Stark's Command

by John G. Hemry

  "They really gonna do it?" Bev Manley questioned. "It's like they don't realize what's actually going on."

  "They don't. Maybe it's time they had a reality check."

  The tight groups of official representatives broke into looser conglomerations as they intermingled and debated. Sergeant Reynolds stepped to one side, shutting off the monitor with its accusing picture of the lunar terrain now and forever to be known as Death Valley. A female Major took advantage of the distraction to leave the confines of the official military group, stepping quickly over to Vic to stand before her with a rigid face. "May I help you, Major?" Vic asked with poorly concealed curiosity.

  "I . . . yes, Sergeant. My brother. Captain Kutusov. Peter Kutusov."

  "Kutusov," Vic repeated, hauling out her palm pad. "Second Brigade, Third Division?"

  "Yes." The Major tensed visibly, casting a nervous look toward the brass still engaged in their own conversation. "That area you showed us." Her voice seemed momentarily lost, as if words couldn't form. "That's where his unit attacked?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  "I haven't received any word on him. He hasn't been among the officers repatriated."

  "No." Vic's voice softened, her face impassive but eyes still betraying sympathy. "He won't be. We recovered his body just a couple of weeks ago."

  Major Kutusov couldn't quite hide her flinch. "I see."

  Vic consulted her readout. "He was pretty far forward with his unit. I'm afraid I can't tell you a lot about it. That unit was effectively wiped out, a lot of suit systems were destroyed, and we just haven't had enough time or resources to analyze existing system records for all the casualties Third Division suffered."

  "I see."

  "I can try to locate any survivors of his unit who might have stayed up here if you want to talk to them."

  "No. There won't be time."

  "Do you want to take the body back with you?" Vic asked gently.

  "That won't be permitted." Major Kutusov bit off each word.

  "We're sorry we haven't been able to publish full casualty lists, but there were just so many dead, and it's taking a very long time to recover them all."

  "I assume that wouldn't be all that hard under truce conditions."

  "Yes, Major, it wouldn't be, but not all the enemy forces have agreed to truces. We've had to pull a lot of our dead out from under enemy guns."

  "Major Kutusov!" General Wilkinson bellowed the command from the other side of the room, not looking up from the palm pad he was punching repeatedly. "Where the hell are you? Where are my briefing files?"

  Major Kutusov, pale with worry and reaction, spun on one heel to return to the General's side. "We'll take care of your brother's remains," Vic murmured, stepping close behind the Major. Kutusov hesitated for half a step, then nodded once, almost imperceptibly, before continuing on to stand stolidly before General Wilkinson while he loudly berated her for failing to anticipate his wishes.

  Stark came up to Reynolds, frowning at her, as the official delegations trooped out of the room en route to their shuttles, each of the various representatives ostentatiously ignoring the Colony civilian officials and Stark's people. "What was that about, Vic?"

  "I think I feel sorry for a Major."

  "You're kidding."

  "No. Her brother bought it during Meecham's offensive. Way up forward with his unit."

  "Up forward? He a Lieutenant?"

  "No. Captain." Reynolds shook her head, face saddened. "Ethan, we needed an officer like that to live."

  "Officers like that are usually the first to die. That's why tin-plated jerks like Meecham and Wilkinson get to be Generals."

  "Are you looking for an argument from me? I never met a General officer who didn't think the sun rose and set on his or her whims." She screwed up her face in distaste. "We probably shouldn't have baited Wilkinson that strongly, though. He can cause us a lot of trouble."

  "He'd cause us trouble regardless."

  "True enough, but if it wasn't personal it might not be as vicious."

  Stark snorted derisively. "What else was I supposed to do? Offer to polish his shoes?"

  "We both could've been a little easier on his ego."

  "Sure. Just like always. We go out to get shot at but the number one priority is protecting the damn General's ego. I never did figure out why something sitting back at headquarters needed more protection than my own butt did."

  Vic laughed, drawing curious looks from the remaining occupants of the room, then smiled mockingly. "Lucky for us, we now serve a commander with no ego problems whatsoever."

  "Very funny. You're a riot, Reynolds."

  "You really think so?" she asked with feigned innocence.

  "Funniest thing since nerve gas." Stark waved to his staff. "You guys can head home. Thanks for the backup. See you at headquarters. Chief Wiseman, keep those shuttles of yours at ready until those bozos who just left here are outside our orbital defenses."

  "No problem. We love standing by." Wiseman saluted casually, then followed the soldiers as they left.

  Campbell, looking like a man who'd just faced down death itself, came up to Stark and Reynolds. "I suppose that could have gone worse."

  "Not a lot worse, but some," Stark agreed. "You did a good job of dealing with those jerks."

  "I was scared stiff, Sergeant. I've never been a good poker player."

  Vic appraised the civilian, her expression concerned. "You need a poker face when you're bluffing. Is that what's going on?"

  "I'm afraid so." Campbell glanced over at his remaining advisors, talking animatedly to one another in one corner of the room, then back at the soldiers. "I don't have strong backing in the Colony. Truth be told, I certainly don't have majority backing for what I just said."

  "How bad is it?" Stark demanded. "Just how strong is your support?"

  "I've got roughly one-third of the Colony ready to back me in any action, up to and including a declaration of independence. But another third, either through loyalty or fear, wants nothing but reconciliation. The remaining third are fence-sitters, unsure and unwilling to commit either way."

  "Great," Vic commented sourly. "What's it going to take to convince at least that middle third to swing our way?" Her gaze shifted to Stark. "Whatever way that turns out to be, that is."

  Campbell shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "I'm not sure. This isn't exactly a routine political calculation, you know. We're dealing with very fundamental issues: a government's responsibilities to its people, a people's responsibilities to their government, family ties cutting across questions of loyalty and rebellion, and the simple economic fears driving everyone. Our jobs aren't stable, Sergeant. They never have been. A long time ago, civilians worked for the same employer for life, usually. Over time that changed into hire-on-demand and temporary employment agreements, and the resulting constant fear of losing a job or trying to find a better one has made many workers habitually cautious in any action that might impact on their work."

  Stark nodded. "I remember my parents talking about that kind of thing. But there must be something that'd convince people it's time to take action."

  "I'm sure there is, but I haven't been able to figure what that something is, Sergeant." Campbell looked intently at Stark. "Something must have motivated you to make your decision. What was it, exactly?"

  Thousands of soldiers, marching steadily forward, dying in their tracks as futile assault followed futile assault. Faceless officers in the rear ordering more attacks, shredding the already decimated ranks of survivors as if by enough human sacrifice they could somehow alter reality to fit the fantasy worlds they'd concocted in the self-reverential cocoons of their plans and theories and simulations. Voices crying for help denied to them. Stark kept his face rigid with great effort, then spoke carefully, his voice almost toneless from his effort to control it. "I guess . . . what it came down to was . . . there was nothing I could do . . . except by doing something I wasn't ever supposed to do. I could've saved myse
lf . . . but I had to save the others."

  Vic grasped Stark's shoulder firmly, lending strength, but faced Campbell. "There's always been a contract," she explained. "An unwritten one. We'll die if we have to because that's part of the job, and we think the job matters. Our superiors broke that contract. It became obvious we were expected to die not to accomplish anything, but just because they said so."

  Campbell eyed both soldiers as if he'd never seen them before. "I think I understand. We civilians all have contracts of one sort or another, but I think you're speaking of a contract in a greater sense. An understanding of why sacrifices are demanded and where rewards should lie. I need some way of convincing the majority of the Colony that our political leaders and corporate superiors have violated that sort of contract."

  Vic nodded in agreement. "I hope you can manage that without watching a lot of them die," she noted quietly.

  "I hope so, too. Sergeant Reynolds. I can't believe we're facing such threats over such issues. Do you think the people we just met with will have second thoughts and grant any of our demands?"

  She smiled crookedly before replying. "Mr. Campbell, I think we're dealing with individuals who think they can make things happen because they want them to happen. Right and wrong has nothing to do with it. They're not going to calmly accept a requirement to do what we want."

  "What do you think they'll do? Surely not an all-out attack."

  "Your guess is as good as mine." Vic gestured to Stark. "Ethan, you know the civ side and the mil side. What's your assessment?"

  "They'll try something." Stark stared around as if that "something" would be identified somewhere in the vainglorious art on the walls. "But they've gotta be worried. How much will all this cost them? Corporations only care about the bottom line, right? And the politicians must be wondering who's gonna get blamed for everything, especially if whatever they try fails. The mil? No, I mean the Pentagon. They're worried most of all. They've lost damn near two-thirds of their active duty strength, one-third when they tried to use Third Division as a battering ram and one-third when we told them to go to hell. They don't have the troops to do the things they've said they'll do, and all the public relations spin in the world can't get them out of that hole."

  Campbell smiled with evident relief. "Then they're not likely to actually attack us? It's just a bluff?"

  Both Stark and Reynolds shook their heads in negation. "You can't count on that," Vic advised. "They don't want to lose. They don't have enough soldiers and no likelihood of getting enough soldiers. But not attacking us guarantees losing, while if they actually try to hit us a miracle might happen."

  "And," Stark added, "you can bet their senior intelligence types are churning out reports saying whatever the brass wants to hear the most, which is probably that we're likely to crumble when they push."

  "But, that won't happen," Campbell objected anxiously. "Will it?"

  "I'm gonna be perfectly honest with you, Mr. Campbell. I don't know what'll happen the first time my soldiers find themselves aiming at other American soldiers. I don't know what the other soldiers will do. I don't know what my soldiers will do. I hope to God I never find out because, whether they shoot or surrender, either way I'm gonna lose."

  Campbell stared at the floor for a long moment, then looked up with a sardonic smile. "So it appears we're hoping for a miracle, too."

  "Yeah. I guess so. Reckon we'll find out which side's in best with the Big Guy upstairs, won't we?"

  "Mail call," Bev Manley announced, tossing a data coin onto Stark's desk.

  "What?" Stark tapped the coin with one finger as if unsure of its existence. "We got mail?"

  "Uh-huh. That official delegation brought it."

  Stark frowned, rolling the coin back and forth. "That'd be our first real mail since Meecham's offensive, not counting the stuff that's been bootlegged up here. Why'd the authorities decide to be so nice to us?"

  "Because they ain't being nice." Sergeant Manley pointed at the coin in Stark's hand. "Think about it. People we don't trust hand us letters allegedly from our friends and loved ones back home. Because they want to be nice all of a sudden? No way. It's because whatever messages are in that coin and every other one we got says whatever the authorities want them to say. I'd guess major league propaganda, heartfelt appeals to surrender, that sort of thing."

  "Bev, my parents may not be the greatest human beings on Earth, though God knows I put 'em through enough to earn martyr status for both of 'em, but they wouldn't parrot some government line to me."

  Manley shook her head, waving an objecting hand. "This has nothing to do with your parents' virtues. It has to do with the government's ability to coerce people into doing what they want."

  "You saying they put a gun to my parents' heads or something?"

  "I doubt it'd be that crude. More likely they told your parents read this script for us or we'll have to ask the Internal Revenue Service to audit your last twenty years of tax returns for any discrepancies.' You know, iron-hand-in-the-velvet-glove stuff. What are they gonna do? And if that coin's from a friend instead of your parents, the same thing applies. Listen, I'm gonna give you the same advice I'm giving every soldier who got mail: don't read it. If the government wants you to have it, you don't want to know what it says."

  Stark sat silent for a moment, then nodded. "Can't argue with that."

  "Want to give me the coin back?"

  "No."

  Manley smiled ruefully. "Didn't think so. Just be careful. Don't read it. If you do read it, don't believe it."

  "Thanks, Bev. That's good advice. We get mail for a lot of guys?"

  She shrugged. "Coupla hundred. Not much, not with thousands of soldiers up here, which is one more reason I'm sure the stuff is faked. If people were allowed to write whatever they wanted, we'd have thousands of letters. But it takes time and personnel to supervise scripted dialogues, doesn't it?"

  "Should we be handing this stuff out then?"

  "I wondered about that. But that'd mean keeping mail away from soldiers it's addressed to. If you want me to . . ."

  "No. We don't hold mail." Stark glanced down at the coin again. "That'd be wrong. Like lying to them. I don't want to start down the road of thinking I can mess with these apes' personal lives just because I think it's for their own good. You do like you said, warn everybody that this stuff is likely poison, and tell them to talk to their superiors and friends and the chaplains if they need to after screening it. But we don't withhold mail."

  "Thought you'd say that." Manley flipped a casual salute. "I'm off on my assigned mission, then. Commander Stark."

  "Does that mean I got to order around an Administrative guy? Maybe this job ain't so bad after all."

  "Just don't let it go to your head." Manley smiled and left, leaving Stark alone with his mail.

  Stark rolled the coin back and forth in his hand. Yeah, it'd be real stupid to look at it. Just like Bev said. But I have to. He leaned forward far enough to insert the coin in his palmtop, then watched the screen, trying to lock down his emotions as the still-familiar faces of his parents appeared. They were seated in what was surely the same apartment they'd lived in during Stark's youth, in a fairly anonymous suburb of the Seattle metroplex. Stark even recognized a few of the furnishings, though the couch on which his parents were seated looked new. His father looked like he had in the last coin Stark had received, older and thinner than the vision still stuck in his mind from his youth. His mother sat rigidly erect, surprisingly aged to Stark, who hadn't seen her image in over a decade, her face rigid with some unreadable emotion.

  "Ethan Stark," his father began, the words falling heavily from his mouth, tinged with something like anger. "This is very unpleasant for us. We know what's happened up on the Moon. We know what you've done, and we are deeply, deeply ashamed." He paused, while Stark's mother remained uncharacteristically silent. "If you love us, if you care about us at all, if you have any decency, you'll surrender immediately to legal and lawf
ul authorities. There's nothing else we can say. Please, do what's right." The screen blanked, leaving Stark to stare bleakly at white noise.

  Is that really how they feel? Were they coerced into saying that? How can I know one way or another? He thought of his father, firmly admonishing him, so different from the halting pride expressed in his last letter. Did you mean it then or do you mean it now? Or both? Couldn't you have given me some sign? Some indication if this is how you really felt? But his father had never been one for signs or subtlety. Like his universal gesture of contempt, the one Stark had seen a million times as a youth. His father would be watching the vid as some politician pontificated or some corporate ad rolled, and after a short time he'd throw down whatever he happened to be holding (or whatever was within reach) and declare "this is a bunch of crap." It had been one certain routine no matter the time of day or year. Political ad: "this is a bunch of crap" (wham). Smiling corporate speaker: "this is a bunch of crap" (wham). Earnest government representative: "this is a bunch of crap" (wham). Stark smiled involuntarily at the memory, then frowned thoughtfully.