Stark’s Crusade

by John G. Hemry

  Campbell frowned. “Surely you can guess what sort of method might be employed.”

  “Mr. Campbell, if the powers that be were going to do something smart, then yes, I could hazard a pretty good guess. But the powers that be don’t have a very good track record when it comes to the concept of ‘smart.’ If they go the stupid option, every possible card is on the table. Except the nukes and nulls, of course. That’d be above and beyond stupid.”

  “I’ve learned not to underestimate the stupidity of some people, but I’ll accept your assessment because I simply don’t have anything else to go with.” Now Campbell looked pained, sharing another look with Sarafina. “My executive assistant and I aren’t at all sure about the wisdom of the course we’re following, but events don’t always allow time for careful evaluation, and circumstances often don’t allow every possible option.”

  It was Stark’s turn to frown. He stared toward the floor for a moment as he once again experienced that falling-off-a-cliff feeling, the sense that he was being carried along with events instead of making his own decisions. And I like making my own decisions. They’re not always the right ones, God knows, but at least they’re mine. He looked back at the two civilians and at Vic Reynolds, all of them displaying curiously similar attitudes, as if whatever happened in the future would be something to be endured rather than something to be controlled. None of them seemed any happier with that idea that Stark felt. There’s got to be another way of looking at this. I tried to promise myself, don’t get trapped in a sea of bad options. Plan ahead, look ahead. But I’m damned if I can see anything else to do.

  Outside the office, Stark waved Reynolds onward. “You go on back to headquarters if you want.”

  “What if I don’t want?” She raised one eyebrow. “Where are you going?”

  “Medical. I oughta visit the wounded from our raid.”

  “Just them? No one else?”

  Stark closed his eyes. “You know damned well there’s someone else.”

  She gripped his shoulder for a moment. “I’m not trying to needle you, Ethan. Just snap out of the denial. I’m glad you’re going to check on Murphy, but you and I have both seen the reports. He’s still out, and he shouldn’t be. But we’ll do everything we can. Just don’t tear yourself apart over it.”

  “He’s mine, Vic.” Stark had come to the Moon commanding his own squad, twelve soldiers who were his personal responsibility. Some of those soldiers had died pretty early. Some had died recently. Murphy had been with the squad a long time. Not a great soldier. More of an easygoing, I’ll-get-the-job-done-if-I-have-to sort of guy. Stark had been forced to leave that squad when his fellow noncommissioned officers voted him into command of the entire rebellious military force, but his heart had stayed with those few soldiers. “Maybe if I’d done something different—”

  “Ethan, knock it off. You kept that boy alive through a dozen operations. If he pulls through now, that’ll be thanks in great part to you as well. Save your guilt for something you couldn’t have helped.”

  Stark glared back at her. “Thanks for the kind words.”

  “You don’t need kind words. You need someone to tell you when you’re being an idiot.” Vic grinned. “That’s me.”

  Stark managed somehow to smile slightly in return. “And you do it well, soldier. Thanks.”

  “ ‘Thanks,’ he says. Say hi to Murphy for me.”

  “I will.”

  Medical always felt hushed, always quiet, even after an attack when doctors and nurses were rushing frantically to save casualties, even when a variety of equipment hummed and roared as part of that effort. Stark braced himself, then walked down the hall past the reception desk, his gliding, low-gravity steps even quieter than usual.

  The wounded from Fourth Battalion were still where Milheim had reported. Even the medical science of the twenty-first century couldn’t repair damaged organs, muscles, and bone in a day. But they were closing in on that goal. The main limit seemed to be the inability of the human body to absorb accelerated healing at the same time as it was weakened by the damage that required the healing.

  Everyone perked up at Stark’s arrival, managing to broadcast cheer despite haggard, pale faces. And why not? If you make it to medical nowadays, you’re gonna live. You’re going to be put back together. Why not be happy about that? Stark shook hands, clapped backs (gently), asked about families, praised their unit and their performance in battle, and in general did all the things soldiers needed when they were still in giddy shock from a brush with death.

  But when he came to the last wounded soldier, he sat silently by his bed. The soldier remained sedated, hooked up to machines that kept him alive, while other machines and his own system worked to repair damage that would have surely killed the man a few decades earlier. A few patches of pale skin showed among the surgical coverings, the plates where machine joined human, and a few articles of clothing artfully arranged to provide the soldier some modesty. Stark squinted at the chart displayed near the bed, filled with medical terms he couldn’t understand, watching the tracks of pulse and respiration flow by uninterrupted. If he did wake up, right now, what would I say? What would be enough and not too much? Finally he whispered “good luck, soldier,” and headed for another area of medical, where another casualty awaited him.

  Private Murphy had a small room to himself, sectioned off with lightweight panels. The machines around him hummed and blinked, reassuring in their steady rhythm. He lay flat on his back, eyes closed, looking absurdly healthy. Only someone who knew him as well as Stark could have spotted the thinness of the skin over Murphy’s cheeks, a small sign of the stress his body had recently endured.

  At the foot of the bed, holding the status display in one hand, stood a familiar figure. Stark cleared his throat, drawing her attention. “Hi, Doc.”

  The tired-eyed medic turned, quirking a small smile of welcome. “Welcome back, Sergeant. I can’t seem to get rid of you.”

  “Sorry. But I gotta… you know.”

  She nodded. “Visit the wounded. Of course. When the generals came through here they used to have vid photographers recording the event. I guess that’s not your speed, though.”

  “Hell, no. I already dropped in on the new ones, and now I wanted to see how Murphy was doing.” Stark let his anguish show for just a moment. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Nothing.” The medic rubbed her cheeks with her palms, gazing at Murphy bleakly. “We call it half-life. That’s just a nickname. The real term is some big medical phrase, but it adds up to a person who’s been fixed up so everything should work, but the body doesn’t seem to believe it. It’s like we’ve got something inside that knows how much hurt our body has taken, and after a certain point it decides the game’s over.”

  “I don’t get it. He’s healthy?”

  “Sort of. Like I said, all his organs are functional. But if we shut off the life-support gear they’ll fail anyway. Not because they’re broken but because they apparently think they’re broken.”

  “Is he—? I mean, you talk like you’ve seen this before. Any chance Murph will come out of it?”

  The medic smiled sadly. Even as she spoke, Stark wondered briefly if she’d ever looked anything but tired and sad. “Any chance? Yeah. Some do. Maybe after a few days. Maybe after a few years. But maybe never. At some point, the relatives have to decide whether to pull the plug. Has the kid got relatives up here?”

  Stark shook his head. “Nah. Just me, I guess.”

  “He could do worse.” She paused, staring at Murphy with hooded eyes. “You know, even if he does come out of it, he may not be the same guy. He’s been as close to being dead permanent as a human can get. It’s not easy on someone.”

  “I guess not.” Stark motioned cautiously toward Murphy, as if afraid to disturb him. “Is it okay if I talk to him?”

  “You’re the boss. You can do anything you want. It can’t hurt.”

  “Can he hear me?”

  “I don’
t know. Assume he can. I saw a case like this once where the girl’s boyfriend showed up and she smiled. Dead to the world, but she smiled.” The medic motioned toward Murphy’s still form. “He got a girl?”

  “Had one. She died during the action that put Murphy in here.”

  “Tough break. She in the same outfit?”

  “Nah. She wasn’t mil. She was civ. A colonist.”

  “Civilian?” The medic’s eyes widened in amazement, then focused back on Murphy. “Well, that’s a new one on me. Your boy looks mil all the way. That always scares off civs.”

  “These civs are different. They care about us. We ain’t just an exciting vid show for them.”

  “Yeah. I’ve seen some of that. Like the way the civ doctors have helped out with our casualties. But, still…” The medic’s voice trailed off. “Tough break. Real tough.” She stepped backward. “I’ll leave you alone for a few minutes.”

  “Thanks.” Stark hesitated, then looked directly at the medic. “That girl you just mentioned. The one who knew her boyfriend had stopped by. She ever wake up?”

  “No. But she knew she hadn’t been forgotten.”

  Stark walked gingerly toward the hospital bed, then sat carefully, staring for a moment at Murphy’s face, the slack expression and closed eyes so similar to those of an exhausted soldier enjoying a deep sleep. “Hey, Murph.” He reached into a pocket, extracting a small figurine with a goofy smile. “I dunno if you ever saw this, but it was Robin’s. It’s called a paca. Just some dumb mascot thing that all the civ women bought years ago. She got it from her mother. My mom has one, too. Small world, huh? Anyway, it meant somethin’ to Robin, so I figure it’ll mean somethin’ to you.” He balanced the paca carefully on the nearest table, the figurine’s idiot grin focused on Murphy’s face.

  Stark licked his lips, composing his thoughts before speaking again. “Look, I know I’ve always told you what to do and usually how to do it, right, Murph? But I can’t do that now. I’ve got no right to. You gotta decide this, if you still can. You’re a good kid, led a good life, stuck up for your friends. If you figure you’ve served a full tour here and it’s time to head for a new assignment, well, that’s your right. I know you got a lot of friends waiting. Hope so, anyway.”

  “But if you want to fight a little longer, if you wanta come back, I’ll be here. I’ll help any way I can. I wish I could do more. I wish I knew for sure what you wanted.” Murphy’s face didn’t alter, except for the slow, even movements caused by his breathing. “Just like everything else in life, I guess. Just gotta do whatever we think is best and hope it’s right.” He touched one arm gently, as if afraid the limb would break under a firmer pressure. “Get your rest, soldier.”

  Stark stood as quietly as he could, as if Murphy were merely sleeping and shouldn’t be disturbed, then walked carefully to where the medic had waited at a respectful distance.

  “Any luck?” she asked, her voice hushed.

  “No. You didn’t expect me to have any, did you?”

  “No. But miracles happen sometimes. If I didn’t believe in the occasional miracle, there’s a lot of times I’d just throw up my hands and give up. Instead, I keep trying, even when common sense says there’s no hope.”

  Stark fashioned a crooked half-smile. “That’s people, ain’t it? We just keep trying. Maybe we’re just stubborn. Doc?”

  “Yes?”

  “You think there’s someplace else? You know, Heaven or whatever? A better place?”

  “I sure hope so. The only ones who know for sure can’t talk about it to us.”

  “Yeah.” Stark brooded, his eyes still fixed on Murphy. “I wonder, though. If we think there’s a great place waiting for us, and all those people who’re gone now are waiting there, too, how come we fight so hard to stay alive? How come we don’t give up? How come we fix up sick and injured people instead of lettin’ ‘em die and go there?”

  “Maybe because we don’t know, and can’t know for sure. Maybe because people always hate change, even good change. Maybe just because we don’t want to leave behind the people and places in this world. Or maybe whoever’s running things designed humans to want to stay here as long as possible.”

  “That’d fit, wouldn’t it? But why would anyone make humans want to stay here where it’s so easy to make bad choices, where people can get hurt and can hurt other people? That seems kinda cruel. Why do that? What’s the point in making us stay here as long as we can?”

  “Maybe we’re supposed to be learning something while we’re here.”

  Stark stood silent for a moment, then nodded. “Huh. Makes sense. It sounds like you’ve thought about it.”

  “You watch enough people die and it sort of comes naturally.”

  “Let me know if anything changes, okay?”

  “Sure. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

  Stark walked slowly away, glancing back just before the curtain fell to block his view. The medic stood beside Murphy’s bed, hands resting on the grab rail, her shoulders bent as if under a burden, her head lowered. Somehow Stark knew her eyes would be even wearier than usual.

  Artillery dropped shells all around as small arms fire raked the exposed position occupied by the dwindling force of American troops. Private Ethan Stark, clinging to the dirt as if he could somehow will himself beneath it for protection, shuddered in time to the almost constant vibrations of explosions. Before his eyes, battered stalks of grass trembled, their torn stems spotted with blood.

  The soldier to Stark’s right turned her head, looking straight at him. Corporal Stein, Stark’s mentor and the closest he’d ever had to a big sister. But she was glaring in anger now, not at the enemy, but at him. “You really screwed up this time, didn’t you, Stark?” Somehow the words came to him clearly despite the thunder of battle.

  “Kate? Whadayya mean? How’d I screw up?”

  “You led us here, didn’t you? Trapped us here.” Stark, already severely stressed by combat, wanted to scream in frustration at the unfairness of the accusation. “I’m not in charge, damnit! This isn’t my fault!” Something was wrong. Stark gazed outward, where the tree line from which the enemy had been firing had somehow vanished, been replaced by barren ridges. The grass before him was gone, too, replaced by jagged rocks bearing the same blood. “Kate? What the hell…?” He looked back at her, unable to finish his question.

  “We trusted you, Stark. And you led us here. And now we can’t even try to run.” Stein gestured, indicating her lower body.

  Stark stared, sickened, as he suddenly saw her legs were gone, blasted away by one of the incoming shells. He jerked his head, looking away, and found himself facing another soldier to his left. This one lay facedown, within easy reach, but unmoving. As if of its own will, Stark’s hand moved to shake the soldier. The body lolled, limp, but the soldier’s head flopped to the side. Private Murphy. Still alive. Stark could feel his breath against his hand. But his eyes, his face, were vacant and empty. “You’re not dead!” Stark shouted. “You’re not—”

  He came awake, pulse pounding, his body still shaking from the memory of battle. Patterson’s Knoll. I’ve refought that damned battle damn near every night since it ended. It was bad enough all those times, but now it’s getting worse. He sat up, rubbing his face, calming his breathing. Major Patterson had led two companies of soldiers too far ahead of everyone else and learned too late that the enemy had more troops and more equipment than expected. Instead of retreating, he led his soldiers to an exposed hill and dithered there, until they were surrounded and slowly pounded to pieces. Stark had been one of three soldiers to survive, by escaping through the enemy lines that night. He’d left behind a lot of dead friends, including Kate Stein.

  So now I get to dream of it being my fault. Of being responsible for it all. It’s all getting jumbled up. Patterson’s Knoll and here. The dead there. The people counting on me here. What the hell am I gonna do?

  He thought about Kate Stein briefly, about the lessons in survival she�
��d taught new soldier Ethan Stark, about what she might advise now. But that led to thoughts of her brother, Grant. The soldier who’d come up here pretending to idolize Stark and had ended up betraying Stark and his troops in a misguided act of revenge. The soldier who’d been court-martialed for that at Stark’s orders and executed by a firing squad after Stark had confirmed the court-martial’s sentence. Wherever you are, Kate, I can understand if you hate me now. But I didn’t have any real choice. Maybe if you’d still been around when that idiot Grant was growing up, he’d have learned something good from you like I did.

  Stark stood, trying to shove all memory of the old battle and the Steins from his mind. He knew sleep wouldn’t come again this night and didn’t like the idea of sitting alone in his quarters staring into the darkness. After a long moment, Stark opened the door and headed for the nearest recreation room.

  At this hour the small room was empty, of course, the utilitarian metal chairs all vacant. It always took awhile for someone new to the Moon to accept the apparently spindly construction of those chairs. In a typical, but in this case justified, act of economy, the chairs had been built with just enough metal to support a human’s weight in gravity one-sixth that of Earth.

  Stark grabbed a cup of coffee and sat at one of the small tables. Before him, the built-in display showed a screen saver that painted blackness with splotches of color, like the lights that showed behind closed eyes. Stark gazed morosely at the light display, imagining shapes in the glowing blotches.

  Trapped. Yeah, we’re trapped. I mean, pity the fools who try to take us, but we can’t run. Sooner or later, if they keep hitting us, we’ll lose. I’ve never been that good at math, but I know how battles add up. It doesn’t matter how many you’ve won. As soon as you add in the battle you just lost, it all comes to zero. The victories don’t count, then. Just like killing enemies. Kill the first hundred, great. But if the next one kills you, what was the point?