Stark's War

by John G. Hemry

  "I can't divulge any operational stuff to you, ma'am, not without clearance from my chain of command."

  "Ma'am?" Sarafina seemed amused by the title. "Don't worry. I don't want to know anything you can't tell me. No, I'd just like to know your opinion on some issues."

  "My opinion?" Stark laughed. "I'm a Sergeant. Nobody cares what I think, except the grunts in my Squad."

  "I care." Sarafina leaned forward, eyes intense. "Sergeant Stark, would you regard a negotiated peace settlement here on the Moon as a betrayal?"

  "Huh?" Stark scratched his head, glancing at Robin and then the paca on the nearby shelf. "Why would I do that?"

  "Because of all your comrades who have died up here. All the fighting you've done to achieve victory."

  "Ma'am, most of the fighting I've done was to achieve my personal survival. As for my comrades, yeah, I've lost too many, here and a lot of other places. And let me tell you, one is too many. But it happens, and nobody cares all that much except us."

  Sarafina frowned in puzzlement. "Surely your officers care."

  "A few do, most don't. A lot of them, the higher-ranking ones in particular, seem to think of us as nothing more than spare parts sometimes."

  "I don't understand."

  Stark shrugged. "Neither do I, ma'am. Why are you asking me this?"

  "Because," Robin chimed in, "we, the civilians here in New Plymouth, would like the war to end. Everything we want to accomplish on Luna is being limited and stymied by the need to fight, by the resources we're forced to send back to Earth as what we're told is our share of the war's cost, by the partial blockades that make getting people and materials up here harder than it needs to be. And, of course, the heavy taxes on anything and everything up here."

  "Taxes?" Stark questioned. "I thought civs could elect people who wouldn't make them pay a lot of taxes. Has that changed since I enlisted?"

  Robin Masood smiled bitterly. "It's not that we don't expect to help pay for the military forces that protect us, but we seem to be taxed beyond that, certainly much, much higher than our counterparts on Earth. And there's nothing we can do about it. We can't exercise the same rights to self-government that Americans back on Earth can, because as long as the war lasts, we'll remain under martial law. We're not even allowed to vote for representatives in Washington."

  "In addition," Sarafina noted, "the corporations that sent us up here invested heavily, and as a result continue to demand ever larger output from our mines, labs, and factories. Yet we cannot meet those output goals as long as the war demands resources from us and limits our ability to expand."

  "So you're between a rock and a hard place. You saying your bosses don't listen to you either?"

  Sarafina smiled grimly. "Sergeant Stark, are you familiar with the term 'chattel labor'?"

  "Can't say I am."

  "It refers to workers who are so indebted to their employers that they must continue working. Workers who have no say in their own fates. Workers who are effectively little more than slaves. We are tired of living such lives, Sergeant Stark, yet there is no hope of improvement as long as the war continues. Therefore we want to negotiate a settlement."

  Stark shrugged again. "So negotiate it. That issue's way above my pay grade."

  Sarafina speared Stark with another intense gaze. "Sergeant, as I noted, we've been told by your officers, the most senior ones, that any attempt to negotiate a settlement would be regarded as a betrayal by the enlisted personnel. We've been told you would never stand for it."

  "Nobody ever asked me." Stark screwed up his face in puzzlement. "Hell, I've been in more than a dozen campaigns. They all ended, and a lot of them didn't end the way we wanted. Nobody asked me if I cared or liked it then, and nobody's asked me up here."

  "Are you saying you'd actually like a negotiated settlement?"

  "Ma'am, I generally like it when people stop shooting at me."

  The two women exchanged glances. "It appears your officers may be lying to us," Sarafina noted.

  "They lie to us all the time," Stark agreed, then frowned in sudden concern. Damn. Shouldn't have said that. Way too relaxed. So what if Robin's from Portland Area and her mom had one of those dumb smiley things, too. They're civs. "I probably shouldn't be that blunt with you. I'm sure my officers would be real unhappy if they heard what I've been telling you, even if it is just my opinion."

  "Sergeant, I swear anything you have or will tell us will remain confidential," Sarafina promised. "Your officers will not be told you ever spoke to us."

  Can I trust that? Hell, I don't know. They seem nice, but . . . Vic's right. I'm out of my depth here. "Suppose I asked you not to tell anyone else."

  "No one?" Sarafina didn't seem pleased at the prospect.

  "Right."

  "Please reconsider. I believe this information is very important to Mr. Campbell, and therefore to all the inhabitants of New Plymouth."

  If she was lying to me, she' d just promise anything to keep me talking. Yeah. No question. "That's okay. You can tell Campbell. Just keep it quiet beyond him. I talk too much for my own good sometimes."

  Sarafina didn't try to hide her relief. "Certainly. You have my word, Sergeant Stark."

  "Thanks. Look, I can't help you on this negotiation issue. I don't have any power outside the twelve soldiers I command. And my officers have made it plenty clear they don't want to hear my opinions on any subject."

  Sarafina smiled. "On the contrary, Sergeant Stark, you have helped us. Understanding your opponent is important in politics. I assume it is the same in military matters, isn't it?"

  "That's right."

  "In the same way, knowing what motivates your senior officers will help us in our dealings with them."

  "Good luck." Stark looked around to mask another wave of uncertainty. "Uh, Robin, I guess that's the whole point of this? Nothing social? Not that I expected anything," Stark added hastily.

  She flushed slightly. "I'm very sorry. You probably expected something else when I sent you that letter, didn't you?"

  "You didn't promise anything."

  "No, but. . . I am sorry for implied expectations. It's nothing personal."

  Stark found himself grinning. "It never is. Don't worry about it." He nudged the paca again. "Nice to see this thing. My mom's used to embarrass the hell out of me. But that was a long time ago. You ever get back to the Portland Area?"

  "I can't afford it. Like most of the workers up here, I seem to get deeper in debt by the day. Have you been to the Seattle Area lately?"

  "I've been up here longer than you. So, is there anything else I can do for you ladies? We're pretty busy these days. I probably ought to be getting back."

  Sarafina glanced away, seeming somehow embarrassed to Stark. "There is one more thing, Sergeant. Is there anything we, the civilians in New Plymouth, can do for you?"

  "For me?" Stark shook his head. "I don't need anything special."

  "No, not just you personally. Anyone, everyone in the military. What can we do?"

  Sometimes things happened that simply didn't fit. Lately that sort of thing had been happening often. First the cop, then this. Stark rubbed his neck, puzzled. "Why are you asking?" he finally wondered.

  Robin answered, pointing off toward the spaceport. "We see them all the time, sometimes just a few, sometimes more. The . . . the . . . containers for the dead."

  "The body bags." Stark nodded. "Yeah, I know they're not bags anymore, but that's still what they're called."

  "You're dying for us," Robin continued, eyes suddenly reddened. "We know that. You keep us safe at enormous risk to yourselves. That's one of the reasons we insisted on visiting the hospital where we saw you, so we could gain a better understanding of your sacrifices for us."

  "One of the reasons?" Stark asked.

  Sarafina smiled tightly. "We also wanted a chance to speak to some military personnel for their candid opinions. However, if you recall, no such chance presented itself. The officers who escorted us made
it clear we shouldn't ask too many questions and they effectively intimidated anyone who might have given us the answers we sought anyway."

  "So you set up this meeting. Good; now I understand."

  "It makes you happy to know this?"

  "I like knowing what's going on and why it's going on," Stark confirmed. "It's one of the things that helps keep me alive. As for what you can do for the mil, I've got no idea. You've got no control over our officers, and you say you can't vote, so none of the politicians will listen to you, and the corporations that seem to be driving a lot of this mess are driving you, too. So I don't know. Maybe just be nice when you see one of us."

  "We hardly ever see any military personnel," Sarafina noted. "They pass through the spaceport and on out to your restricted areas." She paused, suddenly pensive. "There seem to have been a very large number of them arriving lately."

  Stark glanced downward. "That's something I can't talk about."

  "There's a lot of talk about a big offensive," Robin chimed in. "The newscasts are full of it."

  "The newscasts." Stark simply stared back.

  "There was an interview with one of your, um, Generals? the other day. He talked a lot about winning the war and applying some new way of fighting."

  "A General? Some guy named Meecham?"

  "I think so. He seemed very confident."

  Stark choked down a reply. Confident. I guess it's easy to be confident when you have no idea what the hell reality is. Just like those poor, ignorant bastards in Third Division. The difference is they'll bleed and die and that General will sit back at headquarters and watch it happen. He shook his head. "I'm sorry. Can't talk about it. Don't want to talk about it."

  Robin began to say something else, but Sarafina forestalled her with a raised hand. "Certainly, Sergeant. We respect your wishes."

  "Thanks." Stark stood, feeling awkward again. "I ought to be going."

  "Of course." Sarafina rose as well, extending her hand once more. "Thank you, Sergeant Stark. Good luck and Godspeed."

  "Sure." Stark shook her hand. "But don't wish luck to me, wish it to all those new arrivals. Robin, hope you get to visit Portland Area soon." He left, standing once again in the civ corridor of the civ building, where civs stopped to stare as he walked by, a uniform where uniforms did not belong. For the first time in a very long while, Stark stared back briefly, surprised to see more of curiosity in the civ eyes than fear and hostility. Some mil are different from other mil, like the Third Division apes are different from us. Maybe some civs are different from other civs, too. The thought disturbed him on some level where the way the world worked sat engraved in his mind. Is it possible the mil up here could have something in common with the civs up here? I guess stranger things have happened.

  The corridor leading to Stark's cubicle in the temporary barracks ran by a small lounge area that was basically just another cubicle with no door, a few more chairs, a drink dispenser, and no bed. As he passed the lounge, Stark spotted Vic sitting in a chair that gave her a view out the door. "Hey. What're you doing around here?"

  Vic twisted up one corner of her mouth in a noncommittal expression. "Nothing much. Just taking a break."

  "Funny place to take a break. You weren't waiting up for me, were you?"

  "Why would I bother with that?" she noted carelessly. "You're a big boy."

  "Sure." Stark came in, sitting opposite her. "You gonna ask?"

  "No."

  "Okay. All she wanted was to talk to me, her and this friend of hers who's some high-ranking civ."

  Vic raised one eyebrow. "They just wanted to talk? Ethan, you're not exactly the greatest conversationalist."

  "I know, but it wasn't that kind of talk. They had a bunch of questions they wanted to ask me."

  "Questions?" Vic frowned, leaning forward slightly. "What kind of questions?"

  Stark waved one hand in a dismissive gesture. "Nothing operational or anything. No secrets. Get this, Vic: The civs have been told by our officers that the reason the war's still going on is because we, enlisted like you and me, insist on fighting until we win."

  Vic chuckled, shaking her head. "Come on."

  "I mean it. They were serious as hell, and really surprised when I told them nobody cared what we thought and we didn't particularly want any war to go on any longer than necessary." Stark paused, noting the expression on Vic's face. "What's wrong with that?"

  "Ethan," Vic stated with more than a trace of anger, "what do you think our officers are going to do when some high-ranking civs tell them you said our officers are lying?"

  "I wouldn't want to guess," Stark declared indignantly. "But it won't happen. The civs promised they wouldn't tell any officers they'd talked to me."

  "And you believed them?"

  "Yeah. Not at first. But they convinced me."

  "They're civs, Ethan!" Vic's face tightened as her anger flared. "They think we're some kind of gladiators who die for their entertainment! They won't vote for enough money to support us properly! They don't care about you or any of us."

  "Vic, these civs don't watch the mil vid, they aren't allowed to vote, and, believe it or not, they seem to care about us."

  "Bull. Ethan, you are such a sucker for a pretty face—"

  "Listen to me! I may not be the smartest guy in the world, or up here for that matter, but I do know when someone's trying to work a scam on me. They didn't ask for anything, Vic."

  "Sure," Vic grumped. "And next time she calls you she'll have the vid waiting to take down every word you say. Either that or she'll scream 'rape!' and get her own vid time."

  "I know she's a civ, but. . ." Stark hesitated, trying to find the right words and failing. "She, and the other civ, they didn't act like I was mil and they were civ. It was different, Vic."

  "Just what does 'different' mean?"

  "I don't know." The admission seemed to mollify Vic somewhat. "Just something wasn't the same as it usually is. Hell, Vic, on the way back through the civ areas I swear a couple of them smiled at me, like they wanted to be friendly. And this civ cop, he acted nice, Vic."

  "Stranger things have happened, I suppose"—Vic sighed in unconscious mimicry of Stark's own thoughts—"though I don't know what. Still, Ethan, you probably shouldn't see that woman again."

  Stark grinned. "What, are you jealous?"

  "Oh, please!" Vic looked incredulous.

  "Well, we do spend a lot of time together."

  She shook her head and rolled her eyes simultaneously. "Ethan, that's because we're friends. Friends, Ethan. Even if we weren't, I'd still feel obligated to hang around you so I could warn off any other female who saw you and suffered a momentary lapse of judgment by thinking you'd be a good catch."

  "Thanks. I really like you, too." Stark stared at his hands for a moment. "They told me something else, Vic. Seems our General Meecham has been on the newscasts talking about the offensive."

  "I'd heard that."

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "Because I couldn't quite believe it. The civs saw it, though, huh?"

  "That's what they said. Guess that program got censored from the stuff we get to see." Stark clenched one fist. "Keep us from seeing what a General says on security grounds but let every civ and foreign viewer watch it all. That makes a helluva lot of sense. Vic, why do I feel like somebody watching a train wreck happening in slow motion?"

  "Probably for the same reason I do." Vic held up her palmtop so Stark could see the screen. "Get ready to watch some more. There's a lecture tomorrow morning by Meecham's staff. All Sergeants in First Division who aren't on the line are required to attend personally. Sergeants on the line will be linked in."

  "Oh, man." Stark narrowed his eyes to read Vic's screen. "Why do I think this is gonna be real ugly?"

  Whether the lecture proved to be ugly or not, the lead-up to the talking heads on Meecham's staff developed in the tortuous fashion common to most major briefings. Only the military, Stark thought sourly, could design chairs ca
pable of being highly uncomfortable even under the gentle tug of lunar gravity. He shifted position for perhaps the tenth time since taking a seat, then turned his head questioningly in response to a tap on one shoulder. "Yeah?"

  "Hey, Stark, what're you doin' here? I thought you knew everything about fighting wars."

  Stark smirked in exaggerated comradeship. "Sergeant Yurivan. I thought you were locked up in the stockade again, Stacey."

  "Me?" Yurivan mimicked Stark's expression. "Nah. Me, I'm innocent as can be."

  "Sure," Reynolds chimed in from her seat. "Does that mean you destroyed all the evidence, Stace?"