campbell. Just keep it quiet beyond him. I talk too much for my own good sometimes."
Sarafina didn't try to hide her relief. "Certainly. You have my word, Sergeant Stark."
"Thanks. Look, I can't help you on this negotiation issue. I don't have any power outside the twelve soldiers I command. And my officers have made it plenty clear they don't want to hear my opinions on any subject."
Sarafina smiled. "On the contrary, Sergeant Stark, you have helped us. Understanding your opponent is important in politics. I assume it is the same in military matters, isn't it?"
"That's right."
"In the same way, knowing what motivates your senior officers will help us in our dealings with them."
"Good luck." Stark looked around to mask another wave of uncertainty. "Uh, Robin, I guess that's the whole point of this? Nothing social? Not that I expected anything," Stark added hastily.
She flushed slightly. "I'm very sorry. You probably expected something else when I sent you that letter, didn't you?"
"You didn't promise anything."
"No, but. . . I am sorry for implied expectations. It's nothing personal."
Stark found himself grinning. "It never is. Don't worry about it." He nudged the paca again. "Nice to see this thing. My mom's used to embarrass the hell out of me. But that was a long time ago. You ever get back to the Portland Area?"
"I can't afford it. Like most of the workers up here, I seem to get deeper in debt by the day. Have you been to the Seattle Area lately?"
"I've been up here longer than you. So, is there anything else I can do for you ladies? We're pretty busy these days. I probably ought to be getting back."
Sarafina glanced away, seeming somehow embarrassed to Stark. "There is one more thing, Sergeant. Is there anything we, the civilians in New Plymouth, can do for you?"
"For me?" Stark shook his head. "I don't need anything special."
"No, not just you personally. Anyone, everyone in the military. What can we do?"
Sometimes things happened that simply didn't fit. Lately that sort of thing had been happening often. First the cop, then this. Stark rubbed his neck, puzzled. "Why are you asking?" he finally wondered.
Robin answered, pointing off toward the spaceport. "We see them all the time, sometimes just a few, sometimes more. The . . . the . . . containers for the dead."
"The body bags." Stark nodded. "Yeah, I know they're not bags anymore, but that's still what they're called."
"You're dying for us," Robin continued, eyes suddenly reddened. "We know that. You keep us safe at enormous risk to yourselves. That's one of the reasons we insisted on visiting the hospital where we saw you, so we could gain a better understanding of your sacrifices for us."
"One of the reasons?" Stark asked.
Sarafina smiled tightly. "We also wanted a chance to speak to some military personnel for their candid opinions. However, if you recall, no such chance presented itself. The officers who escorted us made it clear we shouldn't ask too many questions and they effectively intimidated anyone who might have given us the answers we sought anyway."
"So you set up this meeting. Good; now I understand."
"It makes you happy to know this?"
"I like knowing what's going on and why it's going on," Stark confirmed. "It's one of the things that helps keep me alive. As for what you can do for the mil, I've got no idea. You've got no control over our officers, and you say you can't vote, so none of the politicians will listen to you, and the corporations that seem to be driving a lot of this mess are driving you, too. So I don't know. Maybe just be nice when you see one of us."
"We hardly ever see any military personnel," Sarafina noted. "They pass through the spaceport and on out to your restricted areas." She paused, suddenly pensive. "There seem to have been a very large number of them arriving lately."
Stark glanced downward. "That's something I can't talk about."
"There's a lot of talk about a big offensive," Robin chimed in. "The newscasts are full of it."
"The newscasts." Stark simply stared back.
"There was an interview with one of your, um, Generals? the other day. He talked a lot about winning the war and applying some new way of fighting."
"A General? Some guy named Meecham?"
"I think so. He seemed very confident."
Stark choked down a reply. Confident. I guess it's easy to be confident when you have no idea what the hell reality is. Just like those poor, ignorant bastards in Third Division. The difference is they'll bleed and die and that General will sit back at headquarters and watch it happen. He shook his head. "I'm sorry. Can't talk about it. Don't want to talk about it."
Robin began to say something else, but Sarafina forestalled her with a raised hand. "Certainly, Sergeant. We respect your wishes."
"Thanks." Stark stood, feeling awkward again. "I ought to be going."
"Of course." Sarafina rose as well, extending her hand once more. "Thank you, Sergeant Stark. Good luck and Godspeed."
"Sure." Stark shook her hand. "But don't wish luck to me, wish it to all those new arrivals. Robin, hope you get to visit Portland Area soon." He left, standing once again in the civ corridor of the civ building, where civs stopped to stare as he walked by, a uniform where uniforms did not belong. For the first time in a very long while, Stark stared back briefly, surprised to see more of curiosity in the civ eyes than fear and hostility. Some mil are different from other mil, like the Third Division apes are different from us. Maybe some civs are different from other civs, too. The thought disturbed him on some level where the way the world worked sat engraved in his mind. Is it possible the mil up here could have something in common with the civs up here? I guess stranger things have happened.
The corridor leading to Stark's cubicle in the temporary barracks ran by a small lounge area that was basically just another cubicle with no door, a few more chairs, a drink dispenser, and no bed. As he passed the lounge, Stark spotted Vic sitting in a chair that gave her a view out the door. "Hey. What're you doing around here?"
Vic twisted up one corner of her mouth in a noncommittal expression. "Nothing much. Just taking a break."
"Funny place to take a break. You weren't waiting up for me, were you?"
"Why would I bother with that?" she noted carelessly. "You're a big boy."
"Sure." Stark came in, sitting opposite her. "You gonna ask?"
"No."
"Okay. All she wanted was to talk to me, her and this friend of hers who's some high-ranking civ."
Vic raised one eyebrow. "They just wanted to talk? Ethan, you're not exactly the greatest conversationalist."
"I know, but it wasn't that kind of talk. They had a bunch of questions they wanted to ask me."
"Questions?" Vic frowned, leaning forward slightly. "What kind of questions?"
Stark waved one hand in a dismissive gesture. "Nothing operational or anything. No secrets. Get this, Vic: The civs have been told by our officers that the reason the war's still going on is because we, enlisted like you and me, insist on fighting until we win."
Vic chuckled, shaking her head. "Come on."
"I mean it. They were serious as hell, and really surprised when I told them nobody cared what we thought and we didn't particularly want any war to go on any longer than necessary." Stark paused, noting the expression on Vic's face. "What's wrong with that?"
"Ethan," Vic stated with more than a trace of anger, "what do you think our officers are going to do when some high-ranking civs tell them you said our officers are lying?"
"I wouldn't want to guess," Stark declared indignantly. "But it won't happen. The civs promised they wouldn't tell any officers they'd talked to me."
"And you believed them?"
"Yeah. Not at first. But they convinced me."
"They're civs, Ethan!" Vic's face tightened as her anger flared. "They think we're some kind of gladiators who die for their entertainment! They won't vote for enough money to support us properly! They don't care about you or any of us."
"Vic, these civs don't watch the mil vid, they aren't allowed to vote, and, believe it or not, they seem to care about us."
"Bull. Ethan, you are such a sucker for a pretty face—"
"Listen to me! I may not be the smartest guy in the world, or up here for that matter, but I do know when someone's trying to work a scam on me. They didn't ask for anything, Vic."
"Sure," Vic grumped. "And next time she calls you she'll have the vid waiting to take down every word you say. Either that or she'll scream 'rape!' and get her own vid time."
"I know she's a civ, but. . ." Stark hesitated, trying to find the right words and failing. "She, and the other civ, they didn't act like I was mil and they were civ. It was different, Vic."
"Just what does 'different' mean?"
"I don't know." The admission seemed to mollify Vic somewhat. "Just something wasn't the same as it usually is. Hell, Vic, on the way back through the civ areas I swear a couple of them smiled at me, like they wanted to be friendly. And this civ cop, he acted nice, Vic."
"Stranger things have happened, I suppose"—Vic sighed in unconscious mimicry of Stark's own thoughts—"though I don't know what. Still, Ethan, you probably shouldn't see that woman again."
Stark grinned. "What, are you jealous?"
"Oh, please!" Vic looked incredulous.
"Well, we do spend a lot of time together."
She shook her head and rolled her eyes simultaneously. "Ethan, that's because we're friends. Friends, Ethan. Even if we weren't, I'd still feel obligated to hang around you so I could warn off any other female who saw you and suffered a momentary lapse of judgment by thinking you'd be a good catch."
"Thanks. I really like you, too." Stark stared at his hands for a moment. "They told me something else, Vic. Seems our General Meecham has been on the newscasts talking about the offensive."
"I'd heard that."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I couldn't quite believe it. The civs saw it, though, huh?"
"That's what they said. Guess that program got censored from the stuff we get to see." Stark clenched one fist. "Keep us from seeing what a General says on security grounds but let every civ and foreign viewer watch it all. That makes a helluva lot of sense. Vic, why do I feel like somebody watching a train wreck happening in slow motion?"
"Probably for the same reason I do." Vic held up her palmtop so Stark could see the screen. "Get ready to watch some more. There's a lecture tomorrow morning by Meecham's staff. All Sergeants in First Division who aren't on the line are required to attend personally. Sergeants on the line will be linked in."
"Oh, man." Stark narrowed his eyes to read Vic's screen. "Why do I think this is gonna be real ugly?"
Whether the lecture proved to be ugly or not, the lead-up to the talking heads on Meecham's staff developed in the tortuous fashion common to most major briefings. Only the military, Stark thought sourly, could design chairs capable of being highly uncomfortable even under the gentle tug of lunar gravity. He shifted position for perhaps the tenth time since taking a seat, then turned his head questioningly in response to a tap on one shoulder. "Yeah?"
"Hey, Stark, what're you doin' here? I thought you knew everything about fighting wars."
Stark smirked in exaggerated comradeship. "Sergeant Yurivan. I thought you were locked up in the stockade again, Stacey."
"Me?" Yurivan mimicked Stark's expression. "Nah. Me, I'm innocent as can be."
"Sure," Reynolds chimed in from her seat. "Does that mean you destroyed all the evidence, Stace?"
"Every piece." Sergeant Yurivan waved grandly toward the stage that dominated the front of the hall. "Now I'm trying to learn all the secrets Stark here has been keeping from the rest of us."
"What makes you think I know any secrets?" Stark wondered.
"You're alive," Yurivan pointed out, "and you ought to be dead several times over. There's usually a limit on how many dumb things a grunt can do without getting taps played over his or her heroic funeral, but you, Stark, you just keep on rolling. You're either very, very smart, or very, very lucky."
Sanchez tilted his head just enough to take part in the conversation. "Maybe he's just very, very dumb."
"Could be," Yurivan agreed cheerfully. "How come you guys look so glum?"
"Because," Stark stated with forced solemnity, "we are here to be lectured on some General's theories for revolutionizing warfare. I'd rather be shot at."
Yurivan beamed happily. "Me, I love it."
Reynolds raised one skeptical eyebrow. "You got a concussion, Stace? Or are you just trying for a mental discharge?"
"Neither," Sergeant Yurivan insisted. "I just love the concept this General dreamed up. 'Sin energetically.' What a great idea!"
Stark stifled a laugh. "Stacey, it's synergy, not sin energetically."
"You fight your way, I'll fight mine." Yurivan sat back with the self-satisfied grin of a class clown who'd scored a joke while circles of smiles and guffaws radiated out from her position as surrounding soldiers repeated the gag to their neighbors.
"Attention!" The Sergeants leaped to their feet, standing rigid as a full Colonel in a faultlessly tailored and creased uniform strode onto the stage, an entrance flawed by the Colonel's staggering attempts to move in low gravity.
"Seats," the Colonel commanded with an air of great dignity. "I am Colonel Penter, Lunar Expeditionary Force Joint Command Headquarters staff. I have the pleasure and duty of providing you with an overview of the brilliant revolution in operational military activity that has been developed by General Meecham." Fumbling beneath the center-mounted podium, the Colonel finally located the switch he'd been seeking, causing the heavy curtains behind the stage to roll apart with slow majesty. The opening revealed a large briefing screen that now dominated the stage behind Colonel Penter, displaying a sector of the front in ultrahigh-resolution, color-coded, 3-D-terrain-enhanced, integrated-data elemental glory. "As you can see, we've assembled a perfect picture of the total environment and now have an unparalleled grasp of the military situation on the lunar front."
Stark leaned slightly to whisper in Vic's ear. "Since when do collecting and displaying data elements equal understanding things?"
"They don't," she muttered back.
"As General Meecham had the insight to state," the Colonel lectured in the tones of an elementary-school teacher, "understanding the enemy is the first prerequisite to defeating the enemy."
"Excuse me, sir," a Sergeant somewhere far to the right side of the briefing room called, "but didn't Sun Tzu say that a couple of thousand years ago?"
The Colonel paused, his mouth a thin line. "Comments are neither required nor desired. I expect silence and full attention while presenting this information. Now, as I was saying, understanding of the enemy requires an exhaustive analysis of mind-set parameters fused with historical biases toward action and inaction within discrete decision matrices. These matrices are in turn heavily influenced by enemy perceptions of our own projected, expected, and traditional force employment options."
Smiling confidently, Colonel Penter raised a dramatic finger for emphasis. "Synergy Warfare is based upon careful calculation of the correlation of forces taking into account every physical condition and weighing the subsequent results against the critical nonphysical conditions to produce a definitive course of action with a finitely determinable outcome. For example, in a sample limited-force engagement this correlation is partially determined by measuring relevant combat-impacting factors as they relate to force employment considerations. Application of variables regarding terrain effects is achieved using exhaustive analysis of available data as processed through applicable force-movement and deployment models. Logistics requirements are based on historical-use data streams that reflect current trends in depletion of consumable stockpiles during periods of high-stress activity. Naturally, some approximations must be used in all cases to smooth out jagged anomalies in curve rates of projected applied analyses."
"Naturally," Sanchez whispered softly.
"The proper force application vectors," Colonel Penter droned on, "are determined by high-level secondary and tertiary branch analysis with a heavy emphasis on decision-linkage theory and high-tempo crisis management tools." He paused, raising a finger on the other hand for additional emphasis, so that the raised digits framed the wall of medal ribbons covering most of his chest. "I might add that this particular facet of Synergy Warfare received special praise when General Meecham briefed the Joint Staff."
Goody for him. Stark felt his mind fuzzing as the relentless stream of jargon continued unabated. This would be sort of funny, in a sick way, if so many lives weren't riding on this verbal pile of garbage.
"These paradigms are essentially self-evident operational/strategic vectors impacting on each other in an eminently predictable fashion. General Meecham's special contribution to the modern art of war is the recognition that clustering of operational paradigms into highly focused yet diverse grand tactical applications produces an uber paradigm capable of overcoming standard resistance models with multiplication factors dependent only on special considerations and the mental discipline of relevant commanders at all levels." The Colonel produced a laser pointer, holding it like a sword of triumph as he swung toward the display screen at his back. "This presentation represents a typical nonexceptional situation on a discrete portion of the lunar front. Individuals without a grounding in Synergy Warfare concepts would conclude that attacking forces would require a significant material advantage in order to overcome resistance from defenders employing commonly established defensive measures applied by inherent traditional warfare mind-sets as modified by current transitional trends within physical force employment constraints. This, of course, is not actually the case."
"What the hell is he talking about?" Stark whispered fiercely to Vic.
"I doubt if even he knows," she breathed back. "As Napoleon once stated, the moral is to the material as three is to one." Colonel Penter swung his laser pointer triumphantly, outlining a portion of the display with quick slashes. "In this area, application of Synergy Warfare in its most rudimentary form would allow concentration of our forces to achieve a three-to-one material superiority. By applying the higher-level paradigm clustering inherent in properly focused Synergy Warfare, we re-create and enhance the basis for Napoleon's greatest victories. In short, with this material advantage magnified by employment in accordance with Synergy Warfare, we automatically enjoy the equivalent of a nine-to-one advantage!"
An audible murmur ran around the room as one Sergeant stood to speak. "Excuse me, sir, but are you saying three soldiers equal nine soldiers in your planning?"
The Colonel nodded with obvious satisfaction. "That is correct, if highly simplified, as far as it goes. Of course, when other superiority-enhancing paradigms are applied and multiplied by our own technological superiority, conservative estimates indicate an effective virtual superiority in the range of twelve to one."
"Three soldiers equal twelve soldiers?"
"No, no, no! One soldier equals twelve soldiers!" Colonel Penter gestured grandly. "This is, as I said, a conservative estimate that does not even factor in the obvious huge advantage granted our forces by our overwhelming superiority in leadership by our senior officers."
Oh, God. Stark stared, speechless for a moment. They based their plans on the assumption they're playing with twelve times as many people as they've actually got? And they're congratulating themselves on how brilliant they are to do that? Before he could muster any response, another Sergeant stood.
"Begging the Colonel's pardon, sir, but is that display meant to portray the actual situation in that sector of the front?"
"That is correct, Sergeant. This is, I assure you, a definitive display."
"Colonel, I'm sorry, but that's not a complete picture, sir. There's a number of enemy fortifications missing."
Penter nodded sharply. "Of course. Those extra fortifications were carefully evaluated and assessed to be either abandoned or the product of deliberate deception operations."
"Sir?" The Sergeant's dismay was plain to see. "Colonel, sir, I've led patrols along that front. A lot of them. Those fortifications are there."
"No, Sergeant, they are not. We are well aware that, shall we say, exaggerated estimates of enemy capabilities have been used to justify a long-term lack of results, but—"
"Colonel," the Sergeant broke in, clearly furious at the implied insult, "you can't achieve material superiority by wishing away some of the enemy forces."
"I told you," Penter declared in icy tones, "that this picture of enemy capabilities was developed by careful analysis of all available intelligence."
"Colonel, nobody asked me or anyone else at the front about those capabilities, so I don't know where you got this 'intelligence.' "
Penter didn't so much grin as bare his teeth. "I seriously doubt that General Meecham or his planners require the input of a disrespectful Sergeant in order to reach the necessary conclusions about enemy capabilities."
White with anger, the Sergeant sat abruptly, even as Stark muttered in Vic's ear. "He gave himself away. 'Necessary' conclusions about enemy capabilities, the Colonel says. If they didn't decide the enemy forces were weak enough there, Meecham's plan couldn't work even with this moral superiority nonsense."
"Right," Reynolds agreed. "They did wish away enemy capabilities they didn't want to deal with. Easy to do when you're not gonna have to face them personally."
"If I may have everyone's full attention," Penter announced over the rising buzz of conversation, "I will continue telling you what you need to know." The laser pointer swung again, moving in great, sweeping arcs. "The enemy mind is his weakest point, and that is where Synergy Warfare concentrates its efforts. By employing multiple diversions across a wide area, the enemy's attention is distracted. By then striking with a carefully sequenced succession of heavy, closely coordinated attacks against several sectors, the enemy is unable to reinforce threatened areas and will exhaust his reserves by rushing them from place to place. Adhering to a precise timeline is, of course, critical to achieving this goal. The enemy will be unable to determine the most critical point as our forces strike at him repeatedly. Most importantly, by employing our forces in a visually intimidating and aggressive posture, we ensure the enemy defenders are overawed. Their firepower will avail them nothing if their fingers freeze from fear on their triggers." Penter smiled triumphantly. "That last sentence is a direct quote from General Meecham."
Stark stood, despite a frantic but futile grab by Vic to keep him in his chair, drawing the attention of the room as he did so. "Colonel, given your intentions to employ Third Division in this assault, I submit it would be wise to either provide them more training in movement under Lunar conditions—"
"Impossible. We will not dither away our opportunity for victory."
"—or build enough flexibility into your precise timeline to account for the difficulty Third Division personnel will have moving under unfamiliar conditions through unfamiliar and difficult terrain."
"Impossible," Penter repeated. "General Meecham's theory of Synergy Warfare demands the precise coordination of all elements in order to generate a quantum magnification of force on narrowly focused areas."
"Colonel, you can't have a precise timeline if your planning doesn't reflect real-world constraints."
"Our planning reflects our doctrine, Sergeant," Penter insisted, nostrils flaring.
Sometimes it's a good idea to think instead of quoting doctrine. "Colonel," Stark continued out loud, "the Third Division troops can't make a precise timeline over lunar terrain. At best, they'll either sacrifice formation integrity, or any attempts at maintaining a covered advance. That's not theory. That's fact. Any rock-eater can tell you that."
"Rock-eater." The Colonel shook his head in disapproval. "I assume you mean a lunar veteran. Unfortunately, Sergeant, you lunar veterans need to be remotivated. Staff planners are certain good troops will make that timeline."
"SUAFO," Reynolds muttered, the soldier's acronym for Shut Up And Follow Orders.
"With all due respect," Stark stated flatly, "is the Colonel saying we are not good troops?"
"My words speak for themselves, especially since good troops wouldn't be questioning every word I say up here! The next individual to comment from the floor will be charged with insubordination. Am I clear?"
Stark stood for several seconds more, his eyes fixed on the Colonel, then finally sat with enough deliberation to earn another glare from Penter. The Colonel swung his laser pointer some more, reciting Meecham's theories with the apparent enthusiasm of a recent religious convert while the enlisted personnel sat watching in a silence so complete that it began to draw annoyed glances from the officer. Finally he shut off the pointer, resheathed it in his pocket with all the dignity of a warrior putting away his weapon, and glowered at the assembled Sergeants. "It's obvious anything else I might say would be wasted. This briefing is over." He walked off the stage with another staggering attempt at dignity.
"Somebody forgot to yell 'Attention!' " Sanchez observed.
"I don't think forgetting had anything to do with it," Stark suggested. "Let's get the hell out of here."
Stacey Yurivan stalked by, glowering, as she also headed for the exit. "I've just about had enough of this crap," she declared to no one in particular, then focused on Ethan. "Hey, Stark. You gonna let them get away with this?"
"Sure, Stace, I'm gonna walk into the General's office, tell him he's an idiot, and plant my boot in his backside."
"Really?" Yurivan asked, brightening.
"Hell, no. You think I'm crazy enough to do that?"
"Oh." Yurivan managed to look disappointed. "If anybody's crazy enough, it's you, Stark."
"Thanks," Stark replied with all the sarcasm he could project. "I bet afterward you'd feel bad about serving on my firing squad."
"Real bad," Yurivan said with a grin. She reached to grab his arm as Stark began to move away, leaning close. "You ever do decide to do something, you let me know, Ethan."
"What are you talking about?"
"Maybe nothing. See you around, Stark." Yurivan vanished into the crowd.
"Is there something else going on that I don't know about?" Stark complained.
"Not that I know," Vic stated with a hard look. "Is there?"
"Don't you go weird on me, too. Hey, just a sec." Stark strode over to a comm panel they were passing, keying in the number for his Squad's quarters. Sure enough, Mendoza sat there, studying a vid screen of his own intently. "Hey, Mendo."
Mendoza looked up, startled, before focusing on the comm panel. "Yes, Sergeant?"
"You ever hear of some guy named Napoleon?"
"Napoleon Bonaparte?"
"Yeah, I guess so. Some big-time General."
Mendoza nodded vigorously. "Yes, Sergeant. A very big General some centuries ago."
"He win any battles?" Stark wondered.
"Oh, yes, many battles. He was a genius at land warfare for his time."
"Huh."
"Of course," Mendoza added thoughtfully, "Napoleon's armies also suffered terrible losses, especially when he ordered attacks against strong defensive positions. Then there was the invasion of Russia."
"He invaded Russia?" Vic asked.
"Yes, Sergeant Reynolds." Mendoza made a sorrowful face. "He lost practically the entire invasion force, about a million men."
"A million?" Stark questioned. "You sure about that?"
"Yes, Sergeant. It was a military disaster of almost un-equaled scale."
"Thanks, Mendo. See you later." Stark killed the comm connection, staring sourly at his companions. "Great. Our brass admires some guy who lost a million soldiers in one op."
"They're taking advice from him, anyway," Vic agreed.
"We have seen the future of warfare," Stark deadpanned, "and it sucks."
"You're just upset because you didn't think of Synergy Warfare first," Vic observed dryly.
"Nah. I'm upset because I still don't know what the hell Synergy Warfare is."
"Simple." Sergeant Sanchez grunted. "Synergy Warfare is how you win battles without enough firepower or ground troops."
Stark nodded, all levity gone. "Yeah. You think Synergy Warfare is going to impress the enemy as much as it does our officers?"
"No," Sanchez replied calmly.
"You think it's going to work?"
"No."
"So what do you think will happen to this grand offensive of General Meecham's?"
For the first time in Stark's memory, Sergeant Sanchez's imperturbable expression cracked slightly, eyes haunted by foreboding. "What do I think? I think we're going to get our butts kicked. I think we're going to lose a lot of soldiers. I think the angels are going to cry when they watch it happen." His face closed down once more, emotionless.
"I've got a real nasty feeling that you're right, Sanch," Stark noted after a long moment of silence. "Anybody else feel like getting drunk?" His comm unit buzzed before either Reynolds or Sanchez could reply. "Stark here."
"Sergeant, you have been ordered to report to Major Fernandez at Division Headquarters as soon as possible."
"Major Fernandez? Who's he? What's this about?"
"I don't know the answer to either question, Sergeant."
"Great. Thanks." Stark raised his hands, palms up, in a rueful gesture. "Guess my afternoon schedule just got filled. See you guys back at the barracks."
Vic nodded. "Have fun, Ethan. And try to stay out of trouble."
"Trust me." Stark walked toward the headquarters complex while Reynolds and Sanchez headed for the relative sanctuary of the barracks.
Headquarters. Big corridors with walls carefully smoothed so they felt like something back on the World. Lots of officers, most looking like they were doing The Most Important Thing Ever, but still with enough free time to shoot long, questioning glances at a lowly Sergeant cluttering up their halls. One Major speared Stark with a rigid finger as he walked past her. "Get those ribbons replaced," she ordered, indicating the row of decorations on the Sergeant's left chest. "They're frayed."
"Yessir." No sense in arguing. Stark knew, and the Major knew, that replacement ribbons couldn't be had on the Moon for love or money, but the order wasn't really about ribbons. The order was about him being a Sergeant and her being a Major and rubbing it in.
He walked on, past a Colonel who issued another variation on the "new ribbons" order, until he reached a door with "Fernandez" on it in gilt lettering. Stark hesitated before knocking, remembering how often officers changed assignments and therefore offices, which meant those letters represented no end of labor and expense. His knuckles landed directly on the lettering, unfortunately inflicting no damage that Stark could see.
"Come in." Stark entered, seeing a more spacious version of the glorified closets that passed for private offices in the underground warrens of Luna. Major Fernandez smiled in welcome, waving the Sergeant to the office's single chair, then leaned back, eyeing Stark appraisingly. "I suppose you're wondering why you are here, Sergeant."
Stark twitched his brow in a fraction of a frown. "Frankly, yes, sir. I am."
"You've been involved in combat on the Moon for quite a while, haven't you, Sergeant?" Fernandez didn't wait for an answer before continuing. "That's very strenuous, very hard on a soldier."
"I haven't done anything a lot of other soldiers haven't done, sir."
"But how do you feel about it, Sergeant?"
"I beg the Major's pardon?"
Fernandez smiled gently. "Just between you and me, Sergeant. Do you hate your officers?"
You've got to be kidding. Just between him and me ? "No," Stark stated flatly. Hate's a useless emotion.
The Major glanced toward his desk surface, then lost his smile in favor of a slight frown. "You don't? No hatred? No desire for revenge?"
"Revenge for what, sir?"
"Your friends. You have had friends die in combat, haven't you, Sergeant?"
Stark nodded. "Everybody has."
"Don't you want to avenge them?"
"With all due respect, sir, I don't know what you're driving at."
Major Fernandez waved a hand in the air. "How about killing the officers who order you into battle? Don't you ever want to do that?"
"No. Sir."
Fernandez's gaze flicked to his desktop once more, and his frown deepened. "Deep down inside, don't you want to call the shots, Sergeant? Be in charge?"
"No, sir, I do not."
This time the Major's gaze lingered on his desk for a moment, then he jerked a thumb toward the door, all pretense of friendliness vanished. "Very well. You may leave."
"Thank you, sir." Stark walked back down the big corridors, trying to reach the limits of the headquarters complex as soon as possible.
"Stark?"
The voice wasn't familiar, but Ethan turned at the sound of his name, hoping it wasn't another Major or Colonel. "That's me."
The Sergeant who'd spoken smiled hugely. "Don't know me?"
"Afraid not." Stark's brow furrowed in thought. "You used to be with First Battalion, didn't you?"
"That's right." She nodded in evident pleasure. "I'm stuck here at headquarters doing penance for my sins, while guys like you earn their pay. What are you doing here, anyway?"
"I haven't figured that out yet," Stark admitted. "Major Fernandez called me in for a meeting."
The headquarters Sergeant's eyebrows rose. "Major Fernandez? He wanted to meet you?"
"Yeah, but he didn't really say anything. Just asked me some dumb questions, got mad, and then told me to leave."
"At least you're not under arrest." She shook her head, looking around. "There're too many ears in headquarters, Stark. Can't talk much, but Fernandez is our security mole."
"Are you saying I just got a security screen?" Stark demanded, feeling his face flush with heat.
"You sit in his chair?"
"Yeah."
"It's rigged with a remote polygraph. Any answer you gave he was screening for truthfulness."
"Damn." Stark shook his head angrily. "So that's why he kept looking at his desk. Am I going to be locked up now?"
"You said he got mad?" the other Sergeant pressed. "He didn't like your answers?"
"No, he kept asking me if I'd like to kill officers or something and I kept saying 'no.' I don't like killing anyone. Just because it's part of my job doesn't mean I enjoy it."
"Hah." She chuckled softly. "Congratulations. You passed. By dumb luck, maybe, if he asked you the wrong questions. If you'd failed, Fernandez would have had you arrested right outside his office."
"Thanks. Any idea why I was called in?"
She shrugged. "They're doing random pulls. Allegedly random, anyway. Always have, but there's a lot more showing up lately. Guess they're worried about something."
"They oughta be worried about the enemy, not their own troops."
"You're right." The Sergeant waved farewell. "Hell of a note, ain't it?"
Stark thought about it, all the way back to the barracks. Thought about trying to figure out who the real enemy was, about civs who didn't act like civs always did, about a lot of soldiers who were going to be thrown into a major assault with little chance of success, about senior officers who didn't think it strange to send grunts out to die so the vid ratings would stay high, about corporations that could never be satisfied no matter how much they acquired, and about officers who were maneuvering against their own enlisted personnel on the eve of a major battle. He thought about it until he didn't want to think anymore.
Several of his Squad members were lounging about the barracks, making disparaging cracks about the attempts of the Third Division soldiers to walk without bumping into walls or each other. "Hey, Gomez," Stark called with a beckoning gesture. "Gotta talk."
She rose and came over quickly, not trying to hide her concern. "Something wrong, Sarge?"
"No. I want to ask you to get something for me."
"No problem, Sarge. Whatdaya need?"
"This isn't an order," Stark cautioned. "It's personal. You don't have to do it."
"Okay," Gomez agreed just as rapidly, though puzzlement entered her eyes. "What is it?"
"Anita, I need a special system file." Stark outlined his requirements as Gomez listened, her eyes narrowing in thought. "Can you get me that?" he finished.
"Sure. You think you're gonna need that, Sarge?"
"I dunno. Maybe. Never thought I'd say that, but maybe. I just want to be prepared."
"You will be," Gomez promised. "I'll have it for you by this evening."
"You don't have to," Stark advised again. "You don't need to be involved in this at all."
"Sargento, you think maybe you might need this file, so I think maybe I ought to get it for you."
"Thanks. Oh, I need to make sure the system watchdogs can't spot it."
Gomez looked indignant. "I know that, Sarge. Trust me. The watchdogs'll never know it's there." She moved away with the speed and assurance of a soldier carrying out an easily executed and important task.
Stark watched her go, trying to fight down his misgivings. I can't believe I'm doing this. But I might need it. I wish to hell I knew where right and wrong lay in this mess.
Two more briefings. Three more days. Six morning and evening roll calls. Nine scheduled meal periods in the mess hall. The Third Division soldiers slowly began to learn to move without falling all over each other and any nearby furnishings. Simultaneously, their confident expressions grew haggard as simulator runs followed weapons practice followed familiarization drills followed exercise periods followed briefings followed more simulator runs.
Stark and the other Sergeants of First Division kept their troops away from the Third Division personnel. "How come, Sarge?" Chen complained. "I want to get out of these damn barracks and do something, but we're stuck in our crowded quarters or this rinky-dink lounge. We might as well be on the line."
"Yeah," Murphy chimed in, "we can't even get sim time because all the training stuff is full of Third Division guys."
"You volunteering for extra training, Murph?" Stark demanded.
"Well, no, but. . ."
"That's what I thought. Look, you apes, there's nothing I can do about this, but it won't last much longer. Just hang in there. I'm going to need you guys sharp."
"Okay, Sarge. You saying there'll be more room in the barracks soon, too?"
"Yeah." Stark turned away, his expression grim. "I'm afraid there's gonna be a lot more room in the barracks soon."
Everywhere he walked, Stark encountered signs of Third Division troops and their ongoing training. He prowled the corridors for a while, hoping for another glimpse of Rash Puratnam, but saw only unfamiliar faces. His own cubicle felt too tight this evening, a claustrophobic cabinet in which sleep refused to pay a visit, so Stark finally headed for the lounge in vague hopes of finding company.
Even before he reached the darkened room Stark saw the flickering lights that meant the vid was on, even though no sound could be heard. He peered in, seeing one figure slouched in a chair facing the vid screen. "Vic?"
Reynolds responded with a halfhearted wave. "Hey, Ethan. What are you still doing up?"
"I can't sleep." Stark slumped into the seat next to her, staring moodily at the silent images leaping across the vid screen. "Why are you awake?"
"Same reason. Feels like a storm's about to hit."
"Yeah. Big storm."
"Ethan, promise me something."
"Sure. What?"
"Just—"
A harsh buzzing interrupted Reynolds. Both Sergeants froze, then tabbed their individual comm units to hear the same message announced in a professional monotone. "Prepare your units for action. Assembly areas are specified in battle armor Tactical Displays. All personnel are to be ready for combat by 0200."
"Looks like the storm just broke," Stark observed. "What were you saying, Vic?"
"Nothing. Let's go. It's going to be a long day, Ethan."
Stark's Squad rested in two adjacent, crowded cubes. He hit the access pads for both, then slapped the lighting controls on. "All right, ladies and gents. Everybody up and into their armor. We got orders."
"Ah, hell, Sarge," Billings complained, "I only got two hours' sleep."
"Then you're two hours ahead of me. Move it, you apes!"
The assembly area for Stark's Platoon lay out on the lunar plain, behind the front but within easy marching distance for veteran troops. APCs shuttled the squads out, then left to ferry more units into position. Stark scanned his Squad restlessly, checking every soldier repeatedly for any problems. Damn. I'm scared. Is it because I got hurt so bad on my last op? No, I don't think so. Something else. He glanced toward the front, and beyond it to the too-near-horizon line where enemy fortifications lay hidden. No, I'm not afraid of them. Not any more than usual, anyway. With sudden determination he strode over to First Squad, aiming for Vic Reynolds' position.
"Vic. I got a real bad feeling. Anything special bothering you?"
"I'm not sure what you mean, Ethan." Her face shield turned toward him, blank, the nonreflective surface revealing nothing, not the brilliant pinpoints of countless stars in the blackness overhead, not the barren lunar landscape around them, not even Stark's own image.
"Vic, dammit, we're going into action. If there's anything else you know that I ought to know, too, then tell me."
"The enemy's expecting us."
Her words came so quickly, and so lacking in apparent emotion, that Stark had to think a moment to absorb the meaning. "How do you know that?"
"A friend in Intelligence. I checked with him after what you told me about the civs seeing our General on vid. The enemy's been watching Meecham and a lot of other big shots, political and military, shoot their mouths off on vid newscasts. They know a big offensive is coming soon, they know Meecham is going to base it on his theories, and they've been digging in deeper and reinforcing their lines."
"If Intelligence knows this, why haven't our plans changed?"
"Because the officers in Intelligence won't tell the General anything he doesn't want to hear. Everything has either been ignored or explained away."
"I see. Thanks. Good luck."
Another suited figure approached, moving with such care that Stark wondered if a Third Division soldier hadn't wandered into their area. He checked his scan for the figure's identity. Captain Noble. Now my cup runneth over, indeed.
"Bravo Company," Noble announced. "You are to, um, advance in accordance with your Tactical Displays and carry out the ordered actions. I will. .. occupy a position where I can provide oversight of the Company's movements."
"A rousing speech," Sanchez observed over the Sergeants' circuit. "Our new Captain has a flair for inspiring the troops."
"Just as long as he stays out of the way," Stark grumbled.
"Since this Platoon lacks a commanding officer," Noble continued in tones that betrayed no enthusiasm, "I will, ah, exercise personal control."
"Don't say it, Ethan," Vic warned.
"I'll try." Tactical displays suddenly glowed with orders. Stark trotted back to his Squad, making sure they all hit their start markers. "Everybody stay sharp," he cautioned.
"What's going down, Sarge?" Gomez asked.
"Probably the big offensive. I don't know what our role will be. Just follow your Tacs."
"Okay, Sarge."
Timelines ran down, triggering a new set of commands. "Let's go, Third Squad." The path laid out on the Tacs led fairly straight-line toward the enemy. Stark checked his back door to the command-level scan, seeing similar advances all around the American perimeter. I don't know if they're confusing the enemy or not, but right now I sure as hell don't know what's going on.
The Squad passed through the front line, muscles tensing as they advanced into the kill zone between the opposing forces. No enemy fire responded however. The high ground to the Squad's front was brooding and silent, as if the terrain held no more life than most piles of rock on the lunar surface. Stark and his soldiers halted on their new markers, taking cover, weapons canted toward the silent ridge ahead.
"You there. Get your people on their markers."
Stark checked the ID on the transmission to confirm that it had been sent to him from someone in headquarters. "Sir, my people are all within a meter of their markers. They have only adjusted position as necessary to protect themselves from enemy fire."
"No adjustments are authorized! Get those soldiers on their markers!"
Stark counted to ten slowly. Might as well save my fights for anything more serious down the line, and I'm sure there'll be something worse coming later. "Okay, everybody. On your markers. Exact position."
"But Sarge—"
"Just do it." Stark held his breath as several soldiers shifted position, ready to shout a command to get back under cover if the enemy responded to the sight of apparently easy targets, but the unnatural silence from the enemy fortifications continued.
More time passed, another timeline running down until it hit zero. Additional commands sprang to life. Advance along planned route. Engage enemy front-line positions. Stark studied the routes laid out on his Tac, puzzled. We're not attacking. Not like this. Firing from those locations won't accomplish anything. A diversion? Gotta be. But the enemy would have been firing at us already if they were worried about us. Maybe they're just waiting for us to get closer.
"Let's move it. Real careful." Stark advanced cautiously, rock to rock, one eye on the terrain that could mask his movements and the other on his Squad members as they followed his lead. "Chen, keep your head down. Kidd, keep your rushes shorter."
"Okay, Sarge."
"Yes, Sarge."
Stark reached the position ordered by his Tac, crouched behind a low rise, rifle at ready. As his Squad dropped into their own places, Stark raised his weapon, aiming carefully toward enemy lines. As the timeline ticked down to zero, his Tac ordered Stark to begin shooting. "Open fire," Stark ordered, and the Squad's weapons spat fire toward the seemingly empty ridges ahead. One clip expended, Stark reloaded, firing at the aiming points dictated by his Tac, since he lacked any real targets. A few enemy weapons fired back—scattered, harassing shots that fell around the Squad's position without doing damage. Stark switched to command level scan for a moment, seeing that squads and platoons all around the perimeter were engaged in similar light probes, then returned to watching his own Squad closely.
Another timeline reached its end, triggering the next order: "Fall back." Stark retreated just as carefully as he'd advanced, taking a slightly different route just in case the enemy had tracked his earlier movements, until he and the rest of the Squad reached their starting positions once more. "Action completed," Stark reported.
"Okay." Captain Noble sounded genial but distant, as if he hadn't been paying much attention.
"Captain," Stark pressed, "if that was intended as a diversionary action, it failed. The enemy did not respond in a manner that indicated any concern about our actions."
"Thank you, Sergeant."
"Captain, my assessment is that this action did not fulfill its intended purpose."
"Sergeant," Noble stated in a noticeably less genial tone, "the purpose of the action is not your concern."
"Captain, we did not draw any significant enemy fire."
"That's enough, Stark. Just follow your Tac."
You lay on the rock, more rock stretching away as far as the eye could see, which even after years of viewing, your mind still insisted wasn't far enough because the horizon was just too damn close. The dust never seemed to settle completely anymore, as humans tossed it up by movement, by digging, and by explosions and impacts of various sorts. No matter how the Moon tugged in a stubborn, tireless effort to bring its dead components back to the rest they'd known until humans came to disturb things, disturb them humans did. "Moon fog," the veterans called it, a slight haze hanging everywhere people fought and labored here, a form of air pollution in a place without air.
He began to feel some cold seeping through the suit's insulation despite its efficiency. One foot began tingling slightly in that way that foretold a limb falling asleep. Stark moved as best he could without moving, trying to generate both warmth and circulation with minor tremors. Phantom pains started sprouting where enemy weaponry had wounded him in the past, as if his cells remembered the damage and were broadcasting it now in reminder of what could come.
Stark could only concentrate on himself for so long, even while scanning his Squad for any problems or carelessness. He finally called up the back door into the command scan, seeing what every officer could see, despite his misgivings.
On the highest level of command scan, Stark could finally discern the outline of the attack plan. The three brigades of Third Division had been positioned at roughly even intervals around the American perimeter, one of those brigades behind Stark's own unit. As he watched, that closest brigade jumped off, advancing to pass through the forward positions.
"Vic, you watching the command scan?"
"Yeah."
"They've got armor in with the ground apes. They're actually sending tanks forward as part of an assault."
"I noticed." Vic sounded far away, as if she'd detached herself from what was about to happen.
"Dammit, you don't send armor up against an unshaken defensive line. They'll die faster than the infantry."
"I know, Ethan."
Stark's eyes were locked on his scan, oblivious for the moment to the ravaged lunar terrain, seeing the massed symbols sweep forward until they had nearly reached his own position, waiting for something else, something he finally recognized by its absence. "Vic, where's the artillery? Why hasn't any artillery opened up to screen this advance?"
"There won't be any artillery. Remember? They want the enemy to have their heads up, to see what's coming and be overawed."
It made an insane kind of sense, in the sort of world Generals inhabited. Stark stared at the display, mesmerized by a sight he'd never imagined seeing outside of a simulator. A full brigade of soldiers advancing in skirmish formation, heading for a single point on the enemy line, a hammer aiming to smash its way through entrenched defensive positions by the force of its will and the strength of the individual bodies that made it up. Studded throughout the formation like mobile fortresses, the tanks slid forward without apparent effort, black shells studded with weapons canted toward the still-silent enemy positions.
It's beautiful, in a way. Or maybe magnificent is the word. Watch it. Fix it in the brain. Before it all ends and you never see the like again. Stark said a quick prayer for the brigade moving to attack, knowing as he did so that prayers were poor substitutes for common sense.
The Third Division brigade moved through the forward American positions, some of the ranks passing Stark's own Squad where it lay in gape-jawed amazement. "Sarge?" Billings whispered. "Are they gonna—?"
"Shut up. Everybody shut up."
Up ahead now, the assaulting units began to lose their carefully knit formations as the soldiers displayed more difficulty moving in the unfamiliar gravity and terrain. The enemy line stayed dormant as the leading units came farther within range, the objective ridge looming dark and apparently vacant while the brigade surged farther forward at a more rapid clip, most soldiers abandoning any attempt at keeping to cover as they sought to maintain the formations dictated by their Tacs.
Maybe it'll work, Stark thought desperately. Maybe the enemy'll be scared senseless, pull back. Maybe, maybe, oh, please God—
His HUD screamed. Tied into the command circuit, alarms cried frantically from every vector as the ridge erupted with enemy fire so intense it seemed a sunrise had sprung to life from the muzzles of their weapons. Incoming rounds swelled into life, threat symbology dense enough to obscure the view ahead. The limited defensive umbrella the assault troops carried was swamped in milliseconds; then the fire hit and rolled over the attackers like a wave.
As Stark watched in horror, entire formations vanished, their green symbols flickering into the fixed markers of death or simply disappearing as suit systems were destroyed. On the left flank, an advancing platoon froze in its tracks, every soldier dead in moments, their symbology glowing eerily, still in almost perfect alignment. Tanks burst into ragged fireballs as flurries of antiarmor weapons slammed home, their now-useless armor converted into clouds of shrapnel flaying their own infantry.
The formations dissolved, some symbols going to ground, others falling back in various degrees of order and disorder, and incredibly, many still advancing, moving forward into a gale of fire that nothing living could front for long. Comm circuits, overloaded beyond capacity and stressed by enemy jamming, broke up into a thousand fragmentary messages.
"—where's it coming from?"
"C'mon, let's—"
"Medic! Med—!"
"—enemy strongpoint on the right—"
"—not on Tacs—"
"—Sarge? Lieutenant? Anybody?"
"—take it under fire—"
"—get—"
"—down! He's down!"
"—where? Where?"
"Keep going—"
Suddenly the wild stream of broken conversations shrank into near-silence. Stark checked his command tap, confirming his suspicion. They're filtering out unauthorized comms at the relays. Everybody's shouting into silence now. Calls for help, reports to other units, last words from those who had time to say them, all consigned to nothingness.
Many of the survivors of the Third Division brigade surged onward, shedding newly dead and wounded as they went like a stream of water evaporating as it rolled across a hot griddle. Somehow a few made it to the enemy positions, scattered clusters of two or three friendly symbols clawing their way up the ridge in the teeth of the enemy fusillade. They made it up, onto the top of the ridge, and then they died, isolated among defensive positions that poured fire into them from every angle.
The wave retreated, survivors of the assault falling back, losing more soldiers as they came. Stark watched, his Tac silent and unchanging. "Captain," he finally demanded, "are we going to cover them?"
"You'll see any orders on your Tactical, Sergeant."
"Captain, they're being slaughtered out there and we're just lying here!"
"I don't want to hear another word out of you, Stark."
Stark felt himself trembling, but he stayed silent, checking his command scan to see that new orders had at last gone out to the attacking units. The remnants of the Third Division brigade reached an area about one hundred meters short of the First Division positions, then halted, somehow maintaining enough discipline to take cover rather than continuing to retreat.
The enemy barrage finally lessened, dropping in intensity as it shifted to precision fire, trying to take out every American soldier spotted forward of the line. Okay, you had your damned assault, Stark seethed inwardly. Now call a ceasefire so we can get medical aid to the wounded out there.
Instead, Stark watched in amazement at the command scan as another Third Division brigade, about one-third of the perimeter away, jumped off for an attack similar to that which had just occurred to his front. He screwed his eyes shut, unwilling to watch, until he heard the alarms sound again and knew another couple of thousand soldiers were being butchered. The futile attack lasted, if anything, a little longer than the first had. Stop. Now. It's not working, dammit. Your 'sequenced assaults' and 'focused application of force' aren't accomplishing anything but wiping out your own soldiers.
But the third brigade jumped off in turn, and died in turn. Stark lay, almost physically stunned by the events he'd been forced to witness, then stared in shock again as new orders came through to the surviving Third Division troops, not only those to his front but also at the locations of the other two attacks.
"General advance. Assault your objectives."
In blind obedience to duty, the soldiers came to their feet, unit by unit, trying to advance a little smarter this time, trying to take advantage of cover, but usually failing because of their unfamiliarity with moving under lunar conditions. The enemy fire doubled, then redoubled, raking the advancing troops. The assault stumbled, as if the soldiers had hit a wall they couldn't breast, then ground to another halt.
Stark's back door into the command circuit came to life again as headquarters began hurling individual Third Division units forward, one by one. "Bravo Company. Assault and seize Objective Yorktown. Acknowledge."
Bravo Company of First Battalion of First Brigade of Third Division. Stark's Squad belonged to one of the Bravo companies in First Division. He felt an extra, irrational bond with those foolish, inexperienced soldiers who were being cut to pieces out in front, a bond formed of shared identities built around one letter of a phonetic alphabet. Another Bravo Company dying under unrelenting enemy fire, and that somehow made it a little worse to bear.
After a long moment, a reply came, the words slightly ragged, as if their speaker were having difficulty stringing them in sequence. "This is Lieutenant McMasters, acting Bravo Company commander. I have twenty-five effectives left in my unit. Did not copy your last. Say again."
"Bravo Company, assault and seize Objective Yorktown."
Another prolonged moment passed while Stark lay in the dust, watching weird lights flash up ahead where soldiers were fighting and dying in violence rendered unreal by its silence. Scattered in broken patterns around the terrain, the shattered hulks of armored vehicles burned like ancient funeral pyres, their fuel and explosives providing the means for self-contained fires on a world too dead to supply any support for the brilliant death-flares. Finally, another answer came, slower, the words spaced for effect. "I say again, I have only twenty-five soldiers left. We are under heavy fire and cannot advance."
"Lieutenant McMasters, this is Division headquarters. You are ordered to assault Objective Yorktown in accordance with the plan spelled out in your Tactical Display. Carry out your orders or you will be relieved of command. Acknowledge."
Stark stared at the lights, his eyes flickering to his HUD, where symbols crawled in wild patterns to mark the tracks of threats and defenses. It was all too easy to put himself in McMasters' place, to feel the frustration and hopeless anger, and to know what the inevitable reply would be. "This is Bravo Company. Acknowledged. Assaulting Objective Yorktown."
Stark breathed another silent prayer, understanding even as he did so that it was futile. All he could do, all anyone could do, was lie in the dust and wait, listening in on the chaos of a battle that had long since spun out of control.
Perhaps ten minutes later, as a welter of communications marked hopeless attacks by a multitude of shattered units, Stark's ears keyed on another specific message. "This is Bravo Company." The voice was thin with exhaustion and drained of emotion.
"We have heavy jamming interfering with your signal. Lieutenant McMasters?"
"This is Corporal Cozek, acting Bravo Company commander. Lieutenant McMasters is dead. Bravo Company is down to maybe ten personnel, myself included."
"Continue your assault, Bravo Company."
Cozek's voice would have been unrecognizable this time if Stark's suit hadn't tagged it with Bravo Company's ID. "Brigade, goddammit, most of us are wounded. We're pinned down. We can't move. Get us out of here."
Stark checked his HUD grimly. Bravo's symbols lay in a staggered crescent about three hundred meters forward of the front line, farther forward than any other surviving Third Division unit. Threat symbols converged on Bravo's crescent in an almost continuous stream, every disappearing symbol marking another explosion, another shell, another burst of death.
"Bravo Company, continue your attack. That is an order."
"We can't," Cozek screamed. "We are pinned down under heavy fire. Position untenable, less than ten effectives left. Jesus, help us."
"Corporal Cozek is relieved as acting commanding officer. The next senior soldier is to assume command and continue the attack. Acknowledge."
No reply came, whether out of defiance, or because it had been blocked by enemy jamming, or perhaps because there was no longer anyone left in Bravo Company able to respond. Stark studied his HUD, trying to bury himself in an analysis of the battle, anything other than think of the soldiers trapped in front of friendly lines. The situation gradually came clear, even through the enemy jamming and the partial picture Stark could derive from his back door into the overloaded command net. Headquarters had been dealing with the disaster by throwing the least damaged units into already failed assaults, and now they'd run out of even those units and were using whatever was left, reinforcing failure in a panicked fixation on the original plan. Everything was coming apart, the brass didn't know what to do, and they were sacrificing more and more of the front-line soldiers rather than admit failure. For the first time in his career, Stark truly hated the faceless minds directing a battle. Hate accomplishes nothing, he tried to remind himself. But these deaths aren't accomplishing anything, either.
"For God's sake, get us out of here!" someone pleaded, the words partially obscured by the thunder of almost continuous concussions transmitted through the lunar rock into armor clinging to that rock in desperate search for safety.
Stark lay still, an ache in his belly building as if fire and acid warred there in match to the violence outside. Thoughts ricocheted through his head, cascading memories and visions. Corporal Pablo Desoto, dying instantly in the hellfire of a heavy shell. His father's voice: Don't ever let them down, they depend on you. Lying alone on another ridge, trying to hold off pursuers and pretending help would come when he knew his chain of command didn't give a damn what happened to him or any other soldier as long as the officers could sit in the rear and play their promotion games. And long ago and far away, another set of friends, dying one by one amid grass slick with their blood. It had happened before. It was happening again. It wasn't supposed to. It was never supposed to happen again. Kate, goddammit, I promised you.
Nothing you can do, little brother. Save yourself.
No! I promised.
Save yourself.
The hell. Not this time.
Stark lay on the frigid lunar rock as the fire inside grew, pressure building through his chest and throat, hands trembling slightly, eyes unfocused. The pressure built to a mighty force that blocked breathing, holding there, then somehow shattered whatever had held it confined and flowed free. Stark drew a ragged breath as the fire vanished, leaving nothing in its wake but a resolution cold and clear that filled him with calm certainty. He glanced at the HUD, where symbols flickered in time to the deaths of fellow soldiers, his mind suddenly seeing solutions with the cool precision of crystalline plates sliding into place. He called up a special file, the one he had asked Gomez to acquire for him, linked it with Captain Noble's symbol, then triggered the backdoor channel so the other Sergeants could hear what happened. "Captain, this is Sergeant Stark."
"Yeah." Noble sounded annoyed and aggravated. "What do you want?"
Stark kept his own voice formal and correct. "Captain, I am leading my Squad in to rescue the surviving members of Bravo Company, First Battalion, First Brigade, Third Division."
"What?" Stark's words had apparently jerked Noble out of his self-absorption. "I didn't hear those orders. Who gave you those orders?"
"No one, Captain. I am acting independently."
"You can't act independently! What's going on?"
"I am going to rescue those soldiers," Stark stated implacably. "I will not sit back here and let them die uselessly while some idiots far behind the lines continue ordering senseless assaults."
"Stark, you're relieved of duties and under arrest!"
"I thought you might say that, Captain." Stark triggered the file he had called up earlier, a file with an innocuous name to help fool the watchdogs but that was commonly known as "frag." In the old days, the only way for soldiers to take out a stupid or hated officer had been to use one of their own grenades, a tactic known as fragging, after the fragmentation produced by the weapon. Now, with everyone dependent on electronics, soldiers had a simpler, surer, and at least initially nonlethal method of accomplishing the same thing. Stark had never imagined himself needing a frag file, strictly illegal programs hacked together by an unknown soldier decades ago and periodically updated by other unknowns, but thanks to Gomez he had one hidden and handy nonetheless. Now, targeted at Captain Noble, the frag virus froze his communications, his weapons, even the systems in his battle armor that assisted movement.
"Ethan?" Vic called, her voice horrified. "I've lost comms to the Captain. Did you frag Noble?"
"Yeah."
"Are you insane? When you killed his systems he dropped off the command and control circuit, too."
"That's the idea."
"Ethan, that means headquarters lost vid from him. We can't hide that, or explain it, because we're not directly involved in combat!"
"I know that. I don't care. I won't leave those guys to die out there."
"Ethan . . ." Vic's reply trailed out, as if bitten off with frustrated violence. "Don't be an idiot, Ethan," she finally pleaded.
"Too late." Stark bared his teeth in something that wasn't a grin. "I'm going in, Vic. Taking my Squad with me. Are you coming?"
"I don't—" Vic's exasperation melted into quicksilver uncertainty.
Stark could see her, in the smooth planes where his mind operated now, see Vic's face fixed immobile as her thoughts raced, balancing duty against loyalty and wondering where each lay. "I haven't got all night, lady."
"Shut up, you ape," Vic snarled back. "Yeah, I'm coming. I've had enough, too."
"Sanch?" Stark called. "How about you?"
"Are you certain of this, Stark?" The tone held the same impenetrable calm it always did, as if this were a normal conference on a normal comm circuit.
"Yeah, I'm certain. You going in? You with Vic and me on this?"
"I'm in." Sanchez might have been remarking on a poker hand.
"All right, Sergeant," Vic demanded, "you're in charge. What do we do?"
What do we do? No Tac with its hated but comforting orders, no officer calling out the drill. Just a noncom with a lot of experience in doing what he was told. Stark felt a shiver of fear and uncertainty try to break through the icy shield in his mind but fought it off. Okay, I'll just do this backward. If I thought I was getting orders to do this, what would they say? Tac would show this, right? And this, and that. Yeah. It felt good. It felt right. "Here, I'm sending you my Tac. What do you think?"
It took a few seconds for the transmission, and a few more for the other Sergeants to study the plan. Sanchez spoke first. "It's not enough. You cannot do this with a Platoon."
"It's a decent plan," Vic objected.
"It is," Sanchez agreed. "But we cannot do this with squads. We need Platoons. This plan requires company strength."
Company strength. Stark stared grimly ahead. He hadn't really planned on involving anyone else, getting anybody besides himself lined up for a court-martial, but now he had to try to convince six more Sergeants to join in. He braced himself, keying the Sergeants' comm circuit. "First Platoon, Third Platoon, this is Stark."
"Uh-huh." Podesta in First Platoon came back immediately. "Where do you want us, Ethan?"
"I. . . what?"
"Where do you want us?" Sergeant Podesta repeated. "We've been listening. We know what's going down. Our Lieutenant's been fragged and we're waiting for orders. How do we get those poor bastards out of there?"
"Third Platoon?" Stark asked.
"Here. We're with you, too."
Stark checked his HUD, suddenly wondering how far this might be spreading. All the Sergeants could talk and listen in to their own circuit. Perhaps, he thought, this was how a pebble felt when it started an avalanche, then shook his head. Get this job done. I can worry about the rest later. "Here's my Tac. Can you guys execute?"
"No problem." First and Third Platoons would move up on the flanks, providing pinpoint suppression on any enemy fire. Meanwhile, First and Third Squads of Second Platoon would advance far enough to overrun the trapped grunts of Bravo Company so that Third Squad could pass them back through Second Squad to safety.
"Ain't gonna be enough," Sergeant Tostig in Third Platoon observed. "Too much enemy fire coming down there. We can't hold it down with a company's worth of fire-power."
"I know," Stark agreed, voice flat. "Don't worry. There'll be more fire coming in. Get your people moving while I get support laid on." He felt it then, loyalty and obedience balancing again, hesitating before the final commitment.
Then the other Sergeants rogered up and the world shifted into a new pattern.
Stark made another call. Divisional artillery. An alien world, where men and women far behind the front lines, bunkered securely under the defensive umbrella, tended huge metal beasts that spat fire. Nothing like an infantry grunt's world, but maybe loyalty held across that gap in experience. "Grace?"
"Yeah. Master Sergeant Grace here."
"This is Stark."
"Ethan Stark? Long time no see, ground ape. What's with the back-channel call?" Despite the casual words, Grace's voice had a clipped quality, as if something were being held inside.
"I need everything you've got, laid on these positions," Stark added as he keyed in coordinates, "and I need it in ten minutes."
"Everything?" Grace's negative head-shake was somehow apparent over the circuit. "I need the Colonel to approve that, Stark. I can't commit Division Artillery on some grunt's say-so, even an old drinking buddy's."
"Sure you can."
"Bull. Have your Captain call in."
"No can do. He's out of action."
"Huh?" Now Stark could minds-eye Grace scratching his head. "You guys haven't been under fire."
"No, we haven't."
"Well, then have one of your other officers ask for it."
Stark took a deep breath. "All our officers are off-line."
"All of them?" Stark could imagine Grace at work now, calling up his own picture of the front to check individual stats. "How . . . ? You fragged all your officers?"
"They're not hurt. Listen, we're going after the Third Division apes trapped out in front and we need artillery support to get them out of there. You got that, Grace? Do I need to spell it out?"
Silence lingered, while Stark studied the ground he'd have to cover with his Squad once they started moving, wondered how long it might take headquarters officers obsessed with their own activity to notice something strange happening, notice officers of units not in combat dropping off the vid feed, notice those same units acting without apparent orders, and mentally cursed rear-echelon noncoms as he waited. "Stark?" Grace finally questioned. "You guys did it? You're calling the shots?"
"Yeah. You turning us in? Gonna drop your rounds on us instead of the enemy?"
Low laughter sounded, bitter with anger. "The hell. It's about time. I had a brother in Third Division. Had. Give me a couple of minutes and our Colonel will be off-line, too. You've got your fire support, Stark. Get those grunts out of there."
Last but far from least, Stark called his Squad. "Third Squad, I have disabled Captain Noble and am advancing on my own initiative to pull out the Third Division soldiers trapped out front. None of you is obligated to follow my orders." Stark waited, watching as the timeline he'd created ticked toward "go."
"So, what are our orders?" Gomez finally demanded.
"You don't have to follow these orders," Stark repeated.
"They're from you, ain't they, Sarge?" Murphy asked.
"Yeah, they're from me."
"That's all we need to know. Let's go."
Stark smiled tightly, a warmth coming back into the coldness filling him. "Here's a feed for your Tacs. We start moving in a couple of minutes. Any questions?" He shifted to a private circuit. "Mendoza."
"Yes, Sergeant."
"What do you think of the plan? It look good to you?"
"Yes, Sergeant." Mendoza didn't try to hide his surprise at being asked.
"Good. Listen, if you get any command-level ideas, you pass them on to me on the double. No sitting back quiet and keeping your thoughts to yourself. Understand?"
"Yes, Sergeant." Firm this time, with more than a hint of pride.
Stark shifted back to the company-level picture, watching as his HUD counted down the seconds. It went green and he shouted "Go!" in the same instant. Bravo Company, First Division, surged forward, evading among the dead landscape with the skill of long practice. It took a few minutes for the enemy to spot the careful advance; then the fire pummeling the survivors of Bravo Company, Third Division, began lifting, seeking targets among the First Division soldiers.
Stark huddled behind a rock twice his size as a dumb, heavy artillery round slammed to the surface on the other side, the crash of its explosion transmitting as vibration through the rock in a dim echo of the shell's fury. Come on, Grace. Even as the urgent thought came, a massive barrage opened up from behind, American artillery plunging in to saturate the enemy defenses and blanket the enemy positions with a storm of fire. For a moment, Stark had a confused vision of Armageddon, the world ending in a final firestorm of combat; then his mind focused down on the job at hand, ignoring the distraction of death's messengers passing overhead.
The enemy fire faltered, dropping to almost nothing as the opposing troops went to ground. They could wait. Sooner or later the American artillery would have to let up; then the enemy would raise their heads again enough to target the attackers, waiting for this latest charge to carry another company of American soldiers within range. One more company repeating the pattern of attack they'd seen multiple times already. One more company to decimate while it futilely surged against defenses too strong and too strongly held.
But this time would be different. First and Third Platoons evaded forward on either side, then dropped and opened a murderous aimed fire on any enemy position still shooting. Second Platoon kept going, dropping Sanchez's Second Squad as it went, the other two Squads washing over the survivors of the Third Division Bravo Company, engulfing them, picking them up, and then receding like a wave hitting a sand castle and pulling its remnants out to sea.
Stark grabbed at a prone figure as Vic's Squad fired steadily around him. "Let's go, soldier." The figure lolled limply, and Stark realized one arm was completely gone. "Hell. Pass this one back," he ordered Chen, shoving the body his way.
Chen took the body automatically. "We recovering the dead, too, Sarge?"
"Yes. Damn it, Bravo Company isn't leaving any dead from Third Division's Bravo Company out here. We bring them all in, hear me? Alive and dead."
A cheer sounded, startling Stark, who half scowled/half smiled before seizing another battle-armored body. "You okay?"
"Who the hell are you?" The Third Division soldier quivered uncontrollably, nerves shattered by the torrent of violence rearranging the lunar landscape on all sides.
"Angels of mercy. Get the hell back. My people will help you." Stark shoved the man toward another member of his Squad, then moved to the next, swift and sure, finding far too many dead and far too few living. "You alive?" he demanded, hauling up another prone soldier. The soldier swung silently in his hands, trying to line up her rifle toward the enemy again, fingers tightening in endless reflex on the trigger of the empty weapon. Stark yanked the rifle free, sending it spinning off in a graceful arc, then slapped an armored hand against the shell-shocked woman's helmet. "Your fight's over for now. Get back." Another shove to the rear and she went obediently, almost falling into the arms of Billings.
"Ethan! It's starting to get pretty hot here again."
"Yeah, Vic." Absorbed in the evacuation, Stark had failed to note the rising intensity of the enemy fire, artillery and heavy weapons beginning to strike among them again as the enemy started to grasp what might be happening. Stark paused to check the picture on his HUD, scanning to determine how much was left to do. "We're getting the last ones now."
"I'll peel off half my Squad to help. Ethan, it is time to leave!"
"Okay, okay. Third Squad, let's go. Stop passing the Third Division apes to Second Squad. Just grab everyone left and head back to our positions." Stark reached out both hands, each locking onto a battered set of battle armor, both of which surely held no life within them, then gathered the two bodies to him, blessing lunar gravity, and headed for the American lines in a barely controlled rush.
They made it, to the bunker line where the defensive perimeter could offer some shelter, passing the shattered soldiers from Third Division back to waiting medical units. A few survivors, still too stunned to realize what had happened, to realize how many of the faces they'd seen this morning would never come back, never be seen again, not until Judgment Day dawned on the World below. Assuming, Stark thought bitterly, that that day hadn't already come and gone, with this portion of humanity damned to a special hell up here.
"Looks like the virus has spread," Reynolds remarked with feigned idle curiosity.
"What do you mean?" Stark checked his command scan, startled to see First Division units lunging forward around the perimeter to collect isolated pockets of trapped Third Division troops. "Headquarters finally came to their senses?"
Before Vic could reply, a strange voice called in. "Hey, Stark, what's next?"
Stark checked the ID tag on the transmission, seeing it came from a Sergeant he barely knew in another battalion on the other side of the perimeter. "Wha—?"
"Yeah, we need some follow-on orders here, Stark."
"Stark, what do we do with our fragged officers?"
"What if they counterattack, Stark? We gonna hit back?"
"Stark, we need more medical support over here. There's a lot of wounded from Third Division."
"Hold it!" Stark roared. "What the hell's going on?"
"They're asking for orders, Ethan," Vic advised. "Why the hell are they asking me?"
"Because you took charge. Better answer them."
"I didn't . . ." Yes, you did. Stark glared at the command scan for a moment. "Okay. How many units have fragged their officers?" A babble of responses clamored back. "Hold it! Let's try that different. Which units are still under control of their officers?"
A long silence stretched. "Stark?" someone finally called. He recognized this voice, the female Sergeant from headquarters who'd spoken with him after the Fernandez interview. "Every officer here is off-line and disarmed. We had to act when they realized what was happening, tried to order our units to attack each other, and started to call in the Navy to bombard our own positions."
"That's insane. Even if they'd succeeded, all they'd have accomplished is stripping the colony of its defenses."
"Maybe. I'm not claiming they were thinking straight, but they tried. Right now they're mad as hell, but we've got them locked down. I'm not seeing any officer call-ins, either. I think you've got it all." I've got it all.
"Ethan," Vic urged, "tell people what to do."
"Okay." What do I tell them? I don't want everyone calling me asking for orders. But if I don't give some orders, who will? No officers left, thanks to something I started. Yeah, I started it. So it's my responsibility, at least for now. "Units still recovering Third Division personnel send support requests to neighboring units and Sergeant Grace at Divisional Artillery. Everybody else fall back into our defensive positions. Units without bunker assignments return to barracks and hold in reserve."
"What about the officers?"
"Make sure they're disarmed and put them under arrest. We'll load as many as possible in the stockade and improvise for the rest." A sudden alarming thought arose. "Is there anybody at the spaceport?"
"Yeah, Stark. Right here."
"The ground-based anti-orbital defenses. Who's got those?"
"We do. I sent my people in to make sure we owned them. The AO troops weren't too sure whose side they wanted to be on, so we removed the option for them."
"Thanks. Good job."
"Headquarters here," the female Sergeant chimed in again. "What do you want us to do with the vid feed?"
"It's still going out?"
"Yeah, on the link back to Earth. I don't know if anybody back there has figured out what's going on yet."
I'm not even sure what's going on. "Can you keep the vid going without letting anyone know the officers are offline?"
"I think so. We'll just send them a stream of vid from units recovering Third Division casualties."
"Good. That'll buy us some time. Do it."
"Stark," another Sergeant demanded, "what if the enemy counterattacks? What do we do?"
"We let them," Stark declared. "We let them try all they want, and we blow them to hell when they get within range."
"Sounds like a plan. We'll hold in reserve then, like you said, until we get new orders from you."
New orders from me? "Vic, what's happened here?"
"Congratulations, Ethan," Vic stated dryly. "You've got an army."
"I don't want a damn army."
"Well, you've got one. Better figure out what you're going to do with it."
Headquarters, again. The same overwide corridors, the same careful attention to every detail of construction, but feeling abandoned without those corridors filled with senior officers looking and acting important. A few enlisted soldiers stood around, some apparently on sentry duty and some obviously unemployed. One group of the unemployed grinned in a goofy fashion at Stark and received a hard enough glare in return to stiffen every one of them back into military posture.
The headquarters Sergeant greeted Stark outside a plain but reinforced door. "Welcome back."
"Thanks. What the hell is your name, anyway?"
"Tanaka," she said with a grin. "Jill Tanaka. The General's inside," she added with a gesture toward the door. "This is the holding cell for people Fernandez fingered. I figured it'd be an apt place to lock up Meecham."
"Guess so." Stark grunted. "Jill, I don't want to tell you your job, but things feel pretty loose around here."
Tanaka's grin faded. "I know. The junior enlisted are a little giddy. Especially here. There were so many senior officers playing master of the universe around headquarters that the enlisted really built up a head of frustration. Now they figure they're in charge."
"They're not. We are."
"Hmmm." Tanaka thought a moment, then nodded. "Right. They were supposed to do what I said before, and they'll damn well do the same now, right?"
"Right. Now I guess I ought to see General Meathead."
Tanaka waved a security pass to open the lock, and Stark pushed through. In notable contrast to the rest of the headquarters complex, the holding cell hadn't been designed with comfort in mind. General Meecham, his heavily beribboned uniform noticeably wrinkled, stared grimly toward Stark from the bare metal chair that served as the sole furnishing of the tiny room. Guess Tanaka had some frustrations built up, too, since she stuck Meecham in here instead of in the stockade. At least they've got bunks in the cells there. "You wanted to see me, General?" Stark stated flatly.
"I wanted to see the traitor who has irrevocably stained the honor of the U.S. military, yes," Meecham declared.
"Fine. You've seen me. Anything else, General?"
"I should have had you shot a long time ago."
"General, you are one stupid son of a bitch, you know that?" Stark found himself smiling. "I guess I've wanted to say something like that for a long time. Anyway, you're stupid. Real stupid. You wasted the lives of thousands of good soldiers, and now you're dumb enough to threaten somebody who could have you shot. You got any other smart things to say?"
"Wait." Meecham made an all-too-obvious struggle to compose himself, then smiled in firm and apparently friendly fashion. "Sergeant, everyone makes mistakes. In the heat of action, with a temporary setback distorting judgment, even the best soldier can act perhaps too hastily, in a way they'd regret." Stark stared back, silent. "We can still put a lid on all this. Nobody wants a mutiny to go forward, right? Officially, nothing has happened, yet. Officially, nothing has to happen."
"Meaning what?"
Meecham leaned forward, eyes intense. "Meaning we can still pull back from this. Release me and the other officers, Stark. Let us reestablish discipline. There won't be any adverse consequences if this all gets called off, now."
"Why should I believe that?"
"Because it's in your best interest, Sergeant, just as it is in mine. What are you going to do now? You need supplies. You need ammunition. You need a way to pay your troops."
Stark kept his face impassive. "We can get all that."
"Can you? What about the enemy? Will they sit back and let you reorganize, or will they hit you as hard as they can when they realize you're isolated now? What about the civilians in the colony? How will you control them? And don't forgot the corporations, Sergeant. They run things. That's how the country works these days. You've just seized all their assets on the Moon, and blocked their chances of getting their hands on more. They'll make sure they get it back, no matter what it takes. What happens when the corporations make sure America retaliates, sending a punitive force to regain control?"
"I don't have answers to all that, yet," Stark admitted. "They're tough questions, but they're something we can handle."
"'We'?" Meecham questioned. "Is there a 'we'? Or is it you giving the orders now?"
"So far, it's me."
Meecham smiled, a fierce baring of teeth. "Fernandez gave you a clean evaluation. I should have him shot, not you. No, Sergeant Stark, you're too good a soldier, too important an asset to waste."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"We can make a deal, Stark. I need people on my staff who can make things happen. People who are good leaders. That's you. You can be an officer. A senior officer. I can always use another Major, or better yet, another Colonel. Sound attractive?"
Stark laughed. "So I hand the troops back over to you, become an officer, and everything's fine, huh? You think nobody would ever find out what happened up here?"
Meecham nodded. "As I said, you're a smart soldier. Okay, maybe we'll need a scapegoat. Maybe two or three. It doesn't have to be you. You can come out of this smelling like a rose."
"What about those scapegoats? What'd happen to them?"
Meecham smiled once more, this time in a comradely fashion. "I'm sure you have enemies, Stark, people who you'd rather not have around anymore, people who've hurt you in the past. They can take the fall. Every way you look at it, you win."
"And why should you do all this for me?" Stark inquired in a soft voice.
"Because I'll win, too. That's how deals get made, Stark. Once you're a Colonel I'll take you under my wing, teach you what you need to know to make General yourself someday."
"Sure."
"Is that an agreement?" Meecham demanded, perhaps a little too eagerly.
"An agreement?" Stark shook his head, no longer hiding his disgust. "I guess you figured everybody has to be like you, huh? Out for themselves. Sorry. No deal. I didn't do this for myself."
Meecham reddened with anger, dropping all pretense of friendship. "You'll regret those words."
"I doubt it. There's a helluva lot I may end up regretting about today, but not those words."
General Meecham finally stood, nose elevated as if he were trying to look down on Stark. "You'll die a traitor's death. Loyal soldiers will come here and suppress this rebellion, wipe out this blot on the record of the military."
Stark laughed again, this time harsh and mocking. "General, you killed off all those loyal troops. Or didn't you notice back in your nice, safe headquarters?"
Meecham shook his head. "That's the price of victory, the burden of command, something people like you will never understand."
Stark clenched a fist, then lowered it slowly with an expression of contempt. "That's enough. Save your speeches for the civs on Earth."
"Speeches?" Meecham favored Stark with a special look, as if ostentatiously memorizing his face. "What is it you want me to tell the citizens of the United States, Sergeant?"
"I don't know. I'm no politician."
"Neither am I! I'm a soldier, one who still believes in honor, in loyalty, in—"
"Shut up!" Stark took a step closer, so his face was only inches from the General's. He felt his body shaking with repressed rage and fought it down. "You're no soldier. You're a politician, one who just happens to wear stars instead of a civ suit. You're loyal to nothing except your own career. What do you think the military's about? Lording it over us like you think you're some damn god whose decisions can't ever be wrong, let alone questioned? Playing games with other officers to see who can get the commands with the most prestige and impress the civ politicians? Talking about your big responsibilities but always blaming someone else whenever something goes wrong? Collecting medals for all the places you've been and not for anything special, let alone courageous, you've ever done? Treating the soldiers under your command like we're nothing but symbols on your worthless command-and-control systems?" Stark spun on his heel to walk out. "I'd kill you myself, right now, but you're not worth the trouble."
"You'd better be prepared for trouble," Meecham declared, flushing purple with rage. "You'd better be prepared to fight for yourselves, even if you're willing to disregard your oaths to fight for others!"
Stark stopped, then turned to face General Meecham again, shaking his head. "Our oaths? General, we'd fight for our oaths, to defend the Constitution of the United States. We'd even fight to defend the people of the United States, the civs who let us be sent to fight but won't pay the necessary costs, and so get to watch us die in places they'd never go. We'd even fight to protect the spineless politicians who give speeches about our noble sacrifices but never show any real desire to share those sacrifices. Maybe, maybe we'd even fight for the corporations who think having us fight and die is just one more way to increase profits. Yeah, we'd fight for all that, and die for it all, if we had to, because that's who we are. But you know what, General? We're sick and tired of fighting and dying for the likes of you." Stark exited, slamming the door behind him.
"Didn't go well, huh?" Vic Reynolds sketched a smile.
Stark glared, trying to get his emotions back under control. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Trying to help you." She nodded toward the door of the holding cell. "Good job in there. I didn't know you could speak that well."
"What are you talking about? How do you know what I said in there?"
Vic sighed in resignation. "Ethan, a certain amount of naiveté is touching, but get a grip. That's a security cell. It's bugged."
"Oh." Stark slapped his forehead. "I should've realized that. So why'd you listen in?"
"Me and every other Sergeant, you mean?"
This time Stark's jaw dropped. "Every . . . ?"
Jill Tanaka came up beside Stark and patted his shoulder. "People wanted to see how you handled Meecham."
"The hell. They didn't trust me, did they? They thought I'd cut a deal."
Vic took Stark's other arm, shaking her head. "Very few thought that, but everyone figured Meecham would make a try and we wanted to see what you did, to prove a point to everyone."
"Right." Stark started walking away. "I'm tired."
"Can't rest yet," Vic advised, holding on. "We got a meeting."
"Who's got a meeting?"
"All the Sergeants. There's something important to decide." She pulled Stark along as Tanaka led the way into corridors even more elaborate than the standard at headquarters, walls lined with art and display cases.
"Hey, Vic," Stark asked as they walked, "Meecham must have known that cell was bugged. Why'd he make his offer knowing everyone could listen?"
She shrugged. "Maybe he figured you wouldn't turn it down right off and it'd sow mistrust. Or maybe he thought you'd deactivate the bug before seeing him."
"Oh." Stark scratched behind one ear. "I wouldn't have thought of that."
"No, you wouldn't have, Ethan." Tanaka reached an ornate door that automatically slid open at their approach, revealing a large, plush room beyond, a room dominated by a large table made not of cheap lunar metal or polished stone but of hideously expensive wood brought up from Earth. More wood paneled the walls, gleaming soft gold under polish. Most of the seats around the table were already occupied by other Sergeants, many of whom Stark knew by name or by sight. Vic led Stark to one of the last empty chairs, near the head of the table, then sat beside him.
"We've got two issues that won't wait," Reynolds announced. "Every Sergeant who isn't physically here is linked in so we can make decisions, and we've got to make them."
"So what are these issues?" someone demanded over the link.
"Number one," Vic stated calmly, "what do we do with the officers?"
"Shoot 'em," a voice in the room called. "Stand them up against a wall and shoot every one of the bastards." A rumble of agreement immediately erupted.
"No!" Stark's voice boomed through the room, cutting off the buzz of conversation. "Think about that. You're soldiers, right? Think about that," he repeated, pitching his voice lower so that the other Sergeants had to concentrate to hear him. "You wanna shoot defenseless people? We could do that. Then what?"
"What's your point, Stark?" Stacey Yurivan demanded from her seat.
"First of all, some of them don't deserve it." Stark hunched forward slightly to stare at the others, swiveling his gaze around the table like a turret-mounted main gun. "A lot of officers went forward with Third Division. Some officers have gone into battle alongside us. Sure, that's the junior officers, but where are you going to draw the line if you start killing them in cold blood? You shoot all of them and you're no better than the worst of them are."
Stark took a deep breath, feeling the hostility in the room and somehow that of the linked-in Sergeants as well. "More importantly, much more importantly, if you decide to purge our officers, you're heading straight to hell. I promise. A military needs officers, needs people in charge. Just because the ones we've got locked up are worthless doesn't mean we don't need better ones. Shoot these, and anybody else who's in charge will always know they could get the same treatment, even if it's you and me. They'll be scared, and wondering constantly when they'll be purged for whatever reason. You want untrustworthy officers? You want units running around without anyone in authority to keep things under control? You want to establish a precedent that enlisted can kill their superiors just because they don't like them? Think about it. Don't create something worse than we had. Don't start a cycle of terror. It'll eat us all before it runs its course."
His words hit home. Anger dissolved into uncertainty as Sergeants exchanged glances. "Very good points, but there's another factor," Vic noted in the silence.
"What's that?"
"A lot of the soldiers up here have people back home. Family. Right now, they're hostages for the authorities on Earth. But if we have a lot of hostages of our own to trade for them, we might get all those families up here safe."
A thin Sergeant nodded rapidly. "Right. Damn right. Good thinking."
Grace, far down the table, raised a fist. "Okay, we can do that with the rest. But I want to personally kill Meecham for wasting the lives of my brother and thousands of others."
Stark stood slowly. "I've lost plenty of friends, Grace, but I've been lucky enough not to lose a brother, so I can't preach to you as an equal on that. But killing Meecham would be doing him a favor." A murmur of comment arose. "I mean it. Right now, he's lost his battle, lost the troops the United States has depended on for decades to defend its own territory, lost control of the rest of us up here, and lost the lunar colony, if we hold it. He's toast. We send him back and they'll eat him alive, the brass in the Pentagon and the civs and the politicians and all the corporations whose assets are now ours if we need them."
Yurivan grinned with delight. "Generals always get high-ranking jobs at corporations when they retire. I don't think Meecham's gonna get one."
Stark nodded. "Hell, there's even a chance the authorities back on Earth will shoot him instead of locking him in a small, cold cell in Leavenworth for life. Either way he's gotten a payback, and our hands are clean."
"Let's do it," Tanaka declared. "Vote. Anybody object?"
Grace scowled but remained silent. No one else spoke. "Then that's what we'll do. Hold the whole bunch for bargaining chips. So, what's your second big issue, Reynolds?"
"Who's in charge?" Vic asked.
"We are."
"What?" Reynolds questioned. "We are? So this army's going to be a democracy now? We vote on everything? Which units go on the line? What punishment a junior enlisted gets for a court-martial offense? What soldier goes out on patrol? Whether we provide fire support to a sector, and how much? Anybody think that'll work?"
Silence greeted her words, along with a lot more scowls. "So what do we do?" a linked Sergeant demanded.
"We choose a boss."
Stark stood again, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. "That's not enough, Vic. We don't need a boss. We need a commander. We need someone who's in charge. Without question. Without that, we're not mil."
"I've had enough commanders," someone groused.
"No," Yurivan agreed with visible reluctance. "Stark's right. We lose discipline, and we're damn close to that in the ranks, and there'll be hell to pay."
"I'll concede that, too," the thin Sergeant added, "but if that commander is going to function, he or she will have to have real authority, as Stark said. Who do we appoint to that job?"
"Somebody with good tactical smarts," Stark suggested. "Like Vic, here."
The thin Sergeant shook his head. "Even if Reynolds wasn't your friend, I'd still disagree. Commanders can get tactical smarts from their subordinates, if they listen. No, what we need in a commander is somebody who realizes those stars on their shoulders are a reminder of their responsibilities, and not just a symbol of all their privileges. Somebody who isn't going to stab us in the back as soon as they get the power. Somebody who's a good leader, and who won't forget us and the rest of the troops."
"Somebody we can trust, you mean?" Yurivan questioned. "Somebody we know isn't out for themselves?" She swung an arm to point toward Stark, grinning wickedly. "There's your commander, then."
"The hell!" Stark denied furiously. "That's not why I talked about this! I don't want the job!"
"That makes you qualified," somebody noted.
"I'm not qualified. I'm just a squad leader. I can't command a division or more worth of soldiers."
"I think you could," Sergeant Manley noted. "With the help of specialists like me. That's why commanders have staffs."
"Thanks a lot." Stark glared around the table. "I'm not asking for the job, I don't want the job, and I can't do the job."
"Vote," Tanaka announced implacably. "We can work out the details later. I want a commander to hold things together starting now, before our Corporals and Privates decide they can run amok without anybody officially in charge."
"Absolutely," Manley stated. "We've got Stark nominated."
"I do not agree to that!" Stark insisted.
"Are you saying you won't take the job if we appoint you to it? You'll reject the responsibility?"
"I.. ." Stark bit his lip. "I can't say that. You know that. I don't reject responsibility."
"Fine. Any other nominees? Come on, people."
"What about Maria Vasquez in Third Battalion, Second Brigade?"
"I don't want it, either," Vasquez hurried to announce.
"There's Smith in Second Battalion, First Brigade."
"Which Smith?"
"Richard. Richard T. Smith."
"No way," Smith chimed in. "Leave me out of this. Most people don't know who I am."
"Same here," Vasquez added. "The new commander has to have a Name with a capital N so people will believe in him or her, right?"
"Right," Manley agreed. "That brings us back to Stark."
"Do you people think I'm the Second Coming of Christ or something?" Stark demanded.
"Hell, no," Yurivan observed. "But you'll do until He shows up."
"Let's vote," Manley stated. "Motion is to appoint Ethan Stark commander of the entire force up here, with all the authority normally vested in a commanding officer."
"With the understanding," the thin Sergeant added, "that he will continue to consult with us whenever appropriate. You agree to that, Stark?"
"If I'm gonna be in charge, I'm damn well gonna be in charge," Stark declared. "But talking to you guys and listening to what you have to say? I'd want you to take me down if I stopped doing that."
"Fine. Anybody object to the motion?" A long period of silence stretched. "Guess you're our new commander, Stark. What do you want to be called?"
"Sergeant."
A chuckle ran around the room. "That can stay your honorary title," Manley noted. "For now, let's call him Commander. Better get used to the idea of General, though, Ethan."
"That's going to take one hell of a lot of getting used to," Stark grumped.
"Congratulations, Ethan." Vic offered her hand with a broad smile.
"Thanks so very much," Stark smiled back. "Hey, you know what I'm gonna need now? I'm gonna need a chief of staff."
Vic's smile shaded to alarm. "Now, Ethan, there's a lot of other—"
"One with good sources and tactical smarts," Stark continued. "Congratulations to you. And you, Manley. You said I needed somebody like you for the administrative junk."
Yurivan stood dramatically. "I'm getting out of here before Stark taps me for a job, too."
"Like there's a chance of that, Stace," someone joked.
"Hey, how about Security Officer?"
The laughter came louder this time, with a sharp edge. Stark took a good look around the table, trying to assess the mood. Tired. Scared, more than a little, but then we all should be. "People, I recommend you get back to your units and reestablish routine. They need it, and you need it. We've thrown out a lot of what we've always taken for granted, and we've got to take some comfort in how much of what we've got is still there, just like always."
"Good idea." An awkward moment followed; then Yurivan walked up to Stark with another mischievous grin before bringing her arm up in a precise salute.
Stark returned the courtesy, shaking his head in exasperation. "Get the hell out of here, Stace."
"Yes, sir, Commander." The others followed, many repeating Yurivan's salute, so that Stark had to hold his own salute in acknowledgment.
As the door whisked shut behind the last of the other Sergeants, Stark noticed an outside monitor on the opposite wall of the conference room. He strode over to it, then stopped, gazing at the rocks and the dust, the night black as only emptiness can be, the light and shadows unnaturally sharp. The vicious bedlam of battle had died down, leaving the false impression of peace where exhausted combatants rested before renewing their struggles. Nothing moved in the barren landscape now, nothing except the slow wheel of stars overhead and the even slower progress of the shadows across the lifeless surface. Somehow it seemed different now. "I could live with it, I guess," he noted to himself.
"What's that, Ethan?" Vic asked.
Stark turned to see her still standing nearby, a questioning look bent his way. "Ah, nothing. Battle fatigue, maybe." He returned to his chair, sitting carefully. Somehow, the weak gravity of the Moon seemed to have suddenly multiplied, so that it bore down on him with a weight greater than that of Earth-normal. "I never expected this. Never thought any of it would happen."
She came to sit beside him. "I warned you about that demon, Ethan. Warned you to be ready to live with whatever it made you do."
"I can live with it. I guess. I couldn't let lives be wasted anymore, not when I could save them. But I really didn't want this, Vic."
"What do you want, Ethan Stark?"
"What do I want?" Stark looked down at his hands, thinking, then back up at Vic. "I want to wake up in the morning knowing what to do, who to take care of, and who to report to. I want officers who care about me and my troops more than they do about their own promotions. I want everything to happen by regulations, unless the regulations are screwed up, and then I want the senior enlisted to handle it right. I want to know what little box everything belongs in and what big box the little boxes all go into."
Stark paused, noting Vic's unwavering attention. "I want to know I did the right thing, when everything I was ever told about honor and loyalty says maybe I betrayed the stuff I'm supposed to believe in. But none of that can happen. Not anymore. Now I've got to make decisions for others, and make sure I look out for them, and sometimes that's going to mean sending them into situations where they might be killed. I want someone else to be responsible for all this, but I also want to justify the trust my fellow soldiers placed in me, so I'm going to do my damnedest to get it right."
Vic smiled sadly. "Ethan, I can't help you with everything, but I'll try. As for honor and loyalty, nobody anywhere can tell you a thing about those qualities."
"Hell, Vic, we've got to worry about the enemy, about the civs in the colony, about how to get basic supplies, and about our own government and our own military."
"That's right. The corporations are going to be foaming at the mouth at the thought of losing everything up here. They'll tell the government to get it all back, and the government's going to do just what they say, just like always."
"So," Stark concluded, "I won this battle. Saved some people. Now I've got to win a lot more battles."
She nodded back. "Tough jobs only get tougher, Ethan. Think of it as an opportunity to excel."
He laughed at the old joke, then rose from the chair. "A million things to worry about. So what do I do first, Vic?"
"Set priorities."
"Fine. What's first?"
"It's been a long day. How about a beer?"
"Make it two."
"Deal."