Stark's Command (11 page)

Stark clenched his hands on the table, looking down at them for a moment. "Not too long ago I asked Vic what we were fighting for. She said if nothing else, at least we were doing the right thing. Well, near as I can tell, so are the civs. They're being used. They want to be treated right."

"What they probably want," Tanaka stated icily, "is to use us, and treat us the way they always do." More nods. "You can't trust civs."

"I grew up civ." Stark's words shocked some of those around the table, while others simply stared back, unresponsive. "I know. You all grew up in Forts with mil parents and mil friends. But I didn't."

"You're mil now," Vic objected.

"I grew up civ," Stark repeated. "They're not necessarily bad. I've been through the same treatment you guys have in uniform. Stay out of the civ neighborhoods 'cause they don't want any violent lowlifes around. Get cheated by civ merchants. Get sent to lousy places to get shot at because the corporations think they can wrangle a few more bucks that way. And I was in on the action the first time we got an op sent to vid for entertainment. So I know. But I know the other side, too. They're people. They're our people."

"What do you want from us?" Vic asked. "Don't expect us to trust these people, these civs, at the drop of a hat. It's not going to happen. We've been screwed too many times."

"Like I said, I know. All I want is to talk to them. Find out if they're for real. See if we have stuff in common. We should, by God. What's wrong with talking to them?"

"That's probably what Eve said to Adam about the snake," Vic observed.

Stark took in the expressions around the table, unconvinced, and not willing to be convinced. "Fine. Then let's put it in terms of self-interest. Anybody around this table think we can survive up here without the cooperation of the civs? Anybody care to think what'll happen if the civs are actively working against us? Anybody want to take over running the civ Colony?

How about you, Bev? That'd be a great administrative challenge."

"Uh-uh," Manley demurred. "It'd also be a nightmare for me. I don't know their systems." She looked around sourly. "Stark's right. We might wish they'd go away, but they won't. We've gotta deal with 'em."

"I'll set up a meeting," Stark continued. "Like this one, but with the civ reps here, too. And we'll talk. No promises. No deals beforehand. That okay with everybody? Vic?"

"I'll talk," she glowered back, "but don't expect hugs and kisses."

Gordasa raised one hand slightly and waved it. "This looks decided, and I've got too much to do and too little time to do it in. Is there anything else for now?"

"No," Stark informed the group. "I'll let you know when we'll meet the civs."

"Oh, goody," Vic whispered not-quite-under-her-breath, evoking laughter as the others filed out. "Sorry, Ethan," she added when the last of them had left. "It just kind of slipped out."

"Yeah. Right. Just give me a chance on this."

"Sure. You, I trust. Civs, on the other hand . . ." Vic let the sentence trail off meaningfully. "Speaking of trust, are you sure you're happy with having Stacey as our lead on the prisoner negotiations?"

Stark snorted a brief laugh. "I haven't been happy with anything for a long time, now. But if anybody can get us the best deal, it's her." He checked the time, exhaling heavily. Over half a day gone. Unreal.
I spent most of yesterday fighting for my life and most of today in meetings wishing I was handling something as simple as yesterday.
He paused, face suddenly tight. "And, speaking of Stacey, now I've got to do something real hard."

Vic raised a questioning eyebrow. "What's that?"

"Kalnick. She's in his battalion."

"Uh-huh. What're you going to do?"

"Only one thing I can do. He didn't follow orders, and he won't in the future. I've got to get another commander for that battalion."

Vic nodded decisively, taking a step toward the door. "Okay, let's go."

"No." Stark stopped her with an outstretched hand. "I've got to do this alone. Do me a favor, though. Set up a meeting over at Fifth Battalion for me. All their senior enlisted."

"Not just you and Kalnick?"

"No. He wants this to be personal, and a one-on-one would make it personal. If he's gotta defend his actions in front of a lot of other people, he won't be able to claim they railroaded him."

She nodded. "Truth. Good luck."

"Thanks." The wood-paneled walls of headquarters were getting entirely too familiar; so that increasingly Stark was surprised when they gave way to the lunar rock of the corridors in the rest of the city.
Gotta get rid of that junk. Embarrassing. Worth ten times its weight in titanium back on Earth, I bet. Just have to get it down there.
Still, he found a sense of liberation in leaving headquarters, as if walking awhile alone among his peers somehow kept him a part of them.

A standard briefing room, once used primarily for officers to explain the latest version of universal and everlasting truth from headquarters, the versions changing roughly every time a new General replaced the old one. Now, the Sergeants from Fifth Battalion sat stonefaced before him, except for a crooked smile on the face of Stacey Yurivan several rows back.

"First of all," Stark began, "I want to thank all of you and all your people for how good they did in that last engagement. We really hurt those bastards. They won't try anything again for a long time." Some of the hard expressions eased slightly. "But I gotta talk about something else." The faces hardened again perceptibly. "We had a real delay getting your battalion into position. It almost didn't get there in time. Not because you couldn't, but because your commander wouldn't move you. That coulda cost us a lot of lives. It coulda cost us the whole battle."

Kalnick sat silent, scowling, as another Sergeant spoke. "So? What's your point here? What do you want, Stark?"

Keep it respectful Treat these apes like you'd have wanted to be treated.
Stark chose his words carefully, avoiding loaded terms like "order" and "command."

"I want a commander for this battalion that I can count on. I want a commander that every other soldier here can count on. They, and you, deserve a commander who'll look out for them when the chips are down."

Kalnick flushed, then stood. "What you really want is the same thing the damn officers wanted, enlisted troops who only do what they're told. Isn't that right, Stark? Or should I say General Stark?" Stark stared back, keeping his face impassive with great effort, remaining silent to keep his anger from showing. Kalnick's defiance seemed to waver under Stark's steady gaze. "Well?" he finally demanded. "Should I?"

"No."

"You just want me gone because I thought for myself!"

"No."

Another Sergeant stood, mouth and eyes tight. "Denials are fine, but how about more detail, Stark? How do we know Kalnick isn't right, that this isn't about making us follow every order exactly again?"

"Ask Milheim." A ripple of reaction ran through the crowd. "Acting Fourth Batt commander, right? He didn't like the way his troops were supposed to deploy, told me and Reynolds that, and suggested another way. We let him do it. Or Geary. We let her pick her own routes for her company when we sealed the penetration. She was on the scene, we let her make the call." Stark raised his right arm, leveling an accusing forefinger at Kalnick. "Your commander didn't make any suggestions. He didn't offer alternatives. You heard me ask, right? Anybody hear Kalnick say what he wanted to do instead? That's 'cause he didn't. No, he just wanted to sit on his fat ass while Fourth Battalion and the rest of the soldiers up here got blown away.
That's
what this is about. We're a team, but Kalnick doesn't want to play with a team. If he doesn't like the moves, he just wants to go home and let the rest of us get beat."

"That's a lie!" Kalnick went white with rage, raising his own trembling arm. "Who died and made you God?"

"Third Division died," Stark shot back coldly. "Most of them anyway, and the Sergeants made me Commander. I didn't want the job, but by God I'm going to do it to the best of my ability. That means I can't have a battalion commander who ignores orders." The word slipped out at last. Stark tensed, waiting for the inevitable reaction, but it didn't come. The debate had passed that point.

"Stark's right." Yurivan was standing now, her smile gone. "Kalnick, I never played by the rules, but I never screwed my buddies in other units, either."

"I didn't do anything!"

"Yeah, well, that's the problem, ain't it? I just realized, someday I might be out on the line, getting hit, and depending on you to come to help. And that scared the hell out of me." She scanned the crowd. "We need another commander, people. Not just because Stark can't trust him. We need one
we
can trust."

"I second that."

"Me, too."

"Anybody still want Kalnick in command?" A small scattering of hands responded to Yurivan's question. "Who else can do the job? You got any suggestions, Stark?"

Stark shook his head, trying to keep his relief from showing.
Give 'em a chance, they'll do the right thing. Just lead 'em instead of shoving 'em.
"That's not my place. I guess someday it'll have to be if we're to stay an army, but for now, you guys choose a commander you trust."

"I nominate Demetrios, then."

"What?" Demetrios protested. "What the hell did I ever do to you?"

"What about Falco?"

"Hey!" Kalnick faced his own peers now, staring at them in unconcealed outrage. "You all elected
me
to this job! I'm the battalion commander, and you can't just toss me out because Stark and his stooges say so."

"I ain't nobody's stooge."

"Me, neither."

"You mad 'cause we ain't following
your
orders, Kalnick?"

"Kalnick, why don't you get your butt out of here before we kick it out?"

"You can all go to hell. Which is exactly where Stark is going to lead you." Kalnick pivoted on one heel, exiting the room in a low-gravity stalk.

Stark nodded to the now-silent ranks of Sergeants. "Thanks for backing me up. During the battle, and now. This is a good outfit. I don't have to hang around for the rest of this. You guys let me know who you want to lead this unit."

A thin Sergeant stood, his face familiar from the meeting that had elected Stark to command. "Are you going to accept the name we give you or approve it?"

A very loaded question. Stark felt the room tense again, then swept his eyes across his audience. "Approve it." A murmur of comment arose. "Look. You made me commander. If I don't command, I'm not doing my job. And 'command' means I gotta call the shots on big issues. Important issues. You don't like it, you can all toss me out and find someone else dumb enough to take the job. So you tell me what you want. You tell me why. I better listen, because you apes know what the hell you're talking about. But I may not do what you want for a lot of reasons. I won't apologize for that."

A long silence stretched, then the thin Sergeant nodded, a tight smile on his lips. "Spoken like a Sergeant. Okay. But if you reject our choice, we'll want to know why."

"Deal. Now, if you guys will excuse me, I got about twelve more alligators to wrestle today." Stark left, his stomach slowly releasing the knot he hadn't realized had been there. Almost dizzy with reaction, half-happy, half-nauseous, he passed through the doorway, turned right, and saw Sergeant Kalnick standing in the hall, his arms crossed defiantly.

Kalnick glared at Stark, eyes radiating hate. "Congratulations, 'General.' I guess I'll go back to my squad now."

"Wrong." Stark moved closer, eye-to-eye with the other man. "I don't need a snake like you within striking distance. You've just been assigned to administrative duties under Sergeant Manley." If Kalnick felt tempted to cause more trouble, he wouldn't have much scope within the Admin offices. "Once we get the procedures worked out, you'll get on one of the shuttles and head home with the officers."

"You can't do that. I'll be shot!"

"No, you won't. Just tell the truth, that you never accepted my authority and didn't follow my orders. You'll pass any security screen they care to run. I would like to know one thing, though. What the hell did I ever do to you?"

"Besides thinking you're better than the rest of us? Besides being a glory hound? Besides starting something you have no idea how to finish?"

Stark shook his head slowly. "I guess I gotta admit the truth of that third thing. None of us knows how this is gonna come out, and, yeah, I started it. But the rest? I'm not better than anyone, not as a person. Maybe I'm better at being a Sergeant than some people, and a lot of Sergeants seem to think I'm the right guy to lead them, but the day I start thinking I'm better is the day I prove myself worse."

"Nice words. I don't believe any of them. I'll be back, Stark, to try to save the others from this unholy mess you got them into."

Stark smiled the way a wolf does when challenged. "You do that, Kalnick. But you try to hurt a single soldier up here, and I'll have your head on a platter. Got me?" Without waiting for a reply, Stark walked away.

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.