They sat off the Colony spaceport like harpies out of some ancient myth, their very presence accusing Stark of oath breaking and dishonor. Official shuttles under official orders. Stark paused in front of a monitor, staring at its screen. Not so long ago, a visit from VIPs like that would've had me and all my troops scrambling to paint, polish, and clean anything the bigwigs might come within several kilometers of. Now, they're coming to meet me. I'd rather be painting walls.
He took another long look at the monitor, wishing it could somehow see inside the shells of the spacecraft. Who exactly is in the delegation? What're they gonna say? Will they offer us a deal or just threaten us? Will our own civs from the Colony back us up, or jump ship if they get a good offer from the delegation? Ah, hell, I'll find out all that soon enough. Stark walked away, heading for the corporate conference room Campbell had recommended using. Neutral ground, the Colony Manager had said, or the closest we're going to find up here, and the best meeting facility in the Colony. Stark had refrained from describing the Generals' conference room in headquarters, suspecting in any event that a top-of-the-line corporate hall would be very plush indeed.
Stacey Yurivan stood alone in the hallway outside the meeting room, a half-mocking grin on her face. "How's life, Commander, sir?"
"Just peachy. Anybody else here yet?"
"As far as I can tell, the other groups are all inside already. Just waiting for us mil to show up."
Stark felt his face getting warm with anger. "It's not scheduled to start for another half-hour. We're not late."
She grinned wider. "Guess everybody else is eager for this meeting. And we're not."
"I'd rather be leading a suicide raid," Stark admitted. "I take it everything's goin' great in your job?"
The grin slid away, replaced by an expression of mild annoyance. "Oh, yeah. Everything's perfect."
"Which bothers you for some reason."
Yurivan shrugged. "Look, suppose you were my boss—"
"I am your boss."
"Yeah. Right. I forget. Anyway, suppose maybe two months had gone by and you hadn't caught me doing anything against regulations. How would you feel?"
"Grateful?"
Stacey grinned again. "Wrong. You'd be worried, 'cause I'm always doing something, right? And the fact you haven't caught me means you haven't figured out what the latest 'something' is."
Stark frowned in response, his eyes straying to the conference room door. "Who you worried about?"
"The big guys. You know, the national agencies."
"I thought we hadn't detected any activity by them against us."
Yurivan sighed heavily. "Okay, do I have to explain this again?"
"No, no. I get it." Stark rubbed his chin, thinking of the sort of operations he'd known the national agencies to pull off in the past. "You figure they're up to somethin'."
"I know they're up to something! Those people do not sit on their butts when a big problem is going down, and we're a pretty big problem. But I haven't detected any serious attempts to mess up our systems or to send in saboteurs or spies. So what have I missed?"
"Maybe they've got orders to lay off. Maybe the politicians and the Pentagon are worried about making us mad, especially with these talks going down now."
"Oh, sure. All that theory requires is that the politicians and Pentagon are actually thinking about all this instead of going off half-cocked or treating it like another game of king of the mountain! Heck, that happens all the time!"
Vic Reynolds leaned into the conversation, glancing from side to side. "Hi, Ethan. Hey, Stace. How's the snark hunt going?"
"As usual." Yurivan dipped a hand into one of her pockets, surfacing with a data coin. "But my people did find this stuff this morning."
"Oh?" Reynolds took the proffered coin, turning it in her hand. "What stuff might this be?"
"The stuff you asked me to look for."
"That certainly narrows it down." Vic popped the coin into her palmtop, read briefly, then grinned. "Ah. I believe Mr. Trasies will no longer be a problem."
Stark smiled in turn. "You found the dirt?"
Stacey looked smug. "Those programs that keep data storage all neat and well-organized made it a lot easier. The dirt was hidden, but thanks to the clean-up programs that meant we had an apparently big empty space sitting in the middle of lots of nice, compacted, defragmented data. Stood out like a sore thumb once we went looking, then it was just a matter of cracking the access codes. Your little slimeball Trasies used to report regularly on people and events up here until we locked up his mil officer contacts. Looks like he was on the payroll of a couple national agencies and a few corporations as well."
"Think Campbell'll be sufficiently ticked off over that?"
"He will be when he reads Trasies's assessments of him. Not that Trasies spoke highly of anyone but his own bosses from what I could scan this morning. But he's been downright nasty about the Colony Manager."
"Good work, Stacey."
"Don't bend yourself out of shape thanking me," Yurivan noted sarcastically. "It might go to my head." She stepped closer, eyes intent. "Look, Stark, I might be able to do my job a little better in there," her head tilted to indicate the conference room, "if I knew the endgame."
"Endgame?"
"What's your plan? What exactly are you aiming for up here?"
Stark smiled crookedly. "Soon's I figure it out, I'll let you know."
"Sure." Yurivan made a face, shaking her head. "You trying to make me believe you started a major military revolt without any idea what you'd do next? Stark, nobody's that stupid."
Stark glanced over at Reynolds, who was staring at the ceiling overhead while her cheeks twitched in a mostly successful effort not to break into laughter. "I can't tell you anything else, Stace."
"Something really big, huh? You can trust me with it."
"I swear, right now there's nothing else—"
"Okay, okay. Don't tell me. But I'll find out, Stark. Just you try to keep it a secret." With a wide grin, Yurivan turned to greet the other members of Stark's staff as they strode up.
Reynolds sidled close enough to Stark to whisper. "Hey, if Stacey finds out what your plan is, do you think she'll tell you and me?"
"I sure hope so." Stark took a step toward the other soldiers, speaking loud enough for all to hear. "Okay, boys and girls. This is likely to be real tough, and it's sure to be unpleasant as hell. Keep your heads. Let Vic and I do the talking. We want to look sharp, disciplined, and tough. Any questions?" His staff exchanged glances but remained silent. "Okay. I got one, though. Where's the Navy?"
"Here." Chief Wiseman hurried up, hastily smoothing the front of her uniform into inspection quality. "I was giving my armed shuttle crews instructions on what to do if those rust buckets the official delegation came in turn out to be Trojan Horses."
"Good idea, as long as they don't start shooting if someone looks cross-eyed at 'em."
"They won't shoot unless someone shoots them first. I made sure no nervous types are at the combat systems."
"Thanks. Alright, let's go, people." Stark turned on one heel to face the door, took a deep breath, then pushed through to confront the official delegation and whatever demands they planned on making.
It was a large room, not quite a duplicate of the luxurious conference room in the headquarters complex, but in the same spirit. Half of the pictures lining the wall seemed to be of real facilities on the lunar surface or in Earth orbit, while the others appeared to be very realistic conceptualizations of planned future projects. One, Stark noted, displayed a city somewhat like the Colony, but set in reddish terrain against a deep blue sky. Vic followed his gaze. "Mars," she murmured.
"They plan big, don't they?" Stark replied softly.
"Guess so. Don't forget it."
Standing stiffly about the room were several distinct groups. One, consisting of Campbell, Sarafina, and a number of aides, nodded toward Stark's group. Several meters from Campbell, another group of civs in finer clothing, their faces generally young yet hard, pretended to be studying the outside views on the nearest monitors. A few feet from them stood the military representatives from Earth, uniforms bright and sharp, multicolored rafts of ribbons on their chests glistening under the overhead lighting. Farther on waited the next group, some older men and women, all their faces fixed in expressions of automatic yet meaningless bonhomie. Finally, hovering attentively near the older group, a gaggle of younger civs watching their elders like hawks.
Stark stopped, eyeing the groups sourly.
"Who are all these people?" Vic whispered.
"You can't tell?" He glanced from her to the clusters of people. She should know, easy, because . . . hell. I know because I grew up civ, seeing these people all the time. To Vic, Yurivan, and the other mil, they probably look like identical civ unknowns. "You know the civs from the Colony. Try to remember they're on our side. That next group, the ones that look like they eat their young for breakfast? That's the corporate reps and their lawyers. Then comes the uniformed mil from the Pentagon."
"Yeah. Them I knew, too. All officers. Funny, they don't have a bunch of enlisted personnel in tow to do all the lifting and toting."
"Guess they're worried about exposing any more enlisted to us. Now I know what a virus feels like." Stark inclined his head slightly toward the farthest groups. "They're the politicians and their assistants. Staff members, sort of, who try to keep their politicians from saying and doing dumb things."
"Sounds like a thankless job."
"Also a hopeless one. Campbell will probably handle the civs, and leave the mil to us."
Chief Wiseman smiled slowly. "I know that Admiral with them. Had the misfortune to serve under her for a few months when she was doing her command tour on my ship."
"You think she remembers you?"
"Nah. I wasn't important enough. Bet she pays attention to me now, huh?"
"Good bet," Vic agreed, "but the Admiral's only a three-star. Anybody recognize the four-star General leading that group?"
Sergeant Manley nodded. "Wilkinson. Came through Lunar Command on his war-hero tour four or five years ago."
There'd been so many Commanding Generals, coming and going like clockwork at six-month intervals, that it had been easy to forget most of them. "You remember what he's like?"
She made a dismissive gesture. "Lots of bluster. Minor-league screamer." The rest of the soldiers nodded in understanding. Screamers were officers who "led" by erupting into tirades. All of the enlisted had encountered many of them. "Scared of screwing up," Manley added judiciously. "Spent most of his six months up here trying not to actually do anything so he wouldn't risk making a mistake."
"I remember that," Yurivan chimed in. "We had a lot of pressure from the enemy in the sector my unit occupied then, and we kept getting beat on hard because Weak Willie wouldn't let us react. How'd he get this job?"
"I'll bet it wasn't based on merit," Stark noted dryly, "but then, promotions in the mil haven't been based on merit for a long time, have they? I'm sure Willie sucked up the right way to the right bosses at the right time."
"But that's not so good for us," Vic objected. "If Willie's afraid of doing anything, we might not get any results out of this conference."
"Maybe. With the corporates and the political types here, I don't think the mil's gonna be running things. But I guess we'll find out real soon. Let's go give Campbell that little present Stacey dug up. He might want to change the membership of his team after he sees it." Stark led the way across the room, pretending to ignore the subtle and overt looks from the other groups as they followed the progress of the soldiers. Take a real good look, people. We can move here. We know this place. It's been home awhile. Don't even think about sending Earthworms to fight us.
"Sergeant Stark." Campbell smiled briefly, only a tightness around his eyes revealing the tension he must feel. "This should be interesting."
"Uh-huh." Stark held out the data coin. "So is this. You oughta read it."
Campbell frowned down at the object. "The first chance I get after this meeting—"
"No. I strongly suggest you need to see it right away. Before the meeting."
Security Chief Trasies stepped closer, face belligerent. "We won't be bullied by you, Stark. Don't try to give orders to us."
Stark returned Trasies's gaze calmly. "Wouldn't dream of it. Care to read that, Mr. Campbell?"
"I fail to see what could be so important we need to address it now."
"Then you oughta find out."
Campbell stared back, then took the coin, his other hand forestalling Trasies's attempt to grab it. He popped it into his palmtop impatiently, quickly calling up text. As Campbell read, his face flushed, then grew darker and harder, until he finally looked up and around at his assistants. "I see."
Trasies held out a hand, eyes narrowing with suspicion. "If I could review—"
"That's perfectly all right." Campbell smiled tightly at his security chief. "You are, I assure you, totally aware of the contents of the files I have just reviewed, since you drafted all of them."
Trasies stiffened. "Lies. Forgeries. Faking files is simple for—"
"Ah, then you do know the contents of these files." Campbell's words froze Trasies in midsentence. "As for validity, the files I've already reviewed contained information on past meetings with my assistants which I know these soldiers could have had no knowledge of." His gaze switched to Yvonne Pevoni. "I'd also doubted your loyalty, Ms. Pevoni, but according to Security Chief Trasies, you are too indecisive and intellectually challenged to have been a partner to him."
Pevoni's jaw dropped, then snapped shut. "You said that about me?" she hissed at Trasies. "I trusted you!"
"So did I," Campbell stated icily. "Sergeant Stark, I do not believe it would be wise to place Mr. Trasies in the custody of Colony police. I would appreciate it if you could place him under military detention."
"We can do that. Vic, get some MPs up here."
She smiled mock-pleasantly at Trasies. "They should already be outside. I anticipated the need for MPs."
"Thanks. You want to go quiet, Trasies?" The former Colony Security Chief glanced toward the other groups in the room as if gauging his chances of reaching them. "Just in case you're wondering," Stark continued, "I know all those sort of people, and none of them would help you unless they figured it'd help them. Right? And getting into a fight with us over you right now wouldn't help them at all." Trasies bit off whatever reply he had been considering, yielding to Stacey Yurivan's grip on his elbow to steer him to the door. Once again, Stark was aware of eyes following the small procession, until the door opened on a brace of military police.
Yurivan handed the former Colony Security Chief over to them with brief, whispered instructions, turned, smiled merrily at the other groups, then rejoined the rest of Stark's group.
"I'll bet that's given them something to talk about," she suggested gleefully.
Campbell gestured to his assistants, then walked to the grand table, which dominated the center of the room, its highly polished lunar rock surface shining like a solid sheet of black gemstone. "If everyone else is ready, we should probably begin. I am Colony Manager Campbell. As you can no doubt tell," he added with a small flash of anger, "I am having no trouble with my mental balance. These," he added as he indicated Stark's group, "are the representatives of the Colony's military defenders." Cold expressions shifted from Campbell to Stark, weighing and evaluating. "Please, everyone be seated."
General Wilkinson glared as Stark and Vic moved to take seats at the table. "I will not sit with traitors. Nor will any of my officers. Either those criminals leave or we do."
Stark kept his face emotionless as he and his staff watched Campbell for his reaction. The Colony Manager paused halfway into his own chair, reversing motion to rise slowly until he was standing straight. "Then we have nothing to discuss," Campbell stated firmly. "These soldiers have earned a place at this table by their defense of this Colony. If they are not permitted to stay, I and my assistants will leave as well. I'm sorry you wasted your time on this journey," he added to the other civilians with apparent regret.
"You are not in a position to dictate to us," one of the corporate representatives announced bitingly.
"That's to be seen. If you wish to talk, everyone here must remain."
Cold silence hung for several seconds, then some of the civilians in the official party turned to glower at General Wilkinson. "Sit down," one ordered.
Wilkinson flushed slightly, his mouth working with silent rage. "I do not wish—"
"Sit down!"
The General choked off whatever further words he had been planning on speaking, shooting a brief death-ray look at Stark and Reynolds as he waved his officers to their seats, then seated himself with overstated dignity.
Stark kept from smiling with an effort, noticing the ripple of unease among the more junior officers in Wilkinson's group. He's gonna give his staff holy hell after this is over, not because they screwed up but because he lost face, and they know it.
Campbell spread his hands, looking around the table. "Thank you. I know there's a lot of issues to discuss. Who wants to begin?"
A thirty-something woman who radiated an air of ruthless competence tapped her palm unit irritably, then looked straight at Campbell. "We're prepared to grant partial forgiveness of accumulated debts for corporate personnel on the Moon, assuming full control in accordance with ownership rights of every facility is returned immediately."
Campbell waited in obvious expectancy, then frowned when nothing more was forthcoming. "That's your entire offer? Nothing pertaining to the Colony's status? Nothing regarding our rights? Nothing in the way of redress for past suffering caused by corporate and government policies?" He gazed down the table to the political representatives. "Have you nothing to add?"
A middle-aged politician with smoothly handsome features shook his head, smiling reassuringly. "Your grievances with your parent corporations are internal matters. It would not be appropriate for the government to intervene in such matters, would it? We are merely here to assist in bringing this unpleasant state of affairs to an early and appropriate conclusion. I urge you to accept the generous offer which has been made by the corporations with financial interests up here."
Campbell sat silent for a long moment, drawing an impatient scowl to the corporate speaker's face, then spoke briefly. "The offer is not acceptable."
The corporate speaker flushed slightly. "This is not a negotiation. Our parent corporations are willing for the sake of good relations and expedient results to grant limited relief to personal indebtedness. Period."
Campbell shook his head, looking vaguely regretful, but keeping his words even. "That's not acceptable," he repeated.
"Failure to accept this offer will result in serious consequences. Our parent corporations will pursue all available options to compel compliance with our rights of ownership. As you are no doubt aware, your employment contracts bind you to arbitration of our choosing. In your absence, that arbitration has already occurred, and you have been found in violation of all aspects of your contracts. I don't need to tell you just how serious the legal and financial penalties for those violations can be, if we choose to demand them."
Instead of responding directly, Campbell looked at Stark. "Commander, do these people have the ability to carry out their threats?"
Stark had been trying not to look directly at Wilkinson and the other officers, fighting the unease his role generated inside. Now he made a very brief movement of his mouth that might have qualified as a fleeting smile. "No."
"Can they regain control of this Colony without our full assent?"
"No."
"Are the military forces protecting the Colony prepared to defend its citizens against any coercive actions by these corporations?"
"Yes."
Another one of the politicians leaned forward, raising an imperative hand. "Sir, you are playing with fire here. I trust you have fully examined the consequences of your actions! To place your faith and the security of this Colony in the hands of renegades is frankly beyond my understanding. You have received a fair and, if I may say so, generous offer from these corporations which have done so much for you and our great country. You would be well advised to accept that offer before these . . . these dishonorable mutineers decide to turn on you!"
Campbell's smile resembled Stark's earlier gesture. "I assume you are claiming we'd be better off placing our faith in you, Senator? Just how much have you received in 'campaign contributions' from the corporations you are now telling us to trust?"
"That is entirely beside the point! Every penny I receive is in full accordance with the laws governing campaign finance!"
"Which you write." Campbell shook his head. "So far, I haven't heard any constructive offers, or any reason to respond to blatant and unenforceable threats."
Corporate and political representatives turned as one to glare at their military counterparts. "Perhaps," the corporate speaker suggested icily, "you should inform these people of the consequences of failure to comply with our offer."
General Wilkinson nodded briskly, projecting confidence and bravado once again. "We will break the will of the so-called defenders and retake this Colony. We will reestablish the rule of law by whatever measures are necessary. Civilians who defied lawful authority will be delivered into the hands of law officers for punishment under the legal system. All, I repeat, all rebellious soldiers will be dealt with to the full extent of the Uniform Code of Military Justice." He glared fiercely at Stark. "The appropriate penalty being death."
Stark stared back, his eyes locked on Wilkinson's, his face rigid as granite. "Who's going to carry out that mission, General? Who's going to retake this Colony? Where are your troops? Third Division got cut to ribbons, and some of the survivors joined us. You got one helluva lot of officers, but they ain't worth a damn without enlisted troops to pull triggers, are they? Or maybe you're planning on sending Second Division up here? But then the U.S. back on the World wouldn't have any defenders, would it?"
Wilkinson and his fellow officers glowered back. "We will not discuss classified military matters in this environment," the General stated stiffly.
Stark shook his head, his gaze scanning down the table. "You mean you haven't told your civilian bosses how many casualties Third Division took, General? I know you, and I know your type, and you hate telling your bosses something they really don't want to hear. But this time you'll have to."
The corporate and political delegations were now staring at the military officers as well, faces hardening perceptibly. "General Wilkinson?" the corporate speaker inquired acidly.
As Wilkinson paled and groped for words, Vic pulled a data coin from her palm unit, sliding it across the table toward him with the ease of long practice under lunar gravity, the coin coming to a slow halt just short of the General's hand. "Here, General. That's the best we've been able to come up with in the way of a casualty count from General Meecham's big offensive. You might want to share it with the others, but I have to warn you there's a lot of bodies left to tally, so it's far from complete, I'm afraid."
Wilkinson stared at the coin as if it were a snake as Reynolds continued speaking. "Perhaps you'd like to take your political and corporate bosses on a tour of the front lines. We could show you the places where Third Division's brigades got cut to ribbons in an offensive I assume you helped approve. No, wait." She leaned back, reaching to key the nearest monitor. "Right here. See?"
The screen displayed a long, open area, sloping downward gently before rising to meet a crater rim. Bright white light glared off elevations in vivid contrast to the knife-edged black shadows where sunlight couldn't reach. Motionless objects, resembling clumps of oddly similar-size rocks, littered the plain in front of the crater rim. Reynolds tapped a key, bringing the objects into high relief. "Just a low spot near the enemy lines. Second Brigade of Third Division went forward here. We call it Death Valley, now. All those objects I've highlighted are bodies of American soldiers we haven't been able to recover yet."
Stark watched narrowly as the others in the room reacted to the sight. The corporate honchos just seemed to get colder and madder. Expressions of concern, outrage, dismay, and a dozen other emotions chased across the politicians' faces as they tried to gauge which reaction would draw the best response. The politicians' handlers simply stared, faces intent, as if they were calculating a difficult problem. Campbell and the other lunar civilians bent their heads, faces grim.
Wilkinson rallied, even as he and the other military officers avoided looking at the scene on the monitor. "We can, and we will, carry out our ordered mission."
"Really, General?" Campbell questioned. "Are you guaranteeing your superiors that you can retake this Colony?"
"Our exact mission statement has not been promulgated and is of course subject to a careful staffing process to ensure that mission is defined precisely."
Sergeant Reynolds spoke into the brief quiet following Wilkinson's statement, her voice calm and professional. "General. I know you're used to wordsmithing the mission definition so you can claim victory regardless of the outcome, but that won't work in this case. That system depends on enlisted soldiers somehow executing the mission in such a way that declaring victory has a veneer of legitimacy."
"I will not tolerate being spoken to in this manner."
Stark raised one forefinger toward Wilkinson, instinctively rising to Reynolds's defense. "You haven't any choice this time."
"Sergeant, I order you—"
Anger flooded Stark, toppling the barriers he had tried to erect to maintain an even temper. "In case it hasn't sunk in yet, General, we're not going to follow your orders. We also don't intend dying or watching our friends die trying to carry out poorly conceived missions just to protect your reputation. You want miracles done, do them yourself." He felt Vic's hand reach under the table to grip his leg in silent admonition to calm down, and he tried to tamp down his emotions.
Wilkinson flushed scarlet. "I don't know who the hell you think you are, soldier—"
Another flash of anger dissolved Stark's good intentions. "I'm Sergeant Ethan Stark. Who the hell do you think you are?"
Before the General could formulate a reply, the hard-eyed corporate representative slapped one hand on the table. "This is getting us nowhere. Mr. Stark—"
"Sergeant."
The representative paused, obviously fighting for composure. "Sergeant Stark. Your confidence is misplaced. Your weapons need ammunition and spare parts. Neither will be coming. This Colony is not self-sufficient for food and water. Those won't be coming, either."
"We have plenty of spares," Stark stated, swinging one arm to indicate the monitor Vic had activated. "There's a lot of damaged battle armor to cannibalize, as you can see. We've also got lots of ammunition, and we know how to get more."
Campbell cleared his throat as if apologetically. "As for food and water, we have substantial stockpiles, thanks in part to our defenders. Aside from their own resources, they arranged to trade a large number of enemy prisoners for necessities like foodstuffs. In terms of water, we're in very good shape thanks to the recent discoveries of new subsurface ice deposits."
"That ice belongs to our corporations! Further, the existence and location of those ice deposits is proprietary information belonging to your parent corporations."
"Yes," Campbell noted, in tones that suggested no real agreement, "well, our parents have been somewhat abusive, so we no longer feel bound by their rules."
Another man leaned forward. "Sir, your words are condemning you to certain fines and imprisonment. As you are aware, subclauses of your employment agreement limit your ability to make public statements regarding your employers."
Cheryl Sarafina spoke for the first time, arching her eyebrows in surprise. "We were not aware this was a public forum."
The man smiled triumphantly. "The definition of public as set forth in paragraph four, section a, subsection five of your employment contract—"
"Oh, shut up," Campbell snapped, his own temper obviously fraying. "We're not here to split legal hairs. I believe it should be clear by now that you do not have the means to coerce our cooperation and should therefore be trying to negotiate a truly fair outcome."
The first politician who had spoken shook his head. "Our armed forces aren't as dependent on individual soldiers as you believe. I have been assured by the Pentagon that our new weapon systems provide many times the combat capabilities of older systems, yet require far fewer personnel. Perhaps you should enlighten Mr. Campbell, General Wilkinson, and also these, uh, enlisted persons as well."
Wilkinson licked his lips, eyes uncertain, then smiled confidently. "Of course. Take the new-generation Armored Fighting Vehicle, the Kilpatrick Tank. It can engage multiple targets in a high-threat environment, has unprecedented ability to operate against enemy countermeasures, utilizes a uniquely capable active-passive armor system providing unparalleled protection, and requires only one operator." He paused, looking around the table triumphantly.
Sergeant Reynolds held up her right hand questioningly. "How many personnel does it take to maintain this new tank, General? How often do its subsystems break?"
Wilkinson glowered at her. "Exact logistical and other support requirements are still being determined by operational testing and evaluation sequences."
Stacey Yurivan waved her own hand. "General. I assume one operator means that tank is very highly automated. If the enemy inserts a worm into the tank's operating systems, can the single operator override and countermand all functions in time to prevent fratricide?"
"How big is this thing?" Chief Wiseman wondered. "Can it fit on our existing orbital boosters and landing craft?"
Stark gestured to his staff for silence. "Sorry about that, sir," he apologized with barely veiled insincerity. "Those are the sort of questions veteran soldiers are likely to ask. As for me, I'm just wondering how well that tank's armor will do against the new sequential warhead anti-armor systems being deployed against us. They've been able to pretty much punch through anything we've got, which is why our tanks need good infantry screening to survive. We captured a number of those systems not long ago," Stark added, "during an enemy offensive."
Wilkinson's jaw muscles stood out for a moment. "The Kilpatrick Tank is far superior to existing weapons and has none of the weaknesses you have alleged." One of the other officers, a Colonel, leaned toward the General, whispering frantically in his ear. "Of course," the General continued, "the, uh, operational environment may not be favorable for the employment of specific weapons systems depending on, uh, required operational parameters—"
"General," Stark interrupted again. "It's a new weapon. You don't really know what it can or can't do. But none of us have ever met any weapon which lived up to its press releases, so we won't be impressed by claims of what any new weapon can maybe do in the future."
Another politician spoke, her tone pleading. "Are you all really prepared to risk death? This is a very serious course of action you're following. I never expected to be telling fellow Americans they would be attacked by our own military unless they agree to follow the basic rules of our society."
Colony Manager Campbell looked back at her, then around the table. "We do not want to fight. We do not want to defy authority. What we do want is some basic, elementary, fair treatment in accordance with our status as citizens. Why is that so hard? Why can't we be allowed to vote?"
"You're in a war zone! How can we conduct elections in a war zone? Campaigning, voting, it would all be impossible."
"No, it would not! If you bothered to actually walk around the Colony, you'd find it is a completely safe environment. I ask again, why can't we vote?"
"The timing and nature of that decision is not, and cannot be, left up to you. Look at your current actions. You are inviting attack by our own military because of irresponsible and ill-considered decisions."
Vic spoke, drawing attention away from Campbell. "I keep hearing threats to attack the Colony. The use of U.S. military forces against U.S. citizens or territory is prohibited by law unless those citizens or territories are declared to be in a state of rebellion. Are we to understand such a declaration is pending?"
The politicians exchanged glances, then all looked toward their so-far silent staffers. One of those staffers cleared his throat, speaking as if reciting from a memorized text. "A declaration that the Lunar Colony is in a state of rebellion against lawful authorities of the United States is in abeyance pending the results of this meeting. Failure to conform to the commands of duly authorized representatives of the government will be taken as evidence of rebellious intent and actions."
Campbell stared, eyes wide with disbelief. "You're telling us that we must submit to all the demands made today? That asking for the most basic rights of a citizen is being declared an act of rebellion?"
"That is a very prejudicial formulating of the government's position. Of course, what I just stated applies only to the Colony. The military personnel who have failed in their duties have already been declared rebellious."
Ms. Pevoni stood, her face reflecting shock. "You can't be serious! There is no need to escalate this dispute to the level of . . . of . . . war!"
The senior politician spoke, his voice harsh. "On the contrary, this is a very serious situation. We have been very patient with you. The former defenders of this Colony have already been informed that they must surrender immediately. No negotiations are being offered them. As for the Colony itself, you must either agree to the offer set forth by the corporate representatives present at this meeting, or we will be forced to call for appropriate measures."
"That is the only choice you offer?" Campbell swiveled to look back at his assistants, reading some unspoken consensus. "Then we must take the only choice we can."
"I'm very glad sanity has prevailed—"
"We thank you for coming," Campbell continued, his tone dripping acid. "Please gather your personal possessions. You will be escorted back to your shuttles. The citizens of this Colony will overlook your attempt to unjustifiably characterize our demands for fair treatment and will await an offer which reflects our rights and provides adequate compensations for our sacrifices. Good day." He stood abruptly, his back to the corporate, political, and military delegations as they first stared, then began arguing in low tones among themselves.
Stark, trying to ignore the ball of lead that seemed to have taken up residence in his stomach, nodded approvingly to Campbell as the Colony Manager glanced his way, earning a slightly shaky look of appreciation. "Good job, everybody," Stark murmured to his staff.
"They really gonna do it?" Bev Manley questioned. "It's like they don't realize what's actually going on."
"They don't. Maybe it's time they had a reality check."
The tight groups of official representatives broke into looser conglomerations as they intermingled and debated. Sergeant Reynolds stepped to one side, shutting off the monitor with its accusing picture of the lunar terrain now and forever to be known as Death Valley. A female Major took advantage of the distraction to leave the confines of the official military group, stepping quickly over to Vic to stand before her with a rigid face. "May I help you, Major?" Vic asked with poorly concealed curiosity.
"I . . . yes, Sergeant. My brother. Captain Kutusov. Peter Kutusov."
"Kutusov," Vic repeated, hauling out her palm pad. "Second Brigade, Third Division?"
"Yes." The Major tensed visibly, casting a nervous look toward the brass still engaged in their own conversation. "That area you showed us." Her voice seemed momentarily lost, as if words couldn't form. "That's where his unit attacked?"
"I'm afraid so."
"I haven't received any word on him. He hasn't been among the officers repatriated."
"No." Vic's voice softened, her face impassive but eyes still betraying sympathy. "He won't be. We recovered his body just a couple of weeks ago."
Major Kutusov couldn't quite hide her flinch. "I see."
Vic consulted her readout. "He was pretty far forward with his unit. I'm afraid I can't tell you a lot about it. That unit was effectively wiped out, a lot of suit systems were destroyed, and we just haven't had enough time or resources to analyze existing system records for all the casualties Third Division suffered."
"I see."
"I can try to locate any survivors of his unit who might have stayed up here if you want to talk to them."
"No. There won't be time."
"Do you want to take the body back with you?" Vic asked gently.
"That won't be permitted." Major Kutusov bit off each word.
"We're sorry we haven't been able to publish full casualty lists, but there were just so many dead, and it's taking a very long time to recover them all."
"I assume that wouldn't be all that hard under truce conditions."
"Yes, Major, it wouldn't be, but not all the enemy forces have agreed to truces. We've had to pull a lot of our dead out from under enemy guns."
"Major Kutusov!" General Wilkinson bellowed the command from the other side of the room, not looking up from the palm pad he was punching repeatedly. "Where the hell are you? Where are my briefing files?"
Major Kutusov, pale with worry and reaction, spun on one heel to return to the General's side. "We'll take care of your brother's remains," Vic murmured, stepping close behind the Major. Kutusov hesitated for half a step, then nodded once, almost imperceptibly, before continuing on to stand stolidly before General Wilkinson while he loudly berated her for failing to anticipate his wishes.
Stark came up to Reynolds, frowning at her, as the official delegations trooped out of the room en route to their shuttles, each of the various representatives ostentatiously ignoring the Colony civilian officials and Stark's people. "What was that about, Vic?"
"I think I feel sorry for a Major."
"You're kidding."
"No. Her brother bought it during Meecham's offensive. Way up forward with his unit."
"Up forward? He a Lieutenant?"
"No. Captain." Reynolds shook her head, face saddened. "Ethan, we needed an officer like that to live."
"Officers like that are usually the first to die. That's why tin-plated jerks like Meecham and Wilkinson get to be Generals."
"Are you looking for an argument from me? I never met a General officer who didn't think the sun rose and set on his or her whims." She screwed up her face in distaste. "We probably shouldn't have baited Wilkinson that strongly, though. He can cause us a lot of trouble."
"He'd cause us trouble regardless."
"True enough, but if it wasn't personal it might not be as vicious."
Stark snorted derisively. "What else was I supposed to do? Offer to polish his shoes?"
"We both could've been a little easier on his ego."
"Sure. Just like always. We go out to get shot at but the number one priority is protecting the damn General's ego. I never did figure out why something sitting back at headquarters needed more protection than my own butt did."
Vic laughed, drawing curious looks from the remaining occupants of the room, then smiled mockingly. "Lucky for us, we now serve a commander with no ego problems whatsoever."
"Very funny. You're a riot, Reynolds."
"You really think so?" she asked with feigned innocence.
"Funniest thing since nerve gas." Stark waved to his staff. "You guys can head home. Thanks for the backup. See you at headquarters. Chief Wiseman, keep those shuttles of yours at ready until those bozos who just left here are outside our orbital defenses."
"No problem. We love standing by." Wiseman saluted casually, then followed the soldiers as they left.
Campbell, looking like a man who'd just faced down death itself, came up to Stark and Reynolds. "I suppose that could have gone worse."
"Not a lot worse, but some," Stark agreed. "You did a good job of dealing with those jerks."
"I was scared stiff, Sergeant. I've never been a good poker player."
Vic appraised the civilian, her expression concerned. "You need a poker face when you're bluffing. Is that what's going on?"
"I'm afraid so." Campbell glanced over at his remaining advisors, talking animatedly to one another in one corner of the room, then back at the soldiers. "I don't have strong backing in the Colony. Truth be told, I certainly don't have majority backing for what I just said."
"How bad is it?" Stark demanded. "Just how strong is your support?"
"I've got roughly one-third of the Colony ready to back me in any action, up to and including a declaration of independence. But another third, either through loyalty or fear, wants nothing but reconciliation. The remaining third are fence-sitters, unsure and unwilling to commit either way."
"Great," Vic commented sourly. "What's it going to take to convince at least that middle third to swing our way?" Her gaze shifted to Stark. "Whatever way that turns out to be, that is."
Campbell shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "I'm not sure. This isn't exactly a routine political calculation, you know. We're dealing with very fundamental issues: a government's responsibilities to its people, a people's responsibilities to their government, family ties cutting across questions of loyalty and rebellion, and the simple economic fears driving everyone. Our jobs aren't stable, Sergeant. They never have been. A long time ago, civilians worked for the same employer for life, usually. Over time that changed into hire-on-demand and temporary employment agreements, and the resulting constant fear of losing a job or trying to find a better one has made many workers habitually cautious in any action that might impact on their work."
Stark nodded. "I remember my parents talking about that kind of thing. But there must be something that'd convince people it's time to take action."
"I'm sure there is, but I haven't been able to figure what that something is, Sergeant." Campbell looked intently at Stark. "Something must have motivated you to make your decision. What was it, exactly?"
Thousands of soldiers, marching steadily forward, dying in their tracks as futile assault followed futile assault. Faceless officers in the rear ordering more attacks, shredding the already decimated ranks of survivors as if by enough human sacrifice they could somehow alter reality to fit the fantasy worlds they'd concocted in the self-reverential cocoons of their plans and theories and simulations. Voices crying for help denied to them. Stark kept his face rigid with great effort, then spoke carefully, his voice almost toneless from his effort to control it. "I guess . . . what it came down to was . . . there was nothing I could do . . . except by doing something I wasn't ever supposed to do. I could've saved myself . . . but I had to save the others."
Vic grasped Stark's shoulder firmly, lending strength, but faced Campbell. "There's always been a contract," she explained. "An unwritten one. We'll die if we have to because that's part of the job, and we think the job matters. Our superiors broke that contract. It became obvious we were expected to die not to accomplish anything, but just because they said so."
Campbell eyed both soldiers as if he'd never seen them before. "I think I understand. We civilians all have contracts of one sort or another, but I think you're speaking of a contract in a greater sense. An understanding of why sacrifices are demanded and where rewards should lie. I need some way of convincing the majority of the Colony that our political leaders and corporate superiors have violated that sort of contract."
Vic nodded in agreement. "I hope you can manage that without watching a lot of them die," she noted quietly.
"I hope so, too. Sergeant Reynolds. I can't believe we're facing such threats over such issues. Do you think the people we just met with will have second thoughts and grant any of our demands?"
She smiled crookedly before replying. "Mr. Campbell, I think we're dealing with individuals who think they can make things happen because they want them to happen. Right and wrong has nothing to do with it. They're not going to calmly accept a requirement to do what we want."
"What do you think they'll do? Surely not an all-out attack."
"Your guess is as good as mine." Vic gestured to Stark. "Ethan, you know the civ side and the mil side. What's your assessment?"
"They'll try something." Stark stared around as if that "something" would be identified somewhere in the vainglorious art on the walls. "But they've gotta be worried. How much will all this cost them? Corporations only care about the bottom line, right? And the politicians must be wondering who's gonna get blamed for everything, especially if whatever they try fails. The mil? No, I mean the Pentagon. They're worried most of all. They've lost damn near two-thirds of their active duty strength, one-third when they tried to use Third Division as a battering ram and one-third when we told them to go to hell. They don't have the troops to do the things they've said they'll do, and all the public relations spin in the world can't get them out of that hole."
Campbell smiled with evident relief. "Then they're not likely to actually attack us? It's just a bluff?"
Both Stark and Reynolds shook their heads in negation. "You can't count on that," Vic advised. "They don't want to lose. They don't have enough soldiers and no likelihood of getting enough soldiers. But not attacking us guarantees losing, while if they actually try to hit us a miracle might happen."
"And," Stark added, "you can bet their senior intelligence types are churning out reports saying whatever the brass wants to hear the most, which is probably that we're likely to crumble when they push."
"But, that won't happen," Campbell objected anxiously. "Will it?"
"I'm gonna be perfectly honest with you, Mr. Campbell. I don't know what'll happen the first time my soldiers find themselves aiming at other American soldiers. I don't know what the other soldiers will do. I don't know what my soldiers will do. I hope to God I never find out because, whether they shoot or surrender, either way I'm gonna lose."
Campbell stared at the floor for a long moment, then looked up with a sardonic smile. "So it appears we're hoping for a miracle, too."
"Yeah. I guess so. Reckon we'll find out which side's in best with the Big Guy upstairs, won't we?"
"Mail call," Bev Manley announced, tossing a data coin onto Stark's desk.
"What?" Stark tapped the coin with one finger as if unsure of its existence. "We got mail?"
"Uh-huh. That official delegation brought it."
Stark frowned, rolling the coin back and forth. "That'd be our first real mail since Meecham's offensive, not counting the stuff that's been bootlegged up here. Why'd the authorities decide to be so nice to us?"
"Because they ain't being nice." Sergeant Manley pointed at the coin in Stark's hand. "Think about it. People we don't trust hand us letters allegedly from our friends and loved ones back home. Because they want to be nice all of a sudden? No way. It's because whatever messages are in that coin and every other one we got says whatever the authorities want them to say. I'd guess major league propaganda, heartfelt appeals to surrender, that sort of thing."
"Bev, my parents may not be the greatest human beings on Earth, though God knows I put 'em through enough to earn martyr status for both of 'em, but they wouldn't parrot some government line to me."
Manley shook her head, waving an objecting hand. "This has nothing to do with your parents' virtues. It has to do with the government's ability to coerce people into doing what they want."
"You saying they put a gun to my parents' heads or something?"
"I doubt it'd be that crude. More likely they told your parents read this script for us or we'll have to ask the Internal Revenue Service to audit your last twenty years of tax returns for any discrepancies.' You know, iron-hand-in-the-velvet-glove stuff. What are they gonna do? And if that coin's from a friend instead of your parents, the same thing applies. Listen, I'm gonna give you the same advice I'm giving every soldier who got mail: don't read it. If the government wants you to have it, you don't want to know what it says."
Stark sat silent for a moment, then nodded. "Can't argue with that."
"Want to give me the coin back?"
"No."
Manley smiled ruefully. "Didn't think so. Just be careful. Don't read it. If you do read it, don't believe it."
"Thanks, Bev. That's good advice. We get mail for a lot of guys?"
She shrugged. "Coupla hundred. Not much, not with thousands of soldiers up here, which is one more reason I'm sure the stuff is faked. If people were allowed to write whatever they wanted, we'd have thousands of letters. But it takes time and personnel to supervise scripted dialogues, doesn't it?"
"Should we be handing this stuff out then?"
"I wondered about that. But that'd mean keeping mail away from soldiers it's addressed to. If you want me to . . ."
"No. We don't hold mail." Stark glanced down at the coin again. "That'd be wrong. Like lying to them. I don't want to start down the road of thinking I can mess with these apes' personal lives just because I think it's for their own good. You do like you said, warn everybody that this stuff is likely poison, and tell them to talk to their superiors and friends and the chaplains if they need to after screening it. But we don't withhold mail."
"Thought you'd say that." Manley flipped a casual salute. "I'm off on my assigned mission, then. Commander Stark."
"Does that mean I got to order around an Administrative guy? Maybe this job ain't so bad after all."
"Just don't let it go to your head." Manley smiled and left, leaving Stark alone with his mail.
Stark rolled the coin back and forth in his hand. Yeah, it'd be real stupid to look at it. Just like Bev said. But I have to. He leaned forward far enough to insert the coin in his palmtop, then watched the screen, trying to lock down his emotions as the still-familiar faces of his parents appeared. They were seated in what was surely the same apartment they'd lived in during Stark's youth, in a fairly anonymous suburb of the Seattle metroplex. Stark even recognized a few of the furnishings, though the couch on which his parents were seated looked new. His father looked like he had in the last coin Stark had received, older and thinner than the vision still stuck in his mind from his youth. His mother sat rigidly erect, surprisingly aged to Stark, who hadn't seen her image in over a decade, her face rigid with some unreadable emotion.
"Ethan Stark," his father began, the words falling heavily from his mouth, tinged with something like anger. "This is very unpleasant for us. We know what's happened up on the Moon. We know what you've done, and we are deeply, deeply ashamed." He paused, while Stark's mother remained uncharacteristically silent. "If you love us, if you care about us at all, if you have any decency, you'll surrender immediately to legal and lawful authorities. There's nothing else we can say. Please, do what's right." The screen blanked, leaving Stark to stare bleakly at white noise.
Is that really how they feel? Were they coerced into saying that? How can I know one way or another? He thought of his father, firmly admonishing him, so different from the halting pride expressed in his last letter. Did you mean it then or do you mean it now? Or both? Couldn't you have given me some sign? Some indication if this is how you really felt? But his father had never been one for signs or subtlety. Like his universal gesture of contempt, the one Stark had seen a million times as a youth. His father would be watching the vid as some politician pontificated or some corporate ad rolled, and after a short time he'd throw down whatever he happened to be holding (or whatever was within reach) and declare "this is a bunch of crap." It had been one certain routine no matter the time of day or year. Political ad: "this is a bunch of crap" (wham). Smiling corporate speaker: "this is a bunch of crap" (wham). Earnest government representative: "this is a bunch of crap" (wham). Stark smiled involuntarily at the memory, then frowned thoughtfully.
Rewinding the coin, he watched carefully as his father spoke. "We know what you've done, and we are deeply, deeply ashamed." As the sentence ended, his father slapped down a bookpad on the table beside him. "If you love us, if you care about us at all, if you have any decency, you'll surrender immediately to legal and lawful authorities." The empty hand reached out as his father spoke, as if grabbing air, and making another throwing down gesture as if to emphasize the end of the sentence.
Stark rewound again. "Deeply, deeply ashamed." Wham. "Surrender immediately." Simulated wham. He watched the last two sentences carefully. "There's nothing else we can say." That could be read two ways, and Stark had a strong suspicion he now knew which one actually applied. "Please, do what's right." That, too. The government people who'd obviously supervised the making of this tape had no doubt believed that was pretty unambiguous, and it was, just not in the way they expected. Stark's father had all his life made it clear where he thought "right" lay, and that usually wasn't on the side of either big corporations seeking bigger profits or politicians in their pay.
He watched the tape one more time, focusing this time on his mother, sitting silently through his father's speech. That wasn't normal, either, not unless she'd changed a whole lot. Mom always made it clear that even when she agreed with Dad, she wasn't going to let him do all the talking. So when she says nothing, that sends a message, too.
Why you sneaky little devils. Never knew you could put one over on the government. The guys screening this coin probably thought Dad's throwing things emphasized his words real nice and figured Mom's silence was natural. Stark grinned, imagining the dialogue in his father's head as he'd spoken words he didn't believe: "this is a bunch of crap!" And his mother holding her tongue despite what must have been a powerful urge to say the same thing out loud. How come we learn so much about our parents so late in life? Maybe we've got to get enough life under our own belts first to understand what we've always taken for granted. Do what's right. That's the bottom line. Okay. Got the message.
"Ethan, time to meet with the officers."
Stark looked up from his work, blinking in confusion as his mind tried to surface through a haze of concentration and focus back into the real world. Officers? Did the Company Commander call a meeting? No, wait. Wake up, Stark. They're gone. The delegation from the Pentagon? They left days ago. "Officers? What officers?"
"Hellooooo, Ethan." Vic leaned down to peer into his eyes. "You are not getting enough sleep, soldier."
"Do tell. What officers?"
"The ones who volunteered to stay."
Oh, yeah. Those officers. "How many did we end up keeping?" That report had probably crossed his desk at some point, but Stark couldn't sort out that memory from a hundred others. Too many damn reports. It's like the brass ordered reports on everything they could possibly order reports on. Gotta fix that.
"Sixteen." Vic smiled encouragingly. "One of them is Conroy."
"Great." Stark stood, feeling muscles twinge as he stretched. "I gotta move more."
"You getting your resistance workouts in every day?"
"Mostly."
"Uh-huh. I'll see you this afternoon, and we'll work out together. Okay?"
"Thanks." Stark checked his scheduler, nodding approvingly. "That'll leave time for me to get prettied up for the dinner with my Squad."
"Don't get too pretty or your Squad won't recognize you."
"Har, har. When's the last time I told you how funny you were, Reynolds?"
"It's been a couple of days."
"Good. I'll make sure it's a couple more before I tell you again."
Vic smiled, then took another close look at Stark. "What's the matter? You look nervous. Don't worry, I'm sure that dinner'll happen on schedule this time, unless the Navy screws it up again."
"That's not what I'm nervous about. It's the officers who've joined us. Vic, I never faced a bunch of officers like this before. Giving 'em marching orders, instead of them ordering me around. It's kinda . . . weird. You know?"
Instead of agreeing, she laughed. "Ethan, you've been telling officers what to do for as long as I've known you."
Her humor brought a self-mocking smile to Stark's face. "Well, yeah, but that was different. I was, whatayacallit, manipulating them to do the right thing. I wasn't coming right out and saying 'do this.' I couldn't."
Vic smiled reassuringly, reaching to pat his upper arm. "You've been doing fine giving orders. If these officers weren't ready to take them from you, they wouldn't be here."
"I guess that's right. Okay. Let's go."
The officers awaited Stark in a modestly sized room, one usually reserved for presentations or lectures to small units. Stark kept his eyes set straight ahead as he entered the room, then cursed mentally as Reynolds yelled "Attention!" behind him, bringing the officers to their feet. She should've warned me she was gonna do that. But then if she had warned me, I'd have told her not to, so of course she didn't tell me.
Reaching the front of the room, Stark turned, finally having to face the officers. Five Captains and eleven Lieutenants. Very few, counted against all the officers who had been assigned to Lunar Command, but a very large number compared to whatever amount of officers Stark would have guessed would volunteer to join a revolt against their fellows. He waited a moment longer, both Stark and the officers at attention, before realizing it was his responsibility to break the stalemate. "Uh, please, take your seats."
Captains and Lieutenants sat quickly, then stared back at him, faces carefully neutral. "I wanted to thank you all, personally, for offering to stay up here." His hesitation began to disappear as words started to flow. "I know what that kind of thing represents. I know you're taking a tremendous risk, and I know how tough it is to go against training and tradition, but I also think we all know there wasn't much choice any more. Whatever we make of this, and we want it to be something good, you officers have chosen to help us. We checked you all out, and every one of you were decent leaders and decent commanders when all the rules said you didn't have to be. In fact, you probably would've had more promotions if you had followed the rules. I thank you for that, too."
Stark paused, trying and failing to gauge the effects of his words on the officers before him. "You're all going to be paired with a Sergeant when you get to your new assignments. That's not because we don't trust you, it's because we want to make sure no enlisted tries to play games with you. Some of them have got in their heads that there'll never be officers giving them orders again. That idea's not going to last. We're training new officers, and we want you to show us the things you know, not the book learning stuff, but the things you get from experience on being officers. It's important. Being an officer's different. It's a different role, a different way of doing things. I know that. We all do, deep down. The Sergeants and other enlisted who are filling officer jobs will be looking to you for role models. Do your best."
Another pause, still unmarked by obvious reaction. "If any of you run into any problems, stuff like disrespect or mistreatment, I want to know about it. I'll also say something I'm sure you've already guessed, that I'll be getting reports on you, and if any of you try to play political games or abuse your troops, I'll find a new assignment for you where you can't do either." A series of small frowns appeared on the faces of the officers as they finally reacted, frowns whose meaning Stark could easily decipher. "That doesn't mean you can't enforce discipline. I said don't abuse your troops. There's a big difference between discipline and abuse, and if any of you don't know what it is, let me know right now." The frowns smoothed out, several heads nodding back at Stark in understanding or agreement.
"I don't expect this to go smooth," Stark finished. "Nothing else has. But I damn well intend to work through any problems. And I promise you I'll be fair. Any questions?" Memory suddenly superimposed visions of the same query, made by officers to enlisted at innumerable briefings. Now it was all mirror imaged, and Stark wondered if the officers would accept his inquiry as sincere or assume he'd adopted the senior officer stance to unwelcome questions. Which is that any real question is unwelcome, of course. Hey, somebody's got a hand up. "Yes, Captain?"
"What exactly are our marching orders if American forces fire on us?" the Captain demanded bluntly. "Do we treat it as if it were any other enemy assault?"
Stark looked over the officers' heads to where Vic stood by the door at parade rest, her own eyes fixed on him, then back at the Captain. "Exact marching orders haven't been promulgated. We hope to avoid any combat against American forces."
The Captain nodded slowly in response. "You realize that may be impossible."
"I know. Are you really asking me if I'm going to order you to fire on other Americans?"
"That's right. To be perfectly frank, I'm not sure I can do that."
"Me, neither," Stark agreed dryly. "My bet is the tougher we are, the harder we look to the authorities back home, the more likely they'll be to find a way to talk to us instead of fight us. Because if it does come to combat, nobody can take us unless we let them. We have to do our best to make sure the Pentagon knows that, too."
Another nod, quicker this time. "Thank you."
"Okay, then, that's all I've got. Good luck." He paused a moment, trying to think of how to send the officers on their way, then glared in exasperation as Vic Reynolds once again called out "Attention" and the officers sprang up from their chairs. "Uh, carry on."
"Hold on, Lieutenant Conroy," Stark called as the others exited. She came forward to stand stiffly at attention before him, a reversal of roles Stark found particularly disconcerting since he'd served directly under her. "Lieutenant, I never got to thank you for leading the platoon back to get me."
Conroy managed a half-smile. "We were all pretty busy. I never got a chance to thank you for saving my platoon. And me in the bargain."
"You got a lousy deal, Lieutenant, and now you're taking a real big chance on us. We'll treat you fair. I can't promise a helluva lot else, but I can promise we'll treat you fair."
"Thank you." Conroy smiled again. "We were all wondering, what is your proper title?"
"We're still working on that. Most people call me Commander. I'm damned if I want to be called General."
"Then I suppose I'll call you 'sir.' "
"Ah, jeez," Stark winced. "Don't call me 'sir.' I work for a living, Lieutenant."
This time she laughed. "It's your call."
"You know we're sending you back to Bravo Company, right? It's off the front line right now, just starting refresher training this week. Sergeant Sanchez is running the old platoon, and Sergeant Podesta is running the company. I think they'll be real happy to have you around to help show them the ropes."
Lieutenant Conroy nodded gratefully. "Thank you. It'll be much easier to adapt to this . . . situation in a unit I already know. But if I recall properly, I doubt Sergeant Sanchez will display much happiness."
"It's nothing personal, Lieutenant. Sanch don't display much to nobody. But he's a damn good leader. I'll see him tonight, so I'll let him know you remembered him."
"Thank you, Sergeant." Conroy colored slightly. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I like it when people call me that. And thank you again, Lieutenant. For coming back."
This time her smile reflected a mix of bitterness and sorrow. "After you led this takeover, a rather large number of my fellow officers clearly expressed to me their belief that I was at fault for not leaving you to die."
"Sorry, Lieutenant."
"That's all right. It made it easier to decide to stay."
"Commander?"
Stark halted his restless pacing, glancing around the dining room as he quickly palmed his comm unit. "Stark here."
"This is Sentry Post One, Commander. I've got a squad of soldiers who say they're here to meet you."
Stark relaxed, smiling. "That's right. You should have their names on your access list."
"Yes, sir, but they're carrying their weapons, and normally only personnel assigned to headquarters are authorized to have personal weapons with them inside the complex."
Stark frowned toward his comm unit. "Right. Put, um, Corporal Gomez on."
"Yes, sir."
"Sargento?" Corporal Gomez asked hesitantly.
"Yeah. What's with the weapons?"
"We were at the firing simulator this afternoon, and the thing broke, like it always does, so we had to wait until they fixed it 'cause we didn't want to lose our training slot, and that made us real late, so Sergeant Sanchez said we could just bring our weapons along tonight and get 'em back to the barracks afterwards. That okay, Sarge?"
If I can't trust these apes with weapons, who can I trust? "Sure, it's okay. Sentry, you copy that?"
"Roger, Commander. I'll pass them through."
"Thanks. And good job checking before you passed them." Stark looked over as the door opened and Vic Reynolds craned her neck inside. "My squad should be here in a few minutes. Anybody from my staff coming?"
"Manley begged off because her unit's having a get-together, too. Gordasa and Lamont are engaged in some sort of sim tournament. Tanaka's been running training drills all day, so I doubt she'll make it. I think Wiseman and Yurivan will be here."
"Great," Stark noted sarcastically. "My two favorites."
"And," Vic continued smoothly, "speaking of . . ." She moved inside, followed by Chief Wiseman and Sergeant Yurivan, then waved toward the bar. "Open bar, folks. Drink as much as you want, as long as it's not more than two beers."
Wiseman studied the bar carefully. "Do shots count?"
"Fraid so."
"Even small shots?"
"Them, too," Vic chuckled. "Don't worry, Chief, you can always tank up at one of Stacey's bootleg stills later on."
Yurivan managed to look offended. "I'm not operating any stills. Not at the moment, anyway. How come the limit?"
Vic waved toward Stark. "Our boss doesn't want to risk us all suffering from system degrades at the same time."
"Isn't he the same guy that told me 'no guts, no glory'?"
"That was different," Stark advised.
"And," Sergeant Yurivan continued, "the same guy who's always getting himself into hopeless situations that he survives by incredible luck? But he doesn't believe in taking risks? Hey, Chief Wiseman, what do you think?"
"I think," the Chief pronounced, "that it's a good thing he took a risk on us sailors when we came running here with warships on our tails. I know some of you mud-crawlers," she pivoted to point her beer at Vic, "didn't want him to, but I'm kind of glad he did."
"It wasn't anything personal," Vic stated in level tones. "You know that. It was simply a tremendous risk."
Stark nodded toward the Chief. "Yeah. And it was Vic's job to point that out to me, regardless of how she felt about it otherwise. But it worked out okay, and it gained us our own little Navy." I don't need bad blood between those two. Wonder how Wiseman heard Vic had argued against letting her land? Some big-eared, loose-lipped watch-stander, I bet. "There's just some risks you gotta take."
"I'm not denying that one worked out well. Chief Wiseman and her shuttles are a tremendous asset," Vic added diplomatically. "We just can't afford to take too many more risks like that."
"And I'm not arguing that, Vic. Keep reminding me of it. But I'm afraid sometimes we're gonna have to run some big risks."
Chief Wiseman cleared her throat. "Somebody who won't take risks can't win. That's a quote," she added with a grin.
"A quote," Vic repeated skeptically. "So who said it first?"
"John Paul Jones," Chief Wiseman declared, hoisting her beer. "That's the father of the United States Navy, in case you ground apes don't know."
"Hah!" Stark crowed, winking at Reynolds to show he was kidding. "See, Vic, I got the father of the U.S. Navy on my side!"
"Oooooh," Vic trilled with exaggerated awe. "I guess that settles that argument. Ethan Stark, you never took the Navy's side on any issue in your life."
"That's because the Navy was always wrong before. This time, they're right." Whatever rejoinder Vic might have manufactured was cut short by other arrivals. "Hey, Mendo, you got the rest of the Squad with you?"
"Yes, Commander Stark. All except Private Murphy, who is awaiting his own guest." Private Mendoza stepped aside as the other soldiers entered, most of them displaying their years of service experience by scanning the room, locking in on the bar, and immediately making a beeline toward it. "Sergeant Stark, this is my father, Lieutenant Mendoza," Mendo added with a gesture toward the man standing by his side, not trying to conceal his feelings as he smiled proudly.
"We've met a couple of times." Stark stepped forward with his hand extended. "Pleased to see you again, sir."
Lieutenant Mendoza shook the offered hand, nodding solemnly. "Thank you, Sergeant. Or should I call you Commander on this occasion?"
"Whatever you're comfortable with, Lieutenant. Hey, have you met Corporal Gomez? She's your son's acting squad leader."
The Lieutenant nodded again, this time to Anita Gomez as she came to stand with visible discomfort nearby. "I have not yet had that opportunity, but from all I have heard, Corporal Gomez appears to be highly effective in that role." Gomez's expression shifted marginally as she eyed Lieutenant Mendoza appraisingly. "My son advises me that the Corporal will accept nothing but the best performance from her Squad."
Everyone looked at Gomez. "That's what the Sargento expects, right?" she stated defiantly. "I'm not gonna let the squad go to hell just 'cause he's busy right now."
Sergeant Sanchez appeared, face calm and composed, waving a small greeting to Stark and Reynolds, as if he'd last seen them the day before. "Corporal Gomez's performance has been in the highest traditions of the service. I speak particularly of her defense of Mango Hill during an action prior to your arrival. She is indeed a good squad leader."
"Then my son is most fortunate. And you are a good platoon leader, I hear."
Sanchez shrugged, face and voice as noncommittal as ever. "I feel the responsibility to do my best in that position. However, I am merely an acting platoon commander, Lieutenant."
"That's true of everyone," Vic pointed out. "We're all just filling in at jobs we don't have the actual rank for."
"Sure," Stark agreed. "I'm the acting Commander, and we've got acting officers of every stripe. Some do real good, some don't. The best ones don't seem to need the acting rank to get the job done, so I'm not sure if acting ranks really amount to more than a hill of beans."
Lieutenant Mendoza smiled softly, the exact way Stark had seen Mendoza's son smile many times, but then, unlike his son, began speaking his inner thoughts unprompted. "There is a story from the American Civil War about that very issue. A battle had been fought over a long day, so the armies of the North and South were tired. Evening was coming on, and with the dimming light and the smoke from the gunpowder used in weapons at that time, the visibility had become very poor. At one critical spot on the Northern line, a train of mules was brought forward to resupply the Northern soldiers with ammunition. Just then, the Southern infantry launched a final attack against that very location. The Northern soldiers were weary. The attack might have succeeded and changed the course of the battle. But the firing of the Southern soldiers and the screaming of their battle cries panicked the mules, which stampeded directly toward the advancing Southerners. In the smoke-shrouded dimness, the attacking Southerners could see nothing, but could hear the thunder of hooves and the rattle of harness. They concluded they were being charged by an unseen force of Northern cavalry and retreated."
Stark laughed. "Stranger things have happened in battle. What's this got to do with acting rank?"
"After the battle," Lieutenant Mendoza explained, "the teamster in charge of the mules wrote the commanding officer of the Northern army. Noting that his mules had saved the battle for the North, the teamster asked that the mules' heroism be rewarded by promoting them to the acting rank of 'horse.' "
"Ha! Good story. That oughta keep us humble."
"Yeah, appropriate, too," Yurivan needled. "Even with acting rank, Stark here is still mule headed."
"Thanks, Stace. Not like you, huh? Tell you what, since you're doing half the job you should be, I'll let you be an acting horse, but only half a horse. You can guess which half."
Yurivan grinned, unabashed. "You keep sweet-talking me like that and Reynolds will get jealous."
Vic raised both eyebrows. "Jealous? I've been trying to get Ethan Stark interested in someone else for years so he'd stop following me around."
"Well, if you don't want him, I sure as hell don't."
Stark glanced sidelong at Lieutenant Mendoza. "You see what I have to put up with."
Lieutenant Mendoza smiled again. "You are fortunate that your staff has such high morale."
"Fortunate. I'll try to remember that." He looked around, then backed a step away. "I want a chance to talk to the rest of my Squad, you guys. Okay? I'll be back in a while." He turned, finding Chen hovering near the bar with two soldiers Stark didn't know. "How's the hip?"
Chen grimaced, rubbing the spot. "Okay, I guess, Sarge. The docs claim if I get hit there again they'll just put a zipper in to make it easier to fix next time."
"I hope the last hip joint had a good warranty," Stark joked. "These friends of yours?"
"Sorta." Chen waved the other soldiers forward. "Replacements, Sarge. You know?"
Stark somehow kept his smile even though a cold ball formed somewhere in his gut. Replacements. He wouldn't see Hoxely here, or Kidd, or Maseru. He'd barely even had time to meet Maseru, a face fading too rapidly into oblivion. It ain't right that a soldier dies, and you can't remember how they looked. It ain't right. "Yeah," he finally agreed. "I know."
"This here's Private Josh Finley and Corporal Vince Caruso." The new soldiers nodded stiffly, visibly nervous. "They're originally from Third Division, Sarge."
"Third? You guys stayed, huh?" Stark reached to shake their hands, noticing how the simple gesture relaxed the two soldiers. "Thanks. I know it's hard leaving your old outfit."
Private Finley smiled, a brief twitch without humor. "There wasn't too much left of our old outfit to leave. Just three of us from our platoon still in one piece after Meecham's offensive. Gardiner didn't stay, but that was mostly because his girl is back home, and he couldn't handle maybe never seeing her again."
"I don't second guess anybody's decision on that," Stark noted. "My Squad treating you okay?"
"Sure, Sergeant. Uh, I mean, Commander."
"Sergeant's fine tonight. You apes relax and have a good time."
"Speaking of girls," Chen interjected with a grin, "looks like Private Murphy has arrived with his."
"Murph's got a girl? That's his guest?" Stark turned to see, remembering his conversation with the Private about dating civilian women. Murphy stood in the doorway, proud/nervous like a kid bringing his girl home to meet his dad, then stepped in. Stark stared briefly as he saw Murphy's date, then grinned hugely. "Robin Masood. Long time no see."
"Good evening, Sergeant Stark." Robin hugged Murphy's arm protectively, smiling up at him.
"This the civ who visited you while your arm was growing back, huh?" Stark asked Murphy, then turned to Robin. "I should've warned you that if you kept visiting soldiers in hospitals you'd pick up something."
"I'm glad you didn't."
"Murph treating you okay?" Stark demanded mock-seriously.
"He's a perfect gentleman!" Robin declared.
Corporal Gomez stepped close. "You made Murph a gentleman? Now you gone and ruined him, and I'm gonna have to turn him back into an ape."
Murphy beamed around at his audience. "I can still fight. Better than ever. I got somethin' special to fight for now."
Stark caught the flash of unease Murphy's proud words generated in Robin's eyes. "That's right. You got somethin' special to live for, too."
"Uh, sure, Sarge." Murphy turned away, momentarily distracted by his squad mates as they crowded around to tease and compliment him on his new relationship.
Taking advantage of the moment, Stark leaned in close to Robin, speaking quietly. "You sure you want to get into this? You ready for what comes with being in love with a guy in the mil?"
She flicked a quick look his way, then nodded. "Yes. I think so. Murphy is a wonderful guy, isn't he?"
"I never looked at him that way so I'd have to guess, but he's a good kid. That's not what I'm talking about. Being a full-time partner's hard enough without having to worry about your partner getting killed as part of his job. Can you handle that?"
She hesitated a moment. "I think I can."
Good. I can tell she thought about it before answering. "It's not easy. Believe me, all of us in here understand that. Don't be afraid to talk to someone if you get stressed out or just plain scared. Call me if you ever need to."
"Thank you, Sergeant Stark." She smiled suddenly. "I feel as if I'm talking to Murphy's father."
Stark smiled back. "Seems like that sometimes, I guess. Don't forget. Call me."
"I will."
Stark had agonized a bit over what food to offer his Squad, deciding eventually that a formal meal would just make them (and him) feel awkward. As a result, the trays a food service specialist wheeled in on a buffet cart carried the same sort of chow Stark normally ate.
Stacey Yurivan picked at her plate suspiciously. "This looks way too much like standard rations that've been prettied up a little," she complained. "Where's all that fancy food the senior officers used to eat?"
"You mean the steaks and lobster and junk?" Stark asked, hooking a thumb to point behind him. "In the same freeze lockers they were in when I got here. I'm not eating like a king while my people eat rations."
"You could feed your people steaks and eat rations yourself," Chief Wiseman suggested. "Then you'd really be virtuous. A true leader. Let's try it tonight."
"Sorry. I'm saving all the steaks in case we need to go on short rations. You can't stretch standard rations without making 'em inedible."
"That's 'cause they're already close to inedible," Private Billings agreed.
"Right. But good stuff can be stretched a lot."
Lieutenant Mendoza glanced around the table. "That is a lesson we learned all too well during Operation Eastern Steel. I thought everyone else present was too young to have participated in that campaign."
"We are," Stark concurred. "But we've all talked to veterans who were there. That's the sort of lesson that gets passed down. So, I'm saving the good stuff. Even the lumpia."
"Lumpia!" Yurivan howled. "Stark, you're a sadist."
Lieutenant Mendoza took a taste, chewing slowly. "Yet this food is better prepared than standard rations. Do you use the cooks and food service personnel who attended the senior officers?"
"A few," Stark admitted. "I mean, that's their jobs, and they're damn good at doing 'em. But I don't need all of those people. We don't have nearly as many soldiers in headquarters as they used to have officers, and I can carry my own plates and pour my own coffee. Most of the specialists are being rotated around to the other kitchens to teach the rest of the cooks how to make rations look and taste a little better. It's not much, but it's something."
Time sped by, Stark bouncing from joking with his Squad to serious talks with Lieutenant Mendoza. He felt nerves bundled into tight balls of tension slowly easing, the comradeship and support around him providing something more than simple conversation. It came as a surprise when Sergeant Sanchez walked up to stand half-apologetically before Stark. "I regret that I must pay my respects for this evening."
"So soon?" Stark glanced at the time. "I guess it's not 'soon' after all. Where'd the time go?"
"Maybe we shoulda had a timeline for this op entered in our Tacs," Billings joked.
"Yeah," Chen agreed, "along with orders on what to chew and when to chew each bite. You ever gonna cut orders to our Tacs like that, Sarge?"
"If I ever do, you apes come down here and beat me with your rifle butts until I regain my sanity." Stark smiled as everyone laughed, just as they would have at such a joke months before. "Okay, you guys, it's real late. Later than I meant to keep you. We've got plenty of spare rooms here in headquarters since we're managing to run things without all the officers they used to need, so if anybody wants to stay the night just pick a room to crash in. The empty ones don't have personal locks. You can get back to your barracks in the morning. That okay with you, Sanch?"
Sanchez inclined his head once in agreement. "I have no objection. Corporal Gomez, your squad members may feel free to remain this evening. For my part, I shall return to the barracks. I will be needed early in the morning at a training session."
"Understood. Thanks for coming, Sanch."
"De nada. In truth, I have missed the experience of watching Sergeant Ethan Stark conduct a private war against his superiors and enjoyed seeing how he has adapted to filling the role he once disdained." Sanchez kept his tone bland, only the barest twitch of a smile revealing his words as humor. "Until later."
Sanchez's departure triggered the others, as soldiers lined up to say good-nights and trooped out in small groups. Most, Stark suspected, would walk quickly from headquarters, detouring only long enough to stow their weapons at the barracks, and then head to the nearest bar in the Out-City portion of the Colony so they could extend their partying further into the night. Well, let 'em. It's not like I wouldn't have enjoyed doing the same once upon a time.
Murphy, smiling like he'd won the civ Set-for-Life Lottery, departed with Robin Masood still hanging on one arm. Lastly, Lieutenant Mendoza, his son, and Corporal Gomez came forward. The Lieutenant looked around the almost-vacant room, then back at Stark. "This was a good idea, I believe, Sergeant. Most commanders would benefit from real contact with their personnel, instead of staged events at which little actual interaction took place."
"That was part of the idea," Stark admitted. "But I also needed it, for personal reasons. These apes," he gestured to indicate Mendo and Gomez, "mean a lot to me. I'm still one of them."
"As you should be in many ways. I believe you already know those ways in which you can never be one of them again." Stark nodded. "Good night, Sergeant Stark." Lieutenant Mendoza turned slightly. "Sergeant Reynolds."
Vic smiled as if amused by the courtesy. "Where've you been all my career, sir? I could've used a Lieutenant like you."
"Perhaps that is why I was given an entire career of my own to enjoy that rank and not be promoted." The Lieutenant flashed a smile at the humor at his own expense.
"Could be," Stark agreed. "Lieutenant, give me a call later on. There's a lot of stuff I'd still like to talk over with you."
"In a few days, Sergeant?"
"Okay. Don't wait too long." Stark saluted precisely as Lieutenant Mendoza left, his son and Gomez following with nods to Stark, then he stood just outside the room watching his last guests depart.
Vic leaned against the wall nearby, arms crossed, watching Corporal Gomez walk away in conversation with Lieutenant Mendoza. "Now, that is a sight," she declared.
"What?" Stark asked, following her gaze. "What's the big deal?"
"Your Corporal seeking out the company of an officer? You don't think that's unusual?"
Stark laughed briefly. "When you put it that way, yeah. Wonder why she's doing that?"
"Oh, that I know. I saw her during this get-together. Your Corporal was watching you and your reactions to everyone. She saw you listening to Lieutenant Mendoza, treating him like someone you trusted, someone who knew stuff you didn't know, and she obviously took that assessment to heart."
"Huh." Stark watched the mismatched pair, along with Private Mendoza, walk around the corner and vanish from sight. "Gomez was watching me that close?" Vic nodded. "Well, smart soldiers learn from veterans, right? I just gotta tell her to be a little less trusting of me."
Vic's eyebrows rose. "Are you dangerous, Ethan?"
"To the wrong people, yeah, but that's not what I meant. I ain't perfect, Vic. Gomez shouldn't assume everything I do or say is right."
Stark's answer seemed to amuse Reynolds. "Hero-worship is a horrible burden, huh?"
"I am not a hero," Stark replied heavily, his words dropping out with flat emphasis.
"Maybe not, but you get the job done." She canted her head to indicate the hall. "Let me walk you home, soldier?"
"Sure." They headed for his quarters, moving together with the quiet acceptance of old comrades, until Stark broke the silence. "Hey, Vic, you think my old high school yearbook is still on-line?"
"Sure. Nothing ever comes off-line. It just sits there. Of course, we may not be able to access it from here right now. The authorities back home are restricting a lot of comms even though we're supposedly still talking. Why on Earth, or rather, why on the Moon, do you suddenly care about a high school yearbook?"
Stark shrugged. "I want to look up a teacher's name, see if I can find him some day and let him know he did make a difference, even if it did take a few decades for the lessons to work their way through a teenager's know-it-all skull."
Vic raised a questioning eyebrow. "What'd this teacher teach? How to revolt against authority?"
"Yeah. Sort of. He taught American history."
Vic paused, then laughed. "That is sort of the same thing, isn't it?" She paused at the door to Stark's room, gesturing him inside. "You calling it a day?"
Stark stood irresolute for a moment, then shook his head. "Nah. I guess I'll try to plow through some more of that paperwork."
Vic frowned in clear disapproval. "You need sleep, Ethan."
"I know, I know. I'm just sorta restless. I couldn't sleep right now if I tried."
"What's the matter? Are you worried about anything in particular?"
Stark thought, face disturbed, then waved one hand in negation. "No. Oh, I got plenty of worries, but nothing special that I can think of. Maybe I'm just keyed-up from seeing everybody tonight."
"Maybe. Promise me you'll try to sleep in a while?"
"Sure. It ain't like I don't want to get rest, you know." He smiled straight at her. "Thanks for setting up that get-together, Vic. It meant a lot."
"I live to serve, Commander Stark." Reynolds laughed at Stark's sour expression, waving in farewell as she turned away. "Sweet dreams, Ethan."
"Likewise." He settled at his desk, glowering down at the report displayed on his palmtop, then keyed the unit off. I may be restless, but I'm not restless enough to work on this junk tonight. Stark looked around the sparsely furnished room, eyes jumping rapidly from point to point, object to object, wondering again about the officers who had lived and worked here in the years since it had been hewn from lunar rock. They're gonna come back. Try to take us down. I wish they'd try talking instead, but that'd mean admitting they'd screwed up enough to at least partially justify what I did. And the officers I'm used to never admit when they've screwed up.
Stark slapped his palm unit irritably. "Security Central, this is Stark. How's everything look?"
"Really quiet, Commander. Nothing unusual. Oh, we did have some Private asking after you at one of the sentry posts an hour or so ago, but since it was so late we told him you'd hit the sack, and he should try contacting you tomorrow."
"He? You get his name?"
"Uh, something like Stone, I think."
"Stein?"
"Yeah. I mean, yes, sir. Should we call him?"
"No. You did right. I'll see what he wanted tomorrow. Keep an eye on things."
"Yes, sir."
That should make me feel a lot better. It doesn't. Stark studied his monitor carefully, using the command functions to pull up the security program, which granted access to vid from hallways and rooms throughout the headquarters complex. He sped through the images, outwardly identical rec rooms, halls, and working offices strobing past, almost all empty at this hour, until something caught his attention. Backing up, Stark peered at the vid of a rec room with three occupants. What-daya know? Corporal Gomez, Lieutenant Mendoza, and Mendo. What're they looking at? A 3-D projection hovered over one table, Mendo speaking as his hands traced movements along the projection, Gomez watching intently as he did so.
Where's the sound key? I gotta use security override for that, too, huh? I guess that's a smart restriction, but it doesn't look like they're talking about me so I don't figure there's any problem listening in for a minute. Still feels funny, though, like I'm some security officer looking for people making disloyal statements. But that's not what I'm doing. I just wanta know what's got Gomez so interested. Only half-convinced by his own arguments, Stark punched the override. Sound came, matching the vid.
Stark watched as Gomez drew a cup of coffee from the rec room dispenser, then glanced briefly across the corridor. "Hey, Mendo, don't let me forget I dumped my extra gear over there, okay?"
"It should be safe at headquarters, Corporal."
"There's a duffel bag with lots of ammo in there. That kinda thing ain't never safe unless you got a hand locked on it." Gomez sat down at the small table where Mendo waited. She raised one finger, moving it around the terrain map projected over the surface of the table. "I oughta be in bed," she complained, "instead of rehashing some battle a coupla hundred years old. What's this place again?"
"Gettysburg."
"Uh-huh. Same place where that big attack wasted a lot of infantry, right?"
"Yes, Corporal. Pickett's Charge. That happened on the third day of the battle."
"Yeah." Gomez glared at the map. "And they had to launch that big attack 'cause they let the other guys dig in on the good ground the first day. But I don't get it. Why'd they stop? Why didn't these, uh, Confeds take the high ground while they could?"
Mendo cleared his throat, glancing at his father for reassurance before speaking. "It may have been a failure of nerve or simple exhaustion after a long day of battle, but probably was due to overconfidence."
"Gettin' scared, that I understand. But overconfidence?"
"They had beaten the Union Army many times before and believed they had just done so again."
Lieutenant Mendoza nodded approvingly from his seat nearby. "Exactly. Winning too often can be dangerous. Lessons are learned from defeats."
"If you say so, but I still prefer winning." Gomez studied the map again. "So what'd this General, this Roberto Lee, what'd he do to the guys who stopped and let the Union soldiers dig in on the high ground?"
Mendo spread his hands. "Very little. Lee did not command by harsh measures. He was used to commanders who anticipated his wishes."
"Helluva thing to depend on. Sometimes you gotta kick butt to get things done."
Lieutenant Mendoza smiled. "Your Commander Stark, this is how he leads you?"
Stark frowned. He'd been absorbed in the conversation, but the question made him abruptly aware once more of his hidden observation of his friends. He reached to toggle off the audio, then hesitated in spite of his resolve as Gomez replied.
"The Sargento! Sometimes. Not always. We usually do things for him because we know he wants it, that's all. Not 'cause we're scared of him. But we also know what would happen if we let him down." She paused, thinking. "Only he wouldn't tell us we'd let him down, he'd say we'd let ourselves down. Nothing we can't do, that's what he tells us. Of course, he always mother-hens us anyways, tries to keep us out of trouble."
"That is the essence of good planning. Commanders must be bold in their concepts and actions, but also wise enough to take counsel of their fears." Stark's hand hovered over the audio cutoff as he concentrated on Lieutenant Mendoza's words.
Gomez frowned in obvious disagreement. "Sergeant Stark, afraid? He ain't afraid of nothing."
"On the contrary," Lieutenant Mendoza corrected softly, his words somehow carrying greater authority despite their gentle tone. "I have seen Commander Stark, and I believe he fears many things, yet he faces these fears and acts nonetheless in the manner he feels most correct."
"The Sargento is not a coward," Gomez stated firmly, each word heavily emphasized.
"Of course not. He is extremely brave, though I am certain he would deny that. No, his fears make him a better commander, perhaps a great one someday, for they make him question himself and his actions. This could easily paralyze a lesser soldier, as it has so many commanders in the past, did he not have the moral courage to act despite those fears."
"Well, maybe—" Gomez began.
Stark finally caught himself, appalled that he'd listened to so much, killing vid and audio together so his screen fuzzed into gray emptiness. Why the hell did I do that? It was too easy. Just listen in like you're a fly on the wall. Find out what people think about you. Learn their little secrets. This is too damn . . . what's the word? Seductive. Yeah. Supposedly they put this vid and audio stuff in so they could run ops if headquarters ever got attacked, but I wonder. What boss wouldn't want to know how their people felt? What boss could resist checking every once in a while? I've got to get some kinda inhibit, put on this to keep me and anyone else who gains access honest. Or maybe just rip the whole damn thing out.
Stark shut off his monitor completely, fighting down an unclean feeling from his covert spying on his friends. He fidgeted a moment longer, then jerked in guilty reaction as his comm unit buzzed. "Yeah."
"Commander? Security Central. We've got something pretty unusual to report."
"Unusual?" Stark felt the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen automatically.
"Yessir. We got a call from the civs at the spaceport, the ones who normally track the shuttles hauling stuff for the Colony. They wanted to tell us they'd seen some ghost images on one of their scans."
"Ghost images?"
"Something that looked like something might maybe be there, but then it wasn't. Our search gear at the spaceport gets that kind of stuff all the time because of all the electronic warfare going on nearby. You know, echoes of jamming and false signals from surface and orbital units."
"So why'd the civs tell us if that sort of junk shows up a lot?"
Security Central hesitated just enough for the pause to be obvious. "I dunno, Commander."
"The spaceport civs report a lot of this stuff to you?"
"No, sir. They never have before. Not anything. They don't talk to us unless they have to. You know civs."
Stark's eyes narrowed. "So why'd they talk to us this time? Did they say?"
"Uh, yessir. The civ I talked to said his bosses got word from the civs running the Colony to keep us informed of anything unusual they saw. New procedures, he said." Security Central paused again. "Commander, he also asked if there was anything else they could do for us."
"Sounds like that bothers you."
"Well, yeah, sir. It does. I mean, what kind of game are the civs trying to play?"
Stark smiled in self-derision. Not too long ago I would've wondered the same thing. But I've been working with Campbell long enough to know these civs are mostly sincere even if they don't understand us too well. "They're not playing any game. They want to help. I know that sounds pretty strange, but civs here are different than we got used to back on the World. I'd guess their boss, the Colony Manager, told them to work with you."
"Okay, Commander." Security Central's skepticism came clearly across the comm circuit. "But if they call us every time they see a scan ghost it won't help much."
"Understood. They don't know how we work, but it's nice they cared enough to call, right?"
"Yessir. You want us to do anything about the report, Commander?"
"I don't. . ." Stark paused, a memory nagging at his brain. What was that? Some vid. Long time ago. Still a civ myself, I think. Someplace, a harbor or something, where the Navy got beat up bad because everybody saw all these warnings but everybody blew them off. But I can't jerk around my people every time the civs get nervous.
"Commander?" Security Central prompted. "Like I said, we get this sort of thing all the time on our systems. It's no big deal."
The missing question finally popped into Stark's mind. "Did our mil scans see the ghost the civs warned you about?"
"Uh, I don't know, Commander. Probably not. The civs have different systems. You know, different pulse repetition rates, different frequency hopping algorithms—"
"Okay. Could the civs see something we didn't because something was hiding from the mil systems and reacting a little different to the civ systems?"
A longer hesitation this time. "Maybe. Sir."
Get my people spun up for nothing? Jump at electronic shadows? From civ warnings, yet? Everything Stark knew urged him to blow off the report. And sometimes everything you know is more dangerous than what you don't know. "Security, pass a warning to all posts. I want everyone extra alert. Somebody may be trying something."
"Yessir. If you say so."
"And make it a firm warning. None of that 'we're just telling you this 'cause we have to' stuff."
"Yes, Commander."
Stark slumped in his chair, annoyed with himself for overreacting to nervous civs. They think they're helping when they're just getting in the way. But, hell, at least they're trying. Feels funny working with civs, though. He sat straighter, then carefully retrieved his rifle from its rack and began painstakingly field stripping it. Never know when I might need this thing again. He worked carefully, focusing his mind on each step, forgetting moral ambiguities in his concentration on the task, relaxing slightly as the familiar process occupied his hands and his thoughts. Time passed, unmarked in the room buried beneath the lunar surface except for the soft, red glow of the digital clock counting down human minutes.
The blare of the Red Alert alarm seemed to jolt through Stark's entire body, reverberating from wall to wall before repeating its howl of warning. He slapped the last component of his rifle into place and was strapping on battle armor, moving by instinct, before the alarm had sounded the second time. By the third anxious bleat Stark had his rifle in one hand again while he toggled a comm circuit with another. "What's up?"
"Alert from Sentry Post Four," Security Central reported.
"Why? What happened?"
"We don't know. Could be the sentry triggered it by accident, but they're not answering—"
"Get a reaction force out here as fast as they can move!" Stark roared, heading for his doorway.
"Yes, sir. Sending orders. Wha—?" The sound of gunfire rang through the circuit. "Under attack. Repeat, we are und—"
Vic Reynolds stood outside her room, fully armored, weapon questing as if seeking targets of its own volition. "This a drill?" she demanded.
"No. We've lost at least one Sentry Post and probably Security Central." Stark stared through the blank fields on his Heads-Up Display, portraying nothing outside their own immediate surroundings. "I'm not getting any data relays."
Vic punched her comm unit. "Comms are being jammed now, too. Whoever they are, they took out all the relays already."
"Then I hope that order for a reaction force got out in time." Stark stood, indecisive, as several more staff members popped out of their rooms, only some armored but all carrying weapons. "Vic, what do you think they're after?"
"Whoever's attacking? They want to take down headquarters, and that means the Command Center. Unless it's an even more precise surgical strike, and they're after you personally."
"What if it's not? What if this is just part of an all-out assault?"
"Then we might have already lost, but I'd bet not. A large-scale attack would've generated some warning."
Warning. Stark stiffened. "You mean like scan ghosts?"
Vic shook her head. "More than that. You can hide a few shuttles from scan, but not a full-scale assault. Do you know something about scan ghosts tonight?"
"Yeah. The civs at the spaceport spotted some and warned us."
"You're kidding." Shots echoed down the halls, reverberating from an encounter an indeterminate distance away. "We've got to assume the exits are already blocked. We'll have to fight our way out."
"No." Stark pointed down the corridor. "The Command Center is that way and we haven't heard gunfire from that direction."
"Maybe they've already taken it," Vic argued.
"Then we take it back," Stark snapped. "My job is to command and I can't do that when my comms and information are limited to line of sight." He took off at a fast trot, gathering more headquarters personnel as he went, Vic following last with her weapon trained back the way they'd come.
Warning signals flickered on Stark's HUD even as Vic's weapon slammed several shots down the hallway. "We got company," she called. "Higgens. Fournier," she designated two Privates in battle armor. "Help me hold them."
Stark reached the Command Center, feverishly keying in his access code, then instinctively aiming his weapon straight at the door as it slid open. The armored figure standing on the other side of the door also had a weapon, bringing it up and around to center on Stark. He hesitated for only a microsecond, knowing IFF couldn't do a challenge-and-response in the time he had, then Stark fired, his bullets hurling the other soldier backward. Stark stepped forward, crouched low, aiming and firing in one motion at a second armored soldier guarding the other door, his HUD outlining the figure in bright detail, targeting sight centered on its abdomen. He held his breath, firing with vicious precision. Two bullets gouged holes in the doorframe near Stark, then his own rounds hit, sending Stark's target flailing back and to one side.
"H-how'd you know they were enemy?" someone stuttered. "That looks a lot like our armor."
Stark glanced over at Jill Tanaka, crowding close behind. "They were trying to kill me. That was all the ID I needed." He eased cautiously farther into the Command Center, rifle barrel questing for targets, then stood and waved the others forward. "Get in here. See if there's anybody we can help."
"What do you mean?" Tanaka dashed forward, then cursed as she caught sight of the night watch-standers slumped over their duty stations or huddled against the walls, bright pools of blood spreading around them. "Those bastards."
"They paid. Have somebody check for survivors. Get some sentries posted to guard that other entrance." He watched, eyes fierce, as Reynolds and her two Privates backed into the room, firing as they came. "Vic, you hold this door."
"Roger." Higgens jerked a couple of times, his body sliding back along the floor under the impacts. "Damn. Fournier, aim your shots and keep your head down!"
Stark pivoted, one finger singling out another soldier. "Corporal Abrakis, see if you can help Higgens." The finger shifted. "Sergeant Tanaka, get comms going in here."
"Roger," she acknowledged. "Sergeant Tran, get on it. We're being jammed, Commander—"
"I know. Get through it." The lights flickered, steadied, then died. Emergency lights came to life, glowing eerily. "How much of this stuff can run on backup power?"
"A few terminals," Sergeant Tran confirmed. "I will do my best, Commander."
Vic fired several more shots, each round aimed with cool deliberation, then halted. "I think that's the last of this bunch."
"How many were there?" Stark demanded.
"Four. That's how many we hit, anyway. Maybe five, if I nailed one in the corridor."
"That's all? We're dealing with professionals, Vic."
"No kidding. Hold here, stay alert," Reynolds barked at Fournier, then eased inside, slapping the control panel to keep the door from sealing behind her. "How many others are there? Where are they?"
Tanaka slammed her palm onto her console in frustration. "I don't know. Most of our sensors are inactive and internal comms are blocked, but we can't locate any physical damage. They must have inserted a worm into the system from one of the security stations."
"Then get the damn worm killed! We need to know what's going on out there!"
"I'm trying, dammit! Guerrero, try to build some workarounds while the watchdogs are hunting down that worm. Kloster, put together a manual picture from whatever you can pick up."
Stark glared, his frustration easy to see. "Vic, I'm supposed to be giving orders, and I can't."
"Then we'll have to do what we can." She raised her weapon. "At least we're good at it."
"Hey!" Sergeant Tran suddenly shouted, drawing nervous rifle barrels his way. "Don't shoot, dammit. Jill, these guys hitting us have got to be using their own systems for coordination."
"Yeah," Sergeant Tanaka agreed tartly. "So?"
"So we've got a couple of sets of their battle armor in here. Maybe we can use it to tap into their comms until we get our own working."
"Maybe we can. Good idea." Tanaka knelt next to one of the dead enemy soldiers, pulling off the helmet. Dark hair rasped against the Command Center floor as the head flopped back, eyes staring upward, still fixed on the target they'd seen when death came. "Commander?"
"What?"
"This is American battle armor."
"That's not our . . ." Stark's voice trailed off as he carefully looked at the equipment. "It is, isn't it? What is that, the new Mark V suits?"
"Looks like it. They didn't even send any Mark Vs up with Third Division because they supposedly weren't available."
Stark stared at the dark-haired soldier lying on the floor, the soldier who'd tried to kill him and died in the attempt. Are we fighting Americans? He gazed around at the bodies of the watch-standers. Did other Americans slaughter these soldiers? "Vic."
She was already kneeling next to the body, studying it intently, then gestured at its shoulder. "Whoever they are, and wherever they got this armor, they're not American soldiers. The dogtag isn't where it should be."
Stark let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. Every American soldier had what was still called a dogtag embedded near the left shoulder, carrying critical identity and medical information. "Thanks."
"I needed to know, too, Ethan."
Huddling with several other soldiers, Tanaka and Tran ran cables, scanned screens, and pulled other pieces of armor off the two bodies to plug them in as well in an effort to jury-rig a backdoor into the enemy comms. "Okay, Commander. We've got something. Apparently the worm the raiders inserted into our systems is not only blocking us, it's also hijacking our systems to relay the enemy comms. The worm's security subroutine is good, though. It keeps trying to kill our intrusions. We can get fragmentary vid, but only for one observer. I don't even know if it'll be real-time or Tactical records of recent activity, and it's going to keep shifting as the enemy worm figures out what we're doing and we have to tap into another data stream."
"Fine. How do I call it up?" Stark followed Tanaka's directions hastily, then triggered the vid feed.
Remote view, the vid from the spy tap grainy and dim. A big, elaborately furnished room. The Commanding General's suite. Vid shaking slightly as a weapon pumped rounds into the large bed, tearing smoking holes in the soft covers and revealing the absence of any occupant. Spinning now, moving rapidly, in the hall where the shocked face of one of the gardeners hung frozen for a bare moment before bullets hurled him back against the nearest wall. Disconnect. Gray static blurring in a chaotic mass, then the picture cleared on another enemy soldier's view.
A hall in the headquarters complex, the vid jerking in a manner that said the soldier was jogging rapidly. Unfamiliar symbology cluttered the HUD, then unmistakable threat warnings popped up. Stark watched, helpless, as a door slid open, the enemy soldier's weapon and combat system aiming at the gap. Brief glimpse of a woman staring wide-eyed, fancy civ hair marking her as alien to military headquarters, a vague figure barely visible over her shoulder bringing a weapon around, mouth wide open in a scream of warning. Robin Masood? For the love of God, duck! Vid broke into a million shards of static, then cleared into another view as Stark slammed a fist on his console in frustration.
"What happened?" Vic demanded.
"I don't know." The new view looked over the hunched shoulders of several other suits of battle armor. This raiding party seemed huddled behind a corner. Visible on the floor ahead were two bodies in the Mark V armor. Threat symbology snapped to life as several rounds tore small chunks of rock out of the corner, then the two nearest enemy soldiers leaned forward to fire, hurling bullets down the hallway around the corner. Vid bounced dizzingly as Stark's unwitting host jumped into motion, clearing the corner and charging down the hall, firing rapidly at a few figures just visible behind a doorway. Is that Gomez? That might be the rec room she was in, so the other two would be the Mendozas. The enemy HUD tracked the incoming fire, painting frantic warnings the soldier couldn't react to fast enough, then the view spun wildly up and down, back and forth, as bullets hit home. Vid shattered again, then went black. "Jill, I lost it."
"Sorry." She punched at her console frantically, then shook her head. 'The enemy worm ID'd the outfits we were using to gain access for our intrusion and froze them out."
"Damn."
"Ethan." Vic gestured angrily toward him. "What'd you see?"
"I tagged three groups of raiders, I think. One was chewing up the Commanding General's suite."
"There's nobody there."
"One of the gardeners was." Vic's eyes flared with fury at the obvious implication. "He didn't have a chance to fight, not that it would've made a difference, I guess. The second group was in some hallway. I'm pretty sure I saw Robin Masood and maybe Murphy. I dunno what happened to them." Stark had to pause a moment, getting his voice under control. "Then one more group, pinned down behind a corner. They were trying to get past some resistance. Gomez, I think, with the two Mendozas."
Vic thought for only a moment, then shook her head. "Gomez and the others can't have much ammo. Did Lieutenant Mendoza even have a weapon?"
"No, but he was shooting, if it was him. Probably Gomez's sidearm."
"Not enough weapons. Very little ammo. How long can they hold a hallway against a group of these guys?"
"I dunno." Memory of Stark's earlier eavesdropping came back. "She had extra ammo. But it's across the hall from them."
"How do you—?" Vic broke off as Stark's face closed down into stubborn refusal. "Never mind. Can they reach it?"
Stark remembered the enemy soldiers firing down the wide headquarters hallway, fast and accurate, toward the unarmored soldiers huddled behind the doorway. "Maybe. If somebody doesn't mind dying trying to get to it." He slammed one fist furiously into the other palm. "That vid didn't help. Just gave me enough information to scare the hell out of me."
"You couldn't have known that until you tried it," Vic reminded him. "At least we know parts of the attack are being held up."
"Yeah." Held up by the lives of my friends. Don't think about Murphy and Robin. Whatever happened has happened, maybe even before I saw it. Nothing you can do right now. How long will Gomez and Mendo and his dad last? The raiders will push them hard. Holding them off will mean firing a lot. Pretty soon, no more ammo. Then they'll be toast. Be smart enough to run, Anita. Even as Stark made that last, prayerful wish, he knew Corporal Gomez wouldn't run while she could still fight.
"I've got a sensor active," one of the watch-standers reported, face fixed with concentration as he scanned his data. "No. Dead again. It recorded firing in Corridor Six Delta before I lost it."
"Where in Six Delta?" Tanaka demanded. "Narrow it down."
"I can't, Sergeant! It was echoing. Without the main sensor grid I couldn't get a fix."
"Six Delta." Stark studied the map of the headquarters complex as Corporal Kloster manually placed a threat symbol in that corridor. "So maybe we have firing here, here, or here. Maybe. What're they after, Vic? Just this place, or something else?"
She stared intently, then shook her head. "I can't tell. All the corridors intersect, and some of the enemy groups ran into our people before they reached where they were going. They already nailed Security Central and the Commanding General's suite. I'd guess this is the last one of their main objectives."
"Yeah. And anybody who hasn't run into our people oughta be here by now." He switched circuits, calling the sentry in the corridor outside. "Fournier, you see or hear anything?"
"No, sir. Real quiet, except for a lot of echoes. I don't—hey! Look out!"
The thunder of firing reached through the door as Stark called up vid from Fournier's battle armor, catching a brief glimpse of armored foes almost hidden by the threat symbology streaming from them toward the sentry. Then the vid died as Private Fournier did. "Everybody get down! "Vic, main door."
"Got it." She was already palming the door closed, shutting off a swarm of bullets that battered against the barrier like angry hornets, then yanked a grenade from her belt, crouching next to the doorway. Stark brought his weapon around smoothly, kneeling behind the nearest console to steady his aim on the entrance. Vic waited a moment, roughly gauging the timing, then activated her grenade, holding up first one, then two, then three fingers. On the third, Vic triggered the door open, then shut. As it bobbled open half a meter before halting to slam back, she tossed the grenade through the gap, then shoved herself away to escape the flurry of shots crashing through the temporary access.
By the time the rumble of the grenade's detonation died, Vic was back near Stark, also in firing position. A few moments later, the door shivered, light suddenly appearing on all four sides as an explosive strip tore it free, then fell inward with slow majesty under Luna's weak tug. Wood splinters from the ornate paneling on the outside of the door spun dreamily through the air, shaking as they flew from the shockwaves of bullets ripping past them into the Command Center.
Stark fired, almost continuous short bursts, vaguely aware of Vic doing the same. He caught momentary glimpses of targets being hit and falling back, his HUD painting a chaotic picture of fragmentary symbology as its picture shifted too rapidly to follow. They're coming in through one door even though they know we've got it covered. Dumb move. Desperate move. They must be really pushing their timeline. How many of 'em this time? Fournier took out some. The grenade took out more. How many left? The console next to Stark shrieked in complaint as answering fire slammed into it. The emergency lighting rippled again, then steadied.
An object flew into the room, arcing too high, a grenade thrown by someone not experienced enough in lunar gravity. The grenade bounced off the ceiling, angling down toward Vic, who released her trigger just long enough to swing her right arm up and around and slap the deadly sphere back toward the door. It detonated, spraying shrapnel both outside the room and in. Stark ducked beneath his console, feeling it shudder as metal impacted it, then surged up again to fire.
"Ethan. Hold it. Incoming fire's stopped." He paused, finger poised over his trigger, as Vic cautiously scuttled forward, coming to rest against the side wall near the gapping doorway, her rifle ready. "What do you think?"
"Maybe they're all down, but I could use some reassurance."
"Right." Vic dropped two grenades into her hand, hooking fingers from the other hand to activate both, then paused, counting. Her hand came forward, flicking to right and left in one smooth gesture before she yanked herself back away from the door. "Fire in the hole."
"Watch it," Stark added to the other personnel in the Command Center, ducking behind his console once again as the grenades detonated in a twin thunderclap in the hall. He waited, rifle lined up on the doorway, as Vic eased forward again, sticking one finger gingerly around the edge, the fiber-optic camera in the fingertip scanning for movement.
"All the ones I can see are dead," Vic reported.
"What about the ones you can't see?"
"I know. Look's like we took out this group, though."
"Anybody else coming?"
Her finger tip wriggled in search, then paused. "Nobody visible. Ethan, how are we going to secure this doorway now?"
"Hey, you guys," Stark gestured to the two nearest soldiers. "Pick up that door and prop it back in place. You got anything that'll hold it there?"
"We got duct tape," one offered.
"That's better than nothing. See how well you can fasten the thing to the walls again. Sergeant Tanaka, any progress on the sensors or comms?"
"No. The damn worm's got everything blocked." She frowned in thought. "Maybe the worm's blocking access just from our consoles, though. Maybe if we tapped into the remote feeds directly . . . Vreeland, you know exactly where the feeds are located?"
"Sure do," Corporal Vreeland declared, enthusiasm lighting his face. "The main bundle is right outside here, in the hall." He pointed out the secondary entrance, where two Privates stood nervous watch.
"Okay, Vreeland. Let's get them." Tanaka dashed forward, pulling the Corporal with her.
It took a moment for Stark to realize what Tanaka was doing, a moment to understand that for all her time on the Moon, she'd been serving in headquarters, not on the front lines where a moment of carelessness or a simple mistake could cost a life in the time it took enemy systems to register a target and fire. Vic, occupied guarding the other entrance, understood a bare instant after Stark did, turning to yell even as Stark shouted a warning. "Tanaka! Not out the door!"
Jill Tanaka spun at the warning, sudden knowledge of her error draining blood from her face, grabbing at Vreeland to yank them both back inside. The maneuver came too late, as the hall erupted with the crash of shots, bullets impacting all around the door area. Tanaka, halfway inside, went flying sideways as the enemy fire slammed into her, her hand still locked on Vreeland even as he jerked in time to hits on his body.
The Privates on guard fired frantically, one hosing down the hall on full automatic until Stark reached him and slapped his helmet. "Aim, damn it! How many are there?"
"I think there were just a couple," the other sentry reported, her voice shaking. "I'm pretty sure we got 'em both."
"Assume you didn't and assume there's more. We're in combat, people! Guard yourselves from the hallways!" Stark stared down where a couple of personnel were frantically trying to apply medical aid to Tanaka and Vreeland, made a motion to join them, then walked slowly back to his useless command console. Do my job. Let them do theirs. I can't do anything more for the wounded than they can, except delay treatment if I insist on horning in.
Vic's gaze met his, her eyes angry and frustrated. "Ethan, somebody's going to pay a big price for this," she vowed, her tone deceptively soft.
"Oh, yeah. One helluva big price. If we survive to make 'em pay." He looked from one entrance to another, face bleak. "They didn't expect to run into combat troops, Vic. They thought they'd be facing nothing but headquarters types without battle experience."
"You're probably right. Nice to know we surprised them, too."
Waiting had never been easy. Not when leading a squad. Not now with a lot more soldiers' fates riding on his decisions. Stark's hands moved restlessly, as if seeking some task, something he could do right now while others fought and died, then clenched in frustration. He glared at his blank, useless, command display. "I oughta be out there," he whispered. "Trying to relieve Gomez."
"You don't even know for sure where they are," Vic stated softly, drawing a surprised reaction from Stark. "Didn't know you transmitted that, huh? This is the hard part, Commander. Keeping yourself out of the action so you can command."
"It doesn't feel right."
"I know. I almost wish they'd hit the Command Center again so I'd feel useful."
"I'm not that desperate." Vic's words jabbed at his conscience, bringing up thoughts he'd tried to suppress. "How're the wounded?" Stark demanded of his makeshift medics.
"Tanaka's dead," Corporal Guerrero reported shakily. "We couldn't save her. I think Vreeland will make it."
"Damn." Stark brought a tightly clenched fist down on the panel before him.
"Commander?" Sergeant Tran gestured urgently. "The worm's been killed. We've got internal scan again."
"Thank God." Why couldn't that have happened a couple of minutes ago, before Tanaka ran to her death? Why? Is anybody ever gonna figure out the answer to that kind of question? Stark watched as the display flared to life, raising his hand to stab at the glowing symbology. "Vic, if I'm reading this right, if there's not another worm screwing up the picture, our own people are fighting their way in from the entrances."
"Yes. That's Taylor's company. They're rapid reaction for this area. Over here's . . . who the hell is that?"
"Scratch force," Stark decided. "Everybody who could get here fast." He clenched a fist in sudden elation. "Sanchez is in charge of 'em. He must have still been pretty close when the alarm sounded. Tran, we got internal comms yet? Yeah? Sanch, this is Stark."
"Roger." The response was weaker than it should be and riddled with static, but clear enough to be unmistakable. "Where are you?"
"The Command Center. We're holding it. We've got internal scan again. Can you tap in?"
"Wait. Ah. I have it. Shunting it down to my personnel. This will simplify our counterattack."
"Be careful, Sanchez," Reynolds cautioned. "These guys know what they're doing. We've taken a lot of casualties."
"Understood. We won't take unnecessary chances."
"Is anything going down anywhere else, Sanch?" Stark demanded.
"Negative. The perimeter is quiet and all other military sectors are on full alert, but report no activity. The Colony leaders have offered any assistance we require."
Vic smiled sardonically. "Guess they've decided we're going to win."
Before Stark could reply, Sanchez did. "Sergeant Reynolds, the civilians made the offer as soon as they were aware of the attack."
Stark nodded to Vic, enjoying the brief look of surprise on her face. "Thanks, Sanch. Vic, bring Taylor up to date while I try to see what's going on."
As Reynolds quickly notified Taylor and her company of the internal scan, Stark fumbled with his display, cursing as he tried to pull up vid. "I think Gomez and the Mendozas were in this area, and we've got a gap in our scan there where somebody's still doing short-range jamming. Here. Look." The picture wavered, bands of random pixels running through it as the remaining enemy soldiers tried to jam signals in their area. It was the same hall Stark had observed before, but seen from the other end. More battle armored bodies than he remembered, all splayed short of the doorway where Gomez and the Mendozas had made their stand. "They're still there, Vic. They're still there."
Reynolds stared in disbelief. "Amazing. How'd their ammo last?"
"I dunno. It's gotta be almost gone. Where's Sanch?" Stark scanned the display, an empty space growing inside him. "It's gonna take him a while to get there. Isn't it?" So close. So damn close.
"Yeah," Vic agreed, frustration edging back into her voice. "Too long. The raiders have some guards at the other end of that hall they're in. Bet on it."
Bloody grass, waving before Stark's eyes in the red glow of the emergency lighting, intermingling with the multicolored patterns enemy jamming cast across the vid. Remembrance of help too far away and too late. Vid of the hallway trembled, steadied, then went back into its wavering dance. Stark eyed the figures in the doorway, then quickly tried to focus closer on them. "They're arguing. Why are they arguing?" Gomez had her hand up, pointing down and then across the hall, then back at herself. Lieutenant Mendoza shook his head, froze Gomez with a gesture, touched his son's shoulder. A moment later, the Lieutenant was gone. Stark watched, helpless, as Lieutenant Mendoza launched himself across the gaping hallway, body flat to minimize his exposure. Watched as the Lieutenant's body seemed to rock in midflight from impacts as the raiders poured fire down the hallway. "Ah, hell," he finally whispered, as momentum carried the Lieutenant on into the room his leap had aimed for.
Stark couldn't get audio from the rec room, but he could see Gomez firing and screaming in anger as she tried to cover the Lieutenant's movement. Then an object flew back across the hall, landing at her feet, and the Corporal dumped out ammunition clips, their shapes unmistakable even in the ragged vid, and began hastily reloading her weapon.
The raiders charged, figuring out moments too late why the Lieutenant had made his move. Gomez and Mendo cut the leading attackers down, a hail of bullets flaying chips from the rock walls, then vid blanked. "What the hell happened?" Stark shouted.
Vic punched her own panel repeatedly, shaking her head. "No response from the vid camera. It must have been hit by a stray round." She faced Stark squarely. "Don't worry. We saw what we needed to see. They'll make it."
Stark shook his head as if in denial of her words. "Two of them will. How bad did the Lieutenant get hit?"
"We won't know until Sanchez gets there. Lieutenant Mendoza did what he had to do, Ethan."
"I know that."
Vic nodded, clasped Stark's arm for a moment, then slumped back as if overcome with weariness. "Bad as it's been, I think we've won this one, Ethan. Any attacker still in headquarters is trapped, just like the ones Gomez has pinned down."
"Trapped animals can be real vicious, Vic. How can we be sure one last group won't try a real kamikaze on us here?"
"We can't. But maybe we can find out for sure who's still out there and where they were." Vic fumbled futilely at her console before turning to Tran. "Is there any system history for the last half-hour?"
"Uh, yeah. Fragmentary. The worm must have been shredding the system files when we axed it. Here it is."
"Look, Ethan." Now Vic's finger traced multiple paths. "They overran the sentry posts first."
"No warnings," Stark noted angrily, "except from Post Four."
"No. We'll have to find out why. Then some headed for the Command Center, some for Security Central, and some hit the Commanding General's suite."
Stark nodded grimly. "I saw part of that."
"Right." She indicated a motionless symbol. "Tran, can we get vid of this?"
"Yes. Got it."
The figure sitting against the wall seemed asleep, head hanging down on his chest, but the blood streaking his arms and chest told another story. "Damn," Stark breathed. "The gardener. I should have insisted on teaching those poor apes how to fight."
"It wouldn't have done that one much good if you did," Reynolds commented bitterly. "Okay, from there they headed toward . . . why that way?"
Stark indicated another section. "Rendezvous. They were gonna meet up with another group. These guys. But they stopped moving."
"Yeah. Let's find out why."
It took Stark a moment to grasp the picture even after it steadied. "Oh, God. That's Murphy. I did see him. He's down."
Vic nodded, adjusting the controls as quickly as her fingers could fly. "Scan says he's still alive. Barely. He's lying on something. No, someone. Protecting him?"
"Protecting her," Stark advised, his tone bleak. "That's his girl. See the hair?"
"Robin?" Vic glanced up, then down at the readouts again. "She's dead."
"You sure?"
"No question." Reynolds looked up, face drawn. "So are the attackers. Ethan, Murphy took out six of them."
"Yeah. He must have gone berserker when she got hit." Stark fought off a tight feeling in his chest that threatened to choke him. "Why in God's name . . . get some medical help to him. Can we get a medic there?"
"I'll go myself, if I have to. Taylor? Your people are closest to this location. We've got a soldier down, badly wounded, scan shows no threat activity between you and him."
"Roger. I'll send a squad there on the double with our medic. Be advised we're still hearing firing off to our right."
"Your right?" Vic questioned, looking at the display. "No problem. Sergeant Sanchez is dealing with an enemy force in that area."
"He gonna push 'em into me?" Taylor demanded.
"Negative. The enemy is trapped between Sanchez and another friendly force. They won't be going anywhere."
"Okay. My medic's on the way. I'll keep a manual sweep going just in case anybody's hiding somehow."
"Good idea," Vic approved. "We still don't know how they got in here without being spotted."
Stark broke in, speaking with deliberate control. "Sanch, Corporal Gomez needs your help fast. They've taken casualties."
"Understood," Sanchez replied with apparent calm. "We are overrunning the rear guard for that location now. Corporal Gomez will be relieved momentarily."
"Thanks, Sanch. I owe you another." Stark let his hands fall limply, then looked over at Reynolds. "What else, Vic? What else should we be doin'? We're missing somethin'." A ghost. Stark stared upward, trying to divert his mind from recent tragedy, squinting as if he could see through the rock ceiling to space above. "There's gotta be a pickup out there, Vic. A shuttle hangin' around to drop in again and pull these guys out. Tanaka—" He bit off the name, glaring at nothing for a moment. "Tran. Call the orbital defenses. Tell them there's a shuttle out there we haven't detected. They've got to be spoofing our sensors, but the civs spotted it for a sec. Tell our people to do a manual scan and coordinate it with the civ scans. I want that shuttle."
"Yes, Commander."
"And tell Wiseman. One of our armed shuttles might be able to nail it."
"Ethan."
He stared at her, emotions running riot inside. "What?"
"We want prisoners." Stark looked away. "Ethan, we need prisoners. To interrogate. To find out exactly who launched this attack."
"Yeah. And get even with 'em. Everybody, listen up. I need some prisoners."
"These guys ain't surrendering, Stark!"
"I know. See what you can do." He glanced at Vic. "Happy?"
She shook her head. "I can't remember happy, Ethan. Not right now."
Stark hesitated another moment, then called up vid from Sanchez's armor. Smoothly gliding down a hall, a half-dozen armored figures just ahead, their backs overlain with comfortingly friendly symbology. Stopping. Kneeling, rifles aimed down the hall, where a cluster of enemy symbology displayed raiders firing around the next corner, still oblivious to the trap closing on them. Sanchez's vid shifted as he stood, then Stark heard him call out over his suit's external speaker. "Surrender immediately!" Then the vid dropped as Sanchez did, avoiding a wave of incoming bullets, the soldiers in front of him firing back, pausing as the enemy fire broke off, then leaping to their feet and charging forward. "They are trying to break out!" Sanchez commanded his troops. "Keep on them."
The end of the hall, a corner littered with expended ammunition clips and cluttered with bodies in Mark V armor, then around the corner, Stark fighting dizziness as he held on to Sanchez's vid picture. Over more bodies, a couple of them still dropping to the floor with nightmare slowness in the low gravity. Stopping, where one remaining figure stood, hands high, weaving slightly, bright red blood spreading slowly down its leg from a jagged tear in the armor near one hip. On the other side of the prisoner Corporal Gomez was visible, her weapon lined up, face rigid. Stark toggled a comm circuit as fast as he could, appropriating Sanchez's external speaker. "Corporal Gomez! Lower your weapon. Now."
She jerked in reaction, staring past the enemy soldier, then slowly brought the weapon barrel down.
"You believe she would have killed the prisoner?" Sanchez asked Stark.
"Sanch, I would've been real tempted in her place. Where's Private Mendoza?"
Sanchez repeated the question to Gomez, who pointed wordlessly to the room where Lieutenant Mendoza's leap had ended.
"Get a medic in there, Sanch," Stark urged.
"Of course." Sanchez raised one hand, a finger singling out another soldier and beckoning her forward. "In there, please. There are wounded. Commander Stark, we appear to have eliminated all resistance in this area of the headquarters complex."
"Roger. Taylor's company is running sweeps through the rest of headquarters, but it looks like we nailed all of 'em." Stark's voice sounded thin even to himself. "I'm coming down there. Just hold on a sec." Stark turned to Vic, fighting down another dark vision. "It's all over. I'm not needed here now." The words came out as a half-question, directed her way.
Reynolds nodded quickly. "Right. Go ahead, Ethan. I'll let you know if there's anything else."
Stark hesitated, one foot angling toward the door. "Murphy? They get to him in time?"
"They got to him. They don't know whether or not it'll be in time yet. The human body can only take so much punishment."
"I know." He ran, yanking aside the battered barrier, duct tape falling away in graceful, gentle twists and turns like some sort of clumsy confetti. The halls were oddly hushed now, without the din of battle echoing, and without the normal sounds of business being conducted by the men and women who lived and worked here. Stark reached the area where Sanchez waited, his helmet unsealed, his face emotionless. Gomez stood slumped, back against the wall, her rifle trailing barrel-down from one hand, her face bleak. "Anita. You okay?"
"Sí, Sargento."
"Good Lord." Stark stared at the armored bodies lying about. In the rush of action, he hadn't bothered tallying symbology for dead enemies. Now he found himself shaking his head in wonder. "You did this?"
"Me an' Mendo, and his dad. The Lieutenant." Something about the way she said the last two words gave them a grim finality.
"The medic still in there? With Mendo and his dad?"
Gomez, her eyes hooded, jerked her head in negation. "No. Not anymore. The medic couldn't help. That Lieutenant, he saved us, Sargento."
Stark stared wordlessly at the epitaph, then walked silently to gaze into the room where Mendo knelt next to his father, heedless of the pool of blood around him. Strange, yet oddly right, that tears fell so slowly on the Moon, as if only here could human grief slow time. Stark retreated silently until he stood beside Gomez and Sanchez once more. "Damn. Damn it all."
The words hung there a moment, then Sanchez began speaking quietly, the elegant phrases in strange contrast to his battle armor and ready weapon. "This evening there was no glory left, but the terror of the broken flesh, which had been our own men, carried past us to their homes.' "
Stark closed his own eyes briefly. "Sounds like you're quoting somebody, Sanch."
"Yes. An Englishman named Lawrence."
"A Brit, huh? Which war he fight in?"
"The First World War."
"I remember Mendo talkin' about that war." Funny the things I don't know about Sanch even after fighting beside him for years. Funny how much we all keep inside. "That war sounded even stupider than the wars we've fought." A moment more of brooding, then Stark turned to Corporal Gomez. "We'll make sure Mendo's got privacy, Anita. As much as he needs."
"Sí. That was one good officer, Sargento."
"Yeah."
"Never thought I'd meet one like that. I never thought I'd care when one got nailed. I was gonna try to go. Me. Get the extra ammo we needed." The words spilled out rapidly, as if they had been held in by great effort. "The Lieutenant said no. He said a commander had to . . . had to choose the right person for a job. Said I was the best fighter, and Mendo was good, too. Then he said somethin' to Mendo, and he was gone. I couldn't stop him. Where are we gonna find another officer like that, Sargento?"
"Exactly like that? I dunno. But we're gonna need more officers like him, Anita. What about you?"
"Huh?" Gomez looked up in disbelief. "Sargento, I ain't good enough for that. I sure ain't as good as he was."
"You could be. At least you could try."
She glanced back to the room where Mendo grieved. "I guess, maybe."
"Think about it. How'd you realize these guys were enemy before they nailed you, anyway?"
"That's that Mark V armor, Sargento. I seen vid of it in a lecture, once. I knew we didn't have none."
"You saw it once." Stark exchanged a glance with Sanchez, who had been unable to prevent a brief but unmistakably impressed expression from flowing across his face, then focused on the dead enemy again, shaking his head. "Why'd they keep trying to come down here? Why not backtrack and take another route? It would have been easy to bypass this spot."
Sanchez followed Stark's gaze. "I can only guess, but I believe we will find their Tacticals mandated this approach, probably to ensure multiple attack routes were followed and any defenders such as your Corporal's group were tied down."
"That's right," Gomez agreed forcefully. "If they'd pulled back, we coulda just shifted to cover the next hallway. They couldn't move faster than us 'cause we had the, uh, interior lines of communication."
"Interior lines?" Stark stared at his Corporal again. "Where'd you learn that phrase, Anita? Another vid lecture?"
She took a deep breath, then smiled tightly. "No. From the Lieutenant. Like the North at Gettysburg, right?"
"I guess." Stark shook his head in disbelief, then slapped Gomez's upper arm. "You did great. You need time off now."
"No, Sargento. No. I don't need time to sit around thinking. I don't want to. Got a job to do."
"Yeah. Okay." He looked over at Sanchez meaningfully. "I'm sure you'll be kept busy. But don't forget the chaplains. And if you need some time to react, you let us know. ¿Comprendo?"
"Sí." She straightened, bringing her rifle up to port arms and facing the room where Lieutenant Mendoza lay. "Right now, I gotta do some sentry duty."
"One of Sanchez's people can handle that."
"No. My job. I owe it."
"Understood. Sanch, thanks for getting here."
Sergeant Sanchez shrugged noncommittally, even as the regular lighting came back to life, painfully bright after the diminished glow of the emergency lights. "I was not far away when the alarm sounded, and was able to borrow some armor."
"Lucky for us. Go ahead and hand this area over to Taylor's people and let your soldiers go. I've got some more stuff to do now, but I'll see you around."
"Certainly."
Sanchez began issuing orders to his soldiers as Stark strode away, trying to focus on the next task and not think of the friendly casualty count. "Vic. Anything happening?"
"Just running a final sweep for any lurkers. I've got Campbell standing by for you."
"Patch him in. Campbell?"
"Yes." The Colony Manager sounded a bit breathless, as if he had been the one recently engaged in combat. "Sergeant Reynolds told me everything is okay, now."
"That's right. Thanks for standing by us."
"Standing by you, and with you, is no longer an option, Sergeant Stark. We're in this together."
"Damn straight." Together. Mil and civs. Maybe something good is gonna come from this whole mess. "Gotta go. We're still picking up pieces, but everything's secure. I'll give you a full report later." Stark switched circuits again. "Vic? Anything else?"
"No, just—wait. Ah-hah. Wiseman found your shuttle."
Stark tensed. "Did she nail it?"
"Not yet. It's running like a bat out of hell. Never seen a shuttle with that kind of moves."
"Something special. Nice to know we rated the best, isn't it?"
"I could have done without that compliment," Vic stated bitterly. "I've got a prisoner count for you."
"How many?" Stark asked with forced mildness.
"Three. We count thirty-seven dead."
"So it was a platoon-strength raid." About the number of combat-loaded troops a single shuttle could carry. "Any wounded?"
"Those three are the wounded."
Only three, out of an attack force totaling forty. Not mercenaries, then, not that Stark had thought they were. Mercs didn't fight to the death, not when surrender was a realistic option. "Where are they?"
"Stacey Yurivan came in with Taylor's company. She's got the prisoners in this conference room." A symbol popped up on Stark's HUD, directing him to the location. "You sure you want to see them right now?"
"Yeah, I'm sure. I can handle it." Stark closed his thoughts down, blocking out emotion, focusing solely on procedure, then walked into the room.
Two fire teams from Taylor's company stood against the walls, weapons at ready, faces hard and angry. The prisoners, two men and one woman, stood rigidly erect despite their hands being bound behind them. Stripped of battle armor, their uniforms displayed no sign of rank or nationality. Stark eyed them coldly, not letting his fury show. "Who sent you?" Their eyes didn't even flicker in response to the question. "Where'd you get the latest American equipment?" Still no response. Stark singled out a tall, blond male with a huge bruise marring the left side of his face. "Where are you from?" Silence.
Whoever they are, they're pros, Stark thought bleakly. Professional soldiers, and very well-trained ones. Not Americans, though. Even without the evidence of the missing dogtags, they looked too much alike, carrying the similarity of nationalities that most countries still reflected. Only an American unit, drawn from generation upon generation of immigrants from everywhere on Earth, resembled all the peoples of the planet in its polyglot makeup. Some other country's military had provided these soldiers, hiring them out for the money it would bring and whatever American gratitude came with it.
"Okay. Have it your way." Stark turned to Stacey Yurivan, standing nearby with a wolf-snarl fixed on her face. She'd gotten to be pretty good friends with Jill Tanaka, he remembered. "Interrogate them."
Yurivan's snarl took on a hint of pleasure. "Will do."
Her words set off an alarm in Stark's mind. "Interrogate" could mean many things, many illegal and most of them painful. So what? Make them hurt, a voice in the back of his head pleaded. He fought it down with a savage shake of his head. "Keep it legal, Stacey. You're still an American soldier."
Her eyes flashed defiance. "These slime aren't."
He stepped close, matching her gaze. "They're soldiers. They did their job. These particular guys didn't commit any atrocities that I know of. Do you? Then treat them like we want our own people treated if they get captured in the future."
Stacey didn't flinch. "Nobody needs to know what happens to these."
"I'll know." Stark let the two words hang there between them, a challenge and a reminder, as Yurivan held her glare a few seconds longer.
"All right," she finally spat. "It'll be legal, but," she added with another glare full of promise at the prisoners, "just barely."
Stark stepped close enough to speak softly. "Scare them all you want, but remember, we want them to talk. If we get them to spill their guts we can do a lot of damage to whoever sent them here."
"Yeah." Her teeth showed in something that wasn't a smile. "Yes, sir," she added louder. "I'll do that."
Stark fought down a grim smile as her words brought a glimmer of anxiety to the otherwise stoic faces of the prisoners. Let them guess what I whispered to her. A little fear of God and Stacey Yurivan might get some results. "Let me know how it goes." The walls of the headquarters complex still felt alien as he walked back to the Command Center, passing small groups of soldiers with expressions of anger and shock on their faces. "Get to work, people," Stark commanded. "We need to clean this place up. Fix the damage. Get ready to get even." Heads nodded, hands saluted, and the world went on.
Vic awaited him in the Command Center, sitting in one corner, her face expressionless. "The shuttle got away. Wise-man couldn't catch it before it got far enough out to be covered by the big warships. She said she singed its tail-feathers, but that's all."
"That's okay. There's been enough killing today."
"Murphy'll probably live."
"Probably?" Stark felt his blood chill.
"He was shot up real bad. They've got him stabilized for now in medical, but his body took a helluva lot of damage. You know how it is. Technically, the docs should be able to patch someone up if there's anything at all left, but the body just gives out." She glanced directly at Stark, quirking a small smile. "The medic I talked to complained that they'd just fixed Murphy up and you were already sending him back."
"At least I know which medic it was. She should be able to save Murph if anyone can."
"Maybe. I think his heart took a bigger hit than his other organs."
Stark covered his face with both hands, blocking out the world. "No question," he finally agreed, slowly lowering his hands once again. "Robin was a good kid, Vic. Murphy's a good kid. They deserved a chance together."
"People don't always get what they deserve."
"I know. God, I know. Does Murphy know she's dead?"
"Dunno. He's not in any shape for talking, so it depends whether Murphy knew before he got shot up."
So maybe I gotta tell him. Sweet Jesus, why? "Civs aren't supposed to die," he finally whispered.
"No, they're not." Vic rose slowly, then came to stand beside him, hand on his shoulder. "It's part of our job description, and it still hurts like hell when we lose a friend. I guess when she decided to date a soldier she took on the negative side of things along with the positive."
"I warned her. But I thought it'd be about danger to Murphy. Not her." He glanced up speculatively. "It hurts you, too?"
"Of course it hurts me."
"But she was just a civ."
Vic glared down, eyes narrowing. "Okay. She was a civ. But she was our civ. She treated us decent, and she liked Murphy, and she died alongside us."
"That's right," Stark agreed, his tone unusually mild. "She died alongside us. Like an ally."
"Like an ally." Vic shook her head, then nodded wearily. "Yeah. A good ally. All right, Ethan. You were right all along. We and the civs up here are on the same side, and some of them are worth trusting. I guess their actions tonight proved it. Too bad Robin Masood had to die to make us see that."
"To make some of us see that, anyway," Stark noted, earning himself another glare. "At least she didn't die in vain, then. It meant something. It accomplished something."
"I'm sure that'll be a great comfort to Murphy."
Stark hung his head, feeling pain radiating from his entire body. "I gotta be there for him."
Vic's arm came around his head, cradling it for a moment. "Sorry. Sorry. Shouldn't have said that. Not your fault."
"Whose is it, then?"
"Whoever ordered this. Come on, soldier, let's get to work. There's a lot to do."
"Yeah." He followed her, walling off the pain behind a barrier of constant tasks large and small, knowing the barrier could only contain it and never make it go away.
Sometime later, as the artificial human day swung toward its close, Stark sat in his quarters, body worn out, brain still numb. "Commander?"
"Here." Security Central was mostly functional again. The attackers had been forced to leave most of its equipment intact so the worm would have time to work, and Stark's people had been able to deactivate the timed charges left behind before they could turn the whole place into wreckage.
"There's a visitor for you. A civilian."
"Who?"
"She says her name is Cheryl Sarafina."
Stark winced, then nodded silently to himself. "Let her in. Send her to my room." A short while later, Sarafina entered, ducking her head to avoid looking straight at Stark, before finally raising it so he could see her reddened eyes. "Pardon my interruption, Sergeant Stark."
"No problem. It's been a real bad day. Would you like to sit down? Can I get you anything?"
"No. No." Sarafina reached into her pocket, surfacing with a small object. "I was cataloging Robin Masood's possessions, and thought, perhaps, you might want to keep this." Her hand opened. A short, fat little figurine. Ridiculous smile, seemingly mocking, now. The paca Robin's mother had given her. A generation ago, the odd toys called pacas had been a fad. Stark's mother had owned one, too, like many other women.
He had last seen this paca when he visited Robin Masood's home and talked about the military with Sarafina and Masood. The paca had reminded him of his mother then, helping him to form an immediate if irrational bond with the civ women.
Stark shut his eyes for a moment, unable to bear the sight. "That was from her mother. It oughta go back to her."
"It seemed to mean something to you—"
"It does, but it ain't mine."
"I think she wanted you to have it. She mentioned a few times how you'd enjoyed seeing it."
He reached out slowly, touching the absurd little figurine. "Tell you what, I'll take it for now. But when Murphy gets better, I'll ask if he wants it. Okay?" Murphy'll get better. Murphy'll survive. Just keep telling myself that.
"Private Murphy? Of course. Ahhh, Sergeant." Sarafina blinked rapidly, wiping at the corners of her eyes with her fingers. "Why do such things happen to such people?"
"Because the Universe ain't fair, and even if it was, human beings would be in charge of this part of it, and they'd screw it up. I'm real sorry, Ma'am. If there's anything . . ." Stark's voice trailed off helplessly.
"Thank you, but you cannot bring the dead to life. Sergeant Stark, I must tell you, there has been much ambivalence in the Colony. Colony Manager Campbell told you of this. What should we do, how far should we press our cause, should we ally ourselves with the military you command." Sarafina's voice hardened. "That is gone. Robin was known by many, and well-liked. Her death has shocked everyone. The methods used by the authorities back home, hiring foreign military forces to attack us, to kill our own citizens!"
"They're kinda short of American ground troops right now."
"That is little excuse, and if Americans had been used it would have been even worse. No, Sergeant Stark, only a small minority of the Colony's inhabitants now still wants to place our trust in the authorities. Sentiment is hardening for a complete break."
"What does that mean?"
"A declaration of independence." Sarafina must have seen reflected on Stark's face the reaction her words generated inside him. "I know. It is such a major decision, to break ties with our country, even in the face of such provocations. Perhaps our leaders back on Earth will come to their senses even yet. Neither Mr. Campbell nor I are comfortable with such an extreme step at this time, but speaking for the citizens of the Colony I can now say we shall stand by you, together with you. For Robin's memory."
"Thanks." Stark turned the little paca in his hand, looking down at it with an exhausted sense of emptiness. "Funny how we'll do things for people after they're dead that we wouldn't do for them while they're still alive."
"The prisoners aren't talking," Vic informed him crisply, "and their battle armor systems all contained kamikaze watchdogs designed to wipe their programming. Stacey Yurivan's people have been able to recover enough fragments of the Tactical files to sketch a picture of their plan, though." She angled her display screen so Stark could view it. "Just like we saw on the sensor records, the primary objective was right there. The Commanding General's suite."
Stark frowned. "They expected to find me there, huh?"
"Right. You and me."
"What? It was the middle of the night. Why'd they think you'd be in there with me?"
Vic glared at him, plainly exasperated. "Ethan."
"Oh." For some reason, the innuendo amused him. "They know something about us I don't?"
"If they do, I don't know it either. Anyway, they apparently thought you lived there."
Stark made a face. "Too damn big and luxurious. You know that."
"You work in there sometimes," Vic pointed out.
"Pretty rarely, but it does have a nice desk and great comms." He thought about it, rubbing his chin, feeling stubble he hadn't remembered to shave off this day. "Did they guess I was using that place, or did someone see me working there and tell them that's where I lived?"
"Don't know. We'll have to find out, and if they were told, find out who that someone was."
Stark eyed the screen, his face grim. "So it was a decapitation raid. They wanted to take out our leadership. But decap raids are supposed to knock the enemy off-balance just before you hit them with an attack. Where's the follow-up?"
"I think this raid was always intended as a stand-alone." Reynolds sigh heavily, then glowered at Stark. "Ethan, if I've told you once I've told you a million times. You hold all this together. Nobody else is trusted enough among the ranks to function as commander. If they'd succeeded in blowing you away, they probably figured the rest of us would fall apart."
He thought about that, too. "I guess I'm pretty important."
"Duh! Hello, Ethan! Are the lights on in there yet?" Vic subsided, shaking her head. "So now you're going to be more careful? Finally?"
"No." Stark held up his hands to forestall another outburst. "Look, Vic, these apes trust me because they know I'll lead them. Okay, maybe that's not the only reason, but it's a big part. If I'm hiding down in a bunker, I'm not leading." He paused. "Besides, it's like leading my Squad, isn't it? You can't let the troops know you're scared, 'cause that'll scare them. I gotta be out in front."
Vic sat silent, her eyes closed for a long moment before they reopened and focused on him. "I can't argue with that, I guess. We have to keep you alive, but we also have to risk you. Why can't any of this be simple?"
"Because people are involved. So," Stark continued, "then those raiders hit the Command Center."
"Uh-huh. Apparently they were supposed to reinforce the two we found in there, trash the place, then bug out in the confusion. At least that's what they were told according to their Tacs. I don't see where they'd actually have had much chance to fight their way out."
"Nah. Not a big chance, but it might've worked," Stark conceded. "They were good, they had total surprise, they'd messed up our systems. We were lucky."
"Luck's a good word for it." Vic stabbed a finger at part of the display. "Though we have to thank the civs for the alarm that alerted us. The attackers had our internal codes so none of our sensors alerted us. But the sentry occupying Sentry Post Four got a warning off anyway." She glanced at Stark. "He was fairly new and apparently took the warning seriously when it was passed on earlier in the evening."
"Good thing I didn't blow it off."
"Yeah. And good thing the sentry was green enough not to blow off the warning you ordered passed." She paused. "I wouldn't have paid attention to it, Ethan. No veteran would've. I'd have just told the civs to leave us alone."
"I paid attention," Stark reminded her. "But you're right. My first instinct was to say 'yeah, sure, go away.' "
"Why didn't you?"
"Maybe because I've worked with the civs up here enough to know them personally. That makes a difference. Maybe because I grew up civ and know every civ is different, and most are decent human beings once they get to know us, too, and realize we're not players in some vid game." He remembered the old movie about the attack on the harbor. "Also maybe because I wasted part of my youth watching vids."
Her eyebrows rose skeptically. "Are you saying I should've watched more vids when I was growing up?"
"As long as they were the right ones. Anyway, these civs are on our team, Vic. They're learning to work with us. This victory, if you wanta call our surviving this attack a victory, is probably because the civs worked with us. We gotta learn to work with them."
Vic looked vaguely annoyed. "I know. Just one more anthill kicked over by Ethan Stark. I guess I can't get used to the idea of being in debt to the civs, though."
"Think of it as a payback for all they owe us." Stark thought a moment longer, focusing back on the details of the raid. "I guess the sentry at Post Four died anyway?"
"Oh, yeah," Vic nodded. "Never had a chance. But he did last long enough to sound the alert and delay the attack a few moments, which gave Security Central time to get a call out for reinforcements." She indicated another part of the headquarters schematic. "Even with that, we still needed a piece of luck named Corporal Gomez. Her and the Mendozas' resistance in this hall stopped a big part of the raider force from sweeping in to reinforce the groups that were hitting us."
"We barely held as it was."
"No argument here. And, of course, Murphy wiping out that one group single-handed didn't hurt. Between them, Gomez and Murphy took out or tied down half the attacking force. Good thing they happened to bring their weapons along that night. More luck." Vic managed a smile. "That old Squad of yours is hell-on-wheels, Ethan. What'd you feed them?"
"Common sense, training, and confidence." Stark shook his head, shuddering briefly. "Too close. Way too close. Those raiders should have taken us down, Vic."
"That's right." Reynolds nodded again, face hard. "Ethan, I don't like surviving just because we got lucky."
Stark stared at the display, his own expression reflecting growing anger. "So how'd they get so lucky? How'd those raiders get right on top of us without being detected earlier? How'd they land without being spotted by the orbital defenses and get inside the mil complex? How'd they pass through so many automated checkpoints where their IFF should have given them away? How was their shuttle able to spoof our sensors and remain undetected except for the ghost only the civ scan saw until we did a manual scan?"
She bit her lip. "I told you. They had our internal codes. That's the problem with automated systems, right? No common sense. They'd pass through the devil and all his demons if they flashed the right code response."
"Uh-huh. So they had our codes. And somebody most likely told the attackers I was living in the Commanding General's quarters. That can only mean one thing."
"Yes." Vic looked haggard now, as if worn out by the implications. "They had inside help, Ethan. Somebody compromised our own systems and fed the raiders information to plan their attack."
"Trasies?"
"He probably would've, but he never had access to mil systems. Believe me, that was checked out a long time ago. Besides, codes have changed repeatedly since we arrested Trasies. It had to be someone else. I've already told Stacey Yurivan to check it out."
"You sure we should use her for this? Stace is really mad about Tanaka buying it."
Vic shrugged. "That means she's motivated."
"I don't want a witch-hunt."
"Agreed. But Stacey won't settle for anybody but the guilty one. She wants revenge something fierce, and she wants the right somebody to be the one who gets nailed."
"Good, As soon as she gets an answer, I want to know."
The call came early the next morning, well before most humans were stirring. Stark dressed hurriedly, rushing to meet Sergeant Yurivan, Sergeant Reynolds joining him on the way.
Stacey Yurivan wore the look of weary triumph, which bespoke lack of sleep justified by results. "I've got your mole."
"Just one?" Vic questioned.
"I think so, yeah." Yurivan blinked several times, focusing through her fatigue. "Nothing's one hundred percent in this kind of thing, but since I had an idea what to look for I found some break-ins and traced them back. Once I cracked the protocol being used for the false accesses about a dozen fake identities spilled out. But they all led back to one real guy."
"A dozen?" Stark shook his head. "I thought our security was better than that. A dozen false ID's being used to penetrate—"
"Hold it, Stark," Yurivan snapped, then bit her lip. "Sorry . . . Commander. They didn't get through because our security was bad. No, they were real good. Nastiest stuff I've ever seen. I'll tell you all about a couple of the worms we found burrowed into the system when we have the time."
"Worms." Vic let the single word stand.
"Yeah. Real ugly ones." Yurivan grinned humorlessly. "I guess they were saving them for the main attack. Triggering them would have really caused us some trouble. They would've scrambled comm circuits, broadcast inhibits to all our weapons so they wouldn't shoot, screwed up our IFF so it mirror-imaged—"
"Mirror-imaged? What's that mean?"
"It means the IFF would have told us our friends were enemy targets and the enemy were our friends. Nice, huh?"
"Real nice."
"But they didn't use them during this raid, probably because they were saving them for the main attack, and now they're neutralized. You're welcome."
Stark managed a smile back. "Thanks, Stace."
"But these programs were very sophisticated?" Reynolds pressed.
"Best I've ever seen," Yurivan admitted. "No question this guy is an official agent. Only government code geeks could have generated that stuff. Now, you've got to tell me what to do. Do I leave the mole alone to see what else he tries and who he talks to, or pick him up before he does more damage?"
Stark pondered the question, frowning down at the table-top. "What do you think, Vic?"
"I think this mole has already done a lot of damage. I wouldn't want to risk more, tempting though it is to hope he exposes other spies."
"Yeah." Stark focused on Stacey Yurivan again. "Everything just points to one person? No indications of multiple agents?"
"No, which doesn't mean there aren't more than one. But it looks like only one person was active."
"Are we sure this guy doesn't have access to weapons? Big stuff, I mean?"
She rubbed her chin. "Don't think so. I can't swear to it, though. Records on ordnance are never absolutely accurate, even for artillery shells. On top of that, a lot of stuff got used during General Meathead's offensive and when we shoved back that enemy attack soon afterward, and that ammo never got recorded right. Somebody could have carried off a small arsenal, and we wouldn't know for sure."
"Then take him down. Now. Do it clean and fast."
"Okay." Yurivan hesitated. "Something else I should tell you."
"What?"
"You ain't gonna like it."
Stark laughed, low and bitter. "I'm starting to get used to that kind of news. What is it?"
"This guy. The mole. You know him. His name is Grant Stein."
I can't feel anything. I can't feel anything. Kate, what the hell happened? "I want to see him. After you pick him up."
Yurivan stared suspiciously back. "Don't even think about going easy—"
"Shut up."
Vic took one look at Stark, then stood, gesturing to Yurivan, who nodded quickly and came with her. The door closed behind them, leaving the room silent.
It was much later when Grant Stein entered, wearing cuffs around both wrists, the chain connecting them looping down to fasten to another chain holding together shackles around his ankles. Even in low lunar gravity, no one could move quickly when chained in that fashion. Two MPs walked him in, one holding each shoulder, with two more standing a few steps behind, ready to assist if Stein attempted anything.
"Leave him," Stark ordered. "Wait outside." The MPs hesitated, eyeing one another uncertainly. "He's not going anywhere, and I can handle him if he tries something. Wait outside."
Four salutes, then the MPs marched out, and the door sealed. Stark stood, overtopping Stein, watching him for a long minute. "Why'd you do it?" he finally asked.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Drop the games. We got the evidence. We know you fed the raiders the stuff they needed to get through the sensor net. We know you planted worms in all our systems. Just tell me why."
Grant Stein stared back, his face slowly purpling with rage. "You left her to die when you could have saved her!"
Stark's own anger flared. "I did nothing of the kind, you stupid son of a bitch. She was already half-dead and wouldn't let me stay. I told you that!"
"Sure. Stark the hero, and any witnesses to what really happened dead on the battlefield."
"I never claimed to be a hero. I certainly wasn't on Patterson's Knoll."
The flat reply seemed to throw Grant Stein off balance. He glowered wordlessly for a moment, then shook his head vigorously. "You left her. I loved my sister, and you left her to die alone. You'll never know how that felt!"
Stark lowered his head for a long time, then raised it to look Grant in the eyes once again. "Yes, I do. I loved her, too. Loved her enough to spend my life trying to make her death mean something. Kate never would have done what you did. No. Don't even try to interrupt me, or I'll beat you senseless. If Kate thought I'd betrayed her she'd have called me on it, face to face, not slunk around in the shadows looking for backs to plant knives in. How many deaths are you responsible for? People who in some cases couldn't even fight back. You proud of that? You think Kate would be proud of it?"
Grant Stein tried to stand straight despite the chains holding him in a slightly hunched position. "I'm her brother," he grated out.
"Yeah. Too damn bad." Stark hit the access pad, opening the door and summoning the MPs back into the room. "Get him out of here." He saw Vic hovering nearby, face emotionless. "Vic. I want a court-martial put together. We handle this legal."
She hesitated, then spoke cautiously. "Since the attackers killed a civilian we could hand him over to the civs for justice."
"No. He's ours. We handle it."
"You know what that'll mean." Vic didn't bother making the statement into a question.
"I know."
A military court-martial could be a complex thing or a simple thing, depending on the case, on the evidence, on the charges, and on the people running it. As acting commanding officer, Stark wouldn't be judge, jury, and executioner, but he did have the power to appoint the judge, select the jury, and approve or disapprove the sentence. As it was, he skipped the fact-gathering stage, ordering a direct move to formal General Court-Martial, letting Sergeant Bev Manley select the presiding officer and the other members of the court-martial to avoid any suspicion he might be trying to pack the court.
Then he waited.
Stark sat in the Command Center, momentarily alone while the watch-standers drilled in the alternate Command Center in another part of the headquarters complex. Every once in a while his eyes strayed as if of themselves to the spot where Sergeant Tanaka's body had once lain. It took him a moment to realize somebody was standing inside the dully shining metal door that now stood at the main entrance. "Vic?"
"Yeah." She came inside a few steps, standing with arms crossed. "What're you doing in here alone?"
"Trying to get some work done. You know. Going over these proposed improvements in security. We don't want a repeat of the surprise those raiders achieved."
"No." Reynolds came a little closer, but remained standing. "News of the raid has hit the press back home."
"How're they reacting?"
"Badly. What passes for political and military leadership these days is scrambling to disavow all knowledge of the failed raid. They're claiming it was some foreign power trying to take advantage of the confusion up here."
Stark snorted a short laugh. "A foreign power with our latest equipment and assistance from our government's agencies, huh? Anybody believe it?"
"Of course not. Civs back home are real unhappy one of their own got targeted. They're also unhappy the economy is sinking into a deep pit. Stock market took another big dive. Loss of confidence. Apparently that matters to stock markets."
"I guess. Any word on military stuff?"
Vic shook her head. "No. But this raid telegraphed some of their intentions, don't you think? The Pentagon's hiring mercs to make up some for their own lack of personnel. And they're obviously planning to play rough. Assume we're going to face a major retaliatory attack, Ethan, as soon as they can put one together."
"I already had. I also assumed they'll have to cut more deals with foreign governments so they'll have a spot on the Moon to launch an attack on us from." Stark looked up at her, his eyes demanding. "None of those things is why you're here, are they?"
"No." Reynolds kept her voice level, her face unexpressive. "The General Court-Martial of Private Grant Stein has returned a verdict. Guilty of violations in time of war of Article 104, Aiding the Enemy, Article 106, Spying, and Article 106a, Espionage, of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Recommended sentence is death by firing squad."
Stark couldn't breathe for a moment, then took a long, deep inhale, tasting the clean, sterile air. "That was pretty quick."
"The evidence was overwhelming. And he confessed. Simplifies things."
"I guess it does. Funny how we're trying to do this all legal, when we're in violation of, what, Article 99?"
"That's Misbehavior Before the Enemy, so I guess that applies, but they'd be more likely to lead with Article 94, Mutiny and Sedition."
"But I can't just let him walk," Stark stated slowly, as if to himself. "He caused a lot of deaths, among people who thought they were his fellow soldiers. I never did that."
"No, you didn't."
"Are we sure he acted alone? What about those other soldiers who came up with him?"
Vic shook her head, biting one lip. "We can't be sure he was the only one, but we've found nothing else. Our best guess is that the other soldiers were protective cover, allowed up here so Stein wouldn't stand out as a single exception."
Stark nodded, barely perceptible movements of his head up and down. "And we're doing this by the book, aren't we? Even if we do lack legal authority. We're trying to do it right. I suppose, though, legalwise the lawyers in the Pentagon could charge us with murder if I approve this sentence."
"I suppose. It's not like we're not already facing the maximum penalty because of the mutiny. What're they going to do, sentence us to death twice?"
"They would, just for the hell of it." Stark paused again, thinking. "Did he make any plea for mercy?" For some reason, he found it hard to say the name Grant Stein, but Vic had no trouble knowing who Stark meant.
"No. He knows it'd have to go to you, and he hates your guts."
"Yeah." Stark looked at his hands, lying slightly cupped in his lap as if bereft of the means to move. "All the things a guy does in life, good and bad, and I end up getting hated for something I didn't do."
"I can't make it fair, Ethan."
"I know that."
"I also can't make it go away." Stark sat silent, avoiding her gaze. "You loved his sister, huh?"
"How'd you find out?"
"Stein kept flapping his lips after the MPs pulled him out of the room. He didn't believe you."
"No. He wouldn't. But I did love her. In a way. Never told her. Probably never would have."
Vic managed a sad smile. "She knew anyway."
"How the hell do you know?"
"Because I'm a woman, and men are never as good at hiding stuff as they think. So, Ethan, you've spent all the years since Patterson's Knoll proving you would have been good enough for her?"
"That's never what it was about," Stark objected. "Yeah, I've fought as hard as I can to make sure nobody else has to die like she did, but that's 'cause it was right. Nobody deserves to die like she and the other soldiers in my outfit did. Nobody. It's not about me."
"Then you done good, Ethan."
"And now all I have to do is condemn Kate's brother to death."
"Look, Ethan, what would you do if it was anyone else?"
"You mean like you? Or Gomez or Murphy?"
"You're avoiding the issue. They wouldn't betray you and everyone else." Stark sat silent. "Ethan, the only soldiers up here who didn't want Grant Stein sentenced to death by a court-martial were the ones who wanted him shot without bothering with a trial. He stuck a knife in the backs of his fellow soldiers. If I ever sunk low enough to do that, I'd want you to shoot me. Trust in each other is damn near all we've got, and it's been just about all we've had for a long time."
"Vic, are you trying to make me do this? Make me blame you for forcing my hand?"
"If I have to. I don't want it that way, but it's got to be done."
"You don't." Stark left the enigmatic reply hanging in the air for a moment, then leaned forward to key in his code at the command terminal, calling up the report from the General Court-Martial. Staring at the screen for a long moment, he finally punched the Send key so viciously the terminal shook as if in protest. Forgive me, Kate. "It's done. I confirmed the sentence."
"I'm sorry, Ethan. If there's anything—"
"There isn't."
"Want to go somewhere?"
"No. No. Not this time. Just leave me alone for a while, okay?"
"Okay." She left, the new door sliding silently shut in her wake, its clean metal standing out against the scarred wood on either side.
What have I done? What'd the soldier say in my dream? Where's our commander. Stuck on the Knoll, no way out, doomed. Is that what I've done to all the people who've trusted me? Hung 'em out to dry, stuck on a big rock with everyone targeting them? Even their former fellow soldiers? And now the civs up here are talking about declaring independence. That'd mean a long, full-scale war for sure. Just when we're starting to see some good things happen. Soldiers trusting their commanders. Civs and mil connecting like they're part of the same system. We could build something real good here. Show people back on the World how it should be. If we get a chance.
How are we—how am I—going to get us out of this? And how many people am I going to have to kill and watch die in the process?
Stark sat in the dimmed room, gazing emptily at the silent displays all around, displays that spoke of his power. Power of life and death. Somewhere outside, far from where the displays could monitor them, armies gathered. They would leave mankind's green home with its white clouds and blue water, and they would come to this place, this desolate Moon where black shadow met white light against dead gray rocks and dust, and they would die here.
Unless Sergeant Ethan Stark could think of something else.
The United States military forces on the moon have overthrown their high-ranking officers and placed Sergeant Ethan Stark in command. Instead of just issuing orders, Stark confides in his fellow sergeants in hopes of forging an army based on mutual respect. Now, in addition to fighting a merciless enemy on the moon's surface, Stark must contend with the U.S. government's reaction to his mutiny . . . .
The moon's American civilian colony has offered to assist the military with food and supplies on one condition: that Stark's troops back the colony's plea for independence. In order to survive, civilian and soldier must learn to trust each other as one man's cause becomes a crusade . . . .