"What the hell is going on here?" Stark demanded.
The members of the work crew halted, turning toward him, their posture even in battle armor that of someone caught at something. No one spoke.
"I asked you what you're doing," Stark repeated coldly. He strode over to the heavy mover being used as a transport for the dead, finding bodies piled haphazardly within its open bed, indicating they'd been tossed inside in the same fashion as they were being unloaded. "What's the matter with you?" He felt his voice begin to tremble with rage and tried to tamp it down.
"Uh, we've got an awful lot of these to recover," one of the work crew finally and hesitantly began explaining.
" 'These'? You mean the remains of your fellow soldiers? Is that what you mean, Corporal?"
"We . . . we didn't mean—"
"I don't want to hear it. You listen to me, all of you." Stark raised an arm, one finger extended to point toward the several piles of dead. "These are the remains of your friends, your brothers and your sisters. You will treat them with respect. You will carry each one individually. You will set them in neat rows. If I see any more remains treated like sandbags, I will make every last one of you wish you'd never been born. IS—THAT—CLEAR?" The last three words came out in a roar, each one slamming home across the comm circuit.
A long silence answered him, then the members of the work crew carefully picked up the nearest bodies and began arranging them in a precise row, as if in a cemetery with no graves or headstones. Stark stood a moment, watching them, trying to calm himself, and then turned and stalked away, not slowing until he had entered the headquarters complex. He went past the door to his quarters, past the command center, until Stark reached the rec room that had become an informal staff office and meeting area. "Vic?"
She looked up from her palm unit, bleary-eyed. "Just a sec. Yeah. What's up?"
"Who the hell is supervising the work teams recovering all the dead?"
Reynolds didn't answer for a minute, first draining a cold cup of coffee dregs next to her with an involuntary shudder at the taste. "What happened?" she finally asked.
"Nothing, just them treating the dead like they're sacks of laundry. That's all."
"Damn. Sorry, Ethan. I got a lot of things to watch over right now."
For some reason the frank admission calmed him. "I know. We all do. I never thought to check on this until just now, either."
She rubbed her eyes, somehow looking weary and apologetic. "Ethan, you know what burial details are like after a lot of deaths. Remember that place in Asia? Where they threw the human wave assaults against us? So many enemy dead we couldn't bury them all proper."
"These aren't enemy. Not that that'd make it right. They're ours."
"After enough of them it doesn't matter, Ethan. People get numb, start treating the bodies like, well, like laundry. Maybe it's a defense mechanism, dehumanizing the dead. You know that. The first time you shoot someone you get physically ill. The next time, it's easier. After awhile, you've learned not to think about it."
"That's no excuse." Stark slumped in a chair, his face flushing with anger again. "You look after your dead."
"I know that. I'm not making excuses, just explaining how it happens." She squinted to look into his eyes. "This is about Patterson's Knoll, too, isn't it?"
"Everything in my head isn't about that worthless damn knoll," Stark denied, even as his flush paled.
"Of course," Vic agreed in tones which implied the opposite of her words. "Our dead on the Knoll didn't get buried, if I remember right."
"Not until we got to them." Stark stared sightlessly ahead. "After the position was overrun, they'd stripped them of everything they wanted, mutilated some, then left them there for the animals and what all."
"Sorry."
"When we retook the position," Stark continued in a thin voice, "they sent work details in to recover the bodies. I got assigned to one."
"What?" Vic couldn't hide her incredulity. "What kind of idiot would assign a survivor to that kind of duty?"
"I don't know. If I ever find him or her, I'll beat the hell out of them." He shuddered briefly as memories cascaded. "I want the dead treated right."
"I understand. I'll make sure of it from now on. Personally." She leaned forward enough to lock a tight grip on his biceps. "Wish I could make the hurt go away, Ethan."
"No, you don't. I wouldn't be the same guy, would I?"
"Wounded animals are dangerous, Ethan. No, I don't mean I'm scared of you. I'm scared for you. Not that there's much more you could possibly do at this point."
Stark quirked a brief, sardonic smile. "I still got a chance to start a full-scale revolution in the Colony up here, remember?"
"I remember."
"But," Stark continued, " 'wounded.' That reminds me. Something else I shoulda already done." He stood again, eyes wandering nervously around the room. "Gotta visit a friend."
"Rash Paratnam?"
"Yeah. He got beat up some during Meecham's offensive, but he's recovering okay. I oughta stop by and say hi."
"That all you going to do?"
He paused, then glanced at her with a slow smile. "I need all the friends I can get right now, Vic."
"Amen," she agreed. "Good luck. Say hi to the big ape for me."
"Sure." Out again, along corridors that suddenly changed from gray rock to white-painted walls, the universal red cross sign marking the entry into the military medical complex. Stark paused to ensure his helmet was off. Nowadays, anyone who made it to medical was almost certain to live, but you still made that small gesture in respect for the dead. Biting his lip, Stark oriented himself, walking through crowded wards toward his objective.
"Sergeant Stark?" The woman's voice was vaguely familiar. He turned to see tired eyes in a weary face. The medic who'd checked him out of here an eternity of a few weeks ago.
Stark nodded. "Nice to see you."
The medic smiled crookedly. "You promised you wouldn't be back again soon."
"Hey, this time I can walk in instead of being carried. How's it goin'?"
A shrug. "Lots of work. Your boy Meecham broke a lot of soldiers, and the fun a few days later sent us some more."
"Meecham ain't mine. Hopefully, you won't see many more casualties from now on."
"I'll believe it when I see it." The medic inclined her head in the direction of the Colony. "You set up the deal to send some of our wounded to the civ hospital?"
"Yeah. The head civ suggested it first, though."
"No kidding? They got good facilities. We've already sent a bunch of people over there. One of yours in the batch. Guy named Murphy."
Murphy. Still alive, which meant he'd stay that way. Stark felt one of the knots of tension in him slowly unravel. Too many questions I just don't want to ask. Afraid of the answers. Thank God some of the answers are good. "How'd you know he was mine?" Stark wondered.
"He told us." Another grin, sparking a small response in her tired eyes. "Kept asking if 'Sarge' knew about him going to the civ hospital. Wouldn't settle down 'til we told him you'd ordered it."
"I didn't. Not specifically, anyway."
"I know."
Stark smiled at the shared joke. "Mind if I ask you something?"
"Go ahead. But I'm busy Saturday night."
"That wasn't the question," Stark laughed. "Do you ever get any sleep?"
The medic pretended to ponder the question. "Sleep? Used to. I think. Been a long time." She sobered abruptly. "Too damn much to do. You know."
"I know." The bays around them, full of wounded, emphasized the simple statement. "I'm gonna do my best to keep soldiers out of here from now on. There'll always be some, as long as we're fighting, but I'll keep the numbers as low as I can."
"Trying to put us out of business?" the medic challenged. "I'll believe it when I see it. Good luck, though. Who you looking for here, anyway? Somebody specific?"
"Paratnam. Sergeant Rashamon Paratnam, in, uh, Bay 16C."
&nbs
p; "Take a right, then the third left. You'll be there."
"Thanks." Stark paused. "For everything. You guys are . . ." He fumbled for the right word.
"Angels?" The medic finished for him, putting a sarcastic lilt on the word. "Yeah, we keep the wings in storage so they'll look nice during inspections. Keeping those white feathers clean is a real bear."
"I bet. See ya."
"Hope not, unless you're walking in."
"Deal." Stark left her, wending through the aisles of the medical complex until he reached Bay 16C. Paratnam lay on a bed there, eyes fixed on a vid screen he obviously wasn't really watching. His husky body was thinner and paler than Stark remembered from their last encounter. He took a deep breath, then stepped closer, drawing his friend's attention.
"Hiya, Rash." Stark sat near the bed, chewing his lip nervously.
"Hi, Ethan." The reply lacked noticeable enthusiasm.
"How you doin'?"
"Fine. All things considered."
"They takin' good care of you?"
"Yeah."
"How's the leg?"
"It's fine."
"Uh, Rash, look, I—"
"Tell me about my sister," Paratnam interrupted.
Stark stared at the floor, clean white stone merging into spotless white walls. "Nobody's told you?"
"You tell me."
"She's dead, Rash."
"I know that. How'd it happen?"
"Rash—"
"Tell me, dammit!"
Stark raised his head, his eyes on Paratnam's for a brief moment. "Best we can tell, she took a burst from a chain gun dead-on during the first enemy barrage. Cut her in two. Never stood a chance. Sorry."
Paratnam looked away, face grim. "You didn't do it."
"That's what you're saying, but that's not what I'm hearing."
"Can't help what you hear."
Stark gazed at him for a moment, eyes questioning. "Okay. Look, I got something to ask you, Rash. You know what happened, right? After you got hit?"
"You mean you guys taking over? Yeah, I know."
"Geez, Rash, you don't have to sound so damn grateful. We did it to save what was left of Third Division."
"We didn't ask you."
"No, because you idiots were too busy proving that even the thickest skulls in the Army can't stop bullets." Stark glared at his friend. "Rash, we need good leaders now. I wanted to ask if you'd stay on and help us."
Rash finally met Stark's gaze again, staring back with some unreadable emotion. "That'd make my folks real happy, wouldn't it? Their daughter's dead and their son's a traitor. You wanta tell 'em?"
Stark closed his eyes, fists slowly clenching tight in his lap. "No. I wouldn't have wanted to've told them you were both dead, either. So I did something about it." He stood, nodding, eyes averted from Paratnam. "Okay. I guess I got my answer. Don't worry. Rash. You'll go home with the other Third Division guys who want that. I'm sorry you won't be up here with me. I really could've used you." He turned away.
"Hey, Ethan . . ."
Stark paused, not turning back. "Yeah?"
"Nothin'. See you around."
Stark walked out of the hospital, threading through crowds of soldiers, wounded and healthy as well as the many personnel dedicated to healing and caring for the injured. How can I feel so alone with all these people around me? Need a drink. No. Beer never held any answers. Need to talk to Vic.
Vic watched Ethan as he walked back into the rec room and collapsed into a chair in the slow-motion, low-gravity maneuver long since grown familiar. "Should I ask how it went with Rash?"
"No."
"Sorry, Ethan."
"Vic, I have never felt so damned lonely. Not even on that ridge when I held off the enemy to let the platoon escape. Sometimes it seems like there's nobody else there."
"You've always got me, big guy."
"What exactly does that mean?"
Vic exhaled in a quick burst, raising her eyes heavenward in pleading fashion. "Down, boy. It means comrade in arms. Comprendo?"
"That's what I figured. And, hell, that's what I really need. Just like always."
She grinned as if at an inner joke. "Good boy. They told me you were untrainable, but I knew I could manage it."
"Gee, thanks. What's my reward?"
"My smiling face in your dreams."
Stark started laughing, realizing as he did so that some of the weight seemed to have lifted from his shoulders. "Vic, if nothing else, there's nobody who can pull me out of a funk the way you can. Thanks."
"Heck, Ethan, I've got to give you some reason to keep me around."
"Here's another. When we meet with the civs I want you helping. I'm not the sharpest guy in the world when it comes to negotiating stuff."
Vic made a face. "We still got to meet with the civs, huh?"
"What's so bad about that?"
"Gee, let me think. Abuse. Mistrust. Being looked down on. Are any of those bad things, Ethan?"
Stark bit off an angry retort. "Look—"
"Oh, yeah. I forgot the entertainment factor. Will any of us have to shoot each other to amuse the civs?"
"That's enough! I've told you more than once these civs aren't that bad."
"This from the guy who admits he's not the sharpest in the world?" Vic flinched exaggeratedly at Stark's expression. "Okay. Sorry. Don't detonate on me. Do you want my honest opinion or do you want me to treat you like a General and just say 'yessir, yessir, that's right, sir'?"
"What I'd like," Stark explained carefully, "is for you to keep an open mind and evaluate the situation, not approach it with your mind already made up. You're a good tactical thinker, and you don't fight battles that way, do you? You see what things are like before you commit your forces."
"You do if you're smart," Vic conceded. "I'll do my best, but I've seen a few too many 'no dogs or military' signs to be completely dispassionate. When is this wonderful meeting?"
"Tomorrow morning. Like I said, I'm gonna need you there helping me."
"I'll be there," she partially promised.
Stark stared toward the gray emptiness of a blank display screen. Looks like it'll be me against the world. Just like always. I used to have friends standing beside me, though, before those friends decided to make me their boss. He searched his heart, trying to ignore Vic where she worked nearby, trying to ignore him, but came up with no better answers. I've got to go with my instincts. Do what seems right. What the hell else can I do? The blank screen offered no reply.
A long night hadn't generated any special wisdom, either. Stark grumbled internally as he took his seat. The meeting room sat near the edge of the headquarters complex, close enough to the rest of the Colony that Stark thought it qualified as neutral territory. And I sure as hell ain't gonna let the civs see that wonderland the General used for conferences. Besides, in Stark's experience uncomfortable conference rooms made for quicker meetings and decisions than comfortable ones did. He sat along one side of a standard-issue metal table, forged from lunar ore, his makeshift staff seated to his left and right. On the other side of the table, Colony Manager Campbell sat opposite Stark, his aides also ranked to either side.
Campbell looked nervous, though he hid it pretty well. Sarafina, seated next to him, smiled briefly at Stark. The other civilians either stared at the table top or glowered upward. Stark turned to whisper a comment to Vic, the words dying unuttered as he realized his own people all mirrored the attitudes of the Colonists. Oh, man. This is gonna be as bad as I feared, ain't it? "I guess we ought to start," Stark finally suggested. "But I'm not sure how this should work."
"None of us do." Campbell smiled tightly. "It's been a long time since Americans staged a revolution."
A wide-featured man down the table from Campbell sat straight at the words. "I was not aware any decision had been reached regarding this situation. The potential for extremely serious—"
"Yes, yes," Campbell interrupted wearily. "This is Jason Trasies, Chief of Security for t
he Colony."
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