Stark's Command

by John G. Hemry

  Campbell waited in obvious expectancy, then frowned when nothing more was forthcoming. "That's your entire offer? Nothing pertaining to the Colony's status? Nothing regarding our rights? Nothing in the way of redress for past suffering caused by corporate and government policies?" He gazed down the table to the political representatives. "Have you nothing to add?"

  A middle-aged politician with smoothly handsome features shook his head, smiling reassuringly. "Your grievances with your parent corporations are internal matters. It would not be appropriate for the government to intervene in such matters, would it? We are merely here to assist in bringing this unpleasant state of affairs to an early and appropriate conclusion. I urge you to accept the generous offer which has been made by the corporations with financial interests up here."

  Campbell sat silent for a long moment, drawing an impatient scowl to the corporate speaker's face, then spoke briefly. "The offer is not acceptable."

  The corporate speaker flushed slightly. "This is not a negotiation. Our parent corporations are willing for the sake of good relations and expedient results to grant limited relief to personal indebtedness. Period."

  Campbell shook his head, looking vaguely regretful, but keeping his words even. "That's not acceptable," he repeated.

  "Failure to accept this offer will result in serious consequences. Our parent corporations will pursue all available options to compel compliance with our rights of ownership. As you are no doubt aware, your employment contracts bind you to arbitration of our choosing. In your absence, that arbitration has already occurred, and you have been found in violation of all aspects of your contracts. I don't need to tell you just how serious the legal and financial penalties for those violations can be, if we choose to demand them."

  Instead of responding directly, Campbell looked at Stark. "Commander, do these people have the ability to carry out their threats?"

  Stark had been trying not to look directly at Wilkinson and the other officers, fighting the unease his role generated inside. Now he made a very brief movement of his mouth that might have qualified as a fleeting smile. "No."

  "Can they regain control of this Colony without our full assent?"

  "No."

  "Are the military forces protecting the Colony prepared to defend its citizens against any coercive actions by these corporations?"

  "Yes."

  Another one of the politicians leaned forward, raising an imperative hand. "Sir, you are playing with fire here. I trust you have fully examined the consequences of your actions! To place your faith and the security of this Colony in the hands of renegades is frankly beyond my understanding. You have received a fair and, if I may say so, generous offer from these corporations which have done so much for you and our great country. You would be well advised to accept that offer before these . . . these dishonorable mutineers decide to turn on you!"

  Campbell's smile resembled Stark's earlier gesture. "I assume you are claiming we'd be better off placing our faith in you, Senator? Just how much have you received in 'campaign contributions' from the corporations you are now telling us to trust?"

  "That is entirely beside the point! Every penny I receive is in full accordance with the laws governing campaign finance!"

  "Which you write." Campbell shook his head. "So far, I haven't heard any constructive offers, or any reason to respond to blatant and unenforceable threats."

  Corporate and political representatives turned as one to glare at their military counterparts. "Perhaps," the corporate speaker suggested icily, "you should inform these people of the consequences of failure to comply with our offer."

  General Wilkinson nodded briskly, projecting confidence and bravado once again. "We will break the will of the so-called defenders and retake this Colony. We will reestablish the rule of law by whatever measures are necessary. Civilians who defied lawful authority will be delivered into the hands of law officers for punishment under the legal system. All, I repeat, all rebellious soldiers will be dealt with to the full extent of the Uniform Code of Military Justice." He glared fiercely at Stark. "The appropriate penalty being death."

  Stark stared back, his eyes locked on Wilkinson's, his face rigid as granite. "Who's going to carry out that mission, General? Who's going to retake this Colony? Where are your troops? Third Division got cut to ribbons, and some of the survivors joined us. You got one helluva lot of officers, but they ain't worth a damn without enlisted troops to pull triggers, are they? Or maybe you're planning on sending Second Division up here? But then the U.S. back on the World wouldn't have any defenders, would it?"

  Wilkinson and his fellow officers glowered back. "We will not discuss classified military matters in this environment," the General stated stiffly.

  Stark shook his head, his gaze scanning down the table. "You mean you haven't told your civilian bosses how many casualties Third Division took, General? I know you, and I know your type, and you hate telling your bosses something they really don't want to hear. But this time you'll have to."

  The corporate and political delegations were now staring at the military officers as well, faces hardening perceptibly. "General Wilkinson?" the corporate speaker inquired acidly.

  As Wilkinson paled and groped for words, Vic pulled a data coin from her palm unit, sliding it across the table toward him with the ease of long practice under lunar gravity, the coin coming to a slow halt just short of the General's hand. "Here, General. That's the best we've been able to come up with in the way of a casualty count from General Meecham's big offensive. You might want to share it with the others, but I have to warn you there's a lot of bodies left to tally, so it's far from complete, I'm afraid."

  Wilkinson stared at the coin as if it were a snake as Reynolds continued speaking. "Perhaps you'd like to take your political and corporate bosses on a tour of the front lines. We could show you the places where Third Division's brigades got cut to ribbons in an offensive I assume you helped approve. No, wait." She leaned back, reaching to key the nearest monitor. "Right here. See?"

  The screen displayed a long, open area, sloping downward gently before rising to meet a crater rim. Bright white light glared off elevations in vivid contrast to the knife-edged black shadows where sunlight couldn't reach. Motionless objects, resembling clumps of oddly similar-size rocks, littered the plain in front of the crater rim. Reynolds tapped a key, bringing the objects into high relief. "Just a low spot near the enemy lines. Second Brigade of Third Division went forward here. We call it Death Valley, now. All those objects I've highlighted are bodies of American soldiers we haven't been able to recover yet."

  Stark watched narrowly as the others in the room reacted to the sight. The corporate honchos just seemed to get colder and madder. Expressions of concern, outrage, dismay, and a dozen other emotions chased across the politicians' faces as they tried to gauge which reaction would draw the best response. The politicians' handlers simply stared, faces intent, as if they were calculating a difficult problem. Campbell and the other lunar civilians bent their heads, faces grim.

  Wilkinson rallied, even as he and the other military officers avoided looking at the scene on the monitor. "We can, and we will, carry out our ordered mission."

  "Really, General?" Campbell questioned. "Are you guaranteeing your superiors that you can retake this Colony?"

  "Our exact mission statement has not been promulgated and is of course subject to a careful staffing process to ensure that mission is defined precisely."

  Sergeant Reynolds spoke into the brief quiet following Wilkinson's statement, her voice calm and professional. "General. I know you're used to wordsmithing the mission definition so you can claim victory regardless of the outcome, but that won't work in this case. That system depends on enlisted soldiers somehow executing the mission in such a way that declaring victory has a veneer of legitimacy."

  "I will not tolerate being spoken to in this manner."

  Stark raised one forefinger toward Wilkinson, instinctively rising to Reynold
s's defense. "You haven't any choice this time."

  "Sergeant, I order you—"

  Anger flooded Stark, toppling the barriers he had tried to erect to maintain an even temper. "In case it hasn't sunk in yet, General, we're not going to follow your orders. We also don't intend dying or watching our friends die trying to carry out poorly conceived missions just to protect your reputation. You want miracles done, do them yourself." He felt Vic's hand reach under the table to grip his leg in silent admonition to calm down, and he tried to tamp down his emotions.

  Wilkinson flushed scarlet. "I don't know who the hell you think you are, soldier—"

  Another flash of anger dissolved Stark's good intentions. "I'm Sergeant Ethan Stark. Who the hell do you think you are?"

  Before the General could formulate a reply, the hard-eyed corporate representative slapped one hand on the table. "This is getting us nowhere. Mr. Stark—"

  "Sergeant."

  The representative paused, obviously fighting for composure. "Sergeant Stark. Your confidence is misplaced. Your weapons need ammunition and spare parts. Neither will be coming. This Colony is not self-sufficient for food and water. Those won't be coming, either."

  "We have plenty of spares," Stark stated, swinging one arm to indicate the monitor Vic had activated. "There's a lot of damaged battle armor to cannibalize, as you can see. We've also got lots of ammunition, and we know how to get more."

  Campbell cleared his throat as if apologetically. "As for food and water, we have substantial stockpiles, thanks in part to our defenders. Aside from their own resources, they arranged to trade a large number of enemy prisoners for necessities like foodstuffs. In terms of water, we're in very good shape thanks to the recent discoveries of new subsurface ice deposits."

  "That ice belongs to our corporations! Further, the existence and location of those ice deposits is proprietary information belonging to your parent corporations."

  "Yes," Campbell noted, in tones that suggested no real agreement, "well, our parents have been somewhat abusive, so we no longer feel bound by their rules."

  Another man leaned forward. "Sir, your words are condemning you to certain fines and imprisonment. As you are aware, subclauses of your employment agreement limit your ability to make public statements regarding your employers."

  Cheryl Sarafina spoke for the first time, arching her eyebrows in surprise. "We were not aware this was a public forum."

  The man smiled triumphantly. "The definition of public as set forth in paragraph four, section a, subsection five of your employment contract—"

  "Oh, shut up," Campbell snapped, his own temper obviously fraying. "We're not here to split legal hairs. I believe it should be clear by now that you do not have the means to coerce our cooperation and should therefore be trying to negotiate a truly fair outcome."

  The first politician who had spoken shook his head. "Our armed forces aren't as dependent on individual soldiers as you believe. I have been assured by the Pentagon that our new weapon systems provide many times the combat capabilities of older systems, yet require far fewer personnel. Perhaps you should enlighten Mr. Campbell, General Wilkinson, and also these, uh, enlisted persons as well."

  Wilkinson licked his lips, eyes uncertain, then smiled confidently. "Of course. Take the new-generation Armored Fighting Vehicle, the Kilpatrick Tank. It can engage multiple targets in a high-threat environment, has unprecedented ability to operate against enemy countermeasures, utilizes a uniquely capable active-passive armor system providing unparalleled protection, and requires only one operator." He paused, looking around the table triumphantly.

  Sergeant Reynolds held up her right hand questioningly. "How many personnel does it take to maintain this new tank, General? How often do its subsystems break?"

  Wilkinson glowered at her. "Exact logistical and other support requirements are still being determined by operational testing and evaluation sequences."

  Stacey Yurivan waved her own hand. "General. I assume one operator means that tank is very highly automated. If the enemy inserts a worm into the tank's operating systems, can the single operator override and countermand all functions in time to prevent fratricide?"

  "How big is this thing?" Chief Wiseman wondered. "Can it fit on our existing orbital boosters and landing craft?"

  Stark gestured to his staff for silence. "Sorry about that, sir," he apologized with barely veiled insincerity. "Those are the sort of questions veteran soldiers are likely to ask. As for me, I'm just wondering how well that tank's armor will do against the new sequential warhead anti-armor systems being deployed against us. They've been able to pretty much punch through anything we've got, which is why our tanks need good infantry screening to survive. We captured a number of those systems not long ago," Stark added, "during an enemy offensive."

  Wilkinson's jaw muscles stood out for a moment. "The Kilpatrick Tank is far superior to existing weapons and has none of the weaknesses you have alleged." One of the other officers, a Colonel, leaned toward the General, whispering frantically in his ear. "Of course," the General continued, "the, uh, operational environment may not be favorable for the employment of specific weapons systems depending on, uh, required operational parameters—"

  "General," Stark interrupted again. "It's a new weapon. You don't really know what it can or can't do. But none of us have ever met any weapon which lived up to its press releases, so we won't be impressed by claims of what any new weapon can maybe do in the future."

  Another politician spoke, her tone pleading. "Are you all really prepared to risk death? This is a very serious course of action you're following. I never expected to be telling fellow Americans they would be attacked by our own military unless they agree to follow the basic rules of our society."

  Colony Manager Campbell looked back at her, then around the table. "We do not want to fight. We do not want to defy authority. What we do want is some basic, elementary, fair treatment in accordance with our status as citizens. Why is that so hard? Why can't we be allowed to vote?"

  "You're in a war zone! How can we conduct elections in a war zone? Campaigning, voting, it would all be impossible."

  "No, it would not! If you bothered to actually walk around the Colony, you'd find it is a completely safe environment. I ask again, why can't we vote?"

  "The timing and nature of that decision is not, and cannot be, left up to you. Look at your current actions. You are inviting attack by our own military because of irresponsible and ill-considered decisions."

  Vic spoke, drawing attention away from Campbell. "I keep hearing threats to attack the Colony. The use of U.S. military forces against U.S. citizens or territory is prohibited by law unless those citizens or territories are declared to be in a state of rebellion. Are we to understand such a declaration is pending?"

  The politicians exchanged glances, then all looked toward their so-far silent staffers. One of those staffers cleared his throat, speaking as if reciting from a memorized text. "A declaration that the Lunar Colony is in a state of rebellion against lawful authorities of the United States is in abeyance pending the results of this meeting. Failure to conform to the commands of duly authorized representatives of the government will be taken as evidence of rebellious intent and actions."

  Campbell stared, eyes wide with disbelief. "You're telling us that we must submit to all the demands made today? That asking for the most basic rights of a citizen is being declared an act of rebellion?"

  "That is a very prejudicial formulating of the government's position. Of course, what I just stated applies only to the Colony. The military personnel who have failed in their duties have already been declared rebellious."

  Ms. Pevoni stood, her face reflecting shock. "You can't be serious! There is no need to escalate this dispute to the level of . . . of . . . war!"

  The senior politician spoke, his voice harsh. "On the contrary, this is a very serious situation. We have been very patient with you. The former defenders of this Colony have already been info
rmed that they must surrender immediately. No negotiations are being offered them. As for the Colony itself, you must either agree to the offer set forth by the corporate representatives present at this meeting, or we will be forced to call for appropriate measures."

  "That is the only choice you offer?" Campbell swiveled to look back at his assistants, reading some unspoken consensus. "Then we must take the only choice we can."

  "I'm very glad sanity has prevailed—"

  "We thank you for coming," Campbell continued, his tone dripping acid. "Please gather your personal possessions. You will be escorted back to your shuttles. The citizens of this Colony will overlook your attempt to unjustifiably characterize our demands for fair treatment and will await an offer which reflects our rights and provides adequate compensations for our sacrifices. Good day." He stood abruptly, his back to the corporate, political, and military delegations as they first stared, then began arguing in low tones among themselves.

  Stark, trying to ignore the ball of lead that seemed to have taken up residence in his stomach, nodded approvingly to Campbell as the Colony Manager glanced his way, earning a slightly shaky look of appreciation. "Good job, everybody," Stark murmured to his staff.