An open plain, desolate and empty as only a lunar field could be. Long, shallow pools of fine dust lay interspersed with low islands of bare rock. To one side, the mounds of the Colony pimpled the Moon's surface. To the other, emptiness ran off to the too-close horizon, where it vanished against the black of endless night. On Earth, such a field would be farmland, or a park, or quickly overrun with housing. Here, it was just a useless piece of real estate, without concentrations of minerals or subsurface ice to lure human enterprise. Someday, the Colony might expand in this direction, taking advantage of the openness for another landing field. But for now, this dead plain was useful for only one purpose.
An object flew slowly across the sky. Its armored limbs, long since frozen stiff, extended at awkward angles as they cartwheeled in a languid, tumbling flight until the dead soldier fell onto a pile of similar remains. Even before it had ceased motion, another body followed with only three extremities to stand out against the bright cascade of stars. It landed, finally, coming to rest with an arm locked upward, armored fingers splayed as if the fallen soldier were making a last, futile appeal to the blue-white orb of home, where it hung in silent sentry overhead.
"What the hell is going on here?" Stark demanded.
The members of the work crew halted, turning toward him, their posture even in battle armor that of someone caught at something. No one spoke.
"I asked you what you're doing," Stark repeated coldly. He strode over to the heavy mover being used as a transport for the dead, finding bodies piled haphazardly within its open bed, indicating they'd been tossed inside in the same fashion as they were being unloaded. "What's the matter with you?" He felt his voice begin to tremble with rage and tried to tamp it down.
"Uh, we've got an awful lot of these to recover," one of the work crew finally and hesitantly began explaining.
" 'These'? You mean the remains of your fellow soldiers? Is that what you mean, Corporal?"
"We . . . we didn't mean—"
"I don't want to hear it. You listen to me, all of you." Stark raised an arm, one finger extended to point toward the several piles of dead. "These are the remains of your friends, your brothers and your sisters. You will treat them with respect. You will carry each one individually. You will set them in neat rows. If I see any more remains treated like sandbags, I will make every last one of you wish you'd never been born. IS—THAT—CLEAR?" The last three words came out in a roar, each one slamming home across the comm circuit.
A long silence answered him, then the members of the work crew carefully picked up the nearest bodies and began arranging them in a precise row, as if in a cemetery with no graves or headstones. Stark stood a moment, watching them, trying to calm himself, and then turned and stalked away, not slowing until he had entered the headquarters complex. He went past the door to his quarters, past the command center, until Stark reached the rec room that had become an informal staff office and meeting area. "Vic?"
She looked up from her palm unit, bleary-eyed. "Just a sec. Yeah. What's up?"
"Who the hell is supervising the work teams recovering all the dead?"
Reynolds didn't answer for a minute, first draining a cold cup of coffee dregs next to her with an involuntary shudder at the taste. "What happened?" she finally asked.
"Nothing, just them treating the dead like they're sacks of laundry. That's all."
"Damn. Sorry, Ethan. I got a lot of things to watch over right now."
For some reason the frank admission calmed him. "I know. We all do. I never thought to check on this until just now, either."
She rubbed her eyes, somehow looking weary and apologetic. "Ethan, you know what burial details are like after a lot of deaths. Remember that place in Asia? Where they threw the human wave assaults against us? So many enemy dead we couldn't bury them all proper."
"These aren't enemy. Not that that'd make it right. They're ours."
"After enough of them it doesn't matter, Ethan. People get numb, start treating the bodies like, well, like laundry. Maybe it's a defense mechanism, dehumanizing the dead. You know that. The first time you shoot someone you get physically ill. The next time, it's easier. After awhile, you've learned not to think about it."
"That's no excuse." Stark slumped in a chair, his face flushing with anger again. "You look after your dead."
"I know that. I'm not making excuses, just explaining how it happens." She squinted to look into his eyes. "This is about Patterson's Knoll, too, isn't it?"
"Everything in my head isn't about that worthless damn knoll," Stark denied, even as his flush paled.
"Of course," Vic agreed in tones which implied the opposite of her words. "Our dead on the Knoll didn't get buried, if I remember right."
"Not until we got to them." Stark stared sightlessly ahead. "After the position was overrun, they'd stripped them of everything they wanted, mutilated some, then left them there for the animals and what all."
"Sorry."
"When we retook the position," Stark continued in a thin voice, "they sent work details in to recover the bodies. I got assigned to one."
"What?" Vic couldn't hide her incredulity. "What kind of idiot would assign a survivor to that kind of duty?"
"I don't know. If I ever find him or her, I'll beat the hell out of them." He shuddered briefly as memories cascaded. "I want the dead treated right."
"I understand. I'll make sure of it from now on. Personally." She leaned forward enough to lock a tight grip on his biceps. "Wish I could make the hurt go away, Ethan."
"No, you don't. I wouldn't be the same guy, would I?"
"Wounded animals are dangerous, Ethan. No, I don't mean I'm scared of you. I'm scared for you. Not that there's much more you could possibly do at this point."
Stark quirked a brief, sardonic smile. "I still got a chance to start a full-scale revolution in the Colony up here, remember?"
"I remember."
"But," Stark continued, " 'wounded.' That reminds me. Something else I shoulda already done." He stood again, eyes wandering nervously around the room. "Gotta visit a friend."
"Rash Paratnam?"
"Yeah. He got beat up some during Meecham's offensive, but he's recovering okay. I oughta stop by and say hi."
"That all you going to do?"
He paused, then glanced at her with a slow smile. "I need all the friends I can get right now, Vic."
"Amen," she agreed. "Good luck. Say hi to the big ape for me."
"Sure." Out again, along corridors that suddenly changed from gray rock to white-painted walls, the universal red cross sign marking the entry into the military medical complex. Stark paused to ensure his helmet was off. Nowadays, anyone who made it to medical was almost certain to live, but you still made that small gesture in respect for the dead. Biting his lip, Stark oriented himself, walking through crowded wards toward his objective.
"Sergeant Stark?" The woman's voice was vaguely familiar. He turned to see tired eyes in a weary face. The medic who'd checked him out of here an eternity of a few weeks ago.
Stark nodded. "Nice to see you."
The medic smiled crookedly. "You promised you wouldn't be back again soon."
"Hey, this time I can walk in instead of being carried. How's it goin'?"
A shrug. "Lots of work. Your boy Meecham broke a lot of soldiers, and the fun a few days later sent us some more."
"Meecham ain't mine. Hopefully, you won't see many more casualties from now on."
"I'll believe it when I see it." The medic inclined her head in the direction of the Colony. "You set up the deal to send some of our wounded to the civ hospital?"
"Yeah. The head civ suggested it first, though."
"No kidding? They got good facilities. We've already sent a bunch of people over there. One of yours in the batch. Guy named Murphy."
Murphy. Still alive, which meant he'd stay that way. Stark felt one of the knots of tension in him slowly unravel. Too many questions I just don't want to ask. Afraid of the answers. Thank God some of the answers are good. "How'd you know he was mine?" Stark wondered.
"He told us." Another grin, sparking a small response in her tired eyes. "Kept asking if 'Sarge' knew about him going to the civ hospital. Wouldn't settle down 'til we told him you'd ordered it."
"I didn't. Not specifically, anyway."
"I know."
Stark smiled at the shared joke. "Mind if I ask you something?"
"Go ahead. But I'm busy Saturday night."
"That wasn't the question," Stark laughed. "Do you ever get any sleep?"
The medic pretended to ponder the question. "Sleep? Used to. I think. Been a long time." She sobered abruptly. "Too damn much to do. You know."
"I know." The bays around them, full of wounded, emphasized the simple statement. "I'm gonna do my best to keep soldiers out of here from now on. There'll always be some, as long as we're fighting, but I'll keep the numbers as low as I can."
"Trying to put us out of business?" the medic challenged. "I'll believe it when I see it. Good luck, though. Who you looking for here, anyway? Somebody specific?"
"Paratnam. Sergeant Rashamon Paratnam, in, uh, Bay 16C."
"Take a right, then the third left. You'll be there."
"Thanks." Stark paused. "For everything. You guys are . . ." He fumbled for the right word.
"Angels?" The medic finished for him, putting a sarcastic lilt on the word. "Yeah, we keep the wings in storage so they'll look nice during inspections. Keeping those white feathers clean is a real bear."
"I bet. See ya."
"Hope not, unless you're walking in."
"Deal." Stark left her, wending through the aisles of the medical complex until he reached Bay 16C. Paratnam lay on a bed there, eyes fixed on a vid screen he obviously wasn't really watching. His husky body was thinner and paler than Stark remembered from their last encounter. He took a deep breath, then stepped closer, drawing his friend's attention.
"Hiya, Rash." Stark sat near the bed, chewing his lip nervously.
"Hi, Ethan." The reply lacked noticeable enthusiasm.
"How you doin'?"
"Fine. All things considered."
"They takin' good care of you?"
"Yeah."
"How's the leg?"
"It's fine."
"Uh, Rash, look, I—"
"Tell me about my sister," Paratnam interrupted.
Stark stared at the floor, clean white stone merging into spotless white walls. "Nobody's told you?"
"You tell me."
"She's dead, Rash."
"I know that. How'd it happen?"
"Rash—"
"Tell me, dammit!"
Stark raised his head, his eyes on Paratnam's for a brief moment. "Best we can tell, she took a burst from a chain gun dead-on during the first enemy barrage. Cut her in two. Never stood a chance. Sorry."
Paratnam looked away, face grim. "You didn't do it."
"That's what you're saying, but that's not what I'm hearing."
"Can't help what you hear."
Stark gazed at him for a moment, eyes questioning. "Okay. Look, I got something to ask you, Rash. You know what happened, right? After you got hit?"
"You mean you guys taking over? Yeah, I know."
"Geez, Rash, you don't have to sound so damn grateful. We did it to save what was left of Third Division."
"We didn't ask you."
"No, because you idiots were too busy proving that even the thickest skulls in the Army can't stop bullets." Stark glared at his friend. "Rash, we need good leaders now. I wanted to ask if you'd stay on and help us."
Rash finally met Stark's gaze again, staring back with some unreadable emotion. "That'd make my folks real happy, wouldn't it? Their daughter's dead and their son's a traitor. You wanta tell 'em?"
Stark closed his eyes, fists slowly clenching tight in his lap. "No. I wouldn't have wanted to've told them you were both dead, either. So I did something about it." He stood, nodding, eyes averted from Paratnam. "Okay. I guess I got my answer. Don't worry. Rash. You'll go home with the other Third Division guys who want that. I'm sorry you won't be up here with me. I really could've used you." He turned away.
"Hey, Ethan . . ."
Stark paused, not turning back. "Yeah?"
"Nothin'. See you around."
Stark walked out of the hospital, threading through crowds of soldiers, wounded and healthy as well as the many personnel dedicated to healing and caring for the injured. How can I feel so alone with all these people around me? Need a drink. No. Beer never held any answers. Need to talk to Vic.
Vic watched Ethan as he walked back into the rec room and collapsed into a chair in the slow-motion, low-gravity maneuver long since grown familiar. "Should I ask how it went with Rash?"
"No."
"Sorry, Ethan."
"Vic, I have never felt so damned lonely. Not even on that ridge when I held off the enemy to let the platoon escape. Sometimes it seems like there's nobody else there."
"You've always got me, big guy."
"What exactly does that mean?"
Vic exhaled in a quick burst, raising her eyes heavenward in pleading fashion. "Down, boy. It means comrade in arms. Comprendo?"
"That's what I figured. And, hell, that's what I really need. Just like always."
She grinned as if at an inner joke. "Good boy. They told me you were untrainable, but I knew I could manage it."
"Gee, thanks. What's my reward?"
"My smiling face in your dreams."
Stark started laughing, realizing as he did so that some of the weight seemed to have lifted from his shoulders. "Vic, if nothing else, there's nobody who can pull me out of a funk the way you can. Thanks."
"Heck, Ethan, I've got to give you some reason to keep me around."
"Here's another. When we meet with the civs I want you helping. I'm not the sharpest guy in the world when it comes to negotiating stuff."
Vic made a face. "We still got to meet with the civs, huh?"
"What's so bad about that?"
"Gee, let me think. Abuse. Mistrust. Being looked down on. Are any of those bad things, Ethan?"
Stark bit off an angry retort. "Look—"
"Oh, yeah. I forgot the entertainment factor. Will any of us have to shoot each other to amuse the civs?"
"That's enough! I've told you more than once these civs aren't that bad."
"This from the guy who admits he's not the sharpest in the world?" Vic flinched exaggeratedly at Stark's expression. "Okay. Sorry. Don't detonate on me. Do you want my honest opinion or do you want me to treat you like a General and just say 'yessir, yessir, that's right, sir'?"
"What I'd like," Stark explained carefully, "is for you to keep an open mind and evaluate the situation, not approach it with your mind already made up. You're a good tactical thinker, and you don't fight battles that way, do you? You see what things are like before you commit your forces."
"You do if you're smart," Vic conceded. "I'll do my best, but I've seen a few too many 'no dogs or military' signs to be completely dispassionate. When is this wonderful meeting?"
"Tomorrow morning. Like I said, I'm gonna need you there helping me."
"I'll be there," she partially promised.
Stark stared toward the gray emptiness of a blank display screen. Looks like it'll be me against the world. Just like always. I used to have friends standing beside me, though, before those friends decided to make me their boss. He searched his heart, trying to ignore Vic where she worked nearby, trying to ignore him, but came up with no better answers. I've got to go with my instincts. Do what seems right. What the hell else can I do? The blank screen offered no reply.
A long night hadn't generated any special wisdom, either. Stark grumbled internally as he took his seat. The meeting room sat near the edge of the headquarters complex, close enough to the rest of the Colony that Stark thought it qualified as neutral territory. And I sure as hell ain't gonna let the civs see that wonderland the General used for conferences. Besides, in Stark's experience uncomfortable conference rooms made for quicker meetings and decisions than comfortable ones did. He sat along one side of a standard-issue metal table, forged from lunar ore, his makeshift staff seated to his left and right. On the other side of the table, Colony Manager Campbell sat opposite Stark, his aides also ranked to either side.
Campbell looked nervous, though he hid it pretty well. Sarafina, seated next to him, smiled briefly at Stark. The other civilians either stared at the table top or glowered upward. Stark turned to whisper a comment to Vic, the words dying unuttered as he realized his own people all mirrored the attitudes of the Colonists. Oh, man. This is gonna be as bad as I feared, ain't it? "I guess we ought to start," Stark finally suggested. "But I'm not sure how this should work."
"None of us do." Campbell smiled tightly. "It's been a long time since Americans staged a revolution."
A wide-featured man down the table from Campbell sat straight at the words. "I was not aware any decision had been reached regarding this situation. The potential for extremely serious—"
"Yes, yes," Campbell interrupted wearily. "This is Jason Trasies, Chief of Security for the Colony."
"And I take that responsibility very seriously," Trasies insisted sharply.
Stark's staff exchanged cold glances with Trasies, who stared back as if he was imagining them all in prison garb. "I assure you," Stark stated evenly, "that the Colony is secure."
"Thanks to us," Vic added. "We also take our responsibilities very seriously."
"Our own Navy almost attacked us!" A woman to Campbell's left leaned forward, eyes flaring like a deer watching a party of hunters. "We don't have normal communications, we aren't getting regular supply shipments, I'm told we're under heavy attack—"
"Ma'am," Stark broke in, "the heavy attacks are over. We beat them back and hurt the enemy bad enough that they won't be returning soon."
"You killed them! You killed a lot of them! And now you want to run this Colony?"
"Ms. Pevoni." Campbell glared down the table. "As I explained earlier, the military has made it clear to me that they do not desire to run the Colony. Indeed, they have indicated they want to grant us far more freedom than we have ever experienced to date."
"And you trust them?" Trasies needled. "Did they take an oath to respect your decisions?"
Stark felt his face grow hot, but Bev Manley spoke before he could. "None of us need ethics lessons from corporate storm troopers," she noted, smiling mock-pleasantly as her words slid into Trasies like a stiletto.
"I work for the Colony," Trasies stated stiffly.
"You work for me," Campbell corrected, his own face flushed. "I will not tolerate any further insults directed at the military representatives."
Pevoni leaned forward again. "It's not insulting to bring up their own recent behavior. That's their track record—"
"Who the hell are you?" Vic demanded icily.
"Yvonne Pevoni, Corporate and Government Liaison," the civilian responded with more than a trace of hauteur. "As such, I am responsible for evaluating the character of those we deal with, and I cannot imagine rendering a favorable assessment of armed criminal elements—"
"That's enough," Stark cut her off sharply. "Campbell, your people are out of line."
Trasies purpled with anger. "We're out of line? Just who the hell do you—"
"Sergeant Stark's right." Campbell, his jaw muscles tight, glanced around the table. "This isn't getting us anywhere. We need a time-out."
Stark nodded back. "Good idea."
"And privacy while I talk to my staff, if that's acceptable."
"Sure." Stark stood, ignoring the daggerlike glances from Trasies. "We'll wait in the hall, if it's not too long. How much time you want?"
"Half an hour. If we can't settle a few things by then, we'll probably need a lot longer."
"Okay." Stark stood, leading his people out of the room, then turned to face them in the narrow corridor.
Vic leaned against one wall, pulling out her palmtop. "Might as well get something constructive accomplished," she remarked in an idle tone as her fingers began tapping the palmtop's surface.
"I'd like that, too," Stark suggested bitingly. "Alright, people. What happened in there?"
"You know as well as we do," Bev Manley replied with a bitter smile. "Civs are trying to roll us. It happens in bars all the time."
"I know that security chief is bad news, and I could do without that pure-as-driven-snow liaison broad, but—"
"They're all bad news, Ethan. They think we're dangerous. They want to use us for whatever they need and have nothing to do with us otherwise."
"The rest of you agree with that?" Stark looked at each soldier in turn as they nodded, Vic glancing briefly up from her work to add her assent. "Even Campbell and Sarafina? They didn't seem hostile to me."
"Campbell also didn't seem in control," Reynolds suggested dryly.
"He hasn't had a lot of real power up to now. He's got to get used to that."
"If any of my subordinates acted like that little slimeball Trasies," Manley noted, "I'd take him apart and feed the pieces to rats."
"Commander," Gordasa chimed in, "those civs need us, just like always. We don't need them."
"Huh." Stark looked around, eyeing each soldier in turn. "I got a funny feeling in there, you guys. I felt like I knew how Campbell felt. I felt like I could talk to the civs. But you guys are telling me you didn't feel any of that."
"Nope," Manley answered for them all.
"So why should I feel different about them?"
Vic grinned wickedly, though her eyes remained fixed on her palmtop. "You were born a civ, Ethan. You're just reverting to type."
Gordasa frowned. "Stark ain't no civ now."
"Not like them," Stark agreed. "Joined the mil a long time ago, just like you apes. But I grew up like them. So maybe I understand the civs just a little because of that? I dunno. I do know we're gonna need those civs even if we don't need them right this minute. Who's gonna talk to the authorities on the World about us sending the officers back and getting our people sent up in return?"
Silence for a moment, then Manley nodded reluctantly. "The authorities won't talk to us, that's for sure. As far as the Pentagon's concerned, we're poison."
"Verdad," Gordasa agreed. "And, you know, if we really want spares, and we're going to need them eventually if this drags on, we'll have to find a backdoor into the corporations that make them."
"Backdoor?" Vic questioned. "There's a way to get suit spares through unofficial channels? Those parts are all classified, official-sales-only equipment."
Gordasa shrugged and smiled simultaneously. "There's ways to get anything unofficial. You guys know that. I never played those games, but I know about them."
"So," Stark continued, "all you apes agree now that we need to talk to these civs?" I should've laid better groundwork for this meeting. But it all just seemed to make sense. Next time I'll know better. "That we need to work with them?"
"To some extent." Bev Manley glanced around as the others nodded with varying degrees of reluctance. "Nobody likes it, though, Stark."
"Nobody likes Administration, either, Bev, but we need it." Stark eyed his watch, then the door. "When we go back in there, I'll handle Trasies if he shoots off his mouth again. Maybe show Campbell how it's done. Vic, give that Pevoni woman a death-stare if she looks like she's gonna talk again."
"Can't I just follow her out of the meeting until I can catch her alone in an alley?"
Stark stifled a laugh, trying to look stern as the others guffawed. "Okay, it's not like I don't know how you feel. But let's see what we can get done with the others in there."
Time finally up, Stark led his people back inside the meeting room, where Campbell wore the expression of a man trying not to reveal serious exasperation. He stared down his side of the table, eyes lingering on Trasies. "It appears there are some issues which require considerable coordination prior to successful agreement."
"We don't have considerable time," Stark reminded him. "What's the sticking points? Where's the hang-ups?"
"I'm afraid the specific issues are inflammatory enough that further discussion here would add nothing to our chances for working together." Campbell exhaled heavily, looking weary. "It's not your fault. This is something we have to work out ourselves."
"I understand. If you need any information or assistance from us while you're working things out—"
Trasies broke in. "We're quite capable of making decisions on our own."
Stark narrowed his eyes as if sighting in on the Security Chief. "And I'm sure Mr. Campbell is quite capable of speaking for himself. Or do you think you're in charge?"
Campbell held up his hands to forestall further conversation. "I believe it's best if the meeting end at this point."
Stark raised his own palm in objection. "No. There's one thing that needs to be addressed right away, and we need your help on it. We've got our officers locked up, and we want them gone. Sent back to Earth."
Sarafina looked eagerly toward Campbell even as she addressed Stark. "So the officers are still safe? None have been injured?"
"They're safe, but not happy, not with being in confinement. I want them home where they're no threat to us." And where none of my soldiers can go berserk or get drunk and hurt one of them. Even I fantasize sometimes about finding Captain Noble and bouncing him off a wall a few times. "But nobody back home is going to talk to us. You can negotiate with them, though, work out the deal so we can shuttle the officers home."
Campbell frowned even as he nodded. "That shouldn't be hard to arrange if you allow us to use the communications circuits again."
"There's more. In exchange for the officers, we'd like our family members sent up."
"Families. Of course. We'll need a list of officers and another of the people you want in exchange—"
Yvonne Pevoni waved her hands frantically. "I do not advise getting involved in this. We'd be in the middle of a critical situation—"
"And acting on behalf of these individuals," Trasies finished coldly.
Campbell flushed again, looking to either side, where his advisors watched expectantly. "This," he stated slowly but firmly, "is a humanitarian issue. We are not acting on behalf of anyone if we facilitate a transfer of confined officers for family members of people remaining up here."
"I do not—" Pevoni started.
"No further debate is necessary," Campbell snapped. "Ms. Sarafina, work with Sergeant Stark's people as necessary to facilitate the negotiations."
"Thank you," Stark stated, the emotion behind the simple words apparent despite his best efforts. He glanced over at Vic, who made a brief okay-Campbell-showed-he's-in-charge expression. "Sergeant Reynolds will be our POC." The civilians stared blankly back. "Sorry. Point Of Contact. The person you should work with, Ms. Sarafina."
Campbell stood, looking downward, face grim. "There is much to resolve. I'm sorry this meeting couldn't have been more productive."
"Me, too." Stark reached out to offer his hand, gripping firmly as Campbell shook it, then watched the civilians file out before holding out the same hand to his staff. "See. I touched him and nothing horrible happened."
"Have you still got your watch?" Vic wondered. "If you do, it's because he didn't want it."
Stark glared back. "I can't do anything about the civs' attitudes, but by God I expect my own people to back me up."
"We didn't say anything—"
"No, but your negatives were obvious to the most casual observer! I'll say this one more time. We gotta work with the civs. Anybody who isn't ready to do that just let me know and I can find you a job where you'll never have to see one!"
A storm rumbled down the halls of the headquarters complex. Stark wore a thundercloud on his face, ready to spit lightning at the slightest provocation, but everyone who saw him hastily veered aside before they came within range. I cannot believe everybody is being so damn stupid and stubborn. Working with these civs is important. Why am I the only guy who sees that? When the hell did I become the most reasonable person around? He turned a corner near the empty suite of rooms once occupied by the Commanding General, coming to a halt as his anger locked on to three soldiers standing by a small door. "Who the hell are you guys?"
"The gardeners," the Corporal answered rapidly. The two Privates accompanying him nodded vigorously even as they stared at the Corporal in an obvious attempt to keep Stark's attention focused on him instead of them.
"The . . . ?" Rubbing his forehead, expression now pained, Stark paused before speaking again. "Gardeners. There's a garden here?"
"Yessir. Two gardens."
"Two gardens." Stark waved the Corporal on. "Show me." As the Corporal fumbled with the door, Stark looked around. "Isn't this near the Commanding General's rooms?"
The Corporal nodded. "That's right. This is sort of a back door so we wouldn't tromp through his rooms on the way to the garden." He opened the door, leading the way inside.
"A back door into the General's quarters," Stark muttered, thinking darkly of security violations, then stopped as he saw the garden. The layout resembled courtyards found scattered around the Colony, a square room with windows set in the ceiling or one wall to view the outside. Instead of a view of the bleak lunar landscape, however, these overhead "windows" projected images of cloud-speckled blue sky. Stark blinked in amazement as his gaze wandered away from the windows. The walls had been worked with smooth stone and carefully painted to resemble an outdoors scene with rolling hills and ruins vaguely similar to those Stark had seen in the Middle East. Against the walls with their painted-on trees and other vegetation, real planters filled with bright flowers or carefully trimmed bushes stood neatly ranked. Full-spectrum lights overhead mimicked sunlight. On the ground, a carpet of bright green grass beckoned, its individual blades grown thin in the low gravity, but dense and finely manicured.
He gradually became aware that the Corporal and his assistants were standing watching him, their own expressions guarded. "This was just for the Commanding General?" Stark finally wondered.
"This one," the Corporal nodded. "The other one's for the Chief of Staff."
"The other one. Is it just like this?"
"Pretty much, except it's exactly two square meters smaller and has one less planter. The painting's not quite as good, either."
" 'Cause the Commanding General had to have the biggest and best garden, huh?" The Corporal nodded again. "And this is what you guys do up here?"
"That's right."
The absurdity of it all drained away Stark's anger like a lightning rod. What a waste of good soldiers. Ain't their fault, though. "Looks like you've been doing a fine job here, but what the hell do we do with it now?"
"Uh, excuse me?" The Corporal looked baffled as his accompanying Privates exchanged worried glances. "It's . . . for the Commanding General."
"Right now, that's me," Stark stated patiently. "And I don't want and don't need a garden." The other soldiers' faces tightened with an odd mix of sorrow and outrage. "I'm not saying you haven't done one helluva good job. But we gotta justify this, right? What would I do with a garden?"
"Generals would usually entertain VIPs here," one of the gardeners suggested. "You know, little parties and stuff."
"Little parties."
"Yeah. You know. Drinks and finger food. Swedish meatballs and those little weenies you stick with toothpicks and lumpia."
"Lumpia?" The little Philippine egg rolls were nearly mythical treats, especially for soldiers whose snack food usually consisted of chips made from Moon-grown potatoes, cut very thin, baked, then salted so lightly that they tasted like stale paper. "They had lumpia up here?"
"For the Generals. Yeah."
Stark sagged against the doorway, rubbing his eyes this time. Why does this stuff keep surprising me? He palmed his comm unit. "Vic."
"Here," she responded warily.
"Need you where I am."
"Gosh, Ethan, I'd love to, but I've got all this work just piling up—"
"Vic, I'm not still mad!"
"Uh-huh. You sound really calm."
"Vic, you're gonna have to see this to believe it."
"See what? The last time a guy said that to me I wasn't nearly as impressed as he thought I'd be."
"I'd rather not hear about it. Look, Vic, come here and see this."
"Okay, okay. Be there in a minute." She actually showed in about forty-five seconds, walking with the brisk glide lunar veterans used to cover ground fast. Stark stepped aside from the door, waving her forward to look into the garden. Reynolds stared for a long moment, then, instead of frowning, began laughing so hard she had trouble standing. "Hey, Ethan. You got grass."
Stark favored her with a level glare. "I hate grass."
"That's what makes it so funny. Oh, God. The only grass on the Moon, and it ends up in the hands of the one guy who'd want to trample it all." She went into another laughing fit, trying to catch her breath.
"Glad you like it," Stark muttered, then triggered his comm unit again. "Tanaka. I need to see you at the General's garden."
Sergeant Tanaka arrived in even less time than Vic had. "You found it, huh?"
"You knew about this?"
"Sort of. Not that any of the enlisted at headquarters, except the gardeners, ever saw it. But we'd all heard about the garden." She craned her neck to look inside. "Nice. What're you gonna do with it?"
"Tearing it up and dumping the remains on the surface come to mind."
"You can't do that!" Vic and Jill Tanaka protested simultaneously while the Corporal and his two assistants paled with shock.
"Why not?" Stark waved his hand toward the flowers. "I can't have something like this that nobody else gets to use.
Even if I liked the stuff, it'd be too, uh, imperial or something."
"We could let everyone visit the garden, now," Tanaka suggested.
"I don't think so, Jill," Vic demurred. "Thousands of boots on that small patch of grass, even in low-G? It'd be a mud patch in no time." The Corporal nodded in vigorous agreement.
"So, hold a lottery, maybe?" Stark wondered. Ought to get some use out of it. I can't imagine how much getting this garden set up and maintaining it have cost, while we couldn't always get the spares we needed because the damn budget supposedly couldn't support it. Did anyone buy a bullet because of this? "Hey, that's it."
"What's it?" Vic demanded.
"We've already got soldiers who've lost a lottery. The combat lottery. They're wounded. This would be good for them while they're recovering, right? And nobody can say they haven't earned the right to a few hours in the garden."
Vic smiled approvingly. "Fair and appropriate. Nobody can complain about the wounded getting a special deal. I like it. I'll talk to medical about setting up a regular visit schedule." She pointed to the Corporal. "You need to tell us how many people we can run through this place every day without wrecking it."
"I don't know," the Corporal protested. "It's never been used that way."
"Then take a guess," Stark suggested. "We'll modify it if we have to after we see how everything is holding up." He scowled. "Guess we'll have to post guards, too, to keep everyone from picking souvenirs and leaving trash."
Tanaka nodded. "That's prudent. We're not posting ceremonial guards outside senior officer quarters anymore, so we've got people free to assign to that job."
"Ceremonial guards? No. I don't want to know." Stark took another look at the flower planters, his eyes calculating. "Hey, Jill, one more thing. I've noticed you palling around with Sergeant Yurivan a few times."
She nodded again. "Sure. We've hung together. Stacey's a lot of fun."
"That's one way to describe her, all right. I want these plants kept safe here. You tell Stacey Yurivan that if I hear one word about fresh flowers being sold on the black market, I'll post her on sentry duty at the lunar pole for so long she'll think she's a space penguin. Understand?"
"Stacey wouldn't do anything like that," Tanaka protested.
"Not unless there's a way to turn a buck in it. You just make sure she understands what I told you."
Vic followed as Stark headed away. "Hey. You're human again."
"No thanks to you."
"Look, Ethan, you saw how Trasies and Pevoni acted. I don't trust them. Is that unreasonable?"
"Them? Hell, no. That'd be like trusting Yurivan with that flower garden."
She grinned. "Unlike Trasies, Stacey wouldn't hurt a soldier. Too bad we can't harness her for the forces of good."
"Maybe we oughta."
Reynolds's eyebrows shot up. "You serious? What kind of job would suit her special talents?"
"Keeping an eye on rats like Trasies."
"Tell me you're not suggesting her for our Security Officer."
"That's exactly what I'm doing." Stark half-smiled. "I'm basically a squad leader at heart, Vic. And what's a squad leader do? They match the job to the individual. Pick the best guy for the assignment. Okay, so we gotta counter a bunch of sneaky, devious people who're gonna try to take us down. And who's the sneakiest, most devious mind we got to outguess them?"
"Stacey Yurivan. But do you think she'd agree to work on your staff? She's not exactly a close friend."
"I dunno. She did back me against Kalnick, but that might've been more about self-preservation than supporting me." Vic pulled out her comm unit. "Who you calling?"
"Stacey. She'll take the job request better if I make the offer. Besides, it occurred to me that having someone who's definitely not one of your inner circle here in headquarters might benefit you. There's already been talk that you're surrounding yourself with too many friends who're loyal to you."
"What?" Stark, exasperated, took a moment to slam his palm against the nearest wall, the sharp sound echoing down the corridor to shock anyone within hearing distance. "If you guys are totally loyal to me I'd hate to see how my enemies would act."
"Thanks."
"You know what I mean. Who's starting this talk? Why is it happening? Like Kalnick. We never had enlisted working against one another in the past."
"In the past, Ethan, we had the officers as a common enemy. Working against another enlisted would've meant allying yourself with the officers. Know anybody who would've done that?"
"No one who'd survive long on a battlefield."
"Right. But now the officers aren't in charge. Now we can play nasty little games against one another. And some people are just out of their depth in their new jobs and looking for someone else to blame for their problems. Like Gabriel in Second Battalion, First Brigade."
"Sergeant Gabriel? I haven't heard about any problems in her battalion."
"That's because Sergeant Gabriel isn't telling you about any problems. She's letting her subordinates run amuck, either because she can't or won't control them."
Stark absorbed the news, shaking his head. "If she's not telling, how'd you find out?"
"I got sources, remember? We're going to have to replace her, Ethan."
"No." Stark paused to enjoy the look of surprise and annoyance on Vic's face. "You and I ain't gonna do it. First Brigade's being run by Nageru. I'll tell him to either whip Gabriel into line or replace her with someone who can do the job."
Reynolds smiled ruefully. "Right. I'm so used to watching officers micromanage things that it comes too naturally. Thanks for keeping me honest." She tapped her comm unit irritably.
"Where the hell is she? Stacey? This is Vic Reynolds. I want to meet with you right away."
"Why?" Yurivan questioned.
"It's a surprise."
"I'm not involved, Reynolds."
"Involved in what?"
"Whatever it is you're calling me about."
"I'm disappointed, Stacey. Generic denials from you?"
"They save time. So, should I pack a toothbrush for this meeting?"
"I don't see why. Just come on over. I got something to ask you."
"Roger. I've been wanting to scope out all that luxury where you friends of Ethan have been living. See you in a few."
Vic glanced at Stark. "Want to wait in the rec office? We could grab some coffee."
"I'd prefer a beer," Stark noted, "but I guess I oughta keep all my wits about me when we meet Stacey."
"We'll still be outclassed, but that's a good idea." They waited, passing the time by using their spoons to nudge the congealed blocks of nondairy creamer floating in their cups. Thanks to the Moon's low gravity, the lumpy off-white rectangles danced over the surface of the coffee, not penetrating the dark liquid unless forced under by a well-aimed utensil. Like most of the other supplies, the creamer came from stocks whose "use by" dates had long expired. It was just one of the things you got used to in the military and perversely took a certain pride in. Competitions had been known to occur over which unit had the worst coffee and the oldest fixings.
"Hey, Vic," Yurivan stood in the doorway, eyes wary as they shifted from Reynolds to Stark. "What's up?"
"Relax, Stace, this isn't about the illegal gambling joint being run out of a storeroom in the Buford Barracks."
"There was gambling going on in the Buford Barracks?" Yurivan asked, her face reflecting wonderment. "I'm . . . shocked."
"Sure, Stace. Save it. How would you like to be Security Officer?"
"Huh?" Yurivan's expression shifted to disbelief. "What's the joke?"
"No joke. We need someone who can outthink our enemies. That's you."
"Then no thanks. I'm not interested in running loyalty screens."
"Wouldn't ask you to. Loyalty screens are dead. No, we need to worry about external security issues. Spies. Sabotage. Finding out what the enemy's planning, including any mischief any of the Colony civs might try. Interested?"
Yurivan made another sidelong look at Stark even as she answered Reynolds. "Why would I be interested?"
"Because you'd be trying to outthink and out scheme the best minds our enemies can throw at us. C'mon, Stace. No more playing games with the military police and the local security officer. You'll get to see if you can beat the boys and girls from the national agencies."
Yurivan kept a poker face. "That's a pretty big league to play in, Vic."
Stark favored her with a taunting smile. "Hey, Stace. No guts, no glory."
"Uh-huh, and no brain, no gain."
Vic shrugged, fingers wandering idly over her palm unit. "Well, Stace, if you figure the job's too hard . . ."
"Reynolds," Yurivan laughed, "you'll have to do better than that. I've been psyched by experts."
"Any of 'em figure you out?"
"Hell, no."
Reynolds smiled politely. "Big surprise. So, do you want the job or not?"
"Maybe. Gotta think about it."
"Fine. You let me know." Stacey Yurivan flipped an elaborate salute, smiling at some hidden joke as she did so, pivoted precisely on one heel, and marched out. As her footsteps faded down the hallway outside, Vic began laughing softly.
"What's so funny? She's not going to take it," Stark declared gloomily.
"Sure she is," Vic assured him. "Stacey just wants time to shut down her other illegal scams before she becomes Security Officer. She's got her own code of ethics. You watch. In a couple of days she'll call and accept."
Stark squinted at the empty doorway as if it held some answers. "How do you figure that? I couldn't read her."
"That, Ethan, is because you're a man and because you're blessed with a wonderfully straightforward and uncomplicated mind."
"I'll assume that's a compliment."
"Sort of. It lets people take advantage of you, but earns you a lot of trust. Stacey's different."
"That I knew. Trust' isn't a word that comes to mind with her."
"But she's never hurt another soldier," Vic reminded him. "Except in the wallet. And she will take this job. The chance to stick it to the system in the biggest way possible will be irresistible for her—irresistible enough for her to become part of our system."
Stark found himself smiling. "You know, this has been a really rotten coupla days, but right now I'm thinking about Stacey Yurivan being sic'd on people like Trasies and Pevoni, and that's making me real happy."
"Good. While you're happy, start thinking about how we're going to find all the officer candidates we need from the enlisted ranks."
"Thanks for the reality kick." Stark finished his coffee, glaring defiantly toward the dispenser. "I'm gonna have a beer. You should, too."
"Way to be in charge," Vic applauded. "Keep making decisions that good and people'll be talking about Stark's Big Victory someday."
"Sure. Right now this feels more like Custer's Last Stand."
"You're not Custer, Ethan. If you ever start acting like him, I'll whap you upside the head." She stared upward, pensive. "Speaking of that battle, and officers, funny how you never hear much about Captain Benteen."
"Who the hell was he?"
"One of Custer's subordinates. I know about him because I grew up in Fort Riley, Kansas, where the old Cavalry Museum is located. In the histories, it's always Custer this, Custer that. Right before the battle, Custer split his regiment into three parts, taking one himself, giving one to Reno to charge straight in to attack, and telling Benteen with the rest to just wait around. But if Benteen hadn't chosen to disregard the last orders he'd received from Custer, if he hadn't guessed that things were going to hell, then picked out a strong defensive position and been already digging in when Reno's troops came running back with the Indigs at their heels, well, the whole Seventh Cavalry would have been wiped out instead of just the troops with Custer. Benteen saved them, but you never hear about him."
"Vic, if you made a big deal about some officer who disobeyed orders and instead did what he thought was right and smart, you'd have other officers thinking that might be a good idea, too. Then where'd you be?"
She smiled lopsidedly. "You're right. What was I thinking?"
Stark's own smile shifted, his face growing thoughtful. "But you know what? You got something, there. Why does the mil have to work that way? Why can't we let people run their units smart instead of following orders blindly? And if they can't run their units smart, why have them in charge in the first place?"
"If they don't follow orders, how can you run a battle?"
"Maybe better. Look, I really gotta think about this, how to balance the need to keep people focused on the same objective and also let 'em use their brains. Maybe it can't be done."
"I'm not sure it's ever been tried. Maybe the technology wouldn't permit it before now. I mean, signal flags or horns or walkie-talkies can't provide the information you need to run things any way but top-down." Vic sighed, smiled at the beer Stark placed before her, then downed it in one long drink. "While you're thinking up a new way to fight, I'll arrange a meeting with that Sarafina civ to talk about the exchange. Maybe she'll bring her little friend along."
"What little friend?"
"Your date, remember? What was her name?"
"Robin?" Stark chuckled, reaching to take away Vic's empty. "It wasn't a date. It was an interrogation. A nice one, but all I did was answer questions. I haven't heard from her since."
"Poor Ethan. No luck with the ladies."
"Probably because you're scarin' 'em off, Sergeant Reynolds. Besides, I don't have time to date nowadays."
She smiled and sighed simultaneously. "Yeah. Running an army is no fun. At least you still get to sleep."
"Yeah. Sometimes."
Another day. Another meeting. Stark's staff sat back in their chairs, rigidly proper, like sentries guarding their own welfare, while Campbell's assistants hesitated or flung insults. Minor points were raised, debated endlessly, each one dying out in a fog of tiny deviations of definitions. Stark checked the time, trying for the hundredth time to keep himself from exploding. I thought forcing this meeting to last until something got decided was a good idea. Wrong. Real wrong. While the arguments raged inside, outside the conference room the normal workday came to an end, dinner was eaten, evening leisure enjoyed, and late-night shifts came on duty.
Stark fixed his eyes on Campbell, who stared back with exasperation dulled by exhaustion. "I'm not hearing anything that makes me think we're gonna decide anything."
Campbell nodded, the weary gesture barely moving his head. "Everyone go home," he ordered his staff shortly. They stood with varying degrees of apparent fatigue, edging out with barely a glance at the military representatives. Only Sarafina remained, gazing bleakly at Campbell.
"You apes go, too," Stark told his people, not watching as all but Reynolds left the room.
Reynolds exhaled, a long and slow gesture. "If it means anything, I'm not happy."
"Thanks much," Stark grumbled. "Campbell, you don't have to hang around. It's been a real long day."
"I agree," Campbell replied, with a wave toward his remaining assistant. "But I needed to give you some good news."
"I could use some."
"Ms. Sarafina has made a great deal of progress on the negotiations for the exchange of officers for your family members," Campbell reported. "I'd meant to tell you about it in the morning," he continued dryly.
"It's morning," Stark noted. Outside and overhead, the blue-white Earth hung as always, uncaring that her rotation from day to night still governed the lives of humans no longer directly affected by it. "How come you didn't bring this up before?"
Campbell visibly hesitated. "I am no longer sure how my advisers will react to even apparently good news. I felt it best to keep this issue separate from any contentious ones."
Stark managed to muster a smile. "Can't argue with that. Everything seems to be contentious. No big hang-ups, then?"
"No. The authorities in Washington apparently want those officers back pretty badly. Are you sure you want to let them go? They must be very good if the Pentagon needs them . . ." Campbell halted as Stark and Reynolds started laughing. "Something is amusing?"
"Just the idea that our officers are very good," Vic gasped. "The Pentagon wants them back for two reasons. First, to find out what's happened up here. They've probably got only the barest information, which must be driving them crazy. Ninety percent of the Pentagon is devoted to regurgitating information for senior officers who don't really need it, and those officers must be getting pretty tired of seeing variations on 'nothing new to report' for the umpteenth time."
"I see. Gathering information makes a great deal of sense. What's the other reason?"
"Scapegoats," Stark answered matter-of-factly. "They want to hang Meecham and maybe some others. Otherwise, they'll take the blame. Can't have that, even if they did send him here and approve his plans."
Campbell hung his head, shaking it as he did so. "And to think I once lectured you on politics. It appears you've had plenty of exposure to the bad side of it."
"There's a good side?"
"Yes. Perhaps I'll be able to show you someday."
"I won't hold my breath. Hey, Vic, where's that data coin with the latest list of family members?"
Reynolds smiled thinly. "Last I saw, on your desk, where you put it after I gave it to you."
"Oh. Yeah. Thanks." Stark stood, beckoning to Campbell and Sarafina. "Come on. My room's down the hall a little ways. I'll give you that coin so you can set things up." The hallways, normally the scene of numerous personnel hustling on errands, were quiet and empty in that curiously deserted way buildings got after midnight, even though the midnight up here was totally artificial. Palming open his door, Stark rummaged over his desk until he held up a coin triumphantly. "Here it is."
"You found it?" Vic questioned. "Miracles do happen."
Campbell took the coin, staring at it for a moment, before handing it to Sarafina. "Odd to hold the fate of so many in my hand for even a moment. Do you ever feel that burden, Sergeant Stark?"
"Not too often. Only once every day. All day."
The words brought an understanding smile to Campbell's face. "If there's nothing else, I'd like to get back to the Colony proper before too many observers wonder why I'm lingering here to hatch nefarious plots with you."
"Good idea." Instead of stepping out the door, though, Campbell paused, staring at Stark's battle armor where it stood against one wall. "Something wrong?" Stark finally asked.
"No." Campbell shook his head. "I've just never seen your combat equipment up this close." He reached out a hand, then hesitated. "Is it all right to touch it?"
"Feel free. You can't damage the outside."
"That's odd." Campbell frowned as he pushed fingers against the armor's chest area. "I thought it would be rigid, like steel. But it gives very, very slightly."
"That's right." Vic stepped forward to punch an arm of the armor with a light tap. "It's designed to be a little flexible."
"But I thought armor would be made as strong as possible."
"Yes and no." Vic slid easily into the instructor role every veteran had to fill for new personnel. "Things which are technically very strong are also very brittle. When they break, they shatter all to hell. That'd be bad in the case of our armor. So the composite material it's made of flexes a little when it's pushed, enough to help absorb and distribute the force of an impact, but hopefully not enough for the shock to injure us as bad as a penetration would."
"We get bruised a lot, though," Stark added with a laugh. "Beats a hole in your body, but after a battle we sometimes look like we've been run through a line of guys with clubs."
"Think of it as a trade-off," Vic continued. "Ideally, the armor would be very light, very strong, and very flexible. In the real world, we have to accept a compromise of those traits."
"The best compromise you can get?" Campbell inquired, smiling. "Odd. Here we'd been discussing the good side of politics, and your armor is a very concrete example of just that."
Vic raised one eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"That's how politics works at its best," Campbell elaborated. "Everyone wants something. Some people insist they have to have that something, and exactly that, no matter what. But other people insist on having other things, which don't match what the first group wants. To really get anything done you have to compromise and find a middle ground that isn't everything you want but satisfies most of your needs."
"Great," Stark observed. "Our armor's like politics? I'll never trust the damn armor again."
Campbell laughed once more, then sobered abruptly. "Sergeant Stark, are the compromises in your armor a bad thing? Or do they make it work?"
"They make it work," Stark admitted after a moment.
"Ideally, that's how politics should be as well. Not a perfect thing, but not a bad thing. Something which makes things work in an imperfect world."
Vic bared her teeth in a humorless grin. "From what I know, our armor does a helluva lot better job of that than politics has recently."
Campbell nodded back, still somber. "I must agree. Technology is much more straightforward than human relations."
"Your armor is dark gray," Sarafina pointed out. "I did not think it looked that color in the vids I saw before I came up to the Moon."
Stark shook his head. "No, it wouldn't've. Gray's the default shade. In action, the camo's activated."
"Camo?"
"Sorry. Camouflage. That means anything that helps hide us. We use the word camo to talk about any active or passive countermeasures."
"On a battlefield," Vic interjected, "survival is often a matter of not being seen. If you can be spotted and engaged with aimed fire, your chances of survival drop dramatically."
"Yeah," Stark agreed. "So when the camo's on, the suits scan their surroundings and alter color and shade to match. Like a . . . what's that lizard?"
"A chameleon?"
"Right. Only better. If we're on a field of snow, it'll be white. If the snow's melting in patches, it'll have dirty brown or green mixed in with the white."
Campbell eyed the armor judiciously. "It must make you very hard to see."
"Sure, but the enemy's got targeting systems designed to spot us anyway. Sometimes we win, sometimes they do."
Campbell and Sarafina stared back at him. "I do not see how you can discuss that so casually," Sarafina finally stated.
Stark shrugged. "It's the way things are. We do our best to survive and beat the other guy."
"You mean 'kill the other guy,' " she corrected, eyes wide.
"Yeah. I guess I do. If we have to. Sometimes you don't, but basically the job's about killing other people." Stark reached to pat his weapon, resting ready in its rack. "That's why a rifle has always been a soldier's best friend. At least, since they invented rifles."
Campbell bent to look, examining the rifle without attempting to touch it as he had the armor. "It looks just like the weapons I've seen portrayals of back on Earth."
"It does because that's pretty much what it is. The muzzle velocity has been lowered considerably so there's a lot less chance of firing slugs into orbit. Of course, we've got inhibits built into our suits' targeting systems that keep us from firing straight up, but you could be aiming at someone above you and miss a little. Anyway, back home, high velocity is necessary to give you long range and accuracy, but up here there's no air the bullet has to punch through and the gravity doesn't drag it down near as fast. You don't want to be able to shoot a bullet around the Moon."
"But if the bullets don't go as fast, can't your armor defeat them?"
"Good question. The answer's no, because the bullets aren't just solid metal. Armies haven't used solid slugs for a couple decades, I guess. There's an explosive charge inside every round, so when the bullet hits something it fires a super dense sub-caliber penetrator at high velocity into the target. Punches through most personal armor and hurts like hell. On the other hand, if the bullet doesn't hit anything for a long time, like if despite the aiming inhibits it does go high enough and long enough to threaten God-knows-what, then that same charge goes off a little different and just blows the bullet into little pieces."
"Very neat," Campbell approved.
"When it comes to killing people, humans are extremely clever," Vic agreed dryly. "Look at the whole war we've been fighting up here. Everything's pretty much nice and peaceful on Earth where a major war might inconvenience folks and break stuff, but up here, where everything's dead anyway, we just add a lot of new craters."
"Not everything is dead," Sarafina declared, her voice thin. "The Colony is alive."
"True. So are we. For a while, anyway. I guess some lives count more than others."
"Hell, Vic," Stark noted, his voice harsh, "we've known that for ages."
Sarafina shook her head, eyes downcast. "It appears we must also learn that same lesson."
Vic's expression softened momentarily. "You've got to work with the world as it is, and that's the reality we have to live with."
"Wrong." Stark flashed a grim smile. "Reality's gonna change, and we're gonna change it."
"That," Campbell observed, "is a rather high goal to aim for."
"We've been putting our lives on the line for longer than we care to think about. And you know what I think? If you're gonna risk your life for something, it might as well be something big. Something really worth dying for."
"This is big," Vic agreed.
"Worth mutually pledging your lives and your honor?" Campbell asked.
"Is that some sort of quote?"
"Sort of, Sergeant Stark. Sort of."
Open, yet closed in. Like a passenger concourse in an airfield, the main spaceport terminal for the Lunar Colony was dominated by a large room, which extended in all directions, interrupted by stone pillars supporting a metal-reinforced Moon-rock ceiling above. A very thick ceiling, just in case one of the shuttles using the spaceport had the worst kind of accident. On Earth, the pillars would have been described as having been hewn from the living rock, but somehow the phrase didn't fit for lifeless lunar matter. Among the pillars, clots of people stood or moved in patterns that appeared chaotic at first, but slowly resolved into a sort of ballet of three parts, one of those moving to the exit, one of those arriving, and one of those holding their places to guard or guide the first two. Groups of civilians stopped to stare at the soldiers crowding the terminal, unfamiliar faces in unfamiliar garb intruding on the isolated small-town environment that no longer existed back home. An environment inadvertently recreated on the Moon, which those fabled small towns of yesterday had once gazed upward from on clear, quiet nights.
Stark smiled at a nearby gaggle of civs, a few teenagers wide-eyed with faked nonchalance at the military presence. I could've been one of them. That punk in the short jacket. Funny where life leads you. And, the disquieting thought arose, if I screw up this situation I may ruin their lives along with mine.
Fitful movement started up to one side of the concourse, a long line of uniforms shuffling forward. Officers. The former leaders of Stark and his troops, now under guard and on their way home. Some of the officers stood tall, gazing around defiantly as if still in charge of all they surveyed. Others huddled small, ashamed or frightened of their changed roles, eager to get on the shuttles that would return them to a world where they still commanded. Stark's eyes narrowed as one of the enlisted guards gave a passing officer a shove with a rifle butt, creating a stumbling ripple down the line heading for the exit. He took a dozen quick steps, closing on the incident. "You."
The guard looked around, worried eyes clashing with his hastily forced look of innocence. "Me?"
"Yeah. You." Stark reached to grab the shoulder of the officer who'd been shoved, a female Colonel who seemed torn between terror and outrage. "Your orders are no mistreatment. Right?"
"Uh, yessir."
"So you will apologize to this officer for striking her without cause." The other guards were watching Stark now. "If she gets out of line, you are authorized to discipline her. If she tries to grab your rifle, you are authorized to shoot her. But you will treat her with courtesy otherwise."
The guard flushed, his mouth tight. "They never treated us with no courtesy."
"That's the point. We're supposed to be better than that. And we will be." Stark paused for a moment. "I'm waiting."
"Okay. I mean, yessir." Gulping, the guard nodded toward the Colonel. "I apologize for striking you without cause, Colonel."
Stark shifted his gaze to the officer. "Now, you accept the apology."
The Colonel turned a brighter shade of red than the guard had. "I don't—!"
"Yes, you do. Get out of here." Stark turned her with casual force, placing the Colonel back into the flow of officers headed outward, then faced the guard again. "We're better than that," he repeated. "I'm not asking you apes to respect people like this, but give them courtesy. Make it automatic. It's called discipline, and nobody better forget it. We've got our own officers coming along, and I don't want anybody out of the habit of listening to them."
"Where we gonna get our own officers?" another guard wondered.
"From apes like you. The best ones." Expressions of incredulity met Stark's words. "I mean it. You guys all know somebody who's good enough to lead, and good enough that you'll follow. Tell them word's gonna be coming down for volunteers, and we'll want the best."
Silent nods and scattered "yessirs" acknowledged Stark's words as he stepped away, heading toward another column whose members' awkward shuffles marked them as new arrivals to the Moon. He watched them, half-curious, half-envious of the soldiers whose parents had shared their lifework and could now share their lives again.
One man, slim and elderly, locked his eyes on Stark, evaluating him in a fashion that caused Stark to automatically stiffen his posture. The man detached himself from the file, ignoring a hasty call from one of the escorts, walking with the wobbly awkwardness of a new arrival to the Moon until he reached Stark and stood at rigid attention to render a precise salute.
Stark returned the gesture as professionally as he could. "Do I know you?"
"No, you do not, Sergeant Stark. My son, however, had the good fortune to serve in your Squad for some years. He often spoke of your leadership qualities."
"Your son?" The man's face, his mannerisms, his carefully controlled speech, suddenly clicked into focus. "Private Mendoza. You're his dad."
"That is correct."
Stark smiled broadly. "Lieutenant Mendoza, I guess I should say. Damn nice to see you, sir."
"I was not aware my son had spoken of me to you." Hard to say how the elder Mendoza felt about it. Like Mendo, it seemed he kept a quiet, disengaged front before the world.
"Just once. He's a good soldier. Your son's okay, Lieutenant. Minor wound during a recent action, but nothing that kept him off duty."
"Thank you. I am grateful for the news. But I am retired now, as you must know, Sergeant Stark. Mr. Mendoza is sufficient."
"Sorry. From what I've heard, you're a fine officer, so you're still a Lieutenant to me." Stark spotted Reynolds walking down the incoming line, scrutinizing the arrivals. "Hey, Vic. Mendo's dad's here. This is Lieutenant Mendoza."
Reynolds saluted automatically. "Pleased to meet you, sir."
Lieutenant Mendoza quirked a quizzical smile. "I was informed discipline had failed on the Moon. How odd to be met by proper military courtesy."
"Just what were you expecting?" Vic challenged.
"The authorities at home warned that an officer, even a retired one, might well face a lynch mob here."
"Can't lynch people on the Moon," Stark noted sardonically. "Gravity's too light. They just hang there, yelling at you while their neck muscles automatically tense to keep them breathing. Takes a few hours before their necks get too tired to keep the windpipe open. We haven't tried it," he hastened to add as Lieutenant Mendoza raised an eyebrow. "Every once in a while some guy tries to suicide that way. Never works. When they get found, people make fun of them for a while before they cut them down."
"I see I have much to learn of the environment up here, but it appears that soldiers are much as they have always been."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Stark smiled. "Once you're settled in and have had a chance to meet your son, I'd like to talk to you, sir. I think you could help me with some ideas, if you're anything like Mendo. Excuse me, like your son."
"Certainly." Lieutenant Mendoza saluted again, then turned to cautiously make his way back to the incoming file.
Stark glanced at Reynolds. "That was a nice surprise. What brings you here, checking out the incoming? Expecting anybody?"
Vic shrugged, projecting indifference. "You never know when a familiar face might turn up." Turning slightly, she gestured toward the outgoing column. "All officers today."
"Yeah. General Meecham and all his little sub-generals were loaded onto the first shuttle. I doubt he'll ever be back to the Moon."
"What a shame," she noted with a total lack of sincerity. "Did you say good-bye?"
"Hell, no. I said everything I wanted to say to that guy a while back."
She grinned humorlessly. "I understand the next batch of shuttles is supposed to start taking off the Third Division enlisted apes who preferred going home to staying with us."
"I know." Rash. Have a good flight, pal. I'm gonna miss you, but I sure hope you don't come back. How long has it been since we two Privates hid behind rocks while the enemy tried to see how well our armor worked? Or since we got into that bar fight and ended up being chased by half the Indigs in the city? Man, been a long time. And if he comes back here, he'll be with an army trying to defeat us. Shooting at us and getting shot at. Rash, don't come back. "How many decided to bolt, anyway?"
"You mean how many Third Division soldiers chose going home to staying with us? About two-thirds of the survivors." She paused, face carefully composed. "Which is so small a number I can hardly stand it."
Two-thirds. Two-thirds of how many? They were still trying to tally the dead from Meecham's ill-advised offensive. Far, far easier to count those from Third Division who still lived. It wasn't supposed to be that way. Third Division wasn't supposed to have been gutted by being thrown against unshaken enemy fortifications. But things never did happen the way Generals planned. "How can they go back?" Stark asked softly. "After what was done to them?"
"Don't blame them, Ethan. They're not lunar veterans at heart. Home is still home to them. Plus, they're still shell-shocked from getting cut to ribbons during Meecham's offensive, and before that they were confused and disoriented from being rushed up here."
Stark managed a small, self-mocking smile. "They ain't the only ones who're confused. I don't blame 'em, Vic. Everybody makes choices. I'm not exactly in a position to claim my choice is the best one."
"Not yet, anyway." She nodded toward the incoming line. "Hey, here comes another visitor aiming for you. You're popular today."
"Just my luck." Stark stared at the man approaching, uncertain legs marking him as another new arrival, trying to shake off a feeling of familiarity. I never met that guy. Why does he seem like somebody I used to know?
The man, some years younger than Stark, saluted cheerfully. "Private Grant Stein, reporting for duty."
"Stein." The half-familiar face fell into context, matching half-buried memories. Stark held his expression with difficulty, noting as he did so the tight glances Vic shot toward him and the new arrival. "You related to Kate Stein? Corporal Kate Stein?"
"That's right. I'm her little brother."
Stark swallowed, fighting off shock. "I never knew she had . . . that is, you're a lot younger than she was when . . ."
"I was just a kid when she, uh, fell at Patterson's Knoll. Maybe you could tell me about it sometime, Sergeant?" The grin shifted to eager shyness.
"Uh, sure, I don't usually . . ." Stark shook his head, emotionally off-balance, angry at the disorientation fogging his thinking. "How'd you get them to let you up here? The exchange is only supposed to be for family members."
Stein grinned again, the simple gesture sparking memories of his sister in Stark. "Civs are running the exchange. For the right bribe, you can do anything. Somebody altered my record to show I had a relative up here. Easy."
"Easy?" Vic questioned sharply. "You're a Private? An active duty soldier and you got up here? Family member or not, why would the authorities allow that?"
"I'm not the only one," Stein protested. "I don't know why they allowed it, but there's maybe a half-dozen of us."
"That's very odd." Vic looked at Stark as she said it, even though her words were apparently aimed at Grant Stein. "Why send us reinforcements?"
Something about her tone aggravated Stark. "How the hell should I know? For that matter, most of the family members we're getting are retired mil. They're sort of reinforcements, too. Maybe not good enough for the front line, but they could free up a soldier to fight."
Reynolds chewed her lip, then nodded reluctantly. "That's true. Welcome to the Moon, Private Stein. I'm sure you and Sergeant Stark have a lot to talk about." She saluted Stark, uncharacteristically formal. "With your permission, I'll get back to work."
"Sure." Stark returned the salute, looking questioningly at her, but Vic simply nodded before heading off across the concourse.
"Is she a friend of yours?" Private Stein asked casually.
"Yeah. Real good friend." Stark focused back on the man who carried a ghost from the past in his features. "Look, you've gotta settle in. Attend the orientation briefings. But you call me after that. I'll tell you what I can about your sister."
"That'd be great. Thanks." Private Stein beamed happily, snapped a sharp salute, then returned to the file of incoming personnel.
Never expected to see a brother of Kate's. Stark fought down a shiver. Every night, the long-ago-lost battle raged in his mind. Every night, Kate Stein and his other fellow soldiers died. Now here was Grant Stein, somehow forcing that nightmare into waking hours. Why now? What's it mean? He suddenly imagined Vic talking to him, expression exasperated. Maybe all it means is that you've met Kate Stein's brother. Maybe.
Stark eyed the nearby window warily despite the thickness of its synthetic "glass" and the gleaming knife edge of the emergency seal barely protruding on one side, ready to slam shut in an instant through any obstacle if the window somehow cracked. Thinking of the airless waste outside, he couldn't appreciate the bleak beauty of the dead landscape painted in shades of gray. Off to one side, the spaceport landing field was visible, a large flat plain leveled and painstakingly swept clear of dust. On the field, the squat shapes of shuttles pointed upward from the centers of blackened patches, access tubes latched on like remoras temporarily linking them to the Colony.
He stole another glance, intrigued despite himself by the view. Many times he'd been out on the surface and seen the few Colony towers built of excavated lunar rock, but he'd never been inside one. "Why are we here?"
Stacey Yurivan gestured toward the closed door. "I found a shuttle commander willing to talk, but only in a nice place near the spaceport."
"A shuttle pilot'll talk to us? Is he corporate or government?"
"Neither. Our former bosses wanted our former officers back so bad they hired some foreign shipping to help on the pickups this time."
"What's he got to say?" Reynolds wondered. She stood near a corner, even farther from the window than Stark. "The officers from the first exchange should be home by now, and they were probably debriefed all the way back."
"You can bet on it," Stark agreed. "Most of the senior officers went on that first exchange. I wish I coulda been a fly on the wall when they were being talked to. This second is mostly junior officers, right?"
"Mostly. And like Stacey says, there's more shuttles in this one. We'll still need a third shuttle exchange to get everybody back, though, counting the Third Division survivors who want off this rock. What does this guy know, Stace?"
Yurivan shrugged elaborately. "Stuff about the situation on the World. I figured you'd find it interesting."
"Can't wait," Stark agreed dryly. "Did you invite any of the civs?"
"Do I have to?"
"Yes, you have to. Just a couple, though. Campbell and his chief aide."
Vic nodded in agreement. "They deserve to be here. Those two made this exchange happen." As Yurivan made the calls, Vic turned to Stark. "What do you think they've been saying about us? Back home?"
"We'll know in a few minutes. I'm sure it ain't good."
Reynolds screwed her face up thoughtfully. "They'll probably try to make us out as renegade scum. I imagine they'll paint you as a beer swilling, insubordinate warlord-wanna-be." She squinted at Stark. "Which won't take too much work."
"Very funny. What'll they paint you as, Whore-Empress of the Moon?"
"You think? I always wanted to be a Whore-Empress. Maybe they'll enhance my figure when they fake the vid."
"Your figure don't need any enhancing."
"Says you," she laughed. "You been admiring me in my battle armor all this time, Ethan Stark?"
"Yeah. That's it. The battle armor. I got a thing for women shaped like over muscled gorillas with really big heads. The civs on their way, Stace?"
"Yup." Yurivan strode over to a nearby duffel bag, fishing inside for a moment before she emerged with a bottle filled with dark liquid.
"What," Stark demanded, "is that?"
His Security Officer smiled back. "A bribe. Also a way to keep our shuttle commander's lips flapping."
"Rum," Reynolds observed. "Good stuff. Where'd you get this, Stace?"
"The Officer's Club stocks."
"I didn't know you had access to the Officer's Club stocks. Sergeant Gordasa never mentioned it."
Yurivan shrugged. "Ah, well, I haven't bothered Gordy about it. He's pretty busy, you know."
"Uh-huh," Vic agreed with a sardonic smile. "He's going to be a little busier now, running an inventory on those stocks."
"Whatever." Stacey carefully set up the bottle and a shot glass on a small table next to a seat at one end of the room. "Your civs should be here by now. I'll get them and the shuttle guy."
A few minutes later, Licensed Shuttle Commander James Plant leaned back in his chair and took an appreciative sip of the rum, smiling as he did so. "This is excellent, though I suppose its virtue is enhanced by its rarity, eh? Not many people have drunk rum that has journeyed this far from the Caribbean. From the Commanding General's private stock, I imagine?"
Stark shook his head. "Officers' Club stock. I guess they kept this stuff for the Generals, though."
"I can see why." Plant took another taste. "What is it you want to know?"
"What makes you think we want to know something?"
"I am not a fool. I also am not privy to any secrets, but I have no loyalty to your superiors. I am only a temporary hire. And my time here is limited. So, if you have questions, you should speak them without further games."
Stacey Yurivan nodded nonchalantly. "What are they telling you? About things up here?"
Plant sipped again, face thoughtful. "Not much, really. Certainly not enough to satisfy those curious about the situation, which is almost everyone. Initially, there were claims of security clampdowns associated with enemy action. Then statements that technical problems associated with sunspot activity had halted communications with this Colony. No one believed it, naturally. Finally, official American sources declared a breakdown of law and order here, attributed to unnamed criminal elements in the pay of foreign powers." Plant smiled again. "Though not, of course, my particular foreign power."
"Of course not. What're they saying about Stark and the rest of the leaders?"
"Very little." Commander Plant spread his hands. "The official story is that anarchy reigns. For a brief time, it was stated that Colony Manager Campbell had died at the hands of a mob. All other lawful authority is in hiding, it is claimed, fearing a similar fate."
"You look pretty good for a dead guy," Stark observed to Campbell.
Campbell smiled back as Plant continued. "However, Mr. Campbell's continued existence apparently became obvious during the negotiations for this exchange of prisoners, so your government has shifted their tack and now decided he is not dead after all."
"That's good to hear," Campbell noted sarcastically.
"Thank you. Unfortunately, I must inform you they are now claiming the stress of the lunar environment has rendered you mentally unstable."
"I see. Then it's sort of a good news/bad news thing."
Plant nodded, took another sip of rum, then reached into the thigh pocket of his coverall. "I have a recording here which might be of interest to you." Extending the screen of his hand unit, the Shuttle Commander turned it so his audience could see. "This is a copy of a vid released by your government. It has become somewhat valuable for reasons I will disclose in a moment." He tapped the terminal, bringing the vid replay to life. On-screen, a small group of men and women in dirty, torn military uniforms were shown brandishing weapons and firing randomly, pausing only to drink from variously shaped and colored bottles. The perspective jerked repeatedly as if the operator of the vid cam were shaking in fear.
"Looks like none of those soldiers have shaved or bathed in weeks," Yurivan observed facetiously. "They get these guys from the Ranger Battalion?"
Stopping before a doorway, one of the men kicked viciously, causing the portal to slam open. Ducking inside, he quickly reemerged with a screaming, crying woman. "What is this supposed to be?" Stark wondered.
"You," Plant stated. "Or rather, the soldiers up here. According to the back-story for this vid, an unidentified but deranged renegade has set himself up as the nominal leader of otherwise out-of-control, mutinous soldiers. This," he added with a wave toward the screen, "is allegedly a covertly filmed incident in which his minions are seizing civilian women for a slave harem."
"You're kidding," Vic chuckled. "Well, Ethan, it looks like you've finally figured out how to get women."
"Very funny," Stark observed. "At least Campbell and I can be 'mentally unbalanced' and 'deranged' together."
On the vid, the scruffy soldiers were shoving the woman around with their rifle butts. Suddenly, a small figure darted from the open doorway, obviously a child rushing to cling to her mother. With a wicked smile, one of the soldiers kicked the child away, then raised her rifle. "Hey," Vic began, her laughter dying. Before she could say anything else, the rapid bark of automatic fire came from the vid screen and the child was tossed back to lie motionless in the street.
"This ain't funny, anymore," Stacey Yurivan growled. "That's just sick. Am I the only one who's noticed these apes are moving like they're in Earth gravity?"
"No." Stark stared at the now-blank screen, his eyes hard. "Even if those plug-ugly so-called soldiers weren't a giveaway, the normal G would be. I'd like to get my hands on whoever faked this vid. I'd show them a damn atrocity."
"Not to worry," Commander Plant advised, replacing the unit in his pocket. "A good number of people on Earth noticed the gravity problem, too. Quite a stupid mistake, apparently the result of rushing to create the vid within a short time. Your government quickly shifted from saying it was real footage to claiming it was a reenactment of actual events, but any credibility it might have had was long gone by that point. It has since attempted to reclaim every copy of the vid in existence, a task remarkable for its scope and futility."
"You'd think our government would have at least learned how to lie right by now," Reynolds observed angrily. "Commander Plant, there hasn't been any effort to publicly identify the leaders up here? None at all?" Plant shook his head. "It's odd they haven't named us so they'd have someone to demonize."
"Not really," Plant lectured. "If you consider, any leader can be a focal point for either hatred or admiration. I believe there is a great fear that the public would come to admire the leaders up here if they were identified and given faces and personality."
"They think we're that great?" Stark laughed shortly.
"No, I believe they realize how weak they measure as leaders against you. Bold action, risking life and fortune for fellow humans, no deception or half-measures masquerading as sacrifice for the welfare of others. You see? The moral opposite of your country's current leadership on Earth. One need not be a giant to stand tall beside dwarfs."
Stark looked down, plainly uncomfortable at Plant's words, then glanced over in relief as Campbell began speaking. "What else is happening? Have events up here had any other impact?"
"Ah. Impact." Commander Plant seemed to find the word amusing. "Let us see. The loss of revenue from lunar investments caused the profit projections for a number of large corporations to fall significantly. There is also fear they might have to completely write off those investments. Their stocks have fallen as a result. Those stocks have dragged down the general market. The average citizen, I am told, is worried, and since so much of the American economy is based on services, which are not necessities, people are not spending money on such services."
Sarafina closed her eyes briefly. "We're triggering a recession?"
"Apparently. Your government has instituted a number of measures to increase confidence, but a government lacking in credibility cannot easily generate confidence, eh?"
Campbell nodded, eyeing the pilot narrowly. "What about other countries, such as yours? What do they think?"
"What do they think?" Plant pondered the question for a moment. "They wait. America is too powerful. What will become of you here? Can you withstand the pressure from your home, as well as that from the coalition that has fought you all these years?"
Stark smiled in a manner that had nothing to do with humor, the barest curling of the corners of his mouth. "That coalition got a nasty bloody nose and several black eyes when they tried us. They've been a lot quieter since."
"I see. There have been rumors, of course, but actual information has been censored. Yours is not the only government which seeks to control what its citizens know." Plant glanced at his wrist as the chronometer there chirped rapidly. "I fear my time here is up. I must return to my ship to prepare for liftoff." He glanced at the bottle of rum regretfully. "Alas, since our ships are in hire to your government they are being monitored by your customs inspectors. We have been told any contraband will be seized."
"Booze isn't contraband," Yurivan observed.
Plant shrugged. "As far as your government is concerned, any item from the Colony is contraband until the situation is resolved."
"Is that right?" Stacey grinned at her companions. "Then it's all worth a lot more than usual, huh?"
"That is so. I see you have a merchant's eye for markets."
"We'll be getting shuttles in again, you know. The blockade's not perfect. Potential profits will be . . . pretty large."
"I imagine so. I will keep this in mind and ensure my own superiors are aware of the opportunity this offers." Commander Plant rose, nodding to everyone else present as they stood in turn. "I thank you for the hospitality."
They watched him leave, escorted out by Stacey Yurivan, then sat silent for a few moments, digesting the information. Vic finally turned to Stark, shaking her head. "Ethan Stark, you have kicked over one helluva lot of dominoes."
"All I did," he protested, "was try to stop something stupid, try to do the right thing, and save people's lives."
"Like I said." Vic walked toward the door, waving toward Campbell, Sarafina, and Stark. "If you all will excuse me, I need to get a little rest before I get as deranged as our leaders."
"I believe," Campbell stated with exaggerated dignity, "that I personally have been characterized as 'mentally unbalanced,' not 'deranged.' "
"True. My apologies. Ethan, I think you've got another meeting scheduled in less than an hour."
"A meeting?" Stark groused. "Which one?"
"Personal business. Remember?"
He grimaced. "Oh, yeah. I remember. Guess I better get going."
Grant Stein stood at the main sentry station leading into the headquarters area, smiling as usual as Stark walked up. "Here early, huh? Come on." Letting the younger man follow slightly behind, Stark headed for his quarters, then changed his mind. I need neutral ground. And someplace quiet, where we won't be interrupted. I know just the place. He continued on, past his room, until he reached the wood paneled, double-wide door which led into the former Commanding General's suite.
Stein looked around eagerly as they entered. "Fancy digs. I bet you enjoy it here."
"I don't get much free time," Stark answered cautiously. "Sit down. You want anything? Coffee or something?"
"No, Sergeant. Or I guess I should say Commander."
"Whatever. Titles aren't as important as the people carrying them." Stark rubbed his neck, then smiled ruefully. "Funny. I remember so much about Kate, but I don't know what you want to hear. I imagine you've heard all about the battle."
"Patterson's Knoll?" Grant Stein shook his head. "Not many details. I mean, not many people can talk about details, can they?"
"No. I guess not. Only a few of us survived." Stark sat carefully, chewing his lip. "Basically, our outfit was sent in to beat up some Indigs who didn't want to sell their ore supplies cheap to a corporation that'd given a lot of money to our politicians. The sort of thing that happens a lot, right? These particular Indigs had a decent mil of their own, but our commander, just a Colonel 'cause the General was off with the rest of the brigade, he figured we could just roll over them. Maybe we could've, but we found out too late that the Indigs had gotten foreign backing. A lot of weapons, a lot of ammo, even some half-decent troops."
Grant Stein nodded, intent, as Stark continued. "Well, even our Colonel couldn't avoid getting the hint when we ran head-on into a major Indig force. All kinds of ammo getting thrown at us from all directions. He only had two companies of troops with him, and he'd run us way forward of the other columns. Wanted to get himself a lot of press coverage, I heard. The Colonel only let us fall back a little, even though we were too far from any supporting forces. We stopped in this open area, I guess 'cause he thought we could evac from there if worse came to worse. But our air couldn't get through. Too many antiaircraft defenses, and we were too far from the big air bases. I dunno what that idiot Colonel Patterson was thinking, but we just sat there, all night. There was just a thin layer of dirt over solid rock so we couldn't dig in, just had to sit there while the officers held meetings. Then we started taking fire again, from all sides. Then word came around that our comms back to headquarters were being jammed. After that the jamming got bad enough to disrupt all our comms."
Stark paused, fighting down a wave of memory-induced panic. "All morning. All afternoon. They just kept hitting us. Small arms. Heavy stuff. We could've broke out in the morning, I think. Fought our way through. But the officers just locked up. I don't even know how long Patterson lived, or if he got nailed before noon. By afternoon, we'd lost too many people. Just had to sit there." Stark suddenly became aware of pain, looking down to see his hands clenched so tightly they were mottled red and white. He relaxed them with an effort.
"I didn't see Kate most of that day. We were all just hugging the ground and praying. Nobody moved, not unless they were trying to take care of wounded, and after awhile we ran out of medical stuff, and all the medics were dead anyway. But somehow, I didn't get hit except a few minor wounds. Come night, they finally let up. I went looking for anybody else. I found Kate." He stopped, unable to speak for a moment.
"She'd been . . . hit bad." Why can't I tell him she'd had her legs blown off? God, I can't say it, not even now. "Couldn't move. Couldn't be moved, and wouldn't let me stay. She didn't survive the night. I know that. She couldn't've."
Stark stood, turning away and facing the wall, his head lowered as he gathered his thoughts. "I had to run away. I had to get together any other survivors who could move and run. Not my fault, nothing I could have done, but I relive it damn near every night. Wish I could have done something. Anything. But it always ends the same, because that's the only way it could've ended. Kate knew that. She gave me the last, best advice she could. Saved my life when I couldn't save hers. Ever since, I've been trying to make a difference, but none of it changes the past."
He pivoted suddenly, facing Grant Stein again and catching his expression in midchange, just settling into lines of earnest sympathy. Didn't want me to see how awful he felt about losing his sister, I expect. Can't say I blame him. "There isn't much more I can tell you. Sorry there weren't last words or anything. I guess we were just too much in shock to even think straight."
Stein waited for a long moment after Stark finished, then nodded, his expression open, sorrowful. "It was hard to leave her, then?"
"Hard? Hardest thing I ever did. Let me tell you, dying's easy. Too easy, sometimes. Kate wouldn't let me take the easy way. She was like that."
"I never got to know her that well."
"Oh." Stark bent his head again. "Sorry. Wish I coulda . . ."
"I'm sure you did all you could," Stein assured him. "But, now, look at all this. You're really in charge? There's not, like, some council you answer to?"
"Council?" Stark squinted as if trying to gauge Grant Stein's seriousness. "No. I'm in charge. Got voted into it, but the voting stopped there. I guess if I screwed up bad enough, they'd get rid of me, but that hasn't happened yet. Until it does, it's just me."
"But Sergeant Reynolds, she seems pretty close."
"She's a damn good soldier and a damn good friend."
Stein smiled. "I understand."
Stark fought down a wave of irritation. What do I care what this guy thinks? He's not Kate. But, God, he's so much like her. On the outside, anyway. "Well, I can't think of anything else. You settling in okay up here?"
"It's really different. I can see why new arrivals need a lunar veteran to help them adjust."
Stark hesitated, aware of the half-request in the younger man's statement. "I'll make sure you've got a decent soldier paired with you. Me, I'm so buried in work I can't spare the time. Sorry."
"Oh. That's okay. I'd heard that Kate took you under her wing, and I thought maybe . . ."
Damn. That's a debt I owe. "Being close to me right now might not be the smartest thing a soldier can do. I'll keep an eye on you, though. If you're anything like her, you'll do fine."
"Thanks," Grant beamed. "It's all right if I come to see you every once in a while, isn't it? You're sort of a living link to Kate."
"Uh, sure." Stark checked his palm unit ostentatiously.
"Looks like you got some more familiarization briefings coming up. Better get going. You need an escort out?"
"No, thanks, Commander." Stein stood, saluted smartly, then headed out. Stark stared at the door after he'd left, sitting silently in the expansive room once used as a front office by the Commanding General.
Sometime later, Vic Reynolds stuck her head in, frowning around. "Ethan? Somebody told me they saw you go in here. What're you doing?"
"Thinking."
"Will wonders never cease?" Vic came inside, flopping into another chair and looking around. "Nice place. So, how'd your meeting with Grant go?"
"Okay, I guess."
She raised both eyebrows. "Doesn't sound okay. What's the problem?"
"I dunno." Stark shrugged uncomfortably. "Brings up a lot of memories, you know?"
"I can imagine. If I'm lucky, I'll never really know. That's not all, though, is it?"
Stark shrugged again. "Everything seemed fine, but also a little off. I can't really explain."
"You sure he's for real?"
"Huh? You mean, is he really Kate's brother? Yeah. No doubt."
"But he's not his sister, is he? Look, Ethan, you don't know this guy."
"If he's anything like Kate—"
"If. That's a big if, right?"
"Sure it is. But I still owe him. For Kate's sake."
"I can't tell you different, not from the little I know about her. But let me ask you this. If Grant Stein has admired you for so many years, how come you never heard from him until now? Why no letters or calls or visits in all the years since his sister died on Patterson's Knoll?"
Grass. Flecked with blood. Swaying and trembling in the wake of explosions on all sides. Stark shook his head to dispel the vision. "I don't know. Maybe it hurt him too much to talk about."
"Something you'd know all about, huh? He doesn't seem the type, but you could be right." She sighed, pulling out her palmtop. "Ready for some administrative issues?"
"Ah, geez, Vic. Hasn't my day been hard enough so far? What kind of administrative issues?"
"Our new officer candidates. Got the first batch of names in for screening." Vic leaned back, keying her palmtop to display a welter of data. She peered at the screen, clicking through a few items, then smiled. "And we need a final disposition for disciplinary action against one of those new officer volunteers."
"Already? What'd he or she do?"
"A couple of days ago he turned his living cubicle and the adjacent cube into a duplex."
Stark chuckled in disbelief. "You're kidding. How'd he do that?"
"Seems he had a shoulder-fired weapon with a defective firing mechanism. He decided to fix it himself by welding the firing circuit back onto the propellant charge."
"In his cube?" Stark stifled another laugh. "He's lucky he wasn't killed."
"Which he admitted," Vic noted. "Said he'd screwed up, couldn't believe he'd done that, etc., etc., etc., and so on. It's up to you," she leveled a slim finger at Stark, "to decide his punishment and whether he should become an officer candidate."
"Huh." Stark rubbed his chin, staring toward the ceiling. "He admitted he'd made a mistake. Hell, he knew he'd made a mistake. That ranks him better than most of the officers we got rid of."
"You've got a point there."
"Give him another chance."
"No punishment?"
"He's gonna be an officer, a real officer, one held accountable for what he does and how he does it. That's a tough sentence. Let's see if he's learned his lesson."
"Another good point." Reynolds tapped a few more times. "How's it feel playing God?"
"Usually pretty bad. Most decisions are harder than that one."
"Right, like this next one."
"Ah, hell," Stark groaned. "Now what?"
"We've got about twenty officers who've been stalling being exchanged. Not one big group, just a lot of individuals and a couple twosomes or threesomes. Now they say they want to stay up here."
"Huh? Why?"
"So they can be officers. In our division. They're all junior officers, of course, mostly Lieutenants with a few Captains."
Stark stared at Reynolds, shaking his head at the same time. "Never expected that. Sure, I've met a few decent officers, but . . ."
"So what do we do? Send them back anyway?"
"I don't . . . no. We can use good officers. People with training. But how can we be sure they mean it?"
"We could take their words for it," Vic suggested. "But then we haven't had a lot of luck with doing that in the past, have we?"
"No." Stark raised a palm, brow furrowed in thought, to forestall Reynolds before she continued. "That's probably it."
"What's probably it?"
"The past. We know how these volunteer officers treated their people in the past, right? We just ask their units. If they were decent officers when every rule of the game said they didn't have to be, that's a good sign they might be sincere."
"An excellent suggestion, Sergeant Stark. Hmmm."
"Hmmm? Hmmm what?"
"One of the officers who wants to stay. Her name's Conroy."
"Conroy? Our Conroy?"
"Looks like it. Yeah. Her record shows she commanded us at one point."
"I haven't seen her since she led our platoon on that blasted raid."
"Uh-huh. The one you got to play rearguard hero on."
Reynolds ostentatiously ignored Stark's scowl. "And the one Lieutenant Conroy got fired for."
"She got fired for leading you guys back to get me, right?"
"Yup. I thought they'd sent her home, but I guess she got parked in a warm-body job up here."
Stark closed his eyes, remembering lying alone under a barrage of fire while he covered the platoon's retreat, wondering if any friendly reinforcements would arrive in time to help him; seeing figures flit forward in a red haze of memory, shooting at him as they came. "I guess the Generals figured it'd be a worse punishment to make her stay on this lifeless hunk of rock."
"So," Vic asked quietly, "does she stay a little longer?"
"I'd sure as hell think so. Check her out, though, with the people she's been working with lately."
"Don't even trust Conroy, huh? Not that I disagree."
"Vic," Stark declared heavily, "I haven't trusted any officers for so long I don't know how it feels. I'd like to change that, but it's gonna take awhile." He fell silent.
Reynolds glanced at Stark, sitting slumped in his chair, staring morosely at the far wall. "What's the problem, Ethan?"
"I got a million problems, Vic."
"I know. We just talked about two of them. What's the one that's got you so down right now?"
He thought a moment, face puzzled. "I'm surrounded by soldiers, Vic. How come I feel like I'm isolated?"
"Ah." She nodded wearily, placing her palmtop to one side. "Because you are isolated. Everything we do is about running this situation. There hasn't been time for just shooting the bull, except between you and me and a few other guys we see fairly often."
"Yeah. That's it, ain't it?" Stark sat up suddenly, face determined. "I still want to get with Lieutenant Mendoza. And when's the last time I talked to Mendo, or Corporal Gomez or anybody from my old Squad? Let's set some time aside, Vic."
"We haven't got time to set aside."
"We'll make some. How about having a dinner here at headquarters and then just relaxing awhile afterwards with those apes?"
Reynolds grimaced, then smiled softly. "That might be a real good thing. I'll get an invite list put together. You want Stein on it?"
"Stein? No."
She raised both eyebrows. "I thought he wanted to spend time with you. The whole hero-worship nine yards."
"Yeah."
"What's the problem? Can't handle an admiring puppy?"
"That's not it." Stark frowned, his gaze fixed on the floor as if the surface held some sort of intriguing but confusing picture. "Kate Stein died a long time ago, Vic. No matter how much that damn battle on Patterson's Knoll torments me, I know she's gone. But here's her brother all the sudden, and every time I look at his face or watch him do somethin', he reminds me of her. It don't feel right. The dead oughta stay buried."
"Yes," she agreed gently, "they should. I can send Grant Stein to some assignment where he'll be out of sight and unable to visit here."
"No. Why punish him 'cause I can't handle this? But I don't need a ghost sittin' there at the table when I'm try in' to unwind. Verdad?"
"Verdad. Comprendo." Vic stood up, reaching for Stark's hand. "Come on, soldier. Let's get out of this gilded cage and hang out with some people."
"Sounds good. Don't forget about that dinner."
"I won't. But it'll take a few days to set up."
"A few days? When's that third shuttle exchange scheduled for?"
Vic winced, then checked her palmtop. "Cheryl says one week from today."
"Cheryl? You mean Sarafina?"
"Who else would I mean?"
Stark grinned wickedly. "On a first-name basis, huh? You friends with a civ, Vic?"
She feigned indignation. "Ms. Sarafina has rendered us a great deal of assistance."
"Can't argue with that," Stark agreed, still grinning. "I'll be glad to get rid of the last of the officers and the Third Division types who didn't want to join with us. One more week? Can't think of anything that might screw up the exchange between now and then."
"Stark! Commander Stark!"
He halted in midstride, unable to miss the urgency in the call. Guess that late lunch I was heading for is gonna be a little later. "Here. That you, Jill?"
"Yes," Sergeant Tanaka agreed hurriedly. "Yes, sir. Got a real mess. We need you in the Command Center fast."
"What is it?" Stark had begun moving again even as he asked the question, threading through startled groups of soldiers. "Another attack?"
"No. I don't think so. It's the Navy."
"The Navy?" Warships had guarded the Colony since its founding, tangling with enemy warships, trying to blockade other colonies and the enemy armed forces. Since Stark's troops had rebelled, the Navy ships had blockaded the Colony instead, though at a distance rendered respectful by the Colony's surface defenses. "They're not attacking?"
"I don't think so. I don't know."
"Is Reynolds there?"
"No. I'll call her right now."
Stark accelerated a little more, trying to look urgent, but not worried, as other soldiers watched him pass. Okay, so your boss has to get somewhere fast, but that's nothing to worry about. Right? He took the time to look up and smile briefly at several soldiers, earning grins and salutes in return. When I was a squad commander I only had to worry about keeping twelve guys calm. Now I gotta worry about thousands. It's like living in a fish bowl almost full-time. For the first time, he realized just how seductively attractive the restricted access of the headquarters complex could be. It would be easier if these guys couldn't see me, except when I felt like it. But usually something that looks easier is also wrong. I want these apes to see me, and I wanta see them, and so what if it makes my job a little tougher? It's still my job.
Inside headquarters, he walked down corridors growing grander with every step until he confronted the wood-paneled access to the Command Center. Inside, the watch standers twisted in their chairs to eye him with confusion and worry. On the main display, which normally portrayed a section of the front on the lunar surface, a weird image twisted in 3-D. Its glowing symbology moved in patterns with no reference to the ground, intertwining and spinning like fireflies in a vast empty arena instead of following the flow of terrain. As the display shifted slightly to follow the action, a huge arc appeared to one side, glowing with hazard markers and threat symbols.
Stark eyed the display suspiciously. "What the hell is this?"
Tanaka ran a pointer around the display, highlighting different symbols. "These are Navy warships. Our Navy. The size of the symbology is tied to the size of the ship."
"So big symbol means big ship."
"Right."
"What's the real big thing?"
"That? Us. The Moon."
Suddenly things made a sort of sense. Stark tried to recall the approach to the Moon during the period before the first assault, long ago now, but still vivid in the way unique memories remain. Yeah. We were out there in the troopship, and the Moon looked like that when we started getting close. "What's going on?"
"There's a group of ships calling us. These two, over here."
Stark squinted. "They're being shot at."
"Right again. Shot at by this bigger group of warships."
"Why is one group of Navy ships being shot at by another group of Navy warships? Vic," he called as she entered, blinking away the effects of an afternoon catnap, "you understand this Navy stuff?"
"Hell, no. Do I look like a damn sailor?" She studied the unfamiliar symbology distrustfully. "Why are those ships shooting at each other?"
"I dunno. Neither does Tanaka. They're trying to call us, though."
"Then answer up! Aren't you the guy who wants to understand what's going on?"
"Yeah, but. . ." Stark waved toward the display. "I don't get this Navy stuff. There's no front and no rear."
"And no up or down. I know. It's weird."
Tanaka raised an urgent hand. "They're calling again, and they insist on talking to you, Commander Stark."
"They know me by name?"
Sergeant Tanaka flushed slightly. "I informed them you were in command when they asked."
"That's okay. It ain't a secret. I just wanted to know where they heard it. Okay. Link me in." The vid flickered once, then steadied into a view of a woman inside a room that shuddered and moved. She focused on Stark.
"You Stark?"
"Yeah." Enlisted, obviously, though Stark couldn't see any rank markings from this angle. "Who're you?"
"Chief Petty Officer Wiseman. Alex Wiseman. No jokes about the name, okay? We need your help." The room around her jerked suddenly, triggering a cascade of alarms.
"We?" Stark tried to concentrate over the unfamiliar scene and events. "Who's we?"
"Enlisted on these two ships. We got the Subic Bay and the Guantanamo Bay"
"Whatdayya mean you got 'em?"
Wiseman glared angrily, her expression changing to worry as another series of shudders yanked around the sailors to the cries of more alarms. "This is the Subic Bay. We took it over. The enlisted on the Guantanamo Bay did the same. Right now, the other ships out here are attacking us, and we're trying to defend ourselves without shooting back."
"Don't look like that's working very well."
"No, it's not. We need protection. Can you give it to us?"
"Vic?" Stark wondered. "Can we?"
"I doubt it," she came back.
Wiseman glared again. "You got real strong surface defenses. If we can get inside the range of those, the other ships won't be able to come after us."
"Commander Stark!" Tanaka seemed to be whispering in his ear, but from Wiseman's lack of reaction she couldn't hear this transmission. "If we let those ships inside our defenses they could do a huge amount of damage before we took them out."
Wiseman fidgeted, snapping a command unheard by the soldiers before turning back to address them. "We're taking hits. Nothing critical so far, but I haven't got a lot of time, here. You mud-crawlers gonna help us or not?"
"How do we know you're for real?" Stark demanded. "How do we know this isn't a trick so your ships can get in close and then open up on us?"
"Can't you tell we're in real combat?" Wiseman shouted.
"No. I see your room shaking. I hear alarms. I don't understand any of it. I'm a ground soldier."
Wiseman stared, then nodded rapidly, holding up her hands. "Okay, okay, I understand. I'm on the Bridge. The, uh, Command Center for the ship. We're maneuvering to avoid weapons being fired at us. Torpedoes. That's some of the shaking. Some of the torpedoes are getting too close for comfort when they explode. That's other shaking and the alarms."
"You could fake that."
"Yeah." Wiseman looked down for a moment, then over to the side as someone shouted a suggestion. "Hey, that's right. I'm opening my ship's systems to you. Take a look. You'll see we're taking real damage."
Tanaka's voice whispered in Stark's ear again. "If they open their systems to us we can take them over."
"So they either trust us or they're desperate," Stark noted back over the same private channel. "Do it. Whatdayya see?"
"Just a min . . . yeah. Got some systems down. Looks real to me."
"Okay." Stark focused back on Chief Wiseman, sitting tensely as her figure rocked to the ship's movement and the hammer blows of torpedoes. "What happened? Just tell me quick why you're being shot at."
"Because of you, I guess! We don't know much about the situation down there. Something about you enlisted taking charge. All the senior enlisted on the ships have been locked down for weeks. No explanation, but we figured the officers on our ships were worried about mutiny."
"Sounds like they knew what they were doing."
"I guess they had to be right once. But nothing probably would have happened if they hadn't tried to do our jobs themselves. Anyway, they couldn't run things right. Our Captain finally killed a half-dozen sailors in one of the machinery rooms by giving bonehead orders and causing an explosion. That's when the junior enlisted let us out of lockdown. The officers panicked at that point and tried to break out the small arms, so we locked them down in self-defense. It'll still look like mutiny to any court-martial, though."
"Makes sense," Vic said over her circuit. "Can we let them under our defensive umbrella?"
"How would I know? Does anybody know anything about Navy stuff?" Stark called over the circuit. "Anything?"
"I know enough to say they can't bring those big ships in close," Sergeant Gordasa in Supply offered.
"Huh? How come?"
" 'Cause I know logistics. Navy ships burn a lot of fuel when they're trying to hold a position near the lunar surface. We've had to do emergency refuels a few times out of our stocks. If those big ships try to fix themselves over the Colony, they'll run out of fuel in no time."
"Wiseman." Stark waited until the Chief looked directly at him, her expression grim. "My people say you can't bring those big ships inside our defenses and keep them there. It's a fuel issue."
"Fuel? Damn!" Chief Wiseman slammed her fist against her leg, glaring angrily offscreen. "Damn right you shoulda brought that up before now!" she barked at someone. "Snipes," she muttered. "That's Engineers to you guys. Okay, there's nowhere else to run, so that means we only got two choices. We either fight, or we abandon ship. You guys ready to shoot at other Americans?"
Stark paused, thinking for a moment, even though his instincts had instantly provided the answer. "No. Not if we got any choice at all."
"Didn't think so. Then we leave."
"You got enough, uh, life rafts and stuff?"
Wiseman responded with a tense grin to Stark's stumbling terminology. "We got lifeboats. And armed shuttles. Two on each ship. We'll bring 'em all."
Vic broke in again, this time speaking directly to the Chief. "What about your ships?"
"Guess our former shipmates will blow them into little pieces to make sure we don't put 'em on auto and keep 'em fighting. Good riddance. I won't have to worry about patching together worn-out equipment any longer."
"And your officers?"
"Like I said, locked down."
"So they'll get blown away, too?"
Wiseman smiled humorlessly. "Oh, well."
Stark shook his head. "We don't do business that way. We keep our hands clean."
"I let those officers free, and they'll open fire on the lifeboats!"
"Can't you disable everything? Wreck the ship?"
"Scuttle?" Chief Wiseman glanced sideways, then nodded. "Yeah. We'll set it in motion, then release the officers on our way out and leave them a coupla lifeboats so they can get away. That satisfy your tender little heart, mud-crawler?"
"Yeah, squid." Another alarm began sounding behind Wiseman, squawking with belligerent urgency. "Sounds like you better get going."
"For once, I agree with a soldier. I'll call you from a shuttle."
"Roger." Stark broke the connection, focusing back on the symbols looping over the huge arc of lunar surface. It made a little more sense now, the smallest threat symbols obviously representing the torpedoes battering the two ships. "How'd they survive so long? They're outnumbered six-to-one."
"At a guess?" Vic offered. "The other ships are being fought with their senior enlisted still locked down, and the officers can't do the job very well without them."
"That's right," Tanaka nodded. "But you've got another problem now, Commander."
"Great. Now what?"
"Those armed shuttles. They've got some serious weapons, since they're designed for things like commerce raiding and supporting their mother ship in combat. Are we going to let them land on our spaceport?"
"Have we got a choice?"
"What happens if they start shooting? It could still be a trick."
Stark watched the display wordlessly, then pointed as one of the large symbols glowed with sudden critical damage markers, before being replaced by a grim image indicating destruction. "They just blew up a ship. That's a damn expensive trick."
"There goes the other," Vic added. "Did the lifeboats and shuttles get away?"
"Yeah," one of the watch-standers piped up. "See those things?" A cluster of bright symbols swam out from the markers designating the deaths of two ships. "Lifeboats are made to show up real easy on scans."
"They're trying to get away in somethin' that's easy to see?" Stark asked, appalled.
"You're not supposed to shoot at life rafts," the watch-stander added worriedly.
"You're not supposed to shoot at your own ships, either," Vic pointed out. "Can they get to us safe?"
"I think so." Several symbols were suddenly highlighted. "Maybe not. These ships are heading after them."
"Are they trying to catch 'em or kill 'em?" Stark wondered aloud.
"Can't tell. Not until they get within weapons range."
"Torpedoes, you mean? Anybody know what the difference is between a missile and a torpedo?"
"They're pretty much the same thing," another watch-stander advised, "but aircraft or ground installations fire missiles while space warships fire torpedoes."
"What? Why?"
"I dunno, Commander. It's a Navy thing."
Stark glared over at Vic. "With all my other problems, now I gotta try to understand how the Navy thinks."
"Don't ask me. I've never figured them out."
"But we have to let those lifeboats come down. They're counting on us."
"No argument here." Vic favored Stark with a sidelong look. "But, what about the shuttles? Are you going to let them come down, too?"
"Damn, Vic, what the hell else can I do?" He waved wordlessly at the display, where a half-dozen large symbols lunged after the lifeboats and their escorting shuttles. More symbology flashed to life, tracing the paths of defensive weaponry fired by the shuttles to slow their pursuers, seeding a temporary minefield to drift far above as the Moon turned below it. "Mines?" Stark asked, recognizing the threat symbols by their similarity to those used for land mines. "How long do those space mines last?" Blank looks met his question.
"It can't be long," Vic noted. "They'd drift right into commercial space in no time."
"Variable lifespan," Tanaka shouted from a terminal as her fingers danced over the tactical database screen. "Maximum thirty minutes."
"Not long," Stark muttered. "But those other ships are almost into them. Wait. What're they doing?"
Symbology flared, marking short-range fire from the Navy ships as they targeted the minefield. Mines burst into premature death as the Navy ships braked short of the minefield to give them time to blast a channel through the threat area. "I guess those ships could track our own mines, but that still bought the lifeboats some time," Vic approved.
"Not enough time," Tanaka announced grimly. "Here's the projected intercept plot." Long arcs curved across the display suddenly. "You see? Those big ships have a lot more mass than the shuttles, but they've got much bigger drives to push it all, and the lifeboats don't look like they're designed for speed. It'll be close. Real close."
"The lifeboats will get clear," Vic stated firmly. "I can read a tactical plot, and that one says they've got enough time to get under our defenses."
"Yeah," Stark agreed, "but those shuttles are behind the lifeboats, protecting them, and they're gonna have big ships right on their tails when they get near us. I've got to worry about them."
"You've got the entire Colony to worry about."
"I know that! What if I tell the shuttles not to land and they try anyway? I can't shoot my own people!"
"Sometimes you have to. To save the rest."
Stark froze at the cold words, his eyes involuntarily shifting to stare at the Silver Star ribbon on Vic's left breast. She knows. She shot a Lieutenant to save the rest of her platoon. No other way. Is this the same thing? "Vic, we owe these guys."
"I know they've kept the route to the Colony open—"
"That's not what I mean. Remember when the enemy counter invaded? Way back at the beginning of this mess?" New stars blossoming in the endless black above the still-unfamiliar lunar terrain. Fearful soldiers staring upward, knowing the Navy was buying them all the time it could. "They held off the invasion force long enough for us to set up defenses. If those sailors hadn't stood and fought and died, we'd have been creamed down here. We owe them, Vic."
Momentary silence, then a single nod. "We do. How do we pay a past debt without endangering present responsibilities?"
Stark glowered at the display, thoughts running through his mind. Let 'em come down and the hell with risks? Or leave 'em out there to die? No! That's not gonna happen. Not as long as I'm in charge. Why don't I have another option?
"Commander?" Sergeant Tanaka asked urgently.
"Yeah, Jill."
"I've got the head civ on the line. Campbell. He says it's real urgent and sounds real unhappy."
"Welcome to the party. Put 'im on."
Campbell stared out of the vid display, face almost frantic. "Sergeant Stark, my people at the spaceport say there's a space battle going on near the Colony."
"I know that." Stark spoke evenly, trying to calm the civilian as he would a panicky Private. "There's some kind of trouble on a couple of Navy ships. Their crews are heading for the spaceport."
"Trouble?" Campbell didn't seem the least bit reassured by Stark's demeanor. "You mean mutiny? Dear God. And they're coming here?"
"That's right." Stark glanced at the display to one side of Campbell's image. "Mostly in lifeboats."
"Sergeant, this is a very serious escalation of events. If the authorities think we are actively trying to export some sort of revolution they'll—"
"I can't help what anybody thinks. I'm just dealing with this situation."
"Letting those lifeboats land here could have serious implications for the agreements on exchange of your families for the officers. And a Naval battle involving our own ships right over the Colony will greatly increase the threat to everyone here. You can't permit it."
Stark kept his face rigid, though he felt his jaw tightening in anger. "Don't tell me I can't help people who need help."
"The Colony—"
Can go to hell. "Don't push me, Campbell! I'm dealing with a big problem here, but I'm not leaving anyone outside the perimeter just to make my life easier."
Campbell stopped speaking, his face that of a man who'd run into a brick wall that had come out of nowhere, then tried again, voice pleading. "Sergeant Stark, please—"
On the display, weapons flew, symbols tracking out from the pursuing Navy ships toward the shuttles and their herd of lifeboats. Counterfire flared in return as the shuttles spat out their own barrage of defensive munitions aimed at the other weapons. "I don't have time for this," Stark interrupted bluntly. "I'll notify you when the crisis is over." He broke the connection, glaring toward Reynolds. "Just what I needed right now."
"Don't expect me to comment on the civs. But we've only got about five minutes left before those shuttles get close enough to threaten us."
"Damn." This wouldn't be a problem if those blasted shuttles weren't armed. Wish I could frag their . . . "Hey, Tanaka."
"Yessir."
"Those Navy ships opened their systems to you. Could you disable their weapons when they do that?"
"Uh, yes, Commander," she affirmed after a hasty glance toward another watch-stander, who was nodding repeatedly. "We're set up to remotely control any weapon system in any unit from here."
"Get ahold of those shuttles. Tell 'em we're taking control of their weapon systems and shutting them down before they enter our defensive umbrella."
"What if they don't agree?"
"Then they don't get in. No negotiating."
It was quiet for a while then, as they watched the symbols arc gracefully through space. The bright swarm of lifeboats was herded by four bulkier symbols representing the shuttles, their offensive and defensive weapons clashing in an insect ballet of multicolored symbology. Tanaka's voice in the background spoke urgently. "Commander?"
"Yeah."
"Wiseman doesn't want to do it. She says those hostile ships are too close, and they might nail her if her weapons aren't working."
"Hand me the circuit. Chief Wiseman?"
"Give us a break, Stark! We're fighting a damn battle up here, and you want to take away our weapons!"
"I'm giving you a break. I'm letting you inside our defenses. But I'm not letting you inside unless your weapons are disabled from here."
"What if we get blown away because of that? Huh? I'm telling you, we may well get killed if you insist on this."
Stark's eyes shifted away from the symbology, staring into a dark corner of the Command Center, remembering black shadows on the lunar surface and the brilliant white light around them. Black and white. Like life and death. Separate. Somehow intertwined. There's a gun pit you've got to take out. Who do you send to die so the other members of the squad don't? Simple math. One is less than three or four. But the math never made the decisions easy, and they never got any easier. "Chief Wiseman. I've got thousands of people depending on me. That's my first priority. Right now, you're second. I can't change that."
A moment's silence, then Wiseman came back, voice deflated. "Yeah. You got your wish, ground ape. Take over our weapons when you think you need to. Just leave them to us as long as possible, okay?"
"We'll do our best."
"If I make it down, you owe me a beer."
"I'll be happy to pay off that bet." Stark felt Vic's hand on his shoulder, a firm squeeze that transmitted reassurance and approval before dropping away. He fought down a shudder, maintaining an impassive stance as the fleeing vessels drew closer to the Colony's surface defenses, and the pursuing ships closed on the mutineers. "Have the anti-orbital defenses been told what's going on?"
"Yes, sir," Tanaka confirmed. "They don't want to shoot, though."
"I don't blame 'em. But I bet some warning shots will do the job. Tell them to let loose before the Navy ships really get within range. If we're lucky, that'll scare 'em off before things get any worse."
"Got it. Systems are estimating we're getting within range of the shuttle weapons about now."
"Take 'em over. Shut 'em down."
"Yes, sir. Shutting down now."
He'd never had to do that before. Take weapons away from someone being shot at. There'd always been a way to work the system, avoid leaving someone with their butts hanging out. I gotta plan better. I need to look ahead so I know how to handle this stuff without getting my options blocked. "You still got vid from Wiseman's shuttle?"
"Uh, negative. The Navy ships are close enough to jam comms now."
"Use the command overpower, then."
Tanaka shook her head. "Those ships are big enough to carry real powerful electronic warfare gear. When they're jamming at that close a range, we can't punch through it."
"Do we still have control of the shuttle weapons?" Vic snapped.
"It doesn't matter," Tanaka insisted. "We finished shutting them down before we lost contact. They can't reactivate without overriding the command system watchdogs."
"Which we know how to do on our systems," Vic reminded her. "Ethan, those shuttle weapons might be hot again."
"Yeah." Watching the lifeboats falling toward the spaceport. Watching threat symbology climbing past them as the Colony surface defenses slammed warning shots at the big Navy ships. Watching the shuttles desperately evading fire from the big ships.
"Ethan?"
"Let 'em land." Closer now, everything closer. The big ships snapping at the heels of the shuttles. Another volley from the Colony batteries. A shuttle symbol flickered amid the swarm of threat symbology, hazing out. "Did we lose one?"
"We can't tell," Tanaka reported. "Too much jamming, too much junk from all the weaponry. We might have just lost track of it."
The three remaining shuttles seemed to halt their downward path, as if preparing to go to the defense of their fellow shuttle. We're gonna lose them all. Damn. I blew it. Sorry, Chief Wiseman.
"The fourth shuttle's still there!" a watch-stander sang out. The symbol reappeared, flashing damage status. The other shuttles rallied around it, then dropped toward the lunar surface. Above, the big ships fell back, maneuvering drives pushing them onto new courses, curving out, back into empty space where the Colony defenses couldn't reach. It took a moment for it all to sink in, the sudden lack of threat warnings, the strangely peaceful trajectories of the shuttles falling toward the lunar surface.
"It's over?" Vic questioned, incredulous. "The battle's over?"
"Looks like it." Stark exhaled, suddenly aware he hadn't been breathing. He scanned the display again, searching for the scattered exchanges of fire that would have been part of the slow wind down of a land battle. "I guess Navy battles are neater than ground fighting."
"They look neater, anyway."
"Stark?" Wiseman's voice was ragged with audible relief. "You owe me more than a damn beer."
Stark glanced at Tanaka. "We got comms again. Their weapon systems still cold?"
She consulted her display, then looked up in surprise. "Yessir. It doesn't look like they even tried to reactivate them."
Stark took a moment to flash a told-you-so look at Vic, who nodded back in exaggerated agreement. "Welcome to the Moon, Chief Wiseman. Park your shuttles where the spaceport authorities direct." A sudden focus on damage markers near the shuttle symbology. "Do you have any wounded?"
"A few. We're mostly just banged up from being tossed around, but some took heavier hits."
"We'll have medics on the way." Stark looked toward Tanaka, who nodded and turned to her console to pass on the orders. "Are you in charge, Chief Wiseman? Of all the sailors comin' down?"
"Uh, I guess so."
"I need that for sure. I also need to be sure you can maintain discipline."
"If any sailors get out of line, one of the Chiefs will bounce them off a bulkhead."
"Good. I'll be at the spaceport soon to meet you. Keep your people there until then. We'll work out barracks assignments as quick as we can."
"Okay. See you in a while. Wiseman, out."
Stark hung his head a moment, leaning on his console with both arms rigid, letting the tension drain from him. "Vic, make sure we have enough troops on hand at the spaceport to handle anything."
"You mean combat troops?"
"Yeah. There might still be trouble. Maybe these sailors won't want to accept my authority. Maybe they'll be ready to riot. Whatever it is, I want people there to keep a lid on things."
"You got it." Reynolds laughed suddenly. "Well, Ethan Stark, congratulations. You had an Army, and now you have a Navy."
"A Navy. Great. Want to be an admiral?"
"No, thanks. I don't look good in blue." She saluted briskly. "I'll take charge at the spaceport. The ready reserve company in that sector ought to be enough to handle anything the sailors might try."
"I said I'd be there."
Vic pointed an unyielding finger at Stark's chest. "You are too damn important to be on-scene when some crazy sailor might decide to blow his shuttle to hell and take half the spaceport with it."
He stared back stubbornly. "I oughta be there."
"So you don't trust me?"
"Of course I do." And trusting subordinates to do their jobs is part of leading them right, isn't it? I can't be everywhere. I shouldn't have to be. "You're right. I'll try to make Campbell feel better while you deal with the sailors."
She grinned. "I think I've got the easier job."
"You do." Stark grimaced. "I handled that wrong."
"What do you mean? He was a civ sticking his nose into mil business. You told him to butt out. What's the problem?"
He brooded over the question a moment, oblivious to the multicolored displays and the chatter of relieved watch-standers around him. "It's not right. Don't ask me why right now. I gotta think. But it wasn't right. You get going while I apologize."
"Apologize?" Vic looked disbelieving, then shrugged. "Ethan Stark apologizing? Hell must have just frozen over again. Have fun."
"Yeah." Stark punched in a code as Reynolds hurried out, waiting just a moment until the reply came. "Mr. Campbell? I'm sorry. It was a very tense situation with a lot going on, but I shouldn't have blown you off."
"Sergeant?" The shift in Stark's tone had obviously confused the Colony Manager.
"I'm sorry I didn't acknowledge your concerns," Stark stated in formal tones. "The space battle is over. We've got a bunch of lifeboats and four shuttles, all full of sailors, coming in to land at the spaceport. I'll have troops on hand to keep things under control."
"What happened to their ships?"
"Blown up. By the sailors and by the other ships out there."
Campbell rubbed his forehead with both hands, looking weary. "The government is going to be very unhappy. Warships are extremely expensive, and the implication that your revolt may be spreading to the fleet—"
"I didn't have anything to do with it. They didn't even know who I was until they talked to me."
"You'll never convince the authorities of that, Sergeant Stark." Campbell shook his head slowly. "You're sure it's over?"
"There's no shooting going on, and the big Navy ships have pulled back to their long-range blockade positions again. As far as I can tell, it's over."
"I'll have Ms. Sarafina contact the government negotiators. She's the one you ought to apologize to, Sergeant Stark. She's going to catch hell, and it's going to take everything she's got to get the next personnel exchange to take place as scheduled. Don't be surprised if the government says no way."
"I'll be surprised," Stark stated calmly. "Mr. Campbell, there's a whole lot I don't know about things back home right now, but one thing I do know; the government needs those Third Division soldiers back and they need them back bad. They're trigger-pullers. Frontline combat troops. And right now there's an awful shortage of those in the U.S. military. I guarantee it."
Campbell's eyes narrowed, then he nodded. "I see. I'll make sure Ms. Sarafina is aware of that. Thank you, Sergeant. We'll have to work out better procedures for future crises."
"No argument here." Stark glanced over at the display again. "The shuttles and lifeboats are coming in. I've got to monitor that."
"I understand. We'll talk later."
Stark broke the connection to Campbell, watching impatiently as the refugee spacecraft dropped toward the Colony spaceport, the lifeboats falling long and fast before their braking drives jerked them into rapid deceleration and abrupt landings. The shuttles followed at a more sedate pace, using their greater fuel reserves to brake in a relatively gentle fashion as they fell toward the Moon. Stark triggered remote vid feed from Vic's battle armor, scanning past her HUD symbology to the visual picture of the spaceport. The blunt shapes of lifeboats lay scattered around, their simple shells unadorned by weapons or sophisticated sensors. Just big trash cans, I guess, good for getting sailors back on a planet in one piece and not much else. As Stark watched, the shuttles came down, spaced to avoid the lifeboats, their landing drives kicking up thin clouds of the fine dust, which could never be kept completely off the landing field.
Stark checked the symbology on his headquarters display, matching it to the visual picture from Vic's battle armor. She had dispersed the available company of infantry into three platoon-size blocks around the edge of the area where the lifeboats and shuttles had come to rest. "Vic, you coulda covered more area if you'd broken those guys into squads."
"I know that, but I want to stop trouble before it starts, and a platoon is a lot more visually intimidating than a squad. Right?"
He studied one platoon, three rows of menacing figures, impassive in their battle armor as so many figures on a chessboard, rifles held at port arms. "Right."
"I know how to do this, Ethan." The words were stated in unemotional tones, but Stark still felt the implied rebuke.
"Okay. Sorry. I'll try to keep my mouth shut."
"That'll be the day." Switching circuits, Reynolds called the Navy personnel as Stark listened in. "Chief Wiseman? Go ahead and exit your vehicles."
"Vehicles?" Wiseman asked sarcastically. "Okay, ground ape. I'll tell the guys in the lifeboats to debark first." A few moments later large hatches dropped open on the sides of the lifeboats, the weak lunar gravity offering only a feeble assist to the process. Sailors spilled out, most in their own shipboard battle equipment, but a few sailors were carried out, sealed into clear survival bags. Staring at the formations of ready ground troops, the clusters of sailors hesitated outside their boats. "Get those sailors into formation," Wiseman ordered over the common command circuit. Figures moved, other Chiefs standing separate to bark commands and gesture sailors into ragged ranks.
"Oh, God," some soldier commented. "I hope those sailors ain't gonna try to march. That ought to be good for some laughs."
"Knock it off," Stark ordered. "Those sailors just fought a battle against tough odds and came through. They deserve their pride and our respect. Keep your jokes to yourselves."
"Get the medics forward," Reynolds commanded.
Two APCs rose at her command, gliding forward toward the startled sailors, who watched with obvious nervousness as the armored shells of the ambulances came to rest near them. Medics spilled out, heading for the bagged wounded, throwing the sailors' formations into greater disarray. Chiefs could be seen gesturing angrily toward them, bringing an involuntary smile to Stark's lips. I know exactly what they're saying to their people, and I'm sorta glad I can't hear it.
"Chief Wiseman," Vic called again. "You can exit the shuttles at any time."
Stark caught an undertone of tension in her voice, something no one else would have detected. She's still worried about those shuttle weapons. Or maybe she's just afraid some sailor will push the wrong button and level half the spaceport. "We still have control of the weapons from here, Vic."
"Thanks, Ethan."
Chief Wiseman came on once more, her voice carrying some of the fatigue she had to be feeling after recent events. "I'll be out in a minute. We gotta secure the shuttles."
"We handle security at the spaceport," Vic insisted. "Or is there some sort of internal threat you're worried about?"
"Internal threat?" Wiseman didn't bother to disguise her annoyance. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"You said you're securing the shuttles. That means you think there's a threat."
"No, it doesn't."
"Then why," Vic questioned, grinding out the words, "are you worried about security?"
"We're not! We're just securing the shuttles!"
"Wait a minute," Stark broke in. "Chief Wiseman, what do you mean when you say you're securing the shuttles? What exactly are you doing?"
"Turning off the lights. Powering down systems. Closing hatches. What the hell else would it mean?"
Vic made a strangling sound, then spoke in carefully controlled tones. "Securing something means establishing a perimeter and posting guards."
"Maybe it does to you," Wiseman shot back, "but that's not what it means to me. I guess it just figures the ground forces have a totally different meaning for what securing involves."
Vic shifted to a private circuit with Stark. "How are we supposed to work with these people? They don't speak the same language we do. The words sound the same, but they don't mean the same things."
"Everybody's got their own special lingo," Stark argued. "Even in the mil. Go talk to Gordasa about supply stuff. Or talk to a lawyer."
"No thanks. I have enough problems at the moment dealing with Wiseman. She rubs me the wrong way."
"Gee, Vic, I hadn't noticed." Stark looked over as Tanaka waved urgently. "What's up?"
"They're trying to shut down the shuttle combat systems, Commander. Should we let them?"
"Absolutely. Vic, the sailors are shutting down their weapons. How's everything feel there?"
"You can see it as well as I can."
"I didn't asked how it looked. I asked how it felt to you."
"Sorry, Commander." Stark could feel Vic's grin. "It feels safe. The sailors are acting a little shell-shocked. We'll break them into smaller groups and get them billeted and fed fast. Sergeant Manley's getting sections of a couple of barracks ready."
"Great. Make sure Manley sends word to those barracks that anybody picking fights with the sailors will get to explain it to me personally." Stark took a calming breath. "Any more crises scheduled for today?"
"Just your dinner party."
"Oh, man . . ."
"Right. I wouldn't hold my breath on that dinner going down."
"Sergeant Stark?"
Stark frowned, looked toward the query, then stood quickly. "Lieutenant Mendoza. What brings you here?" He checked the time, stifling a yawn. "At this hour?"
"I will state my reason simply, Sergeant. I fear your social occasion was cancelled to avoid any appearance of impropriety in dining with an officer."
"What?" Stark's fatigue shifted to aggravation. "Who the hell told you that? Sir?"
"No one stated a reason explicitly . . ."
"That's 'cause they didn't know any reason." Stark shoved his palmtop aside, collapsing back into his chair. "Please have a seat, Lieutenant. Hasn't word of our little Navy problem made its way around yet?"
Lieutenant Mendoza took his own seat gingerly, still moving carefully in the low gravity. "Of course."
"Then people should know that's why I couldn't spend tonight socializing. Wish I could've, but the Navy screwed things up for me. We'll reschedule."
"Then you have no concerns about meeting with an officer?"
"Lieutenant, I never cared much what people thought about what I did before, so I sure ain't gonna start caring now. My apologies for having to cancel, and we will reschedule."
"Thank you, Sergeant."
"But," Stark continued, forestalling Lieutenant Mendoza as he began to rise from his seat, "as long as you're here, there's something I'd like to ask you." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "Your son's a real sharp soldier. He could be a lot more aggressive, but he thinks good and he's dependable."
Lieutenant Mendoza smiled with restrained but obvious pride. "Thank you again, Sergeant."
"No. Thank you. It's been a pleasure to have your son in my unit. And I figure you've got to be sharp, too, but you've also been trained as an officer, with a lot of experience."
"I have spent many years in the field, yes."
Stark hunched forward, speaking with quiet intensity. "Here's the deal. We got rid of our old officers, so now we need a lot of new officers. Good officers. We want to do things right. Promote for the right reasons, train the right way, all that stuff. We know what we don't want; a lot of politicians in uniform just looking to please their bosses by saying and doing whatever they think their bosses will like the most. And to hell with the job and the people they command if they think their bosses want that. Getting what we want means doing things different. I hope you can help us figure out how to do that."
Lieutenant Mendoza nodded once, slowly, his eyes fixed on Stark. "I will be happy to offer suggestions, Sergeant. Like you, I have had much experience with the negative side of the current system." He smiled, brief and bitter. "I still recall the particular document that triggered my decision to retire. The Pentagon issued a directive whose purpose, in these exact words, was to 'enable process improvement in warfare and warfare support.' "
"Process improvement." Stark repeated the words, his voice flat. "In war? They actually said that?"
"I have never been able to forget the phrase, Sergeant."
"Well, Lieutenant, I've gotta tell you, I've been doing a lot of fighting, and I personally haven't noticed a lot of improvements in the process of war in the last few years."
"I am sure your perception is correct. You see, though, that an organization which can speak in such terms has lost sight of its true function and is instead following bureaucratic imperatives focused on 'process' instead of common sense."
Stark shook his head, reaching for the half-forgotten coffee on his desk, then flinched as he drank the cold liquid. "I'd offer you some of this, Lieutenant, but I don't think you'd ever forgive me. So, you're telling me you've seen plenty of the bad stuff, too. Can you show us how to avoid that kind of junk?"
"I can do my best, Sergeant. However, nothing I can do or say will really matter."
"Individuals can make a difference, Lieutenant. It may hurt a lot, but—"
"That was not my point. I am not in command. You are.
Only you can create the results you seek. Many people can alter them for the worse, but only you can push them through."
Stark blew out a long breath, then laughed softly. "I should've expected to hear that. Is there anything I'm not responsible for?"
"A commander must bear responsibility for many things, but few are harder than these matters you discussed. You have heard of von Clausewitz?"
Stark thought a moment. "He's that German that Mendo, excuse me, that your son mentions every now and then."
Lieutenant Mendoza smiled. "I have spent many hours discussing von Clausewitz's work with my son. I am pleased he is sharing that learning with his comrades-in-arms."
"He shares, Lieutenant, but he's pretty careful about it. He doesn't like to talk much. A lot of times I have to drag stuff out of him."
The smile shaded into a mild frown. "That is regrettable, but understandable. I was forced to become more outgoing by my responsibilities as an officer. It appears my son's similar introversion has instead been encouraged by his low rank."
Stark nodded. "I did my best, Lieutenant, but it wasn't my job to remake the personalities of my soldiers. Right? But I want Mendo to speak up more. He's got a good head and knows a lot of theory I never picked up."
"Thank you. I would suggest placing my son in positions where his opinions are required. He will rise to the occasion. As for theories, their value can be overblown, but von Clausewitz has a deserved reputation, in my own opinion."
"So what's he say that applies to me right now?"
"Sergeant, one of the things von Clausewitz proposed is that there are two kinds of courage a good commander must have. The first kind of courage is the type everyone thinks of—the courage of fighting well on the battlefield. The second kind of courage, though, applies off the battlefield. It is the courage to make the right decisions in leadership away from combat, in all the matters of training, equipping, and planning. To make the right decisions and to stick with them despite all the political and bureaucratic forces seeking to corrupt them. This second kind of courage is in many ways more difficult than the first, for decisions must be made and held to without the force of enemy action driving and enforcing them."
"Huh." Stark took another drink, grimaced, and shoved the cold coffee away. "I've got to do that? Since I'm in command, I've got to make everything stick?"
"I am afraid so, Sergeant. There are many ways to fail in command positions. I cannot claim to have been a perfect officer in any sense of the word, and I made my share of mistakes, but I like to believe I did so out of inexperience or lack of knowledge, rather than failure to adhere to higher principles when it mattered."
Stark rubbed his eyes with one hand. "The more I learn about this job, the less I like it."
Lieutenant Mendoza leaned forward slightly, eyes intent. "If you succeeded in everything you desired, it is not impossible that you could reach a higher command position, perhaps even command of a national military."
"Jeez." Stark didn't bother to hide his shiver. "Don't scare me like that. You're supposed to be motivating me, Lieutenant."
"The prospect is truly unwelcome?"
"Damn right. I'd go back to my Squad in a heartbeat."
"Then why don't you?"
Stark looked around helplessly. "I can't. I've got a job to do. There's people depending on me. I can't let them down."
Lieutenant Mendoza rose, nodding with evident satisfaction. "Sergeant Stark, I will do my utmost to aid you. Because I know what you do is right. And because I believe you when you say you neither want this 'job' nor would seek another. If you can hold to that despite the temptations of rank, you will succeed in your effort."
"Thanks." Stark stood in turn, shaking Lieutenant Mendoza's hand as it was extended. "There's so much I've got to straighten out. It's good to know I'll have help like yours."
Lieutenant Mendoza smiled again. "Do not discount the help of your friends, Sergeant. They appear to have aided you well in the past."
"Well, yeah. Hey, I just figured something out. You came here to evaluate me, didn't you? Find out how I was really handling this job?"
"You are correct. I never doubted my son's assessment of you as a squad leader, but many lower-echelon commanders have been overwhelmed by the demands of greater responsibility."
"That I can understand," Stark chuckled. "And it might still happen. Good night, Lieutenant. We both need sleep. And don't worry, I'm gonna have that dinner."
"I no longer doubt that, Sergeant. Good night."
The ground trembled, quivering erratically beneath Stark as enemy shells landed all around the Knoll. Someone nearby had been screaming for a while, suffering from pain too intense for their med-kit's drugs, or maybe their med-kit had simply exhausted its supply. The screaming had that thin, wavering quality that meant the soldier making it didn't have much longer to live. Everything Stark could see seemed to be viewed through a gauzy haze formed of smoke, dust, fear, and exhaustion. They'd been under constant fire and bombardment for hours now. His system buzzed with fluctuating static from heavy jamming, providing no link to however many other soldiers still survived. Over Stark's left shoulder, the sun still hung above the tree line, crawling slowly down the sky, oblivious to the soldiers praying for the partial concealment darkness would offer.
A hollow-eyed figure a few meters from Stark turned her head, shocking him since her extended immobility had convinced Stark she was long since dead. She'd lost her head armor somehow, and blood from a jagged wound along her temple had run down the side of her face to dry in a mottled red mask. Her lips, chapped and torn, moved, forming words that couldn't be heard over the thunder of explosions and the stutter of small arms fire. Stark stared, trying to read the words. Where. Where's. Oh. No. Our. Coming? Commander. Where's our commander? The other soldier shuddered suddenly, then buried her face in the faded green grass, oblivious to the blood spotting it.
Stark's eyes shot open, his breath coming in heavy gusts, sweat spotting his skin. Damn. That was a bad one. Vic might have been wrong when she said I never left Patterson's Knoll, but I sure as hell visit that godforsaken spot every night. Silence reigned in the room, a strange counterpoint to the long-ago explosions he could still hear in his mind. Instead of harsh sunlight, darkness surrounded him, relieved only by the pale glow of the night-light. The air felt cool, tasteless the way only reprocessed lunar air could be.
He frowned, grasping at a fleeting fragment of his dream. The other soldier. She hadn't been there. Not really. Had she? Asking for their commander. No, she would have said Lieutenant, or Captain. Now, he was the commander. Had she been asking him for help? Great. My flippin' subconscious is merging the Knoll with my problems right now. Just what I need. The only thing missing from the dream had been a gaggle of civs looking on and applauding the quality of the entertainment.
But civs hadn't put him on that Knoll. Not directly. And they weren't the ones shooting at him. Real basic stuff. Who's the enemy? Why's that so hard to figure out sometimes?
Stark lay on his bunk, staring upward, imagining the layer of rock above, the thin patina of dust above it, then the airless, empty expanse running away forever, dark and silent. People. We're alone out here, as far as we know, the only minds able to realize we're surrounded by endless nothing. Which should make us important. It should make us want to huddle together like Earth was our campfire, the only real light and warmth in a real big night. But we don't.
He was missing something. By every measure Stark could think of, his soldiers and the civilians of the Colony should be natural allies, working together. Instead, they were usually at each other's throats. So, how come I don't think the civs are out to use us? How come I can talk to them? I've had the same experiences everyone else has in uniform, so it can't be just that. Was growing up civ so much different than growing up mil?
A very long time ago, it seemed, blurred by intervening years and intense experiences since enlisting in the military. Stark tried conjuring up memories. I used to think about going places. Anywhere I wanted. Yeah. Walk out the door, go across town or across the country. No big deal. Did Vic grow up that way? No. Mil kids grew up on Forts and Bases. Walls around them. Gates. You go a lot of places, but they're all on the Fort, and even there are a lot of other places that are off-limits.
He had something there. I think that way now, too, right? The world has fences around it. I live inside the fences. Outside, if I get sent overseas, there's people who're trying to kill me. If I'm at home, people still want me inside the fence. Even the kids, he now realized. Never met one, but we told jokes about them. Saw a few, didn't I? Can't remember, now. But I never talked to one. They were different. Huh. So you grow up thinking everybody outside the fence doesn't want you, and when you're all grown up and go outside on your own they want you even less.
That's it. At least part. Mil grows up inside. Civs don't want them. But what about civs? Hell, my life wasn't perfect. Freedom. Do whatever I want—as long as I have the money to pay for it. Money makes the civ world go around. Got a lot and people listen to you. Don't got a lot, and . . . nothing you do really matters.
He sat up, face unfocused as memories came to life. High school. A teacher, given the thankless task of instructing teenagers on American history and civic responsibilities. Stark remembered, suddenly clear, as if he were sitting in that uncomfortable chair again, bored, almost automatically downloading bits of data into his brain so he could spill it out during the mandatory learning standards exams and then delete it all to make room for the next batch of trivia. Funny how your mind could learn to do that. No wasted effort, and no bother trying to understand the mass of detail they were expected to "learn."
The teacher, his name lost somewhere in the past but his face still clear in Stark's mind, had been sitting at his desk. Like most teachers, his eyes spent most of their time on the display built into the desk, reading out the learning standards for the day. This day he'd suddenly stopped, looking up at his students, who'd taken a few moments to realize that fact, and look up from their own displays where the same data scrolled by.
"What does all this mean?" he'd asked.
A pause while students frantically searched their displays for the answer and came up negative. "Sir?" one of the girls finally ventured. "Where's the answer?"
"Inside you. Or, it should be."
Blank stares, until one of the boys raised his hand. "Do we have to know this if it isn't going to be on the tests?"
The question made the teacher shake his head slowly and sadly. "No. That's rather odd, isn't it? I mean, here I am supposed to be teaching you about civic responsibilities, and yet nothing I teach you really matters unless it matches one of the test questions, does it? I guess that means your civic responsibilities are limited to passing that test, doesn't it?"
Silence, students eyeing one another now. Stark recalled going through the emergency drill in his mind, wondering if the teacher was about to go violent on them.
But the teacher simply stood, looking around pensively. "Now, there's tests and there's tests. Some tests you take on a terminal, punching in whatever answers we've previously spoon-fed you. That way you get a diploma, the school looks good, and we get teaching bonuses. Everybody wins. But there's other tests. Tests of citizenship. Someday, you'll be eligible to vote. How many of you are planning to do that?"
A few hands raised tentatively, bringing a weary smile to the teacher's face. "You see, we teach you all sorts of trivia about something called civic responsibility. But the fact of civic responsibility, the duty of voting, somehow doesn't get taught, does it? Do you know how many of your ancestors died so that you could vote?" He leveled a finger toward one student. "How many of your ancestors died fighting for freedom?"
"Fighting? You, mean, like, in the military?" The student seemed scandalized at the concept. "We're not . . . my family wouldn't do that."
"I'm sure they did, once. Listen to me. All of this information you're supposedly learning means nothing if you don't make use of it. You, what's the difference between someone who doesn't vote and someone who can't vote?"
"Uh, I . . . that's not on the test."
"So why should you know the answer?" the teacher asked rhetorically. "Let me ask this. You will be able to vote when you reach your eighteenth birthdays. It's not very hard. You can do it on-line, from the comfort of your home or office. They've made it very easy to vote, but very few people bother. Why?"
"Why bother?" one of the students had shot back, sparking laughter. "I mean, it don't mean nothing."
"Nothing? The ability to choose the most powerful and influential humans on Earth means nothing?"
Another student piped up. "It's all rigged. Big money chooses the candidates. It doesn't matter what we vote. Everybody knows that."
"Why do you have to vote for those candidates? Why not vote for whoever you think is best instead of letting someone else choose?" The teacher's voice had risen, becoming more agitated. "You, Mr. Stark, do you agree with your classmates?"
"Yeah. I guess so. Why bother voting? I'm not rich, so I'm not important. Politicians don't care what I think, so nothing I'd do would matter."
The teacher's head sagged for a moment, and he spoke softer, so the students had to strain to hear. "If you truly believe that, it has a way of coming true. If you do not try, you can never succeed. No one can take your right to vote away, but you can give it away." When he looked up again, his eyes had been glistening with something Stark and his classmates had been shocked to realize were unshed tears. "You are citizens of the United States of America. What you think and what you do are important! Every one of you can make a difference if you just work at it!"
Neither Stark nor any of his classmates had believed a word of it, of course, sitting silent as the teacher left the room. He'd been back the next day, reading from his display once again, his face and voice a little duller than before.
Wonder why I haven't thought of that since it happened, but remembered it now? But that's what it's all about. And the mil kids never saw that, 'cause growing up they could pretend being isolated was actually being in some special club. He slapped the light on, then keyed his comm unit, waiting impatiently while it buzzed several times before being acknowledged. "Campbell?"
"Yes." Unlike Stark, the civilian Colony leader obviously hadn't been having trouble sleeping. "Who is . . . Sergeant Stark?"
"Yeah. I need to see you and talk about some things."
"We can schedule something in the morning—"
"No. Now. How soon can you be over here?"
"It'll take a lot of time to assemble my assistants at this hour."
"No assistants. Just you and me." Stark paused, reconsidering. "On second thought, there oughta be a larger audience. Bring Sarafina. I'll bring Reynolds."
"What is this about?" Campbell demanded. "Getting along. I'll have an escort meet you at the main entrance to the military area and bring you to my room. Just a nice, low-key, informal get-together." Where I'm gonna rant and rave at everyone present.
"Very well, Sergeant. I'll be there as soon as I can." Less than an hour later, two rumpled civilians sat irritably confronting two rumpled military personnel. Vic appeared torn between annoyance at Stark and disdain for the civilians, though she did greet Sarafina with a thin smile. Stark paced restlessly for a moment longer after the door sealed, then glared at his companions. "Let me say this right off. Neither the civs, the civilians, or the military are angels. Both are screwed up in their own ways." He pointed a finger at Vic as she started to speak. "Wait'll I've had my say. Now, you, Campbell, and you, Sarafina. Deep down, you don't trust us because you don't trust anybody with any power over you. You're looking for our angle. You figure we've got to be planning to screw you, because that's all that's ever happened to you. You know people with power in the civilian world, politicians and corporate types, can be bribed if all else fails, but you don't have the money to do that with us anymore than you did with them. And anyway, military like us don't play by those rules, which is something you don't understand either. And you're scared. You're scared because you don't think you can really manage to do this right because all your lives everybody and everything has told you that you don't matter, that the game's always rigged so you lose. That's been life for little guys in the U.S. of A. for a long time. You got something to say, Campbell?"
The Colony Manager glowered back for a moment. "This is a very difficult, very dangerous situation. It's prudent to be cautious. I might add that in the last several years we've devoted a tremendous amount of effort to gaining better treatment for the Colony."
"Uh-huh. And how much better treatment have you managed to get for the Colony in all that time? Don't get madder, for Christ's sake. You're smart. You're sharp. You just didn't have leverage. Now, you got leverage. Us. The best damn military force on or off Earth. And we can't be bought, unlike just about everything else these days, because if money really mattered to us we wouldn't be doing this job in the first place. But if you keep us at arm's length because you don't think you can really win, then you will lose."
Sarafina's face was a carefully composed mask, but her words carried some acid. "You are saying we suffer from some sort of inferiority complex?"
"Whatever you want to call it. If you don't think you matter, then you don't. I've been there. I remember being a civ, seeing all these great things I could supposedly do, and knowing I was really in a big glass box so I could see all that stuff but never reach it. I knew that, but maybe what I knew was way wrong. Think about it."
Stark turned to Reynolds. "The mil's a little different, but basically we're also sure we're gonna get screwed. We live inside walls and everyone outside the walls is against us. Especially the civs, right? But you know what? We've got something they don't understand. Everybody in the mil figures they make a difference. We figure we're doing something important. It doesn't make any sense because most of the time we're just being used and we know it, but even when we're being used we're still proud of who we are and what we do. We take an oath! Civs don't take oaths, except the politicians and everybody knows how much they believe in their oaths."
Vic eyed him, face as guarded as Sarafina's. "What's your point?"
"The point is that they," Stark pointed at Campbell and his aide, "don't understand that. Don't understand people who believe they make a difference. It scares them to see people devoted to a cause they don't understand, so they're always a little scared of us. Sure, they're scared of our guns, too, but guns are just tools. It's the people who use them that don't make sense to civs. And civs are all stepped on every day by people with big money, or people working for people with big money, so there's nobody else for them to look down on but us. So we get used, for a lot of reasons. But these civs won't use us, Vic, because they need us too bad. We're the only thing that'll ever let them break out of that glass box I talked about. We can blow it into little tiny fragments for them."
"So they need us. Why do we need them?"
"To give us a reason! What's the cause, Vic? Who're we protecting? What's the oath? The mil needs a reason for being, something more than just killing people who want to kill us and trying to stay alive in the process. Otherwise, we're like priests without a religion. We can go through the motions all we want, but none of it means anything and none of it makes sense. The only way we do make sense, the only way we're complete, is if we're part of a whole. Part of them. Maybe it's different in some other countries, but we're American soldiers." He pointed to the civilians. "Unless we're working for them, we got no reason for being."
Reynolds sat silent for a long moment, then quirked a small smile. "I've been trying to figure out our endgame. Our objective. Can't just hold the perimeter for the rest of our lives. We can't set an objective on our own, can we, Ethan? We're not trained for it, we're not supposed to do it, so even when we could do it something holds us back. And I sure miss fighting for 'we the people.' " She looked over Campbell and Sarafina. "It's our job to do what we're told. So, what do you need us to do?"
The civilians stared back, momentarily thrown off-balance.
"You're asking us for instructions?" Campbell finally wondered.
"Not instructions. Orders."
"But . . . you're the ones with all the power. Sergeant Stark is absolutely right about that. You should be giving us orders, just like he did yesterday when that naval battle was going on over the Colony."
"We're mil," Vic explained patiently. "American military. Push us hard enough, and even we'll break eventually, but we won't be happy or proud about it. Ethan Stark is right, something that happens more often than I can account for. We don't give orders to civilians. We don't run the country. We take orders, even orders that don't make much sense. It's not that I trust you, because I don't. I fully expect you to use us for your own purposes. But that's your right. What is it you want us to do?"
Campbell looked baffled. "We don't know what we want, yet."
"We're used to that." Vic looked up and over at Stark. "You got everything mapped out for the civs?"
"No." Stark finally sat, enjoying the sensation. "That's their call. I'm here to give advice."
Sarafina stared at him. "And what is your advice to us?"
"You got a lot of power, now. Use it. Use it smart. There's nothing wrong with the American system. There's a helluva lot right. We just let the wrong people take over running it." Stark canted his head toward Reynolds. "Like voting. Nobody in the mil votes. We figure we're hopelessly outnumbered."
Vic uttered an exaggerated sigh. "Ethan, we are. There aren't very many mil. There's a whole lot of civs. We can't outvote them."
"You don't have to." Stark switched his gaze to Campbell. "How many people vote in elections? Back home?"
"You mean what percentage of eligible voters actually vote?" Campbell questioned. "The average runs between twenty and thirty percent these days."
"Like when I was a kid," Stark confirmed. "Vic, we're not competing with every civ, just those who vote. And it only takes one vote to win."
"That does improve the odds," she admitted. "But, right now, voting is no help. We're felons. If the civs join us, they're felons."
Campbell glared back defiantly. "We have rights, rights which have been trampled for too long. Sergeant Stark, you're a much shrewder man than I had estimated. I promise you, I'll get my advisers in line soon and arrange a vote within the Colony which will hopefully give me a mandate to officially join with you."
"I'll take your word for it," Stark stated, "but I'll be blunt. I don't trust Trasies."
"I know he's been very difficult during our meetings—"
"That's not what this is about. I don't like him, but I can work with people I don't like. Trasies feels wrong to me."
Campbell glanced at Sarafina, who shook her head tiredly. "Sergeant Stark, we have checked repeatedly for any evidence that Chief of Security Trasies has acted against us or against you. We've found nothing."
Vic chuckled. "Did you really expect to find evidence in your files? If Trasies was working against you, the files wouldn't have been kept in the civ systems where anybody could trip over them. They'd have been protected in—" She stopped speaking abruptly, then swore. "They'd be in the military systems someplace."
"Wouldn't we have found them already?" Stark demanded.
"No, no, no. We've got a gazillion files in long-term memory, Ethan. And security documents would be protected by passwords, fake file names, firewalls, and special security compartments. Just finding the damn things would take a special effort, and if you didn't know they were there you'd never think to try looking for them."
"If there's anything there, I'd certainly like to see it," Campbell advised softly. "You realize, of course, any derogatory information would be questioned. Files can be faked."
"We don't have anybody who can—" Vic bridled, then broke off. "Maybe we do," she conceded. "Hell, probably we do. But we won't fake anything."
"You understand people will suggest that anyway."
"Yes, but if we just wanted to fake files to implicate Trasies why wouldn't we have done that right off the bat? Why wait until now?"
"That's true," Sarafina agreed. "And your Sergeant Stark couldn't pull off such a deception, I believe," she added with a smile. "He is not a good liar."
Vic grinned. "Well, we agree on one thing, at least. That and getting our officers sent home."
Private Murphy lay strapped onto a wide bed, well-cushioned despite the low gravity, his right shoulder and side rigidly locked into a gray box with gently blinking lights and bundles of tubes snaking into outlets in the wall. His face, drawn and pale, lit with surprise and happiness as he caught sight of Stark. "Hey, Sarge! I mean, uh, Commander." His words came rapidly, as if from a recording played back too fast, reflecting a metabolism sped up to accelerate healing.
"Knock it off." Stark sat next to Murphy's left side, forcing a smile. "To you I'm still Sarge."
"Thanks, Sarge. How come you're here? You oughta be real busy."
"I'm never too busy for you apes. How you doin', Murph?"
Murphy grinned, swinging his left arm up to indicate the gray box. "Lost my arm, Sarge. Part of the shoulder, too. Guess I earned another Purple Heart, huh?"
"I guess. There's easier ways to do that, Murph." Stark squinted at the readouts, vainly trying to interpret their data. "Everything goin' okay? They growin' it all back? No problems?"
"None they told me about." Murphy's smile grew a little strained. "But, man, I hate the itching."
"Itching?"
"Yeah, Sarge. The stuff they're growing back itches like crazy. Especially the stuff that ain't grown back yet! I told them my thumb was giving me hell and the docs said that thumb still hasn't, uh, regenerated. That's weird, huh?"
"Yeah." Stark took another look at the box. "But you can't scratch. Jeez."
"Nah. They have to dope me up so I can sleep at night.
But I'll be okay, Sarge," Murphy vowed. "I'll be back in the Squad before you know it, good as new."
"That's the idea, Murph. But try not to catch heavy rounds bare-handed next time. I'd hate to lose you."
"Really? Hell, Sarge, I ain't goin' nowhere, not with you and Corporal Gomez looking out for me."
Stark forced another smile. "Neither one of us can work miracles. You just think about getting back in one piece right now. Anything I can do for you?"
"No, I . . . uh, Sarge, okay if I ask you somethin'?"
"Sure, Murph. What's up?"
Murphy fidgeted as much as his restraints would allow, his eyes wandering to the far corners of the room. "Well, Sarge, it's, uh, we've had some women come and visit."
"That's nice."
"Civ women, I mean." Private Murphy, veteran of a hundred battles, blushed. "Sarge, is it okay to, you know, get to know civ women?"
Stark hastily moved to rub his mouth with one hand, hiding his smile. "You want to date a civ, Murph?"
"Yeah. She's really nice, Sarge."
"Nice, huh? What kinda nice? Ginger or Mary Ann?"
"Mary Ann, Sarge."
"Really? A nice, wholesome farm girl type? You always seemed interested in the glamorous movie star Gingers before, Murph."
Murphy grinned. "I guess I was, but this one's really special, you know?"
I know. "Yeah."
"And she really seems interested in me."
"Stranger things have happened."
"Right." Murphy nodded briskly, missing the irony. "But is it okay?"
"Sure it's okay."
Murphy grinned again, this time with relief. "That's great." The smile vanished as quickly as it had come. "Man, how do you treat a civ woman?"
"Come on, Murphy, I know you've had a lot of dates."
"But with mil women, Sarge! You know, other soldiers, or daughters of soldiers. Civ women are different, aren't they?"
"Murphy, I've never understood any of 'em, but civ women and mil women are exactly alike in most ways."
"Even Corporal Gomez? I never—"
"Okay, Corporal Gomez is a little different from your average civ woman. Not that that's a bad thing. You just remember, dating a woman's just like anything else. You get back what you give. If you give 'em a grope session on the first date they're gonna think you're not interested in anything else. Take your time to learn 'em, listen, and talk to 'em, and maybe they'll do the same back."
"Uh-huh." Murphy frowned thoughtfully. "Kinda like learning to shoot, huh, Sarge? You gotta really get the feel for your weapon, how it's gonna react and everything, or you won't get any hits."
Now, that's a helluva analogy. Murphy, dating a civ may be real good for you. "That's right. And remember, you get careless with a weapon or mistreat it, and you're liable to shoot yourself in the foot."
"Right, Sarge. You respect your weapon. I'll do the same with this civ. I promise."
"Never doubted it, Murph." Stark slapped Murphy's visible shoulder lightly. "Take care of yourself, you ape. You're a good soldier."
Murphy blushed again, avoiding Stark's eyes. "Thanks, Sarge. I know I ain't the best."
"You're damn good when you wanna be. I'll be back to check on you." Stark smiled encouragingly as he left. Good kid. Is this what my dad felt like when he talked to me, tried to give advice? Not that I listened. I guess soldiers are old enough to learn listening never hurts and might even help a little.
Stark walked slowly through the corridor of the civilian hospital, its white walls comfortingly similar to those of the military medical complex, until his reverie was interrupted by the buzz of his comm unit. "Stark here."
"Where are you?" Vic Reynolds demanded.
"Civ hospital complex. Visiting Murphy."
"Oh. How's he doing?"
"His missing arm itches."
"Ouch. Listen, you have to be at the civ government complex in half an hour. Don't forget."
Stark frowned, checking his scheduler. "I thought the meeting wasn't for another hour."
"It isn't. I just want to make sure you look decent. I don't want any sailors saying the ground force Commander is a slob."
"I look decent," Stark complained indignantly.
"Sure. You'd say that if you'd spent a week straight in battle armor."
"Is everybody else ready?" Stark questioned. "My whole staff's going to be there, right? If we're going to be dealing with sailors, I want anyone who might know anything about them on hand."
"I can't guarantee knowledge, but the warm bodies will be there. You want anybody besides your staff present?"
"No. Wait." Lieutenant Mendoza? Can't do that, have an officer in the room, even though I think he'd offer some good advice. But the Lieutenant said his son would speak up if he had the responsibility. Okay, then. "Yes. Mendo."
"Private Mendoza? From your old Squad?"
"Yeah. He knows lots of stuff."
"So I hear, but he never volunteers any of it."
"He'll tell me if something important comes up. Make sure he's there."
"You're the boss," Vic acknowledged. "Remember, half an hour."
"Alright, alright. Half an hour."
Chief Petty Officer Wiseman and her newly selected second in command, Chief Gunners Mate Melendez, stared around with prickly defiance at the group Stark had assembled. Stark's staff eyed them back, while the two civilian representatives. City Manager Campbell and his chief aide Cheryl Sarafina, watched both sailors and soldiers with careful neutrality.
Stark reached to shake Wiseman's hand after briefly introducing everyone present. "I guess I ought to formally welcome you to the Moon."
"Thanks. Love what you've done with the place."
"Any questions?"
"Yeah. Where's my beer?" Chief Wiseman grinned at her own joke. "I don't know what your plans are, but we've got four armed shuttles at our disposal. They've all took some damage, one took a lot, but it's nothing we can't fix. What do you need from us?"
Everyone was looking at Stark. He glanced down at the table for a moment before focusing on Chief Wiseman again. "Right now, it's a purely defensive mission. Defending the Colony."
"You gotta run supplies in, don't you?"
"Sure. We're working on that."
"Then you'll need escorts, or at least some way of keeping the big ships off your supply shuttles. We can't fight a pitched battle against ships of the line, but we can complicate a blockade somethin' fierce."
Vic hunched forward, speaking to both Navy representatives. "What about defending the Colony against longer-range Naval threats? Do you have any capability there?"
Wiseman shrugged, looking toward Gunner Melendez. "What kinda threats you talkin' about?"
"Bombardment."
Melendez shook his head scornfully. "Torpedoes can't make it through your defenses. This place is a flippin' fortress."
"I wasn't talking about torpedoes," Vic continued patiently. "I meant big stuff."
"Big stuff?" Wiseman questioned. "They ain't gonna do that. We've got firm orders not to employ Mike Delta Delta's under any circumstances."
The military nodded in understanding while the civilians looked bewildered. "Mike Delta Delta's?" Sarafina questioned.
"MDDs. Mass Destruction Devices," several of the military explained simultaneously.
"How do you know about these orders?" Vic demanded. "That doesn't sound like something that'd be shared with enlisted."
Chief Wiseman grinned. "We weren't supposed to know about it, but the Chiefs' Mess had copies of the messages before the Officers' Wardroom did. You know how it works."
"Yes, I guess we do."
"Wait a minute!" Campbell objected. "What difference would those orders make? None of the Navy ships carry those, uh, MDDs. The Space-Based Armament Treaty prohibits it."
Gunner Melendez uttered a brief laugh. "No, it don't."
"I know that treaty," Campbell insisted, looking to Sarafina for support. "Space-BAT specifically outlaws weapons of mass destruction on orbital or transorbital space vessels. I cannot believe we would blatantly violate that treaty."
"Nah, we ain't violating it," Melendez assured him. "Listen to the gunner. Yeah, that treaty says no orbital or transorbital Earth bombardment weapons allowed, but somewhere in the fine print it defines 'weapons' as stuff with warheads. Nuclear, conventional, whatever. Don't say a damn thing about a hunk of solid metal with a guidance device stuck on the end. Of course, that hunk of metal dropped from orbit can put a good-size hole in the middle of a city, but as far as the treaty's concerned, it ain't a weapon."
"Convenient," Vic noted dryly. "I assume the authorities back home are scared we'll do just that, even though we don't have the warships to drop stuff on Earth even if we wanted to."
"We don't need warships," the gunner noted with a dismissive wave. "Hang a rock on the outside of a shuttle. It'd maneuver like a pig, but you could do it. Or just modify some of your maglev lines here on the surface to lob objects into space, aimed at the Big Blue. Your terminal guidance wouldn't be great, but cities are big targets."
"We're not dropping rocks on cities," Stark objected heatedly. "Not American cities. Not anybody else's."
"I'm not sayin' we should. I'm just pointin' out why the brass don't want to start a pissin' contest with big bombs. Heck, the Moon's already full of craters. Back home, they wouldn't want the same landscapin' job."
Sarafina looked puzzled. "How odd that we would negotiate a treaty with such a large loophole."
"Hey, we wanted to claim the moral high ground and still be able to bomb people, so we came up with a treaty which let us do both. What's odd about that?"
"I still don't understand." Campbell shook his head, eyeing the military representatives. "The authorities on Earth surely want to defeat the military forces up here. Why wouldn't they use any weapon available to them to do that? A massive attack would certainly overwhelm our defenses and prevent us from retaliating."
Private Mendoza, sitting quietly to one side, now looked up, suddenly animated. "A weapon employed must match the objective." His expression shifted to alarm as he realized he had the attention of everyone else in the room. "That is," he continued hesitantly, "there is no sense in the government using weapons which would not be consistent with their goals."
"Which means exactly what?" Stark wondered.
"The principle was set forth by von Clausewitz," Mendo explained.
"That German guy your dad likes?" I gotta read that guy's book.
"Yes. My father often discussed his theories with me. Clausewitz stated that war is a continuation of political policy by other means. So, armed conflict only makes sense if it furthers a political goal."
"Like us trying to take over the whole Moon for the last few years?" Manley suggested.
"Exactly," Mendo agreed, becoming more confident as he spoke. "The goal need not be achievable, but it must be understood. Now, the objective of the authorities in Washington, D.C. is to retake this Colony. If it is simply destroyed, America loses its foothold on the Moon and all efforts to establish a dominant presence here will have been negated. If the defenders, ourselves, are destroyed from long range, the enemy forces besieging us will immediately seize the Colony, thereby achieving the same result."
"And," Campbell added as he nodded, "in either case, the corporations which have invested up here would lose a huge amount of infrastructure and other assets."
"Yes, sir. Which means the only strategy the authorities can follow is to try to retake the Colony with ground forces, or force our surrender under terms which ensure they can immediately reoccupy the Colony."
Vic shook her head, face skeptical. "What if our brilliant former leaders don't do the smart thing? They're not exactly famous for making great decisions."
"It is a question of self-interest," Mendo insisted. "They cannot win by destroying us. The politicians seek to remain in power. Losing the Colony, to us, to the enemy, or to bombardment, would be such a setback that they would certainly lose the next election. They must retake the Colony to get what they want. Nor will the corporations acquiesce to any decision to destroy what they have invested up here."
Campbell nodded again, face thoughtful. "That makes a great deal of sense. Your man is right, Sergeant Stark. I don't know military issues, but I do know politics. The upcoming elections will drive this. The two main political parties need to win those elections, and they need corporate contributions to do so. The only way to achieve both goals is to retake this Colony intact. That does explain why they would rule out the use of certain weapons."
"Politicians lose elections," Manley objected. "What's the big deal if a few go bye-bye this time? They'll just be replaced by a couple more of the same."
"No. If the two main parties are totally discredited by losing this Colony, and they will be I assure you, the winners will be the current secondary parties, which have long claimed the mantle of political reform. The last thing the politicians currently in power want is for someone with a crusading agenda to replace them and overturn all the rocks that their various illegal and immoral arrangements have been hidden under for decades."
Stark suddenly grinned. "Then they're gonna talk to us, right? Not just you civilians, but the mil as well. You and Mendo are telling us the politicians and the corporations back home want this Colony back intact, and they want it bad. So it don't matter if the Pentagon hates our guts, which they must have even before this Navy stuff."
Campbell nodded grimly, looking around the table. "That's true. They'll talk to us. But what exactly are we going to say to them?" He centered his gaze on Stark. "Sergeant Stark, issues of civilian primacy aside, you hold the power up here. Nothing can or will happen unless you agree. What should our goal be? Compromise? Revolution? I don't think anyone here wants to break our ties to the United States, do they? So what is it we're after?"
Stark stared back mutely. What the hell do I say? What do I really want besides a little respect and bosses who think of me as human instead of a piece of hardware? What kind of answer protects the people I'm trying to protect and doesn't betray everything I want to believe in? They're all looking at me. They're all depending on me. What the hell is the right answer?