The first person in the room carried what appeared to be a considerable chip on his shoulders along with a pair of Colonel's eagles. He nailed Stark with a disapproving glance, then lifted his sheet to check the body cast. "Is this as straight as you can lay?"
"Yes, sir."
The Colonel obviously didn't care for that answer, poking at the cast a couple of times. "Well, try to look military, for God's sake."
Stark kept his face expressionless and his mouth closed, though both took considerable effort. He was still cycling through replies he would have liked to have given when the curtain parted again to reveal another Colonel accompanying several men and women in civ clothes. No. They are civs. What the hell?
"This is Stark," the first Colonel announced coldly.
"That's Sergeant Stark, sir," Stark replied in equally frosty tones.
"Sergeant Stark," the Colonel grated out with a look that promised dire consequences. Stark simply gazed back until the Colonel looked away.
An awkward silence followed while Stark wondered what the purpose of the visit could be. "You were injured in battle?" one of the civilians finally asked.
Stark glanced toward the second Colonel, who nodded to indicate he could reply to the question, though her sour expression indicated she liked this even less than the first Colonel did. "That's right."
A female civ came closer, peering at his face. Not that Stark minded, since the woman had a nice face of her own and he could peer back to his heart's content. "You must have been hurt very badly," she finally offered.
"Yeah." Stark, never inclined to discuss physical ailments with anyone, found himself even more reticent than usual with these civs.
Her eyes strayed to the flat panel at the foot of the bed displaying Stark's vital signs. "You'll be all right? All your injuries will heal?"
"That's what they tell me."
The civ bit her lip, looking back toward the other civs in apparent uncertainty. Another civ, male and about Stark's age, nodded politely. "Can you tell us how it happened?"
The female Colonel stared ahead as if not willing to be involved in the conversation while she spoke in sharp tones. "Sergeant Stark conducted a delaying action against enemy forces while his Platoon retrograded to American lines following a successful operation against part of the enemy industrial complex."
The civs all looked puzzled, as if the Colonel had spoken in another tongue, while Stark fought down another urge to verbally abuse a high-ranking officer. Retrograded? What the hell's wrong with calling it a retreat? A momentary vision of bullets flaying the rock around his lonely outpost while he had held off the enemy flashed through his mind. And why does this rear-area waste-of-human-flesh Colonel have to make the whole action sound like no big deal? Stark tried to shrug, finding the habitual motion blocked by the cast he still wore. "I did my job. I guess you saw it on vid." The last almost came out as a harsh accusation, Stark catching the words as he issued to change them to a bland statement.
The civs all seemed surprised. "We don't see the military vid," the woman who'd spoken to Stark first explained. "It's not broadcast here."
"It's not?" Startled, Stark looked toward the Colonels for confirmation.
The male Colonel nodded once. "Security. We can't risk the enemy deriving information on current operations from the military vid."
Then why the hell do you show the mil vid on Earth where the enemy can watch it just as easily as the civs there can? A growing unease filled Stark, born of these unusual civ visitors, the clearly disapproving demeanor of the Colonels, and the feeling of having suddenly been dropped into the middle of some civ-mil issue he didn't understand and that seemed likely to cause him troubles he didn't need.
The civs exchanged glances but said nothing in reply to the Colonel, then nodded politely once more to Stark as they filed out. The female Colonel left last, pinning Stark with an all-purpose warning glare as she dropped the curtain behind her. I don't suppose it'd do me any good to ask anyone what that was all about. God, I can't wait to get back to my unit.
Eventually the body cast came off and the physical therapy ran its course. A tired-eyed medic checked Stark out, shaking her head as her laptop flipped through Stark's medical file. "I shouldn't let you go," the medic complained.
"Why?" Stark demanded. "Something still wrong?"
"Not with you." The medic sighed, keying a few entries before closing out the file. "Look, Sergeant, I'm like a technician who fixes the finest equipment in the world, and then gets to send it out for other people to try to destroy. It doesn't generate a lot of job satisfaction."
"If it makes you feel any better, I'll do my best not to be back here."
The medic grinned, though her eyes stayed tired. "You do that, Sergeant. Not too many decades ago the wounds you received would have killed you, or at least crippled you for life. So try not to let it happen again."
Stark grinned back. "It seems all the women I meet give me that advice."
"That's because it's good advice." The medic offered her hand for a shake. "Good luck, soldier. You're officially discharged to return to your unit."
"Thanks." Stark shook the proffered hand, standing to go.
"By the way," the medic added, "you've been eating about six full meals a day for a while. Your body doesn't need that anymore, but you're in the habit, so you'll have to make an effort not to overeat until you're back on a normal routine."
"Six meals a day? Why didn't I notice?"
The medic quirked another grin, which this time almost reached her eyes. "The miracle of modern medicine, Sergeant. We don't just watch the body's healing process, we turbocharge it. You've done the equivalent of more than six months' healing and recovery in about a month. Of course, that process speeds up a lot of your perceptions. We just keep patients on their own accelerated time schedule so they don't get disoriented. You're slowed down again, so don't worry about it unless you keep eating like you're on fast forward."
"Thanks." Stark left, walking down the white-painted corridors, stopping only to check on the date and time at a wall terminal. I don't believe it. The medic was right. It's only been a month. Memories he'd shied away from, of his body being torn by enemy fire, finally surfaced, so that Stark stared in wonder at his dim reflection in the terminal's screen. Incredible. But the medic's right: They do all those miracles just so grunts like me can go out and get shot up again.
He started to leave, paused, then punched in his unit identification to find out where his Squad had been billeted during R&R. Only a month. Thought I'd be a stranger when I got back, but I guess not.
Awkward. Stark hated what he knew was coming, knew he couldn't avoid it, and knew he'd be a lot happier when it was over—none of which made it any easier to walk through the doorway before him. Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, Sergeant Ethan Stark walked through that doorway to face his Squad.
Corporal Gomez, it appeared, had been alerted to Stark's discharge from the hospital. She had the Squad drawn up in formation waiting for him, every soldier ramrod straight, every uniform sharp. Stark halted in midstride, balancing easily on one foot as all the lunar veterans could, then broke into an involuntary smile. "What the hell do you guys think you are, the Pentagon Color Guard?"
Gomez maintained a straight face, marching with precise movements to stand before him and render a perfect salute. "Ready for inspection, Sergeant."
Stark fought down the smile, returning Gomez's salute as crisply as still-slightly-stiff muscles would allow. The Squad hadn't moved, not even a twitch, putting on a far better show for him than they'd ever given to any high-ranking officer.
This ceremony was important to them, he suddenly realized, an unspoken way of saying thanks in the way his Squad thought would mean the most to him. He followed Gomez down the line, sternly eyeing each soldier in turn, finding only the tiniest variations from regulations on each uniform. The last individual inspected, Stark marched to face the entire Squad, allowing himself a small smile
again. "Damn, you look good."
Gomez swung up another rigid salute, face professionally expressionless. "Thank you, Sergeant."
"No. Thank you." He trained an index finger down the line of soldiers. "This is how good you apes can be, how good I always knew you were. Thanks for letting me see it. Now fall them out, Corporal Gomez, before all their joints lock and they get stuck that way."
"Sí Sargento" Gomez finally grinned, big and sort of goofy on her usually intense face. "You heard the Sergeant," she addressed the Squad. "Fall out!"
Rigid military bearing dissolved magically into a clot of individuals milling about uncertainly. Finally, Murphy stepped forward with an anxious expression, saluted Stark, smiled, then stepped back. Mendoza followed suit, then Hoxely, then Billings, then the rest, one by one. Then it was over. There aren't any really adequate ways to thank someone for saving your life, Stark reflected, and even fewer adequate ways of accepting such thanks. "Okay, you apes. Our time off the line is almost over, I hear. I spent all of it so far in a hospital bed and rehab. Hope you guys made more productive use of the time."
A series of grins told him they'd had a fine time, indeed. "Too bad you missed it, Sarge."
"I had other commitments. How've they been doing on refresher training, Corporal?"
Gomez twisted her face in a vaguely dissatisfied way. "They been doing okay."
"We've been doing great!" Murphy protested. "Top scores, Sarge."
"Top scores? In what?"
"Across the board," Chen announced proudly. "We knew you were coming back, Sarge, and we wanted to be ready, so we've really been bearing down. Just like you'd want."
"Sure," Gomez noted derisively. "I never had to kick you guys' butts once, did I?" She turned back to Stark, permitting herself a smile this time. "They done good, Sargento. Real good."
"Outstanding. I'm proud of you. Now get out of those dress uniforms and get into working gear. I need to get into better shape pronto and I could use some workout partners."
The Squad scattered to their cubes to change as Stark beckoned Gomez to wait. "Anybody else know I'm back?"
"Just the rest of the Platoon."
"Just the rest of the Platoon? How'd you know I was coming?"
Gomez grinned. "I got my sources, Sarge."
"Great. You and Sergeant Reynolds. Everybody's got their sources but me."
"Hell, Sarge, you don't need sources. You got me and Sergeant Reynolds, ¿verdad?"
"I guess."
Vic Reynolds chose that moment to stick her head in the room, focusing on Stark. "Welcome back, soldier."
"Thanks. To what do I owe the honor of this visit? You inviting me to a welcoming-back parade?"
Reynolds shook her head in mock seriousness. "Sorry. No parade. We couldn't lay on any elephants and clowns. They were all busy at headquarters." She sobered, canting her head to indicate the direction back down the hall. "I came by to give you a heads-up. Captain Noble is headed your way."
"Captain who?"
"Noble." Vic shrugged. "Our new company commander. He rolled in while you were being put together again."
Stark sighed heavily. "Any assessment on him?"
Reynolds shrugged again. "Too new. Only been here a week. He hasn't done much damage yet, though."
"He hasn't had much time," Stark pointed out. "Is Lieutenant Conroy with him?"
"You didn't hear?" Vic looked uncomfortable.
"No, I didn't hear. I never hear anything unless you tell me, remember? What didn't I hear this time?"
"She got canned, essentially, while you were still in the hospital. Rotated out early to another assignment."
Stark frowned in puzzlement. "Why? The raid succeeded, right? She do something else?"
"Nah, she didn't do anything else, besides thinking she owed you an attempt at a rescue. We did something, Ethan. Going back to get you against orders and risking armor in the bargain. Generals don't like that. Conroy paid."
"Damn," Stark muttered. "Conroy didn't seem half bad. And she really wanted to come back for me?"
"Yeah. Didn't fuss too much when we started back, either."
Stark shook his head. "She'd probably have been a good officer someday."
Vic smiled sardonically. "Then she wouldn't have lasted anyway, right?" Then she was gone.
Stark became aware again of Gomez standing nearby. "Hey, Anita, how come you didn't tell me about Conroy?"
"Not my job."
"Then how about this Noble? Heard anything about him?"
"Just that his name don't have nothing to do with his character."
Stark grinned, then looked around the room as if searching for something. "Hey, I forgot to ask Sergeant Reynolds something. Who's Conroy's replacement?"
Gomez raised both shoulders in an I-don't-know gesture. "Nobody, yet."
"Nobody?" Stark's smile faded into a frown. "That's strange. Usually there's a backlog of Lieutenants looking for a tour in charge of a Platoon."
"Well, there apparently ain't any backlog right now, Sargento. Noble seems to have come up with the last batch of officers, and there's no enlisted replacements coming in either."
"That's funny." Stark scratched one temple, frowning. "Almost sounds like they're winding down the war and getting ready to draw down forces up here."
Gomez shook her head emphatically. "That's definitely not the case, Sarge. Just before you got back we got dragooned into a work detail helping unload one huge shipment of munitions. Somebody's getting ready for serious combat action."
"Lots of bullets and no bodies. Doesn't match."
Whatever else Stark might have said went unspoken as Gomez yelled "Attention!" to announce the presence of an officer. He came to attention automatically, facing the door.
The Captain standing there nodded, waving one hand negligently. "Carry on. Are you Stark?"
Stark took a step forward, face carefully expressionless. "I'm Sergeant Stark, sir."
Captain Noble smiled in what he apparently believed to be a comradely fashion. "We're glad to have you back, Sergeant. We've got a great opportunity."
"Thank you, sir. That's nice, sir," Stark stated warily. In his experience, whenever officers said "we" it meant trouble. So did "great opportunity."
Noble gestured toward the empty suits of battle armor ranked along the walls for maintenance. "You know the biggest problem with those things?" Without waiting for Stark's reply, he held up one emphasizing finger. "Limited mobility."
"Captain," Stark began, "if I—"
"That's right. Limited mobility. It's amazing, isn't it? We're way into the twenty-first century and our infantry is still getting around the same way they did in the Dark Ages."
"Captain, the armor does do some of the work for us."
Noble shook his head firmly. "Walking work, Sergeant. That's not good enough. But here's the great opportunity, Sergeant. Combat Systems Development has it ready for field trials and they're looking for a squad good enough for the job. Your Squad is as good as they come, right, Sergeant?"
Stark tried to project simultaneous pride and discouragement, his disquiet growing with every word the Captain spoke. "Well, there's good and there's good."
"And there's great, Sergeant. Which is what this Squad will be while it combat-tests the new Enhanced Mobility Battle Armor. I'm sure a soldier with your record will be happy to volunteer for the chance."
Volunteer. In Stark's experience, that one word carried more danger than most weapons. Stark mentally backpedaled even faster, even as he wondered what the phrase "a soldier with your record" actually meant. "What exactly does 'enhanced mobility' entail, Captain?"
"A rocket-assist pack, Sergeant. Instead of walking, you'll be able to zoom—"
"Flight?" Stark demanded, ignoring the Captain's frown at the interruption. "They want to do that again? Captain, sir, with all due respect, survival on the battlefield is usually a matter of not being noticed. It's impossible not to be noticed when you're flying."
; Captain Noble held up his hands in a calming gesture. "It's only limited flight, Sergeant, just for a few seconds at a time."
"Damn right it's limited to a few seconds. That's because the instant you get off the ground a half-dozen enemy systems will spot you and blow you into little pieces!"
Stark's War Page 18
