Stark's Command (16 page)

"Not everything is dead," Sarafina declared, her voice thin. "The Colony is alive."

"True. So are we. For a while, anyway. I guess some lives count more than others."

"Hell, Vic," Stark noted, his voice harsh, "we've known that for ages."

Sarafina shook her head, eyes downcast. "It appears we must also learn that same lesson."

Vic's expression softened momentarily. "You've got to work with the world as it is, and that's the reality we have to live with."

"Wrong." Stark flashed a grim smile. "Reality's gonna change, and we're gonna change it."

"That," Campbell observed, "is a rather high goal to aim for."

"We've been putting our lives on the line for longer than we care to think about. And you know what I think? If you're gonna risk your life for something, it might as well be something big. Something really worth dying for."

"This is big," Vic agreed.

"Worth mutually pledging your lives and your honor?" Campbell asked.

"Is that some sort of quote?"

"Sort of, Sergeant Stark. Sort of."

Open, yet closed in. Like a passenger concourse in an airfield, the main spaceport terminal for the Lunar Colony was dominated by a large room, which extended in all directions, interrupted by stone pillars supporting a metal-reinforced Moon-rock ceiling above. A very thick ceiling, just in case one of the shuttles using the spaceport had the worst kind of accident. On Earth, the pillars would have been described as having been hewn from the living rock, but somehow the phrase didn't fit for lifeless lunar matter. Among the pillars, clots of people stood or moved in patterns that appeared chaotic at first, but slowly resolved into a sort of ballet of three parts, one of those moving to the exit, one of those arriving, and one of those holding their places to guard or guide the first two. Groups of civilians stopped to stare at the soldiers crowding the terminal, unfamiliar faces in unfamiliar garb intruding on the isolated small-town environment that no longer existed back home. An environment inadvertently recreated on the Moon, which those fabled small towns of yesterday had once gazed upward from on clear, quiet nights.

Stark smiled at a nearby gaggle of civs, a few teenagers wide-eyed with faked nonchalance at the military presence.
I could've been one of them. That punk in the short jacket. Funny where life leads you. And,
the disquieting thought arose,
if I screw up this situation I may ruin their lives along with mine.

Fitful movement started up to one side of the concourse, a long line of uniforms shuffling forward. Officers. The former leaders of Stark and his troops, now under guard and on their way home. Some of the officers stood tall, gazing around defiantly as if still in charge of all they surveyed. Others huddled small, ashamed or frightened of their changed roles, eager to get on the shuttles that would return them to a world where they still commanded. Stark's eyes narrowed as one of the enlisted guards gave a passing officer a shove with a rifle butt, creating a stumbling ripple down the line heading for the exit. He took a dozen quick steps, closing on the incident. "You."

The guard looked around, worried eyes clashing with his hastily forced look of innocence. "Me?"

"Yeah. You." Stark reached to grab the shoulder of the officer who'd been shoved, a female Colonel who seemed torn between terror and outrage. "Your orders are no mistreatment. Right?"

"Uh, yessir."

"So you will apologize to this officer for striking her without cause." The other guards were watching Stark now. "If she gets out of line, you are authorized to discipline her. If she tries to grab your rifle, you are authorized to shoot her. But you will treat her with courtesy otherwise."

The guard flushed, his mouth tight. "They never treated us with no courtesy."

"That's the point. We're supposed to be better than that. And we will be." Stark paused for a moment. "I'm waiting."

"Okay. I mean, yessir." Gulping, the guard nodded toward the Colonel. "I apologize for striking you without cause, Colonel."

Stark shifted his gaze to the officer. "Now, you accept the apology."

The Colonel turned a brighter shade of red than the guard had. "I don't—!"

"Yes, you do. Get out of here." Stark turned her with casual force, placing the Colonel back into the flow of officers headed outward, then faced the guard again. "We're better than that," he repeated. "I'm not asking you apes to respect people like this, but give them courtesy. Make it automatic. It's called discipline, and nobody better forget it. We've got our own officers coming along, and I don't want anybody out of the habit of listening to them."

"Where we gonna get our own officers?" another guard wondered.

"From apes like you. The best ones." Expressions of incredulity met Stark's words. "I mean it. You guys all know somebody who's good enough to lead, and good enough that you'll follow. Tell them word's gonna be coming down for volunteers, and we'll want the best."

Silent nods and scattered "yessirs" acknowledged Stark's words as he stepped away, heading toward another column whose members' awkward shuffles marked them as new arrivals to the Moon. He watched them, half-curious, half-envious of the soldiers whose parents had shared their lifework and could now share their lives again.

One man, slim and elderly, locked his eyes on Stark, evaluating him in a fashion that caused Stark to automatically stiffen his posture. The man detached himself from the file, ignoring a hasty call from one of the escorts, walking with the wobbly awkwardness of a new arrival to the Moon until he reached Stark and stood at rigid attention to render a precise salute.

Stark returned the gesture as professionally as he could. "Do I know you?"

"No, you do not, Sergeant Stark. My son, however, had the good fortune to serve in your Squad for some years. He often spoke of your leadership qualities."

"Your son?" The man's face, his mannerisms, his carefully controlled speech, suddenly clicked into focus. "Private Mendoza. You're his dad."

"That is correct."

Stark smiled broadly. "Lieutenant Mendoza, I guess I should say. Damn nice to see you, sir."

"I was not aware my son had spoken of me to you." Hard to say how the elder Mendoza felt about it. Like Mendo, it seemed he kept a quiet, disengaged front before the world.

"Just once. He's a good soldier. Your son's okay, Lieutenant. Minor wound during a recent action, but nothing that kept him off duty."

"Thank you. I am grateful for the news. But I am retired now, as you must know, Sergeant Stark. Mr. Mendoza is sufficient."

"Sorry. From what I've heard, you're a fine officer, so you're still a Lieutenant to me." Stark spotted Reynolds walking down the incoming line, scrutinizing the arrivals. "Hey, Vic. Mendo's dad's here. This is Lieutenant Mendoza."

Reynolds saluted automatically. "Pleased to meet you, sir."

Lieutenant Mendoza quirked a quizzical smile. "I was informed discipline had failed on the Moon. How odd to be met by proper military courtesy."

"Just what were you expecting?" Vic challenged.

"The authorities at home warned that an officer, even a retired one, might well face a lynch mob here."

"Can't lynch people on the Moon," Stark noted sardonically. "Gravity's too light. They just hang there, yelling at you while their neck muscles automatically tense to keep them breathing. Takes a few hours before their necks get too tired to keep the windpipe open. We haven't tried it," he hastened to add as Lieutenant Mendoza raised an eyebrow. "Every once in a while some guy tries to suicide that way. Never works. When they get found, people make fun of them for a while before they cut them down."

"I see I have much to learn of the environment up here, but it appears that soldiers are much as they have always been."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Stark smiled. "Once you're settled in and have had a chance to meet your son, I'd like to talk to you, sir. I think you could help me with some ideas, if you're anything like Mendo. Excuse me, like your son."

"Certainly." Lieutenant Mendoza saluted again, then turned to cautiously make his way back to the incoming file.

Stark glanced at Reynolds. "That was a nice surprise. What brings you here, checking out the incoming? Expecting anybody?"

Vic shrugged, projecting indifference. "You never know when a familiar face might turn up." Turning slightly, she gestured toward the outgoing column. "All officers today."

"Yeah. General Meecham and all his little sub-generals were loaded onto the first shuttle. I doubt he'll ever be back to the Moon."

"What a shame," she noted with a total lack of sincerity. "Did you say good-bye?"

"Hell, no. I said everything I wanted to say to that guy a while back."

She grinned humorlessly. "I understand the next batch of shuttles is supposed to start taking off the Third Division enlisted apes who preferred going home to staying with us."

"I know."
Rash. Have a good flight, pal. I'm gonna miss you, but I sure hope you don't come back. How long has it been since we two Privates hid behind rocks while the enemy tried to see how well our armor worked? Or since we got into that bar fight and ended up being chased by half the Indigs in the city? Man, been a long time. And if he comes back here, he'll be with an army trying to defeat us. Shooting at us and getting shot at. Rash, don't come back.
"How many decided to bolt, anyway?"

"You mean how many Third Division soldiers chose going home to staying with us? About two-thirds of the survivors." She paused, face carefully composed. "Which is so small a number I can hardly stand it."

Two-thirds. Two-thirds of how many? They were still trying to tally the dead from Meecham's ill-advised offensive. Far, far easier to count those from Third Division who still lived. It wasn't supposed to be that way. Third Division wasn't supposed to have been gutted by being thrown against unshaken enemy fortifications. But things never did happen the way Generals planned. "How can they go back?" Stark asked softly. "After what was done to them?"

"Don't blame them, Ethan. They're not lunar veterans at heart. Home is still home to them. Plus, they're still shell-shocked from getting cut to ribbons during Meecham's offensive, and before that they were confused and disoriented from being rushed up here."

Stark managed a small, self-mocking smile. "They ain't the only ones who're confused. I don't blame 'em, Vic. Everybody makes choices. I'm not exactly in a position to claim my choice is the best one."

"Not yet, anyway." She nodded toward the incoming line. "Hey, here comes another visitor aiming for you. You're popular today."

"Just my luck." Stark stared at the man approaching, uncertain legs marking him as another new arrival, trying to shake off a feeling of familiarity.
I never met that guy. Why does he seem like somebody I used to know?

The man, some years younger than Stark, saluted cheerfully. "Private Grant Stein, reporting for duty."

"Stein." The half-familiar face fell into context, matching half-buried memories. Stark held his expression with difficulty, noting as he did so the tight glances Vic shot toward him and the new arrival. "You related to Kate Stein? Corporal Kate Stein?"

"That's right. I'm her little brother."

Stark swallowed, fighting off shock. "I never knew she had . . . that is, you're a lot younger than she was when . . ."

"I was just a kid when she, uh, fell at Patterson's Knoll. Maybe you could tell me about it sometime, Sergeant?" The grin shifted to eager shyness.

"Uh, sure, I don't usually . . ." Stark shook his head, emotionally off-balance, angry at the disorientation fogging his thinking. "How'd you get them to let you up here? The exchange is only supposed to be for family members."

Stein grinned again, the simple gesture sparking memories of his sister in Stark. "Civs are running the exchange. For the right bribe, you can do anything. Somebody altered my record to show I had a relative up here. Easy."

"Easy?" Vic questioned sharply. "You're a Private? An active duty soldier and you got up here? Family member or not, why would the authorities allow that?"

"I'm not the only one," Stein protested. "I don't know why they allowed it, but there's maybe a half-dozen of us."

"That's very odd." Vic looked at Stark as she said it, even though her words were apparently aimed at Grant Stein. "Why send us reinforcements?"

Something about her tone aggravated Stark. "How the hell should I know? For that matter, most of the family members we're getting are retired mil. They're sort of reinforcements, too. Maybe not good enough for the front line, but they could free up a soldier to fight."

Reynolds chewed her lip, then nodded reluctantly. "That's true. Welcome to the Moon, Private Stein. I'm sure you and Sergeant Stark have a lot to talk about." She saluted Stark, uncharacteristically formal. "With your permission, I'll get back to work."

"Sure." Stark returned the salute, looking questioningly at her, but Vic simply nodded before heading off across the concourse.

"Is she a friend of yours?" Private Stein asked casually.

"Yeah. Real good friend." Stark focused back on the man who carried a ghost from the past in his features. "Look, you've gotta settle in. Attend the orientation briefings. But you call me after that. I'll tell you what I can about your sister."

"That'd be great. Thanks." Private Stein beamed happily, snapped a sharp salute, then returned to the file of incoming personnel.

Never expected to see a brother of Kate's.
Stark fought down a shiver. Every night, the long-ago-lost battle raged in his mind. Every night, Kate Stein and his other fellow soldiers died. Now here was Grant Stein, somehow forcing that nightmare into waking hours.
Why now? What's it mean?
He suddenly imagined Vic talking to him, expression exasperated.
Maybe all it means is that you've met Kate Stein's brother.
Maybe.

Stark eyed the nearby window warily despite the thickness of its synthetic "glass" and the gleaming knife edge of the emergency seal barely protruding on one side, ready to slam shut in an instant through any obstacle if the window somehow cracked. Thinking of the airless waste outside, he couldn't appreciate the bleak beauty of the dead landscape painted in shades of gray. Off to one side, the spaceport landing field was visible, a large flat plain leveled and painstakingly swept clear of dust. On the field, the squat shapes of shuttles pointed upward from the centers of blackened patches, access tubes latched on like remoras temporarily linking them to the Colony.