Vic shook her head. "You really don't know? It's because we didn't have the Moon's resources tied up."
"The hell," Stark objected. "We got here first. Back in, what was it, the 1940s or something?"
"Nineteen sixties," Vic corrected. "Whatever. We claimed it."
"No, we didn't." Vic smiled bitterly. "You're right, we got here first. But we didn't claim it, Ethan. I've been to the monument that's been built, out on the Trank Sea. It says we came 'for all mankind.' Something like that. Nothing about 'no trespassing.' "
"We planted a flag," Stark insisted stubbornly. "I've seen a picture. In my barracks, once, somewhere back on the World." A flag suspended stiffly, a figure in clumsy white space gear rendering a salute. The black and the white light, the barren rockscape, had been unfamiliar then.
Vic nodded wearily. "Yeah, we planted a flag. But not to claim it, at least not then, not for a long time." Her eyes grew distant, pulling up memories. "We stopped coming, Ethan. I don't know why. Maybe it was just too hard back then. Hell, when you own Earth, why bother with this hunk of dead rock? But eventually, other people came up here serious. Like you said, they needed the resources. So they planted colonies, built some bases, started low-g manufacturing and pulling out ore. Big bucks."
"So I hear." Stark brooded over his beer for a moment. "And it didn't belong to our own corporations already?"
"Nope. Told you, we'd never claimed it. It was supposed to be international or something, belong to everyone."
Stark snorted with derision. "Right. Belonged to everyone. Sounds like one of those brainless peace ops we got sent to enforce back on the World."
"I'm not saying it was a smart arrangement, but I guess it surprised our corporations when other countries took it serious." Vic used a finger to doodle idly in the wet rings left by the beers on their table. "So our business tycoons ran to their hip-pocket Congress and told them to pass a law that said the Moon was ours, back to when we landed."
"So we got ordered here. Nice."
"Not right away. The President said, 'Great idea, give me some money to enforce it.' Congress said—"
"Let me guess," Stark interrupted. "They said they wouldn't raise taxes to cover it."
"Bingo. The President was kinda stuck between a rock and a hard place. He didn't have the money to support a mil op to grab the Moon, but there was big public support for doing just that. After all, the law said Luna was ours, so we should kick off the foreigners, right? Made the civs feel real patriotic, not that they volunteered to come up here and do the job themselves."
"So what happened? Oh, hell," Stark added in disgust, "I know what happened."
"Sure, the mil got ordered up here and were told to do it without using any more money. Of course, the mil couldn't do it, couldn't find the money anywhere. Budgets had been too tight for too long, and all the surplus had gone to pay for more generals and for big, fancy weapons like those damned McClellan tanks."
"They're great tanks."
"Yeah, and each one costs so much they can't actually be risked in battle. Just like the F-38 Strato-Fighter. On second thought, at least the McClellans work, and from what I hear, the F-38 doesn't. Anyway, we can't afford to lose them, so we can't use them."
"You're preaching to the choir, Vic."
"I know." Vic glared at Stark, but her anger was focused elsewhere. "It looked like the brass would have to say 'Can't do it.' You know the brass hates to say 'Can't do it' to anyone who outranks them. So some unsung genius thought of another way to get money, maybe enough to cover starting the operation up here."
Stark nodded. "I thought that was where this was heading. You mean the vid programs, don't you? That's why they started showing us in combat for civ entertainment."
"Yeah." Vic spat it out. "The vid programs. We had all this great gear built in for command and control. Full-time comms and all-round vid so the officers could tell exactly what we were doing every minute and micromanage each and every grunt. It also provided great publicity footage after battles. Then somebody figured out they didn't have to give it away for free, that they could use it to make their own programs and sell the commercial time. Maybe even while the battles were still going on. Maybe even so close to real time that the civs would pay to watch."
Stark's face settled into grim lines of memory. Years ago, hitting the lunar surface for the first time and wondering why headquarters had been so worried about dramatic action. "Yeah. From all I hear, they were a real hit. Blood and guts live on vid. Somebody—Chen, I think—claims civ kids are tracking units and their wins and losses just like sports teams."
"I heard that, too. And you know what all the pro sports did, upping the violence in their own products to try to win back viewers. It must be a great time to be an adolescent back on the World, Ethan."
Stark laughed harshly. "Damn right. Old enough to get a kick out of blood but too damn young to think about how much it hurts the guy who's bleeding. But, hell, it worked, right? They made a lot of money, didn't they?"
"Worked great." Vic's bitter smile was back. "But it backfired."
"Let me guess."
"Yeah. You know this one, too, Ethan. Congress and the Pres figured out the mil had made a bundle from the ad revenue, so they cut the mil's budget. That made the mil dependent on the vid not just for start-up for this op, but also for day-to-day ops. It's been like that ever since." Vic shook her head in obvious disgust. "The bright kids at headquarters trapped themselves. Now they have to run ops to keep the ratings up, or the whole mil budget goes red. The bastards were just a little too clever, and they, or rather we, have been paying for it ever since."
Stark sat there, wondering what, if anything, to say. They talk about ignorance being bliss, and I can see why. I don't know anyone who's any happier for knowing the answers to all this crap. "You ever wonder, Vic, what would happen if we dropped it, if the mil finally said 'Can't do it'?"
That brought another sad smile from Vic. "You think our officers would ever do that?"
"No." Stark's teeth showed. "Congress won't take responsibility if things went to hell. They never do. Neither will the Pres. They tell us to guard their butts, and to go out to every bar fight in the world that threatens the profits of our all-American free-flippin'-enterprise corporations, and our officers say 'Yessir, yessir, three bags full,' because keeping the politicians happy is the path to four-star promotions and that seems to be all our officers care about anymore. Then we get told we don't need all the people and gear we've asked for, except the stuff that goes to buy mega-expensive weapons built by those same corporations and their civ workers who vote. And if the mil ever did cry that it's broke, the politicians and civs will just blame us for wasting money and having bad management, which has plenty enough truth to stick thanks to our officers who are too obsessed with sucking up to their bosses to ever try to fix problems themselves. Perfect world." Stark's teeth tightened, so that muscles stood out along his jaw. "As long as you happen to be in the White House, or Congress, or the Pentagon, and not up here."
"Congratulations." Vic hoisted another mock toast. "You are now educated."
"And ain't I the happy little bastard? If it wasn't for the damn oath . . ." Stark let his voice trail off.
"The oath?" Vic grimaced. "Yeah. The oath. 'I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic,' etc., etc., etc. I guess we're all suckers, Ethan. We break our backs for that oath, I bleed into vacuum for that oath, all to defend corporate profits and a bunch of civs who think personal sacrifice means having to fetch your own beer instead of having it brought to you."
"That's not the only reason, Vic." Stark reached out to grip her hand hard for a moment. "That oath is also to each other, isn't it? Personally, I sometimes can't figure out who the real enemy is. But I know who my friends are. They're the grunts standing beside me."
Vic smiled ruefully. "Most of them, anyway. I talk too much, Ethan."
"Nah. You know t
oo much." Stark slid another beer across the table, watching as it slid much farther under the Moon's minuscule gravity than the slight push should have managed, so that Vic had to grab it just short of the table edge.
"You trying to get me drunk, soldier?" Vic demanded.
"I thought that was a decent objective for both of us tonight."
"Sounds good to me." Another six-pack disappeared, while silence stretched out, broken only by the digitally recorded chirps of phantom birds in the branches of the vid-projected trees on the ugly rock walls. Finally Vic raised her right hand, then slowly ran her fingers across the Silver Star ribbon, her eyes somewhere far away. "Ethan, I got something to tell you."
Stark focused on her, frowning as his eyes followed the movements of her hand. "What?"
"I got this medal because I shot a Lieutenant."
"You're kidding."
"No. We were being hit pretty hard. Real heavy jamming, too, so we lost comms with our higher-ups, and our Lieutenant panicked. Tried to order us to retreat through an enemy kill zone. We would have lost most of the unit."
"Jesus, Vic."
"So I shot him." Her eyes came back, oddly emotionless, gazing into Stark's. "We held in place until relief arrived. I got a medal for leading the defense and saving the position."
"Which you had to do after you shot the Lieutenant."
"Yeah." One side of Vic's mouth quirked in a humorless half smile. "Funny, huh?"
"Yeah. Funny."
"You'd have done the same thing, right, Ethan?" It seemed less a question than a plea.
"Yeah." Guess I'm not the only one carrying around baggage. "I'd have done the same thing. What happened to the Lieutenant?"
Vic looked away. "Dead."
"I guess that's how it had to happen. Who else knows about it?"
"I think some of the people in my old unit suspected. That's why I transferred and ended up in the same unit with you. As to who knows for sure, that's me, you, now, and the Big Guy upstairs. I'll have to answer to Him someday."
"You did the right thing. You saved a lot of lives."
"Sure." One fingertip traced its way across the medal ribbon. "Ethan, sometimes doing the right thing doesn't do a damn thing for your conscience."
"So why do you wear that damn ribbon?"
Her gaze speared him. "To remind myself that hard decisions carry a price, and knowing what's right isn't always easy, and that people pay with their lives when we do the wrong thing and sometimes even when we do the right thing." Vic's index finger leveled at Stark's chest like a pistol barrel. "And from now on I want it to remind you of the same damn things, Ethan Stark."
"Why do you think I need that?" Stark asked quietly.
"Because you've got a major demon inside and you're too damn devoted to duty and to your fellow soldiers and someday that's all going to come to a head and when that happens, Ethan Stark, you damn well better be sure you're ready to live with whatever you do or don't do."
"I will be," Stark vowed. "Why now? Why tell me all this? You think something big's coming?"
"I don't know," Vic whispered. "There're rumors, and rumors of rumors. Nothing definite, just that the corporations are tired of the stalemate because they want to grab more real estate up here, and the politicians are playing the 'Why can't you win?' game against each other in the elections, and our senior officers are worried sombody's finally going to ask why they can't do the jobs they claim to be best at. Does it mean anything? I don't know. If it does, there'll be major hell to pay."
Stark shook his head, confused and angry now. "I don't want to think about it anymore."
"You don't? What, is your demon drunk, too?"
"Not yet, but it will be." They split another six, the green-painted walls beginning to take on a nauseous tint as their vision blurred. "I think I've had enough," Stark finally announced, speaking with great care. He tried to stand, then let the Moon's gravity slowly haul him back into his seat. "Now I know I've had enough."
"Need a hand?" Vic offered, weaving upright, her own expression suddenly alarmed. "Oh, hell. I'll let you lean on me if I can lean on you."
"Deal." They headed for their cubes, temporary lodging fortunately not too far away, hanging on to each other for support as they moved down the faded green corridors in a cautious stagger made ridiculous by low gravity. Finally arriving at the entry to Stark's cube, he reached to hit the access pad, the panel whisking open in swift obedience. "Thanks for the comp'ny, Vic." He turned, looked straight into her eyes, and stopped moving, suddenly aware of her body, of her breast pressed close to his side and his hand resting firmly just above her hip. Vic gazed somberly back, the same awareness there. Stark took a quick breath, startled by the unexpected excitement, then hesitated unaccountably, just looking at her, his hands unmoving.
Vic spoke first. "You're a good friend, Ethan."
A moment's thought, good sense somehow surfacing through the alcohol haze in his mind. "Yeah, Vic, you, too. Too good a friend . . ."
"To risk ruining it?" she finished for him.
"Yeah," he agreed again. "Don't know what'd happen, but I know what we've got. Need you as my pal, Vic, that's what counts most." He paused, thoughts running sluggishly over their earlier conversation. "Government don't care, corporations sure as hell don't care, civs don't care, officers don't care, but grunts . . . we look out for each other. That's what keeps us going, isn't it?"
"Smart kid." Vic smiled fondly at him. "Yeah, we've got that, no matter what else they take."
They released each other, staggering at the attempt to balance independently. She had just started to turn away when Stark's hormones roused enough to kick his brain partially into action as caution took a momentary backseat. "But I bet you'd have been one hell of a partner in the sack."
She turned back, smiling languorously. "Damn right, Ethan. Best you'd have ever had. Dream about it." Her arm abruptly shoved him inside as she headed down the hall toward her own cube.
"Bitch!" he yelled, not meaning it, hearing her laughter float back down the hall. Damn, I'm lucky she's in my unit. Kept me alive more than once. Maybe I'll return the favor. Someday. Stark made a half motion to undress before saying to hell with it and falling in a slow-motion lunar sprawl onto his bunk to let sleep carry away the night's confusions.
Lieutenant Conroy cleared her throat, inadvertently emphasizing her youth to her three Sergeants linked in for the mission brief. "Second Platoon, Bravo Company has been selected to carry out a raid tonight on enemy forces occupying Sector Cowpens."
She sounds as if she thinks this is an honor. It hadn't been that long a wait for word, early afternoon of the artificial day humanity imposed on lunar life, just long enough for the enemy to find out about the ratings and get primed for action. Typical, Stark thought sourly. Hope Kilroy survives enough of these 'honors' to get a clue. Conroy began stepping through the brief point by point, as if she were reading off the briefing appendix from the Platoon Leader's Handbook. Probably got a copy scrolling on her vid. From her segment of the screen, Reynolds passed a meaningful look his way: She's new, Ethan, and at least she's trying, so give her a break. Damn, sometimes seems Vic can read my mind. Stark focused on the map vid as Conroy got to the meat of the mission. "Objective is the metals refinery centered at grid 44.10 151.72. We're to take it out with timed charges." The Sergeants all reacted involuntarily, Reynolds with a hiss of breath, Stark with a grunt, and Sanchez with a minor but uncharacteristic frown. The refinery was a mojo target, all right, but it was comfortably under the umbrella of the foreign troops defending that area. Worse, the 3-D contours of the map projection merely emphasized that the only feasible approach was across a dust plain where the platoon would stand out like silhouettes on a firing range.
"That's a very difficult approach, Lieutenant." Stark spoke mildly and with incredible understatement, but in a tone that conveyed volumes.
Conroy nodded slowly, then looked up with some irritation. "I know that, Sergeant." She glanced a
t Reynolds and Sanchez, reading the same concern in them that Stark had voiced. "It's not difficult, it's impossible, unless the enemy sensor net is blind to us."
Intriguing. Stark's estimation of the Lieutenant jumped slightly higher. She'd picked up enough tactics to see the obvious (which was far from a given with new officers), and she hadn't minded admitting the mission was tough instead of playing mindless cheerleader for the Brigade brass.
"Blind, sir?" Reynolds was clearly curious. Sensor nets were notoriously redundant in both scan gear and search capabilities. If they didn't see you on infrared, they'd look for image matches, or motion, or ground tremors, or what-all else. The countermeasure gear on the battle armor was incredibly good at hiding or confusing signatures, but moving to attack through a dust plain was like shining a spotlight on your head and singing the latest neoanarchist anthem on an all-frequency comm broadcast.
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