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PART THREE
Ends and Means

Stark sat grimly in his chair, his bearing for all the world like that of a man before a firing squad. Off to one side, Vic sat facing him with a cheerfully encouraging expression. Stark took a moment to glower her way, then tried to fix a more positive display on his face. You promised. That's what Campbell kept saying. You promised you'd talk to people if I asked you to. So here I am waiting to go on vid. I'll probably say something so stupid they'll show it in reruns 'til hell freezes over. They won't call 'em bloopers anymore. They call 'em Starks. Just watch.

Vic gave him a thumbs up and received another glower. "You'll be fine, Ethan." Another display not far from Vic showed Colony Manager Campbell sitting with studied calm at his own desk, waiting patiently for the interview to begin. "Just think of it like you're talking to your troops."

"Sure. Did you find out anything about how the commercial vid networks are planning to get this interview to the people back on Earth? The government will jam it for sure."

"They'll try. The vid networks have a pretty impressive setup, Ethan. The interview will go out as a scattered, broadband, frequency-hopping transmission, each little piece of it tagged to be relayed by any receiver within line of sight."

"That's a lot of receivers. But if all they pick up is government jamming it won't amount to a hill of beans."

"Yup. I said it's a scattered transmission, broken into a gazillion little packets, each repeated any number of times and carrying sequence tags. Unless the government jamming puts out a nova's worth of noise, it won't be able to catch them all. Not that the government could afford to do that, because it would shut down all communications. Imagine how that would play on the World. Anyhow, when the packets arrive at a receiver with the right software installed, they fit themselves back together using the sequence tags and you've got yourself an intact interview."

"Huh. That's neat stuff. It's like that story about the monster that breaks into little pieces to get into any place, and then reassembles itself and eats everybody. How come the networks are going to so much trouble to help us?"

Vic grinned. "They're not doing it to help us. They're doing it because the ratings promise to be huge, and those ratings let the networks set their ad rates."

"I shoulda guessed. As long as it helps us, though . . ."

A voice spoke from the air. "Interview will begin in five, four, three, two, one. Mark." An image appeared before Stark, as if the woman were sitting in a chair just to his front. The vid personality smiled with bright insincerity at Stark, then slightly to his side. On the vid broadcast, Stark had been told, there would be a split screen, as if he and Campbell were sitting side by side. As far as a viewer was concerned, they and their interviewer would all appear to be in the same room. In fact, the vid personality was located in a shuttle far above the lunar surface, close enough so that light-speed lag wouldn't inhibit the interview but far enough that the blockading warships wouldn't be able to physically interfere until the interview was over.

"Good morning." The vid person's voice had the same cool perfection as her clothes and hair. She looked, Stark thought, like a diamond. Very attractive, but hard and sharp enough to cut glass. He saw Campbell nod and heard the Colony manager's answering greeting out of a speaker. Stark simply nodded, trying his best to smile back without making the gesture a grimace.

The vid personality looked over to the other side, addressing an unseen audience. "This interview is illegal, according to our government, but we have taken steps to ensure the American people are informed on this critical issue. We are speaking this morning to the two individuals responsible for mounting the first large-scale rebellion against the federal government in two centuries. This event is important enough, in our opinion, to override the government's attempts to censor whatever they have to say. The First Amendment, after all, has yet to be repealed." She essayed another smile, apparently to signal ironic humor, then focused on the Colony manager's position.

"There is one overriding question on the minds of the American people, a question we have sought the answer to since this rebellion began. What do you want, Mr. Campbell?"

"I want the rights of an American," Campbell answered. "All the inhabitants of the Lunar Colony want those rights. The right to vote. The right to be represented in the national legislature. The right to petition the government for redress of wrongs."

"You are claiming these rights have been withheld from you?"

"They certainly have. We have been denied every right due an American citizen. All our attempts to gain these rights have been summarily refused."

"The government has stated the Lunar Colony has been kept under martial law as a necessary element of its defense."

"I'm sure our military commander has something to say about that. Sergeant Stark?"

"Yes. What do you say to that, Sergeant Stark?"

The vid personality turned to face him, smile fixed in place. Stark tried to project confidence, despite his growing irritation with the interviewer's odd habit of emphasizing random words in her sentences. Maybe she thinks it helps keep her viewers awake. Maybe it does. "Ma'am, the civilians in this Colony have been allowed to exercise all their rights to self-government recently, and the Colony is as well-defended and secure as it ever was. There's no conflict between the exercise of their civil rights and our mission to defend the Colony."

"But, order clearly broke down during your mutiny, didn't it?"

"No. We maintained order at all times. We couldn't have successfully defended the Colony if we hadn't maintained order." Vic was pointing to an exaggerated smile on her face. Okay, okay. I'll try to stay friendly.

"What are you defending the Colony for? What is it you seek? Mr. Campbell, you say you only want the rights of any American, but many people believe you really want to set up your own country, taking with you all the things which American taxpayers have spent vast sums to place upon the Moon. As an American, do you believe you have the right to simply take items of great value for your own?"

"No." Campbell's voice stayed calm, reasonable, as if he were still working to belie the government's prior claims about his mental stability. "The only Americans who think they have that right are the people who run our big corporations and occupy high political office." He paused to let the barb sink in. "We have repeatedly offered to discuss a means of compensating for any items of value up here. We have repeatedly stated our desire to work out wage agreements which do not leave us in a state of effective serfdom. Negotiators from the government, with corporate representatives at their elbows, have refused to even discuss these issues."

The vid personality maintained her bright smile, even though it seemed increasingly out of place. "You did not address my main question, Mr. Campbell. Do you plan to seek independence for the Lunar Colony?"

There was a moment's hesitation, then Stark saw Campbell sigh in a gesture just subtle enough to avoid charges of stage theater. "At this time, it is certain a majority of the citizens in the Lunar Colony would support a declaration of independence. I want to emphasize we have been driven to this state by the actions of our own government, including government-sponsored attacks on the Colony which have resulted in the deaths of civilian members of the Colony."

"The government claims such deaths were actually caused by mutinous military personnel—"

Stark's anger was still flaring when Campbell broke into the question, his face working with passion. "That's a lie. The military people up here have died to protect us. They have died protecting us from attacks by our own government! One of my own assistants, an unarmed civilian who couldn't begin to defend herself, was killed by mercenaries hired to attack us. Mercenaries whose rampage was stopped by Sergeant Stark's soldiers. Every citizen of the Colony would gladly entrust their lives to any of the military personnel up here."

To Stark, the vid personality seemed subtly satisfied by the fiery exchange, no doubt pleased by the thought that it would boost ratings for the interview. "Every citizen, Mr. Campbell? Surely there is some difference of opinion."

"Yes. Absolutely. I want to emphasize we are operating as a democratic government up here. So, yes, there's still a significant minority who want to remain under the authority of the United States, but frankly I'm facing increasing pressure from the rest of the colonists to make a full break." Campbell's attitude had shifted as he spoke, so that he now seemed to be sharing a dialogue with the vid personality and her audience. "That means a formal declaration of independence. Begin governing ourselves, the way Americans should be allowed to. Have a strong voice in their own government. Get out from under our corporate masters and the band of corrupt politicians who only exist to serve them." The dialogue had imperceptibly shaded into a populist declaration, delivered with earnest conviction.

Stark barely kept himself from smiling. That guy is one helluva politician. In the best sense of the word. I hope I'm right about that "best sense " stuff, anyway.

The vid personality smiled some more, apparently taking time to reorder her thoughts as the interview temporarily slid out of her control. "Why haven't you done so, Mr. Campbell. What is stopping you from doing what you claim is right and just?"

"I don't know." His words seemed to shock the personality enough to generate a non-smiling reaction. "It sounds attractive. And as you say it sounds just. And right and proper. So, why don't I want to do it?"

"Well, that is, I'm sure our government would contest such a declaration most vigorously—"

"Sergeant Stark's soldiers can defend us. Isn't that right, Sergeant?"

Stark nodded. "Yes. No one will take this Colony by force." Damn. Now she's got me doing it.

Campbell plowed onward, his voice almost beseeching now. "The authorities back home refuse to treat us as if we have legitimate complaints. Every legal alley is closed to us. All they do is threaten us. Why are they afraid of us? Why are they afraid to grant us the rights guaranteed by the Constitution?"

"Mr. Campbell—," the vid personality began speaking in a vain attempt to regain control of the interview.

"They don't deserve to win, do they? They don't deserve to lord it over people like us. That's not how things are supposed to work in our country. So, why don't I want to declare independence?" Campbell repeated, his tone half-helpless and half-angry. "What possible reason can I have for continuing to try to work for a peaceful resolution in which we stay a part of the United States? It can only be because our country can be, should be, so much more, and none of us want to give up on our country."

The vid personality waited a moment to ensure Campbell had finished. She'd apparently decided his speech would generate better ratings that her questions and seemed almost disappointed when the Colony Manager stopped speaking. "If I may be frank, Mr. Campbell, there are those who say you have no choice. That you are being coerced."

"Coerced? By whom?"

The interviewer's eyebrows rose dramatically. "By the military forces surrounding you, of course. You could not even consent to this interview unless this military person was present."

"I'm sorry, but I'm the one who wanted Sergeant Stark present in this interview. I had to insist."

"In that case, why are you present, Sergeant Stark?"

"Because I take orders from Mr. Campbell."

The simple reply seemed to throw the interviewer off balance again. "It is well known you have a very large military force under your command, Sergeant Stark. It is still Sergeant! You have not promoted yourself?"

Stark felt his face reddening as Vic gestured urgently for him to remain calm. "I have no authority to promote myself, ma'am. Officially, I'm still a sergeant, and that's what I'll officially remain. As for the size of the military force under my command, that's got nothing to do with my following Mr. Campbell's orders. The military takes orders from civil authorities. Mr. Campbell is the civil authority for the Colony."

"But you have a very large armed force with which to enforce your will, Sergeant Stark."

"That's got nothing to do with it. The military doesn't give orders. It takes them."

"My audience is surely aware of the many unsourced reports available via uncensored media in which you are quoted as saying you would not attack your own country. Do you know the source of those reports, Sergeant Stark?"

Dad. I guess you got the word out about our little talk. And it sounds like it's been giving the government some trouble. Way to go. "Yes, I think I do."

"And will you tell us the name of that source?"

"No. "

"Then how is my audience supposed to judge the trustworthiness of those reports?"

Stark smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring fashion. "They're true. You can take that directly from me, now."

"Then you are willing to publicly foreswear any intentions to attack the United States?"

"What?" Stark couldn't suppress his shock at the blunt question, but Vic's approving smile must mean showing his reaction had been the right thing to do. "Hell, no. I mean, I'd never order an attack on the U.S. Never."

But, the government, Sergeant Stark? What of an attack on the government?"

"No. I won't attack the government. The government represents the people. It's supposed to, anyway, and I won't attack the American people. Never. It's like Mr. Campbell said."

"What Mr. Campbell said? To which exact statement do you refer?"

"He said that's not how things are supposed to work. And he's right. Maybe if we belonged to some other country, things'd be different. Maybe then the military would be giving orders instead of taking them. But the USA is supposed to be better than that. Better than it is right now. I can't change that. Not with military force. And I won't. But I sure as hell will defend the rights of people like Mr. Campbell and his fellow citizens to try to change things."

The vid personality raised her eyebrows again, looking toward the unseen audience. "Sergeant Stark, do you honestly believe one man can make a difference?"

"I sure as hell have."

 

Campbell was still chuckling when he called Stark after the interview. "Remind me never to debate you, Sergeant."

"You'd run rings around me." Stark, still out of sorts from dealing with the vid personality, didn't try to hide his discomfort.

"Not at all. You certainly caught that interviewer flat-footed."

"I just said what I meant."

"They're not used to that, Sergeant. Believe me. However, that's not why I called. I need to talk to you, one-on-one, fairly soon."

"A private meeting?" Stark looked questionmgly toward Vic, then nodded to Campbell's image. "Fine. I can be there in about an hour."

"Excellent. Until then." The screen blanked, then shifted to Stark's prior setting, displaying a section of the lunar landscape.

Stark's questioning face changed into a frown. "I wonder what's up. Vic, has Sarafina told you anything unusual is coming down?"

"You mean 'unusual' besides constant threat of attack from our own country? No. Maybe he wants to apologize again for not warning us those blockade runners were coming with civ kids on board."

"He can apologize all he wants. I've told him the only thing that counts is knowing we'll be kept informed in the future about that sort of thing. I'd also like to get my hands on those shuttle pilots, but Campbell says he has to handle it in civ courts."

"You could lean on him, Ethan. He'd give them up if you made it clear he had to."

"Oh, sure. I'll use my military power to force the civ authorities to do what I want. Just this once, because it's really important. No way. I figured out some time back that the road to hell is paved with stones saying 'just this once because it's important.'"

"Don't get testy. I happen to agree with that sentiment."

"Then why did you suggest I do it in the first place?" Stark asked.

"I'm just keeping you honest. Especially just before you go talk to a civ by yourself. But it's probably nothing big. Maybe Campbell wants to talk philosophy with you."

"Oh, that'd be great, wouldn't it? I think I've had enough philosophical discussions for a while."

Vic took a chair near Stark, leaning back and putting her feet up with a sigh. "Funny how your feet hurt from running around up here just like they do back on Earth. So how many philosophical discussions have you had recently?"

"A couple." Vic raised an eyebrow at him, so Stark relented. "Okay, there's been one with you. You know, after we lost Chief Wiseman. Just before that, I had a long talk with Private Mendoza."

"Ah, yes. You referenced that once during our talk. What'd Mendo have to say, anyway?"

Stark studied the emptiness displayed on the outside view even as he summarized the historical background of the Athenian expedition to Syracuse. "The bottom line was Lieutenant Mendoza thought we almost lost everything up here after Meecham's offensive. Mendo thinks, or his dad did anyway, that this time was different because of our command and control gear. It let us take over when our leaders lost the bubble."

"I guess it did." Vic peered into the darkness as if seeking the object of Stark's attention. "You started the ball rolling, everybody else figured it out pretty quick, and we all acted to take charge, and then everybody could turn to you for orders right away. No delays, no confusion."

"Right. Which couldn't have happened a short while ago. Anything I'd have done would've been, uh, isolated. Nobody would've heard until way later."

"That makes sense, but you and Mendo are missing something. The command and control gear helped set up the situation, too, Ethan. Why were people willing to follow your lead? Because you had a reputation, based on what you'd done." She waved a hand to forestall Stark's objection. "It doesn't matter what you said, it doesn't matter what the brass said, people could check it out for themselves on the system records. They'd all seen you in action. They knew what you'd done. All of which meant they figured they could trust you."

"And stick me with this lousy job."

"Which you've been pretty darn good at." Vic canted her head thoughtfully to one side. "The bosses built all this command and control gear so they could tell us what to do and know everything we were doing. But when they did that, they gave all of us the means to know what kind of job our bosses were doing, as well as the means to know everything they knew, and then we used the same gear to get rid of them when they screwed up. Talk about poetic justice."

"Whatever that is."

She smiled. "The same thing that got you elected to be commander after you'd spent a career giving your commanders trouble."

"Then I don't like it much." Stark stared into the black again.

Vic followed his gaze once more, her grin fading into exasperation. "What the hell are you looking at?"

"I'm not looking at anything. I'm looking for something."

"Fine. What?"

"I don't know."

 

When he reached Campbell's office, Stark saw the display on the wall there also carried an outside view of the surface. Campbell followed Stark's gaze. "You know, Sergeant Stark, when people first got here those displays almost always defaulted to recorded views of things like rivers, lakes, and forests. Nowadays, though, it seems every time I walk into a room the views show the lunar surface. Why do you suppose that is?"

Stark shrugged. "I'd guess it means we're starting to think of the Moon as our home."

"That's what I was thinking. If so, it would certainly be a monument to the ability of humans to bond with any environment."

"Sir, I was in Minnesota once during the winter. If people can be happy living there, then I figure the Moon's not that far different."

"Not much colder, that's for sure. And no wind chill to worry about." Campbell laughed, then sobered. "Would you like some coffee?" He waved toward two cups sitting on the table. "I'm sure it's better than what you get in the military complex."

"I'm sure it is." Stark took a cautious sip. "Not bad."

"Thank you. The coffee grown up here is regarded as an ultra-expensive luxury on Earth, you know. Not because it's better tasting, but just because it's from here." Campbell took a drink himself, then put his cup down. "I suppose I should tell you why I needed to see you. Briefly, I've been able to maintain some political contacts back home. Not everyone there is happy with the way things are developing. They've given me some important information."

Stark, measuring Campbell's mood, braced himself for the worst. "What's that?"

"There was quite a furor over the performance of the Navy's new weapons against those blockade runners. Fulminations in the Senate, investigative panel in the House, all the usual nonsense. But this time people were truly concerned, not just posturing." Campbell referred to his notepad, shaking his head. "After all, these . . . uh . . . autonomous robotic combatants attacked civilians. We transmitted our records of the incident down to numerous sources on Earth, so there couldn't be any doubt that the uncrewed devices had gone after shuttles full of family members and failed to respond to an attempt at a recall." Campbell closed his eyes. "Once more, let me express my deep and abiding appreciation for Chief Wiseman's sacrifice. The fact that my own failure to inform you in advance of the attempt to smuggle in children contributed to her death is inexcusable. I will keep you informed in the future, just as I've asked you to keep me informed."

Stark sat silent for a moment before nodding. "I can't ask for more than that. Chief Wiseman chose to do what she did, but maybe she wouldn't have had to if we'd been able to plan things in advance."

"We're still working on trusting each other, aren't we, Sergeant? Do you still want the shuttle pilots turned over to you for legal action?"

"Huh? Are you serious?"

"If that's the only way to make amends, yes."

Stark hesitated. I could do it perfectly legal A trial and all But, it'd mean soldiers with weapons hauling off civs in handcuffs. And civs sitting in a military stockade. I was a civ when I was a kid. How would I have felt about that back then? "No."

"No?"

"No. You just talked about trust. I'm not going to make civilians trust me by hauling some of them off at gunpoint and throwing them in a military stockade. No matter how I justify it legally. You keep those pilots."

"Very well, Sergeant. I just wish there was some way to commemorate Chief Wiseman's sacrifice. She is by far the most highly regarded person on the Moon at this time "

"Yeah. Soldiers and sailors tend to be highly regarded once they're dead, don't they? But if you really want to do something else, I've got something I've been thinking about."

"What would that be?" Campbell asked.

"I want to name something after Chief Wiseman. And another shuttle jockey named Gutierrez. They both died saving people. I want them, and their crews, to be remembered special. Is there anything on the Colony . . . ?"

Campbell thought a moment. "There's the spaceport."

"I thought that had a name."

"It does. Nobody uses it. They named the thing after a very powerful and very corrupt politician who happened to control a lot of purse strings when it was being built. I think it would be not only appropriate but also just to rename it the Wiseman-Gutierrez Spaceport."

"You can do that?"

"I could try doing it by dictate, but that might arouse some principled opposition. We don't need anyone acting dictatorially up here. Instead, I'll put it out for a referendum. I think I can safely guarantee its overwhelming passage."

Stark grinned. "Thanks. Thanks a lot. Of course, that'll be one more thing the bosses back home won't like."

Campbell returned the grin. "To hell with 'em. You see, Sergeant, I'm picking up a few phrases from you."

"Your Mom should've warned you about hangin' out with people like me."

"She did. She also told me not to besmirch the family name by going into politics." Campbell's smile faded. "But I need to finish what I was telling you about the fallout from the engagement between the blockade runners and the Navy's robotic combatants. The Navy's version of the robots have, with great publicity, been pulled out of action for retesting and rework. Word of the existence of an Army ground combat counterpart to the Navy's robots was also leaked somehow. The Pentagon and a very large and influential group of defense contractors assured all and sundry that the Army's robotic combatants do not suffer from the same problems and will work perfectly in combat."

Stark shook his head. "They never change. I just wonder how they'll blame operator error for whatever goes wrong with these Jabberwocks when there ain't any operator?"

"Jabberwocks?"

"That's our nickname for the ground robots, sir."

"Oh, I understand. I suppose we might as well christen the Navy robots Bandersnatchi, then."

"Uh, yeah." I must be the only guy on the Moon who doesn't get that joke. "It sounds like we're still gonna face the Jabberwocks, then, and they'll be just as deadly and just as nasty as the ones the Navy used."

"Yes, Sergeant. My information indicates the, uh, Jabberwocks are already being prepared for shipment to the Moon."

"They are?" Stark didn't try to hide his surprise. "Where are they shipping 'em? Any idea?"

Campbell walked to his display, bringing up a map of the lunar surface centered on the Colony. "Over here. You see? There's sort of a large valley whose broad end faces our Colony. I suppose it's actually a crater of some sort, but it looks like a valley to me."

"I know it. There were some attacks in that area early on during the war." Stark's finger moved over the map, reliving troop movements seared into memory. "It looked like an easy approach because there wasn't any terrain on the front line to aid the defenders. It looked that way to people reading maps in the rear, anyway. Once we got troops into there we found out any soldiers trapped in that valley got chewed to pieces from defenses on the rims to either side. We call it the Mixing Bowl."

"The Mixing Bowl. Do soldiers nickname everything, Sergeant?"

"I'm sure there's something we don't, but I can't think of it just now." Stark leaned closer, studying the map. "Yeah. That's what I remembered. The Mixing Bowl is a natural dividing line. It's on the boundary between sectors occupied by the forces of two members of the enemy alliance. Two of the biggest and toughest ones, to boot."

"Well, Sergeant, those two big enemies of ours have apparently cut a deal with Washington. My political sources inform me that substantial numbers of U.S. military forces will soon be occupying that position. The enemy forces will pull back to allow the U.S. forces to occupy the area and then attack us from there."

"You're kidding." Stark mentally ran through his defenses facing that sector. "What does substantial numbers mean? Do you have any specifics?"

"I'm sorry. I don't."

Stark rubbed the back of his neck, contemplating what he knew of the remaining strength of the U.S. military. Third Division got gutted First Division is up here answering to me, not the Pentagon. Second Division is under strength and committed all over the world trying to protect corporate investments and, oh-by-the-way, the U.S. of A. itself. That doesn't leave anything. More mercs? Would even the Pentagon be stupid enough to entrust killer robots to soldiers for hire? "I'll get my people onto this. Maybe we can find out something."

Campbell studied Stark. "You're thinking of something now. Can you share it?"

"I'm thinking about Athens and Sparta, sir."

"Athens and Sparta? I remember your reference to Thermopylae, but what about this brings those Greek city-states to mind again?"

"I'm thinking about Syracuse, Mr. Campbell. I'm wondering what would have happened to the Athenians if, after they'd been beat bad there, they tried attacking it again." Campbell listened, his eyes questioning. "I mean, it still took a while for Sparta to beat Athens even after Syracuse, right? But what if Athens had gone back again, committed what was left of its forces, and lost those, too?"

Campbell pondered the question for a long time while Stark gazed at the map. "Athens would have been defeated much sooner, and much more completely, I think. The Spartans and their allies, who were exhausted from the war, would have retained considerable strength. Later, when Alexander the Great tried to conquer Greece, perhaps the Spartans could have stopped him. Or at least delayed him a great deal. And that would have meant the Persian Empire would have lasted longer, or perhaps not fallen to Alexander at all. In the long run. . ." Campbell looked dazed. "I can't think through everything that might have resulted." His eyes suddenly grew alarmed. "You're saying you think that's what the United States is doing? Falling off the cliff that even Athens at the height of its pride avoided?"

"Yes, sir. That's what I'm saying. Maybe we've been big too long, been able to do what we wanted when we wanted. The idea that we can't lose just isn't there. Or maybe it's just that our leaders are so obsessed with staying in power that they'll let the country go down the tubes rather than admit defeat. Instead, the leadership is betting the mortgage in the hope that they'll draw an inside straight this time."

"I read once that toward the end of the last century someone predicted a major crisis would affect the United States in this century. I never thought it would be because we're too powerful."

"Hell, if you're weak you watch where you're going. It's big, strong people who walk into holes because they don't think they need to be afraid of anything and never look around."

"That's true. I have a confession, Sergeant Stark. I never thought of you as a deep thinker. I didn't imagine you could think this situation through in this manner. No offense."

"None taken. But I didn't think it all up. One of my people told me about Athens and Sparta and stuff. It didn't take a genius to put two and two together."

Campbell nodded. "Listening to your people takes more smarts than you may appreciate, Sergeant. Many managers never do that."

"I'm not a manager, Mr. Campbell, I'm a leader. And I never regretted letting my people talk to me. Oh, sometimes I gotta tell 'em to shut up if they're clueless and won't take a hint, but usually it doesn't hurt, and sometimes it helps a lot."

"I can't argue that." Campbell sagged back into his chair, the motion oddly graceful in low gravity. "This complicates things."

"I thought they were already plenty complicated."

"They are." Campbell picked up his pad, tapping in a few commands to bring up a map of the Earth's Western Hemisphere. "But now we face the real possibility that winning here could cause America's total defeat on Earth. Can we live with that?"

"I don't know. But, sir, can we live with losing? Not you and me personally, I mean, but the consequences for everybody else. I'm not just thinking about the hundred Spartans now and being a big example, I'm thinking about our government winning by using Jabberwocks and Banda . . . Bander . . ."

"Bandersnatchi."

"Yeah. Them. If the government wins using those, the Pentagon won't invest in people anymore. Hell, the bean counters at the Pentagon have always wanted to get rid of human bodies if it could help them afford a few more toys. So they'll just buy more Jabberwocks to defend the country and to send out to other places to break things when the government or the corporations want that done. And Lord will they break things. Will that be our, what's the word, legacy? A U.S. military made up of robots that obey every order without question?"

Campbell kept his eyes fixed on the map. "I can't help wondering how long it would be before someone gave those robots orders to help them take over. You wouldn't have obeyed such orders, would you, Sergeant?"

"No human military personnel would, sir. We're all sworn to defend the Constitution. We have a legal and moral requirement to refuse any orders contrary to that."

"But, then, you're not robots, are you?" Campbell zoomed in the scale, so his pad showed only the continental United States now. "I find us on the horns of a serious dilemma, Sergeant. We can't afford to win, and we can't afford to lose."

"So what're my orders, sir? I can't decide this alone. What do you want me to do?"

Campbell brooded for a moment longer, staring into the depths of his map as if he could see the people represented on it, "I want you to defend the Colony, Sergeant. I want you to defend my people. But I also want you to do your best to minimize any damage to the welfare of the United States, and minimize any damage to her ability to defend herself."

"Hah! Piece a' cake. Yessir. I'll do my best, but I've got to tell you, it's gonna be hard to fight someone and look out for their well-being at the same time."

Campbell grinned. "If anyone can do it, you can, Sergeant."

"Thanks large. I can't wait until I tell Vic about these orders."

"You should tell her soon, and I'll have to tell my assistants." Campbell reached to seize his cup of coffee. "This is where we're supposed to toast our future victory, isn't it. Sergeant? That's what happens in all the old vids."

"Uh-huh. So what do we toast when we're not sure we want to win?"

"I think, Sergeant Stark, that we should toast the right thing.

It's been a long time since the right thing has happened. Let's toast that; that whatever outcome occurs, it be the right one."

"Sure. Whatever that turns out to be." They tapped their mugs together, then drank the rest of their coffee, their faces grimacing at the bitterness.

 

"We have to do what?" Vic pretended to slap the side of her head a couple of times as if her hearing had gone bad. "Win without beating our attackers? Is that what you said our orders are?"

"Pretty much." Stark indicated the display where he had called up a map of the Mixing Bowl region. "You got any thoughts?"

"None I care to share at the moment. That sounds like the sort of order General Meecham would have issued." Vic paced across the room in a low-gravity glide grown instinctive through years of lunar living, shaking her head as she did so. "Ethan, we have to have a mission definition which doesn't require us to do two mutually exclusive things."

"Vic, I explained it to you. There's good reasons for giving us that mission." Stark raised both hands palm up in a gesture of helplessness. "I need you to help me do that."

"Are you under the bizarre impression than I'm some sort of warrior goddess who can grant you a prayer regardless of the laws of nature?"

"No, but I figure you must be one of the priestesses for that goddess. Maybe you can put in a good word for us."

She threw up her hands. "You're hopeless. I'm going to call a staff meeting. Maybe Lamont will have some crazy armored tactic that'll help. Maybe Gordo will be able to order a miracle through the supply system. Are you coming?"

"In a few minutes. I got word there's a civ visitor in my office."

"A civ visitor?" Vic's mouth worked as if she were tasting the words and finding them not to her liking. "What kind of civ visitor?"

"I don't know." Stark held up his hands to forestall her next words. "Yeah. Be careful. I know that. The guy got screened by security for any weapons."

"Okay. You're a big boy. See you in a little while. Maybe this visitor is bringing a brilliant plan for achieving our mission objectives."

A short time later Stark stood appraising his visitor. Not just a civilian, but a civilian with that sleek, well-groomed look that bespoke a generous salary. Either a corporate exec, not too high up an exec because he's doing this job himself, or a lawyer. Stark fought down his initial negative impression, shaking the visitor's hand, then seating himself at his desk. "What brings you here, Mr. . . . ?"

The civilian smiled with that carefully cultivated authenticity that meant the smile was probably fake. "Jones. Frank Jones."

"Mr. Jones." Stark used one knuckle to surreptitiously tap a button on his desktop that started the room's recording devices. He kept his expression fixed as a small warning light visible only from his angle announced that his visitor was equipped with something that was jamming those recording devices. Jones? Gimme a break. Now, who's this phony working for?

Jones made a smiling examination of Stark's office, nodding admiringly toward the display screen and its depiction of the lunar surface. "This is a nice office. I see you're not the sort for ostentation."

"Mr. Jones, I'm pretty busy. What is it you want?"

The smile shifted slightly, still pleasant but more businesslike now. "I have an offer for you, Sergeant Stark. I understand 'Sergeant' is your preferred form of address?"

"That's right."

"Sergeant Stark, my employers are concerned about costs. I'm sure you understand."

"Just who are these employers, Mr. Jones?"

Jones's smile shifted again, very subtly invoking a shared interest. "Sergeant Stark, you now have experience with managing a large group of individuals working toward common goals, much as a corporate executive does. I'm sure that experience will aid you in understanding and appreciating the problems my employers face."

"I still haven't heard who these employers are, Mr. Jones."

"That isn't important, Sergeant Stark. No, really. What matters is what my employers are willing to offer in exchange for some small cooperation on your part."

Stark raised one eyebrow. "Just what kind of cooperation do your employers want, and why?"

"Why?" Jones now appeared to be sharing a subtle joke with Stark. "If costs exceed profits, the bottom line suffers, Sergeant Stark. Overhead expenses must be kept within appropriate limits. To put it bluntly, war is an overhead expense, an expense which in this case is having too large an impact on profit/loss projections."

"I see." Corporate, then. This guy represents one or more corporations. More than one, I think. He keeps referring to his "employers. "

"Of course you do. Now, in order to reduce overhead, cut projected losses, and bring profit projections back within the sort of limits favored by the financial community, my employers need to regain control of their facilities up here as well as the means to import new employees who are willing to abide by their contracts. You, Sergeant Stark, are critical to that happening."

Stark raised both eyebrows this time. "It's nice to know I'm important."

"You are very important. Executives recognize talent in other executives. They look out for each other. All my employers ask is that you cooperate in their achieving their goals."

"Cooperate?"

Mr. Jones clasped his hands in his lap, serious now, lapsing into obvious bargaining mode. "Ideally, you create the conditions for a rapid return of assets to my employers."

"You mean I'd have to arrange for the Colony to surrender."

"Surrender scarcely seems likely under present circumstances, does it? No, Sergeant Stark, you've done your job very well. So well that only a defeat of the forces defending the Colony would accomplish our goals."

"You want me to arrange for the military forces I lead to be defeated?" Stark marveled internally that he'd been able to keep his voice so bland while he was seething inside.

"It doesn't have to be that extreme. Security codes compromised, perhaps, or a worm inserted into surveillance systems to fool their monitoring devices. You could end this war very quickly, and that would, naturally, reduce the chances of any further soldiers dying in this sadly misguided struggle."

"I see. Tell me again why I'd want to do this."

"Why, shared interests with my employers, of course." Frank Jones leaned forward slightly, a small smile that implied shared confidences now on his face. "Nonetheless, Sergeant Stark, my employers are willing to reimburse you for your cooperation. Of course."

"Of course."

"Now, I realize a million dollars isn't what it used to be, and your services would be of some value. Therefore I am authorized to offer, purely as a fee for your professional services, the sum of one hundred million dollars. Placed within whatever bank account you choose, of course."

"Of course." Stark fought to keep his face and voice calm. "That money wouldn't do me much good when I'm dead, would it? The government wants me. It wants to court-martial me and then hold a nice firing squad."

"We know that. Certainly, you have to, ahem, 'die' so as to satisfy the legal authorities. It's all fairly simple. You are taken to the location of your choice, given a new identity to go with your new fortune, and someone else's body is left here and identified as your own."

"Won't this 'someone else' object to that, Mr. Jones?"

"Oh, no, no. Not at all. Bodies are always available for the right price. We'd just find someone who had died of natural causes and substitute their body for yours. A few bribes and data substitutions in the forensic labs, and the DNA is proclaimed yours. It's all very simple."

"I bet it is. How can you be sure someone will die when you need it?"

"People die from natural causes all the time, don't they?"

"Yeah. They do." Who was it that said every form of death could be listed as heart failure? Natural causes, hell. "I've got to admit, Mr. Jones, that's a lot better offer than General Meecham offered me some time back."

Jones's smile shaded into a smirk. "You can't really expect to find good deals in the military."

"I've heard that." Stark leaned back, finally letting his face harden. "Let me clue you in on something. I'm not interested in your offer. Not now. Not ever. There's some things, and some people, that can't be bought. Not even for a hundred million bucks." Jones nodded politely but his confident smile didn't waver. "What I just said doesn't seem to bother you."

"Well, no, of course not. I've heard variations on it many times, so I know what it really means."

"And what would that be, Mr. Jones?" Stark's voice had become so quiet that Jones had to strain slightly to hear.

"Why, the opening gambit in negotiations for a higher payout, naturally. We don't have to play games. My employers recognize that your position is somewhat comparable to that of a chief executive officer of a corporation, and therefore a compensation package similar to—"

Stark leveled a finger at Jones, his face so stern that the corporate representative's voice choked off in mid-sentence. "That's where I draw the line at listening to any more of this crap. No, you little pissant, I am not like one of your CEOs. I don't bail out with a big pile of cash when stuff goes wrong. I don't sacrifice lots of low-level people to compensate for my own mistakes. And I sure as hell don't betray the trust of people who have placed their lives in my hands." He reached out one hand, this time openly tapping the desktop comm panel. "Security Central, this is Stark. I need a couple of military police to escort Mr. Jones outside the headquarters complex. And I need you to notify Ms. Sarafina in the Colony manager's office that her security people might want to talk to Mr. Jones." Jones's smile finally vanished as his face paled.

"You want us to hand this civ over to the civ Colony security, Commander?"

"That's right. But I want to make sure those civ security guards are accompanied by Ms. Sarafina. Understand?" Guards could be bribed. Stark had no intention of handing a prisoner who could casually speak of hundred-million-dollar payouts over to a couple of doubtless underpaid and overworked security personnel.

"I understand, Commander. I'll have the MPs there right away."

"Good. Make sure one of them's the watch commander." Having a senior noncommissioned officer along might not prevent an attempt at a bribe of the military police, but it would make it harder.

Jones was shaking his head, looking both stern and serious now. "Sergeant Stark, this is really unnecessary. We can work out a deal without employing threats. But if my employers hear of this, they may well withdraw their offer completely. You must—"

"Don't tell me what I have to do." The tone of Stark's voice hit Jones like a punch, so that the smooth civilian sat silent for the couple of minutes it took for the MPs to arrive. "Here's your prisoner. I know he got swept for weapons before he came in here, but he's got antibug gear on him. Maybe he's got something else we didn't detect. Watch him. Don't listen to him."

One of the soldiers looked Jones up and down with a scornful expression on her face. "Do we need to cuff him, sir?"

"Nah. If he tries to run, catch him and bounce him off the nearest wall a few times. Try not to break anything important if you do that, though."

"Yessir. Anything important on him or on the wall?"

"The wall."

"Yessir." The MPs left, Frank Jones between them with an expression of bafflement finally replacing the false geniality.

Stark sat a moment longer, then keyed his comm unit again. "Sergeant Yurivan? I need to talk to you, Stacey."

Yurivan seemed oddly subdued as she answered. "Good. I need to talk to you, too."

"I can meet you at the staff meeting that Vic's going to call—"

"No. We need to talk privately. Sir. I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Fine." Stark broke the connection, studying his desk as if its surface held the answer to Yurivan's mysterious words. Is there another mutiny in the works? Has Stacey found another spy? Or worse, does she know there's one but not who it is?

He'd just finished briefing Campbell on "Frank Jones" when Sergeant Yurivan arrived. "Hi, Stace. Have a seat." Ending the call, Stark leaned back, letting his curiosity show.

Yurivan sat slumped in her chair, gazing sourly at Stark until he finally gestured toward her. "Okay, Stace, what's the deal? Why the private conference and the nasty expression?"

"I want it private and I feel rotten because I'm about to do something I'll probably hate myself for."

"Stace, you try to kiss me and I'll slug you."

The reply brought a grin to Yurivan's face. "Stark, there's some things even I'd never do, and that's one them."

"Thanks. So spill it. I haven't got all day."

She looked angry again. "I need to tell you something. I've been talking to a guy named Maguire."

"Maguire? Don't know him. What unit is he in?"

"He's not in any unit, Stark! Maguire's head of the CIA. You know, boss of Spook Central."

"I know what the CIA is. So, what'd this super spook Maguire want?"

"What do you think he wanted? He's been trying to convince me to turn on you guys. Help the authorities back home take you down. All for a nice payoff and a new identity down the line."

"Huh." Stark rubbed his chin, staring thoughtfully at Yurivan. I wonder how many other people in this Colony are being pitched recruitment offers by various covert types? "I didn't know the head of the CIA did recruitment stuff personally."

"Neither did I. I guess I'm really special."

"You're special, all right. The fact that you're telling me this must mean you didn't bite on the deal."

"Nah, I didn't bite. Listen, Stark, I do things my own way, and I don't mind working deals, but I never shot anybody in the back. And I won't. Not that I wasn't flattered by the offer."

"So, if you turned it down, why are telling me?"

The anger was back, though Stark couldn't tell if it was aimed at him or somewhere else. "Because I talked to him. Okay? Sooner or later, you may hear about it. Sergeant Yurivan's been talking to the other side. Maybe negotiating. And then you'll want my head on a platter."

Stark nodded. "By telling me now, you're protecting yourself. Okay. I understand that. But what the hell are you so mad about? Sorry you turned down the offer?"

"Hah! I warned you before, Stark, don't try to psych me. I'm mad because I'm just waiting for you to fire me."

"Fire you. Because . . . ?"

"Because you can't trust me now! Why do I have to spell it out?"

"Because I'm stupid, Stacey. Spell it out. You told me about it. Why don't I trust you?"

She-stared back, as if disbelieving, then laughed. "You are something else, Stark. Fine. How about if I lied? How about if I did take Maguire's offer?"

"Why would you tell me about it if you had?"

"To protect my butt if you found out later I'd been talking to the enemy. 'Oh, yeah, Yurivan told me about that. It's okay.' See?"

"I see. Did you have to learn to think this way or did it come naturally?"

"It's a gift. So let's get it over with, Stark. Fire me. Lock me up. Whatever. I'll get by."

"I'm sure you will. You'd probably be running the entire stockade from inside your cell within a week." Stark leaned back, smiling. "So I've got to fire you because the CIA sent someone to knock on your door. What if that was the whole idea, Stace? Or part of it, anyway?"

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"Spread distrust. If you bought the deal, then great. They got an agent just where the need one. But if you don't, then I can't trust you just because I don't know what really happened, and I gotta fire you anyway, so I lose somebody who's good, damn good, at protecting me and every other ape up here. Either way, Maguire's knuckle-draggers win, and we lose. Right?"

It was Yurivan's turn to nod, grudging admiration on her face. "Yeah. I hadn't thought of that. Good one. You still surprise me, Stark."

I wish people would stop telling me that. "Thanks. I think. Besides, you're not the only one getting offers, Stacey. I just had a guy try to buy me out. That's why I called you."

"A buyout?" Yurivan sat up, intrigued out of her mood. "Who was offering the deal?"

"He never said, directly, but I'm sure his 'employers' are some or all of the corporations trying to get their assets up here back. He talked like a corporate type, anyway. Tried to flatter me by comparing me to some high-level corporate manager."

"Now, that wasn't very smart. How much did he offer you?"

Stark shrugged. "A hundred mil."

"A hundred million dollars? And you turned him down?"

"Wouldn't you have?"

"Uh . . . let's not go there. Where's this guy now?"

Stark checked the time. "Probably getting acquainted with a jail cell in the Colony detention facility."

"I'll bet that isn't as comfortable as a business-class resort."

"Probably not. Hey, maybe that guy worked for Maguire, too. I mean, he never mentioned his employers. He just implied they were corporate."

• This time Yurivan shrugged. "It's possible, but not every questionable character in the world works for Maguire, you know. A lot of them, I'm sure, but not all of them."

"Including you." She smiled at his statement. "I'll say it bluntly, Stace. I trust you. God knows why."

"You said it yourself. You're stupid."

"That's right, I did. But even if I was smarter than everyone else on the Moon you could still scheme rings around me. Right? That's why I offered you the job of security officer in the first place. And I ain't got any complaints about the way you're doing that job. Well, maybe you could be a little less insubordinate every once in a while, just for the hell of it, but otherwise I'm happy."

She nodded, her face calculating. "What is it you want, then. Stark? We just forget about this?"

"No. We file reports, on my guy and on whatever contacts yon had with Maguire."

"Good idea. Then we should tell everybody about them."

"Everybody? Why?"

"Because, if we announce we've been contacted and have turned it down, then anybody else who gets contacted will know we're watching for any more of that. They'll be a bit more scared of accepting a buyout, or whatever deal they're offered."

"That's a good idea." Stark eyed her appraisingly. "You certainly know a lot about this kind of stuff. Spying and security and everything. Just what kind of junk were you involved in before all this started, Stace?"

"Me? I'm still a virgin, Stark. Pure as the driven snow."

"Sure you are. And I bet you'd be willing to sell me that snow at a substantial discount."

"If you're buying, you can have a one-time special good-deal just for you. And the snow's guaranteed to stay frozen until it melts."

"Get out of here, Stace. I'll see you at the staff meeting."

"Yes, sir, Commander." Yurivan stood, saluted with mocking precision, then left marching to a cadence only she could hear.

 

Stark lay near the defensive perimeter around the American Colony, studying the view ahead through his face shield. Scan highlighted brief detections of enemy forces moving behind their own lines, and the occasional movements of friendly forces to either side of and behind him. Not far to Stark's right, a concealed bunker holding a squad of soldiers formed the linchpin for this small area of the perimeter. Inside that bunker, he knew, the soldiers would be monitoring every tiny movement, every tiny emission, every tiny anomaly for signs of enemy action. If those signs added up to an enemy probe, weapons concealed in the lunar terrain around Stark would open fire, hurling grenades and high-velocity explosive projectiles toward anyone foolish enough to test their defenses. On the other side of the area between the opposing forces, similar enemy bunkers and weapons lay in wait for any moves by Stark's forces. The stretch of lunar terrain between the defensive lines had been dubbed the dead zone long ago, an all-too-appropriate name for any soldier trying to move across it.

It had been quiet for some time now, just minor probes by each side to keep the other side worried. Stark didn't want to lose soldiers testing enemy defenses that had claimed too many lives already, especially when the long-term American goal of taking control of all the Moon's real-estate had been abandoned when Stark took over. The enemy, for their part, had been hurt badly by their own attacks on the Colony perimeter over the years and had recently learned some very nasty lessons at the hands of Stark's newly flexible and unpredictable forces. Lunar war, never cheap, had sucked the combatants dry. It had been a quiet born not of victory or defeat for either side, but simple exhaustion of soldiers, national treasure, and ideas.

But the quiet wouldn't last much longer, not once the work Stark was observing had been completed.

Much of the activity was screened. Armored bulldozers had scraped up rock and dust from positions occupied for countless years and piled them into a berm closing off the open end of the Mixing Bowl. The berm's height didn't match the valley walls to either side, but it was good enough to block direct observation of the valley's surface. Tremors within the berm had been analyzed by Stark's technicians, who had concluded that prefabricated defenses were being hurriedly buried within the berm, along with strings of sensors to allow unimpeded surveillance of Stark's forces. There was at least one tunnel beneath the berm, the technicians advised, possibly more, with only a thin opening remaining in place to screen its location until whatever needed that tunnel was ready to come forth.

Shuttles came down, bright spots of light curving through the blackness overhead, raising thin, slowly falling dust clouds from the new landing strip carved from the surface of the Mixing Bowl's valley. Their flight trajectories came within extreme range of the Colony's own weapons, but Stark hadn't attempted to engage them. He didn't know what, or who, made up the cargo for each shuttle, and had no desire to score a hit on a shuttle packed with American troops.

Stacey says her sources claim the Pentagon's dropping a reinforced brigade from Second Division to provide security for the Mixing Bowl base. How many people does a Brigade Combat Team add up to? I know Second Division was under strength. If they packed people into one brigade, that probably means there's only about one full-strength brigade-equivalent left back on Earth. Maybe less. How can they take that kind of risk? Even with all our super hi-tech gear, one brigade can't defend the entire country. What if some of our long-term enemies back home decide this would be a perfect time to march a division of soldiers over the border and into one of our cities? What'll we do, nuke the city to get 'em out?

Stark knew full well he could have received the same pictures, analyzed the same sensor readouts and gazed at the same view of the Mixing Bowl activity from back at the command center. But he lay among the scattered rocks of the perimeter and watched the activity in person, thinking and absorbing information. I need to know how this terrain feels. How the situation feels here. Before all hell breaks loose in the form of Jabberwocks.

"Ethan?"

"Yeah, Vic."

"I take it you're not seeing anything we haven't seen before."

"Nope." He smiled, then moved just enough to see slightly back and to his left, where Vic Reynolds also lay in battle armor.

"The Jabberwocks are going to come out of that tunnel. There's probably more than one tunnel, too."

"That's what I figured. When they blow the tunnel entrances, we'll know they're on the way."

"Right. Of course, the dust and gravel thrown up by the entrances being blown will help screen the Jabberwocks' advance." Vic fell silent for a moment. "What if the nano rounds don't work, Ethan? What if we have to handle these things the hard way?"

"Then we'll kill 'em the hard way."

"No slogans, Ethan. I'm thinking we need to be sure every weapon shooter is ready to switch to standard rounds the instant we say so."

"Good idea. We'll make sure everyone knows that." Stark watched the work a little longer, trying to sort out the emotions he was feeling, then uttered a brief laugh as he identified at least some of them. "Hey, Vic. You wanna hear something funny?"

"I could use a little humor about now."

"I don't mean 'funny' ha-ha, I mean 'funny' strange." Stark studied the Mixing Bowl work as he spoke. "I'm looking at everything goin' on over there, and I'm thinking: 'Alright. That's how we do things.'"

"Excuse me?"

"That's how we do things. Americans. We build stuff. Look at it! Moving dirt, throwing together structures, doing big things. It's kind of cool, ain't it? We're Americans. We build stuff."

"Ethan, you're hopeless. I hate to break your bubble, but the only reason they're building stuff over there is so they can come over here and break stuff. Including you and me."

"I know. I know. So what's all this making you think about?"

Vic spoke meditatively, as if she were still thinking through her ideas. "A couple of things. Stacey handed me some new information just before we came out here."

"Good or bad?"

"Is it ever good? She has it reliably that some of the bodies in the Second Division Brigade over there were brought in from other units."

"We knew that. They had to pull them from the other brigades in the division."

"No, Ethan, I mean units from outside Second Division. There's a number of survivors from Third Division in there."

"Third Division." Stark stared across the distance again, remembering the shattered remnants of Third Division, rescued by his mutiny, then sent home if they chose. Most had chosen that, including Stark's old friend Sergeant Rash Paratnam. Rash, you turned me down flat when I asked you to join us. Hell, you almost bit my head off. But, then, your sister had just been killed and I'd been the one to tell you about it. Now, you might be over there. What if we end up in each other's rifle sights? Maybe I am in hell "Any names?"

"No." A pause. "I had some friends in that unit, too. But it gets worse."

"I'm not sure I want to know."

"Those people from Fifth Battalion. The mutineers we sent home in exchange for some more family members of people up here. They're with that Second Division force, too."

"Why the hell they'd do that? You think they're volunteers?"

"I seriously doubt it. They probably got sent because they're lunar vets, Ethan. That kind of experience is seriously lacking among those Second Division troops."

"You're probably right. Damn. We were already wondering if we'd be able to shoot at other Americans. Knowing some of them personally doesn't help things."

"But we know they're willing to shoot at us. They did during the mutiny, anyway."

"Yeah." Stark ran through the Fifth Battalion soldiers in his head, trying to remember each of the thirty soldiers who had been too heavily involved in the mutiny to be let off lightly. "No. Knowing all that doesn't help much. You said a couple of things, though. What's the other one?"

"I'm starting to wonder if we've missed something important about these Jabberwocks."

"How do you mean?"

"Laying here, looking at that dead zone they're going to cross, I started imagining how our orders would have been laid out in our Tacs. The brass would have spelled out every step we were supposed to take. Right?"

"I won't forget that soon. We've figured the Jabberwocks would just have some sorta super Tacs to do the same thing."

"But that's important, Ethan. Think about it. We always had strict orders laid down in our Tacs; do this, go here, do that. The Jabberwocks are going to have the same sort of thing, right?"

"Sure."

"But when we ran into something unexpected, something the Tacs didn't allow for, what would we do?"

Stark couldn't shrug in his battle armor, but he made the gesture mentally. "Improvise. Work around it. Whatever . . . I think I see what you're driving at."

"Uh-huh. The brass has always wanted soldiers who didn't think, who just followed orders to the letter. Okay, they've got them at last in the form of these Jabberwocks. And the fact that there's no link means the Jabberwocks are going to be dependent on their Tacs for their courses of action."

"So if we screw up that planned course of action?"

"Bingo. They're going to have to think for themselves. We may not have their reflexes or speed, but I'll lay you odds we can handle combat situations better than any AI they could pack into those things."

Stark studied his scan, viewing his own defenses in the area and the lay of the terrain. Exact positions of defenses were rarely identified, but the Jabberwocks had to be programmed to attack the general locations where bunkers were known to be. Yeah. We can mess with whatever a Jabberwock uses for a mind. Can't hurt. Might help a lot. "Thanks, Vic. I'm glad you're on my side."

"Ah, shucks. I bet you say that to all the girls." Stark saw Vic's symbology begin moving backward. "For now, I think I'll get out of immediate range of the enemy. Are you coming?"

"In a few minutes." Stark lay on the ridge, in his battle armor, on the dead surface of the Moon, watching the preparations in the Mixing Bowl to attack his forces, and feeling perfectly at home.

 

If meetings could solve every problem they faced, Stark reflected, then there shouldn't be any problems left by this point. "This is likely to be the last staff meeting before the big attack goes down. I want everyone to think, real hard, about anything we haven't considered. Little things or big things. What kind of questions do we need answered?"

Stacey Yurivan smiled vacantly, affecting a spaced-out voice. "Why are we here?"

"To make my life difficult, Stace. I take it you have nothing new to report?"

"Not really. The demonstrations back home are getting bigger. Everybody apparently liked hearing you confirm the earlier reports that we weren't planning on dropping into D.C. to party hard. That was a decent job planting those reports to set the stage for your interview, by the way."

"Thanks. The government helped me do it."

"So I understand. Apparently it hasn't been able to prove your father's connection to the reports, though. Still, the whole mess is putting more pressure on the government to put up or shut up. They're promising to end the rebellion and recover this Colony by the end of the month."

Vic checked the calendar on her display. "That only leaves them about a week."

"Very good, Reynolds. Have a donut. Yeah, I can't imagine the generals that are running this op are pleased to have the politicians localizing their attack date. Ummm, what else? There was another big drop in the stock market because some of the countries whose contracts with corporations have been enforced by American soldiers are taking advantage of the lack of said soldiers to renege on the contracts. Just the usual political, economic, and social turmoil."

"Commander Stark?" All eyes shifted to look at Private Mendoza. "I have been wondering if our countermeasure against the Jabberwocks may not already be known to the government."

"The nano rounds?" Stark frowned. "Why do you say that? I mean, no security is perfect, but we've kept the nano rounds pretty quiet."

"Yes, sir. But the fact that we put down the mutiny without killing any mutineers has been widely discussed within the Colony. It has even been transmitted to Earth by various means and reported by the vid stations there. And, of course, we sent some of the mutineers back to Earth. Even though they lacked direct knowledge of the weapon we used to disable their armor, they could have described the effects."

"That's right." Stark rubbed his chin, gazing around the table. "Has there been enough information in any of that to clue the Pentagon in to the fact that we used nanobots to disable the mutineers' battle armor? Stacey? Vic?"

Vic shook her head. "We don't know. But, if there was, the Pentagon may have had an unusual attack of common sense and realized that if we could use nanobots against battle armor, we could also use them against Jabberwocks. They might already be working on countermeasures. Mendoza, I sure wish you'd thought of this earlier."

"I am sorry, Sergeant Reynolds, I only just—"

"That's okay, Mendo," Stark broke in. "We won't get down on you because you just thought of something the rest of us never did. So, worst case, assume Mendo is right, and the Pentagon knows about the nano rounds. What'll they be doing?"

Lamont spread his hands. "Working on countermeasures. What else?"

"Sure. What kind of countermeasures? The Jabberwocks already would've been armored and camo'd as well as possible. What could they do to stop nano rounds?"

There was a babble of replies as his staff hurled suggestions. "Spaced armor? Would that work?"

"No. How about improved point defenses?"

"Against rifle rounds? No way. Maybe make 'em faster, harder to hit at all—"

"They can only do that by taking off armor! Why would—"

The debate subsided as Bev Manley rapped the table. "You're forgetting something, people. If the Pentagon has figured out we used nano rounds, they might have made some of their own. We might be facing that weapon, too. Which means we have to figure out how to defend ourselves from it."

Vic rubbed her forehead as if fighting off a headache. "This just keeps getting worse."

Stacey Yurivan smiled. "We could handle it the traditional way the brass deals with stuff that might interfere with our plans. Pretend it's not there and keep the plan unchanged."

"Thanks, Stace. Keep chiming in with those helpful observations." Vic glared around the table. "Okay. Assume we're defending against nano rounds. How would we do it?"

An uncomfortable silence stretched for long moments, until Lamont made another helpless gesture. "You've got to assume you're going to get hit, sooner or later."

"Fine," Stark agreed. "So, you're hit. How do we handle that? How can we stop nanobots from freezing our battle armor?"

Sergeant Gordasa waved one hand. "Do you know what this sounds like? To me? It's like an infection. Little bugs that get inside you and screw everything up. You can't stop the bugs from getting inside. So if you can't stop the bugs from getting inside, how do you stop them from doing a lot of damage once they are inside? Some kind of, uh, nano vaccination or nano-anti-venom?"

Vic turned to Stark. "Gordo's right, Ethan. We have to think of these things as sort of like a medical problem. But a vaccination doesn't seem workable, not with the time we've got. I'm not even sure how that could work. Hunter-killer nanobots inside the battle armor? Lamont, you're our best equipment expert."

"And I never heard of anything like that. I mean, you'd have to figure out IFF of some sort for the nanobots so they could identify intruders, nanoscale weapons of some type, a way to get the killer nanos to the infection site. All kinds of stuff. I don't see how we can invent something like that in less than a week, let alone install it in our armor."

"Me, neither. How else do you counter the nano rounds if you're thinking in medical terms?"

Stark turned to his comm pad. "None of us are likely to know that. But maybe I know someone who might have some answers." He punched in a code, waiting until his screen cleared to show the face of the tired-eyed medic. She seemed to be standing somewhere in one of the casualty wards, the shapes of life-support equipment vaguely visible in the background.

"Good afternoon, Sergeant Stark. Private Murphy's been released. He's been pursuing physical therapy on an outpatient basis for a while now."

"Thanks. I knew that. But that's not why I called. I need your medical expertise to help with a question."

"Sure, but I'm no Nobel laureate. What is it?"

"Suppose you got a virus. One with no cure, and it's moving real fast. What do you do?"

Hey eyes widened. "You certainly dream up some cheerful scenarios, Sergeant. I need to know more about this virus. What's the point of entry into the body?"

"Uh, any point. Through the skin."

"I see." For the first time in Stark's acquaintance with her, the medic seemed upset. "Sergeant, if you're researching bioweapons, me and every other medical specialist will be out of here on the next shuttle. That's over the line."

Stark shook his head. "Geez. I'm sorry. That's not what we're doing. No way. This isn't a real virus. It's mechanical. Works against equipment."

"Mechanical? You mean like a computer virus?"

"Sorta."

"A computer virus moves along circuits at the speed of light, Sergeant. You can counter the infection, but not stop it."

"Okay, we're not talking a worm or something like that. This would be, like, nanobots."

"Oh. Like the nanos we use sometimes. Those move through the system a lot slower." Mollified, the medic pondered the question. "Fast moving virus, no cure, entry at any point. There's only one thing you can do, Sergeant. Amputate."

"Amputate?"

"Yup." The medic quirked a humorless smile. "Seal off the infected area before the infection gets to something critical. The only way to do that, using a human analogy, is to amputate the infected limb. Real fast. Of course, if the infection has entered through the head that option's not going to help much."

"I can see that."

"What you really want is antibodies to counter the infection. That beats amputation any day. Even though we can grow limbs back these days, it's not a lot of fun."

"I understand."

"There's also the snake bite approach if the infection is entering somewhere on the abdomen. Cut it out and suck it out. I don't know how practical that'd be here, though."

Stark winced at the matter-of-fact description, then nodded. "Thanks, Doc. I appreciate the information."

"No problem."

Stark looked around the table. "Everybody copy that? Can we amputate part of somebody's battle armor if it gets a hit from a nano round?"

Bev Manley scowled at the table's surface. "They had to scratch plans for auto-amputate devices built into the battle armor at the knees, elbows, hips, and shoulders. No soldier would wear the stuff for fear the auto-amputate gear would malfunction."

"I can understand that." Stark was unable to totally suppress a shudder. "But we're not talking physically removing a limb. That's a nonstarter."

Vic had called up an internal battle armor diagram, studying it carefully. "You could, theoretically, seal off a section of battle armor. But it would have to go beyond just shutting off circuits and stopping the flow of fluids and gases. There'd have to be some way of physically blocking anything trying to crawl through any crack."

Sergeant Gordasa nodded. "Something real small trying to crawl through a real small crack. You'd have to, uh, do something like the blood does. Clot. Seal it off that way."

"Can we modify suits to do that?"

Lamont shook his head. "I guess I've got more experience with equipment than anyone here, but you've all done maintenance on your armor, right? The stuff we've got ain't designed for that kind of clotting system. It'll seal external penetrations okay, as long as they're small enough, but sealing off some internal section so nothing can get by? You'd need firewalls in there, to help isolate the sections. You'd need some mechanism for rapidly transporting whatever does the clotting, say special nanobots or just sticky foam. You'd need a detection system that could spot an infection and localize it darn near instantly so it could be sealed off."

Vic indicated the schematics before her. "None of that sounds impossible."

"It's not. I'm not sayin' you can't do it. What I'm sayin' is you'd need something designed to do all that. You can't shovel it inside the existing designs, not without completely rebuilding them. And if you're gonna do that, you might as well build a whole new battle armor designed from the ground up to handle that threat."

"He's right." Stacey Yurivan looked around the table triumphantly. "Something I picked up is finally making sense. I've heard some vague rumors about a crash program by the Pentagon to design new battle armor. Those rumors started soon after the Fifth Batt mutiny got put down."

Vic leaned over the table as she fixed Yurivan with a hard look. "Why didn't you mention that before?"

"Because, Reynolds, I've been trying to confirm it. I don't pass along every rumor that crosses my desk."

"So, how long have we got? When will this new battle armor be fielded?"

"Do I look like a Pentagon weapons geek? I predict the new armor will come on line years late and many millions, or billions, over budget. Beyond that, who knows?"

Stark waved one hand to interrupt the argument. "Stace, if that battle armor was anywhere near ready, wouldn't you have gotten some firmer word?"

"Yeah. I'm sure I would have. It won't show up tomorrow, or the next day, or the next week."

Lamont grunted as if a sudden thought had hit him. "The Jabberwocks. They'd want to do the same modifications on those. But that'd take time, too. They can't have been designed to handle the nano threat, any more than our armor was."

"Good point. Stace, have we seen anything to indicate retrofits to the Jabberwocks?"

"Nope." Yurivan twisted her face slightly as she considered the question. "That'd cause enough of a flap that we'd have heard something. I bet somebody's raised the question, but those Jabberwocks have got to be really complicated. A from-the-ground-up redesign to counter a nanobot threat would probably require basically scrapping them and rebuilding the things. Just like the battle armor."

Gordasa nodded again. "That would require new parts, new specifications, new training. Which would all take a lot of time, and a lot more money, verdad? Yet the authorities back home don't have much of either."

"Right, Gordo." Stark nodded in turn. "Campbell says the government figures they've got to win this campaign before the election or they'll lose their hold on power, and then a bunch of people eager to fix the system will start taking some long looks at stuff that's been kept hidden. There's no way the government could postpone action long enough to install the kind of fix we're talkin' about."

"Sounds familiar, doesn't it?" Vic remarked. "There's problems with the gear, but we've got to go ahead anyway. How many times did we get sent on that kind of op?"

"So, they'll do it again. And hope we don't have nano rounds to use against the Jabberwocks. Do they even know we know about the Jabberwocks?"

"They know we know they're working on them," Yurivan advised. "The politicians spilled that. But they don't know if we know they're operational and here to be used against us now."

"That helps. I guess. Well, at least this discussion solved the original question, even though we had to circle back to it. We figured out what kind of defense the Pentagon would have to use, then figured they probably can't use it in the time they've got."

Gordasa pointed at Private Mendoza. "But that still leaves another question he raised. Worst case, what if the nanos don't work? What will we do?"

Stark grinned. "Then we fall back on the traditional means of dealing with hostile, armed individuals. Generous quantities of high-explosive and high-velocity metal, delivered with the necessary degree of accuracy."

"Now you're talkin'!" Lamont looked positively wistful. "Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer the tried-and-true methods of destroying things. All these kinder and gentler means of fighting wars just waste time."

 

The alert came just after midnight a few days later. Stark had been lying in his bed, unsuccessfully courting sleep, when his comm unit beeped. "Commander Stark, this is the command center. Sensors facing the Mixing Bowl are detecting high levels of subsurface movement, including apparent excavation activity."

"Thanks. Notify Sergeant Reynolds. Activate the reserves and get 'em moving. Put all sectors on alert. Somebody else might try hitting us in another area while they think we're busy at the Mixing Bowl."

Stark was fastening the last seals on his battle armor when Vic called in. "Ethan? I'll join you in the command center."

"No, you won't. I'm taking the command APC out there so I can judge the situation in person."

"Ethan Stark, you never mentioned this plan before!"

"That's because I didn't want to argue about it and now we ain't got time. Look, Vic, I'll be a little ways back from the front, with the APC right there and the reserve combat units all around me:'

"You can command just as well from back here."

"No. Not with something new. I need to watch these Jabberwocks, get the full feel for their attack. I can't do that from far away." He grabbed his rifle, heading for the door. "I'm on my way."

Stark could hear Vic's sigh even over the circuit. "All right. Just try to keep your head down, soldier."

His APC was waiting. Stark entered through the side hatch, resolving for umpteenth time to get that hatch sealed so that the APC's armor and camouflage would once again be intact. Any general who couldn't climb through a standard belly access hatch didn't deserve the job of commander, in Stark's estimation. Strapping on his harness. Stark jacked into the APC's internal circuit. "Okay, driver. Let's go hunt some Jabberwocks."

"Yes, sir." The APC driver's reply lacked enthusiasm, either because of the late hour or because he didn't relish the thought of being close to combat. The vehicle surged into motion, the driver taking it through the fairly smooth surface areas of the Colony, then out into the rougher terrain beyond.

Stark studied the display before him, even though he'd already examined that stretch of the front so often he could see it in his sleep. No actual Jabberwock detections yet. No tunnel entrances blown yet. Those apes from Second Division should have realized that needing to finish the tunnels at the last minute would provide us some extra warning time. Hell, they probably did realize it and got overruled by whatever Operations and Plans genius came up with the tunnel idea.

Stark had long ago selected a site for his mobile command post a little way back from the front, just behind a low ridge whose gentle curve betrayed its origin in a long-ago meteor impact. The APC came to rest, parked exactly on the designated spot, and Stark popped the hatch.

He scrambled cautiously up the slope, even though his command scan told him there were still no Jabberwock detections and no enemy fire was incoming. Like we guessed. No artillery preparation or cover fire. They're probably counting on surprise. Not just surprise at the time of attack, but surprise at the Jabberwocks. Too bad for them.

"Ethan." Vic spoke calmly, just as she always had when commanding a squad on the front line.

Stark could see her in his mind's eye, standing in the command center before the huge display, analyzing the situation. The thought gave him considerable comfort. "Here. How's it look?"

"Like you see on your display. I'm not spotting anything unexpected as of yet. The reserve forces are moving up and should be in position within another few minutes."

Stark checked his scan, nodding with satisfaction as he watched the symbology representing four battalions of soldiers reaching their positions. It had been a risky decision, committing so many battalions right here, but guarding against a possible attack elsewhere around the perimeter seemed less important than maximizing the force available where they knew the attack was coming in. Stark took a moment to review the advancing forces, noting Fifth Battalion of Second Brigade among their number. They'd volunteered for the assignment, eager to prove themselves after the shame of the brief mutiny. He watched their movements a little longer, noting something unexpected. "One of those reserve outfits seems headed straight for me."

"That's right, Ethan. I'm positioning one of the reserve units near your location. Just in case you might need them."

"One of the reserve units? Which one?"

"Bravo Company. Second Battalion. First Brigade. Lieutenant Conroy commanding. Sergeant Sanchez and the rest of the Battalion will be nearby. Happy?"

"Couldn't be happier." Stark had a feeling he knew which platoon of Bravo Company would end up camping on his doorstep. He relaxed, watching the front, imagining he could actually see the subsurface activity still being reported by their sensors.

"Sargento?"

Stark grinned. "Corporal Gomez. Damned glad to see you."

"Same here, Sargento. We got orders to stick to you tight as a whore's hot pants."

"Let me guess where those orders came from. Okay. If I gotta have a guard detail, you guys are who I want."

"Gracias, Sargento."

Stark took a moment to check the status readouts of his old squad, enjoying the sensation of once again being just a squad leader checking on his peoples' status. "Murphy? Are you in shape for this?"

"Yeah, Sarge. I can handle it fine."

Stark started to move on to another soldier, then noticed something else tagged to Murphy's data. "Acting corporal? You're acting corporal for the squad, Murph?"

"That's right, Sarge. Corporal Gomez. she said she'd give me a chance."

"I hope you're doing your best at it."

"Sure thing, Sarge. Corporal Gomez says I been doing okay."

Stark barely repressed a surprised exclamation. Corporal Gomez's "okay" was equivalent to fulsome praise from others. "That's good to hear." He felt a sudden urgency and dropped plans to speak to each of the other soldiers from his old squad individually. "All you apes. I'm damned glad you're here with me. I don't know for sure all that's gonna happen, but I do know we're gonna kick some robot butt. Anita."

"', Sargento."

"I may get awful busy, dealing with stuff all along the front.

Watch my back."

"You don't have to tell us that. That's why we're here. We'll watch your back, front, and flanks. Don't worry."

"I won't." A moment later his suit alarms announced activity not far from the entrance of the Mixing Bowl. Stark used his HUD's built-in view magnifier to zoom in, seeing geysers of lunar rock and dust flying skyward as the entrances to several tunnels blew open. He switched to the command circuit, speaking to every soldier along this part of the front. "Okay, you apes. It looks like they're coming. We're ready for them. I want your best from everybody out there. There ain't any soldiers anywhere as good as you apes, and there ain't any robots that can come close. Let's see what it takes to turn a Jabberwock into junk."

A brief period of silence and peace descended. The reverberating shockwaves from the explosions were masking any detections of Jabberwock ground movement, and the devices themselves were apparently too far away to be spotted by other means. Rocks and dust fell languidly back toward the moon's surface, their movement so slow as to seem grudging, as if the debris was annoyed at having its long rest on a dead world disturbed by human interlopers. Stark waited, aware of the presence on either hand of solid, veteran soldiers, drawing comfort and confidence from that knowledge to armor himself against fear of the unknown.

Tentative alerts began flickering on Stark's HUD as the Jabberwocks advanced, marking brief detections by sensors emplaced along the front. Here a ground vibration was noted, there a splash of infrared, in another place movement against a static backdrop. "Vic, how many do you think are coming?"

"Ethan, the detections are so fragmentary so far—"

"I know. But I'm feeling there's not a lot in this wave. The detections are too scattered for there to be a whole lot of those things coming."

Stark waited patiently for the few seconds it took for Vic to balance his impressions against her own. "I agree, Ethan. This looks like a probe, to find and fix our defenses for the main attack."

"Good. We'll nail these from the existing front and hold off on Papa Romeo." They were counting on Papa Romeo, the code word for the plan they'd cobbled together from guesstimates, assumptions, and their cumulative combat experience to counter the Jabberwocks. But they had to wait for the right moment to implement that plan.

"I concur."

Stark tried to relax, breathing evenly. Combat always brought tension, but fighting an unknown foe, an unknown and inhuman foe, had increased the level of stress. When he was sure his voice would be relaxed and confident, he keyed the command circuit again. "All personnel. This looks like a probe. Let's give it a bloody nose."

The detections were growing stronger even though they remained brief. Stark's armor tried to correlate the snatches of data to build a picture of the Jabberwocks, but couldn't manage anything remotely reliable as of yet. Detections popped into and out of existence whenever a Jabberwock had to clear cover for a moment in order to advance. Damn, they're fast.

His armor target alert chirped as sensors zeroed in on another Jabberwock when it briefly skittered into the open, its legs almost a blur. The big combat systems back at headquarters, correlating all the readings so far, projected an estimated picture of the creature onto Stark's HUD. Jeez. We thought they'd be about man-size, but the things are almost half as big as an APC. "Stark? Lamont here."

"Yeah." Stark checked the origin of the call, seeing that Lamont occupied one of the tanks nestled in among the reserve units. "Whatchya got?"

"Check this out." A small window popped into existence on one corner of Stark's HUD, playing out vid transferred from his armor commander. "This happened a couple of seconds ago opposite me. Watch that bug." On the display, a Jabberwock scuttled into view on the flank of a small crater, then hesitated in mid-scuttle as it seemed to grab for balance before dashing forward again to vanish behind more terrain. "See that?"

"I saw it. What's it mean?"

"It means those Jabberwocks are top-heavy, buddy. That one almost overbalanced. And if the ugly bugs have stability issues, they can't move as fast as they should be able to on rough terrain. It'll make 'em easier to target."

"Thanks, Lamont." Stark studied the estimated picture of the Jabberwock on his HUD, details still blurry but the main features growing firmer as combat systems tied in every sighting to add to the depiction. Eight legs, six arms, too damn big, and top heavy. I guess that's what happens when a soldier gets designed by a committee. He paused, trying to decide whether to broadcast the top-heavy information to all the defending soldiers. It might make them overconfident. But if they don't know, they might override their targeting systems if the aim points look screwy. Better trust my people. "Vic, did you hear Lamont's last?"

"Roger. You going to pass the word?"

"You do it. Those things should slow down a bit every time they reach a difficult patch of terrain. That's the time to nail 'em."

"Works for me. I'll inform all personnel."

"Commander Stark?" Stark checked the ID on the transmission, seeing it came from the commander of the company occupying the defensive line near the center of the attack. "How close do we let those things get before we open fire?"

I guess I can't tell people to wait until they see the whites of their eyes. Not against something without eyes. "I want to minimize their chance of reporting back. Let them get close, then open up."

"How close, sir?"

Stark suppressed an aggravated response. Not her fault. Everyone is still used to being told exactly how to do the job instead of just what to do and using their own experience. "Sergeant, you can see the terrain and know the targeting probabilities from your positions a lot better than I can. You shoot when you figure you can nail those things."

"Yes, sir."

Closer. Stark checked the scan to see where the Jabberwocks were getting closest to the line, then switched his view to that from the nearest bunker. The detections were getting firmer and longer, but firing solutions were still frustratingly brief. Stark shook his head, watching how quickly the Jabberwocks were flitting from cover to cover. Fine, you bastards. Hide all you want on the way in. The last stretch before the bunkers has been cleared. It doesn't have any cover. Then we'll see if you can outrun bullets.

A Jabberwock loomed into the bunker's view like a monstrous spider out of a bad vid from the last century, its legs blurring as the robotic combatant lunged forward. Stark could now see its multiple arms were outfitted with a variety of weaponry, the barrels and firing rails tracking in search of targets.

The bunker commander had apparently had enough. Chain guns erupted in a brief volley from three locations, spitting streams of bullets at the point where targeting systems said the Jabberwock would be when the bullets got there. Incredibly, the robot managed to avoid the first volley, its legs dancing wildly as it checked its advance and jerked to one side. Unfortunately for the Jabberwock, one of the chain guns kept firing, walking its rounds straight onto the curved shell of the robot. Sparks flew, bright against the black shadows all around.

Stark watched the Jabberwock spin, its own weapons targeting the chain guns. Man. They're hard to kill, just like we feared. Then the robot slowed, hesitating as it seemed to lose use of several legs. Two more chain gun bursts caught it dead-on as the Jabberwock staggered, then it froze and fell. One down. How many does that leave?

Stark pulled back, checking his scan for activity at the other points where Jabberwocks were testing the defenses. Five others were already knocked out, and as Stark watched, the symbols representing another two ceased motion and were tagged with "kill" markers. Silence settled over the line, the defenders' weapons quiet and no detections marking the presence of other Jabberwocks. Did we knock 'em all out, or are there some still hiding and watching? "Vic, do you think that was every Jabberwock in the probe?"

"I think so. There might be some playing possum and surveilling the line, though. Our systems can't be sure how many individual Jabberwocks were spotted on the way in. The only way to know for certain would be to send out patrols and see if they find anything."

"I don't need to know that bad." Somewhere inside the Mixing Bowl base, Stark knew, a lot of officers and probably some contractor technical representatives were trying to analyze what had just happened. The Jabberwocks had surely been knocked out quicker than the attackers had expected. Would that be laid at the feet of luck on the defenders' part, or blamed on the small number of Jabberwocks employed in the probe? Either way, the next attack would surely be stronger.

"All personnel. We stopped 'em cold. Our special rounds worked like a charm. Expect more strength, a larger number of Jabberwocks, in the next attack." Stark studied the field of battle, waiting for some indication of what form the next attack would take.

"Incoming," his suit alert system announced. Stark checked his HUD, watching the tracks of incoming artillery fire headed for his front line. Long-range defenses opened up as the artillery shells came closer, nailing some so that they burst over the empty dead zone between the combatants, but some shells made it through, thundering into the lunar rock with massive loads of high explosive, or tossing out gales of submunitions to seek targets among the rocks below. That's gotta be cover for something. Yup. I don't believe it.

"Here they come again," Vic reported. "I see 'em, Vic. Hell, you can't miss 'em." At a score-of points, Jabberwocks suddenly leaped into view, Stark's HUD instantly locking in on the emissions from their rocket-assist packs. Jump rockets. The same suicidal garbage they've been trying to hoist on us for years. I guess the Jabberwocks are too stupid to tell the weapons designers to pound sand. The Jabberwocks jinked slightly as they flew, attitude jets trying to confuse any targeting solution.

Jetting low above the surface, the Jabberwocks shot forward, perfect targets against the empty lunar horizon, until they reached the engagement zone for Stark's soldiers. Despite the artillery barrage, the defenders had no trouble locking onto the incoming robotic combatants nearest them. Stark switched to visual for a moment, watching as the nearest Jabberwock ran into a concentrated barrage of fire that stopped it in mid-flight, broke its armored shell into a hundred pieces, and hurled the pieces in all directions. Stark switched back to scan, viewing the red markers that displayed the destruction of every other flying attacker. Too bad we wasted nano-rounds on those. "All personnel. If any more of those things try to fly in, use normal ammo on 'em."

"Yessir," one of the bunker commanders acknowledged. "If it flies, it dies."

Stark grinned, enjoying the lack of any sense of guilt. We're not killing anybody. We're just junking machines. We could do this all day and not pick up any bad karma.

"Ethan, that was too easy."

"They were stupid, Vic. That's why it was easy."

"The next one won't be. Count on it. They've lost too many of those things. What did our old officers do when a squad couldn't take a position?"

"Throw a platoon at it, then a company, then a battalion."

"And they've figured out flying in is a lot less survival-enhancing than walking in. The next attack will be on the surface, and there'll be a lot of them."

"Good assessment." Stark scanned the area, weighing his options. Do the Papa Romeo now or wait? Wait. Just a little. Can't leave it too long, though.

Detections sprang to life once more, fractional and blindingly brief, but in much greater numbers. Stark watched the symbols flick on and off like a meadow full of fireflies. A feint? Or the real thing? "Vic? What do you think?"

"This looks like their main push. Those things are too hard to spot to count exactly, but there's a lot of them coming, and the approach tactics match those used by the first probe."

Stark scanned the front, watching the brief detections pop in and out on his HUD, letting his instincts judge the situation. "Yeah. I agree. All units. Execute Papa Romeo. Repeat. Execute Papa Romeo."

Papa Romeo, a half-joking name for the operation, using the phonetic letters that stood for Pretend to Retreat. The units along a large section of the front facing the Jabberwock attack began falling back rapidly, fire teams alternating their movement to cover each other in case of an unexpected dash by the Jabberwocks. Bunkers emptied with a rush as the squads occupying them set the systems on automatic passive defense and dropped back with the other soldiers.

Stark watched closely for any sign of panic, any sign the false retreat might turn into a real one. Dangerous, to start soldiers retreating. It could be hard to stop them. It was a difficult maneuver, one that even veterans might fail if something unexpected rattled them along the way or some rumor of disaster swept the front. But Stark's troops, perhaps bolstered by their recent success with annihilating two Jabberwock attacks, showed no signs of wavering. As the soldiers reached prepared positions along a rough arc bending in from anchors along the existing front, they took up a new defensive line.

Stark had just thoroughly scrambled the tactical situation the Jabberwocks were programmed to confront. It had been Vic Reynolds's suggestion, to leave the established front line the attackers were expecting to face and set up a new line behind it. The new line bent inward, as if a giant had taken a huge bite out of the existing front line. At the points where it joined the old line, new bunkers had been added and strong forces were massed to resist any pressure.

"Vic, activate the minefields." Stark envisioned her back at the headquarters complex, keying in the code that turned numerous scatterings of small rocks into fields of death. They wouldn't stay active long, just a few days, even if they weren't deactivated by remote, but it would be long enough.

Stark checked his scan, smiling with grim satisfaction as he reviewed the status of his defensive line. The attacking Jabberwocks would encounter no resistance from the old front line, as the bunkers on automated passive defenses would fire only if fired upon. But once they penetrated the indentation in the line, they'd take fire from three sides, while covering terrain on which they weren't programmed to confront fixed defenses. If they'd been human attackers, Stark would have felt a surge of pity and sorrow at the waste of life about to occur. Against the Jabberwocks, he gleefully anticipated the destruction of the attackers.

The firefly-like flickers of detections continued, the Jabberwocks coming on with eerie precision. They slowed slightly as they reached firing positions near the old front line. Stark zoomed in on one area, watching as Jabberwocks alternated their scuttling progress. They're covering each other as they advance. The implication hit almost instantly. "Vic. I think there's about twice as many Jabberwocks coming as we thought. Only about half of them are moving at a time."

"Damn." Stark knew Vic had aimed the curse at herself. "I should have realized that before you did. I'll make sure scan reflects that."

The number of possible contacts on Stark's HUD multiplied with dismaying speed as the tactical systems reacted to the new instructions. If I don't like it, and I knew it was coming, everybody else must be even unhappier. "All personnel. The Jabberwocks are advancing, alternating with each other. That's why you're suddenly seeing a lot more contacts. Stay sharp, but stay frosty. There'll be a lot less of 'em in a few minutes."

The Jabberwocks reached attack positions, then continued forward, dodging and weaving with their inhuman speed. A bunker just to left of the center of the attack opened fire as Jabberwocks literally ran over it. There was a brief fusillade of fire, the bunker triggering its defenses while Jabberwocks swarmed onto the location and poured their own barrage onto every firing point. Stark watched, his eyes hard. Like a bunch of fire ants massing onto some poor clod who got in their way. The insect-like movement and attack patterns of the Jabberwocks were unnerving to Stark, even after seeing many destroyed.

The bunker fell silent, its weapons destroyed and the bunker itself breached. Stark scanned the front slowly. The Jabberwocks had paused in their advance, as if satisfied with their conquest. Come on, you ugly bastards. We've got a little reception waiting for you. But the robots stayed passive, apparently content to occupy the front. "Vic, we've got a problem."

"So I see."

"We can't wipe them out if they stay along the old line. How do we get them advancing again?"

"Ethan, they swarmed all over that bunker when it fired on them. Maybe if you open up from the new positions, they'll come after you."

"That's not a bad idea. Lamont, tell your hogs I'd like them to see how many of those bugs they can squash from here."

"That's a roger! Let's see how they like heavy incoming." Fire erupted from a dozen points along the new defensive line as Lamont's tanks opened up with their main guns. The Jabberwocks seemed to watch the large shells coming, then stepped aside rapidly to avoid impact points. A few fired back, the tracks of anti-armor missiles blazing in toward the tanks. Given the range, Lamont's tanks easily took out the missiles with their own point defenses. "They ain't coming, boss. And I can't nail 'em from this distance. Maybe if I mounted particle cannons as my main batteries, but not with a shell's time of flight. Those Jabberwocks just dodge too fast."

Great. We never figured the stupid bugs would just sit there. Am I going to have to attack? I could lose a lot of people that way, but I can't leave the Jabberwocks in possession of the front line. Sooner or later, some of the human soldiers from Second Division will move in there, and then I'll have a major headache figuring out how to retake the positions. "Vic, I'd really appreciate another idea. The faster the better."

"Fine." Stark knew her anger was directed not at him, but at the Jabberwocks. "Let's think through their programming. Our old officers handled it. What would they have told us to do?"

"Ummm, lessee. Take the position. Hold the position. Exploit . . . that's it. Vic, if those bugs see us running they'll come after us."

"That's risky, Ethan."

"I know. Get new positions drawn as fast as you can. Fall the front back to where the reserve forces are."

"Which puts you on the front line again. Did you plan this?"

"Vic, damnit—"

"Don't worry. You've got your positions. Here's the download."

Stark took just a moment to glance at the new line Vic had thrown together. Man, she's good. "All units. This is Stark.

We've got to let the Jabberwocks see us retreating, so they'll try to chase us. You're getting new positions downloaded now. On my word, I want all the designated units to stand up, wave their arms, and start falling back fast. No panic, understand? If anybody tries to run past their assigned positions I will personally find you and kick your butt into orbit. Now, go!"

All along the back arc of the new front, soldiers stood up in plain sight of the Jabberwocks, turned, and began running. Stark fought down a chill of apprehension. That looks entirely too real to make me comfortable. Stop when you reach your new positions, guys. Stop.

Down on the old line, the Jabberwocks seemed to be watching, then abruptly surged into motion all at once like a school of fish. Alright! Come to papa, you little monsters, you. "It's working. They're coming. All reserve units, you're part of the front now. Let's take 'em."

Stark felt a presence nearby, turning to see armored figures lying on the slope to either side. His old squad, ready to defend him. He had to resist the urge to review their positions personally. Not my job anymore. Let the squad leaders do their job, let Anita be the platoon leader. He felt a separation, not for the first time, from the people and command position he'd always loved.

Stark had delegated control of the artillery to Vic, leaving her the authority to call in missions and removing a major distraction from his own job of overseeing the defense. Now he watched as his HUD highlighted a barrage arching in from his rear. The Jabberwocks were still hard to individually spot and track as they scurried among every bit of possible cover, but the general movement and location of the robotic combatants could be discerned from the trend of brief detections.

Defensive fire blasted out from the Mixing Bowl base, trying to screen the advancing Jabberwocks from the incoming shells, but it was unable to penetrate far inside the Colony's own perimeter. Most of the shells made it through, falling with deadly force among the attackers.

The artillery fell toward the middle and rear of the area covered by the Jabberwocks, herding them forward even as concentrated blasts of gasses from exploding shells battered the robots, fragments of metal sliced into them, and individual submunitions sought out the fast-moving Jabberwocks to sting them from above. Torn mechanical spider shapes staggered forward or in dizzy circles, while others became briefly mobile torches as ammunition or fuel supplies caught fire. The Jabberwocks left a plain littered with wreckage as they swarmed forward, unheeding of their losses.

Stark smiled again, baring his canines as he saw Vic's artillery mission had herded the Jabberwocks toward the minefields. More giant bug shapes shattered as antitank mines ripped them apart. The Jabberwocks began firing, clearing the minefields by the painstaking tactic of shooting at every rock in their path. Humans couldn't have maintained that accurate a barrage while moving that fast, but the Jabberwocks could.

Clear of the minefields, the Jabberwocks came on. Stark caught his breath as he totaled up the numbers still in motion. Good Lord. How much did the government spend to buy all these things? Better not let 'em get any closer before we start hurting them serious. "All units. Ladies and Gentlemen, let 'em have it. Open fire."

An arc of fire blazed to life on three sides, hitting the Jabberwocks from the front and both flanks. Most of the fire missed, the mechanical bugs moving so quickly that combat systems couldn't correct aim points fast enough. But so many weapons were firing that the front ranks of Jabberwocks collapsed into frozen uselessness.

Despite the volume of fire pouring from three sides into the indentation in the front, the Jabberwocks kept coming, their scuttling shapes passing over the bodies of fallen robots like a horde of alien monsters. I wondered what it'd be like to meet something that wasn't human. Well we've met 'em, and we're fighting 'em. Figures. He checked his scan, watching the wave of Jabberwock symbology closing swiftly on the improvised defensive line. "Vic, watch for any penetrations."

"I'm watching. They're too close to you now for more artillery. I don't want to risk a short round hitting our own line."

"Understood. We'll take 'em one-on-one." Stark raised his own rifle, watching aiming points spring to life on his HUD as the linked targeting system activated. He fired carefully, picking his targets from the highest hit probabilities, cursing at the number of shots that missed as a Jabberwock used its inhuman speed to dart forward. The Jabberwocks were firing back, blasting off aimed shots without pausing, their accuracy still fortunately confused by the human soldiers' active and passive defensive systems and by the amount of explosion-generated noise created by all the weapons being fired.

A wave of Jabberwocks hit the center of the improvised line, running straight into a massive barrage of fire that dropped every one short of contact. But more scuttled forward, laying down rapid shots that forced Stark's soldiers to take cover or die.

One of Lamont's tanks, its massive beetle-shaped carapace almost invisible against lunar shadow, found itself confronting a pair of Jabberwocks. The first opened fire immediately, its small-caliber rounds glancing off the tank's armor in a brilliant cascade of sparks. The second Jabberwock, slightly back and to the side of the first, paused for a fraction of a second while a heavy anti-armor weapon dropped from the robot's internal magazine onto a firing rail.

The tank's secondary cannon roared, cutting the first Jabberwock in half with a hail of shells. Its turret was swiveling to target the second bug when the anti-armor missile shot out. Point defenses opened up, not scoring a direct hit but diverting the missile slightly. The tank staggered as the missile hit home in a non-critical area, spraying fragments of armor. Then the tank's main gun steadied and fired. This close, even the Jabberwock's speed didn't allow it to dodge the heavy shell. The robot simply vanished as the shell penetrated its armor and exploded inside, leaving the stumps of eight metal legs falling into dust littered with the wreckage of war.

"Hey, you ground apes! How about a little covering fire here! It's gonna take me forever to fix the hole in that tank!"

Stark fired again even as he called out orders. "Ground soldiers. Screen Sergeant Lamont's armor. You can nail the Jabberwocks while they're trying to target the tanks."

A Jabberwock reared up nearby with shocking suddenness, dull metal and rapidly moving limbs rendering it a vague shape out of a nightmare, as it loomed against the endless black of the lunar sky. Stark was still bringing his rifle up when the soldier nearest him screamed in a combination of pain and rage, her suit broadcasting multiple penetrations as the Jabberwock fired a burst into her. Still screaming, the soldier fired on full automatic, her rounds winking in wild pyrotechnics off the head and carapace of the Jabberwock. The bug staggered, wobbling as other soldiers and Stark added their fire, its legs hunting frantically like a spider caught under a boot heel, then froze and fell over in a slow-motion collapse.

Stark reached the wounded soldier first, her fingers still spasmodically tightening on the trigger of her empty weapon. "Take it easy. It's dead." Billings. Damn. He scanned her medical readout, then tagged her symbol for high-priority response by the medical teams. "Looks like you'll make it." If the medics get here quick enough. "Hang in there." Please.

"As long as I killed that bastard," Billings spat, then collapsed from the load of drugs being pumped into her by her suit. "Ethan."

"Yeah, Vic."

"I'm getting individual Jabberwocks breaking through on the left. I'm moving APCs to intercept."

"Get some tanks with those APCs." Stark fired again as he lay near the badly wounded shape of Private Billings, determined to guard her. "They can't take the bugs alone. The Jabberwocks are too tough and too heavily armed."

"Roger. I'll have to pull the tanks off the line. Everything's committed."

Before Stark could answer, another Jabberwock jerked into view not far away, firing with four of its arms as it skittered toward them. Two brief bursts caught it on the head and side, then a lucky shot with a grenade knocked off two legs. The Jabberwock wove back and forth for a moment, firing erratically, then dropped.

"Good shooting, Caruso." Corporal Gomez, all business. "Chen, get yourself a couple meters over so you can cover the Sargento and Billings better. Dios! Here's another one."

Stark cursed as the nearby soldiers engaged another Jabberwock, pulling his scan back so he could see the entire situation again. The dancing symbology that marked split-second detections of Jabberwocks made it hard to evaluate how many were left, but the number of kill symbols indicated they'd knocked out or destroyed scores. "Go ahead and pull the armor, Vic." A sudden chill ran over him as he realized the move might be misinterpreted. "All units. Armor is being pulled off the line to reinforce a reaction force. We are not falling back."

His fear that the movement of the tanks would be misunderstood appeared misplaced as some unknown soldier immediately replied. "Hell, no, we ain't!"

Stark focused back on the immediate area, noting the absence of close-in targets. Symbols marked a half-dozen disabled Jabberwocks scattered close to his position. The nearest soldiers were prone in the thin dust, firing single, carefully aimed shots at Jabberwocks still advancing against other portions of the line. Like those things that went after the blockade runners. Single-minded. Keep going after the target until it's destroyed. The flickering detections were few now, most on the left, some behind the line. Infantry was scrambling off the line, alarming Stark until he realized they were moving to target the Jabberwocks who'd made it through the defenses.

APC symbols converged on one of the Jabberwocks. Stark switched scans to view the action through the APC gunner's view. On the APC's targeting system, he could see the hunted Jabberwock's symbology flash there/not-there as the bug dodged rapidly among the rocks. A moment later, a nearby APC shuddered as the Jabberwock poured fire into it, the armored vehicle sliding to the surface while broadcasting damage alarms.

The other APCs fired, raking the area around the Jabberwock even as it continued to fire at the wounded APC. The robot sidestepped too fast to follow, trying to avoid the defenders' fire as it maintained a fanatical focus on destroying the APC it had targeted.

A tank hove into view, its weapons searching for the Jabberwock, then locking on. The Jabberwock, finally satisfied with the damage wrought on the stricken APC or perhaps sensing a new threat, spun to attack the tank, but as it did so, several rounds hit home from different angles. Staggering to one side, the Jabberwock frantically tried to regain its balance, temporarily unable to evade the incoming fire. A moment later, the bug was riddled by APC fire, then its broken carcass was slapped to one side by a cannon shell from the tank.

Stark pulled his view back again, breathing heavily from the stress of action. One or two Jabberwocks were still moving, still coming onward, but first one and then the second froze. A final burst of fire into the immobile remains followed, then silence fell as the defenders vainly sought new targets.

We did it. Good God in Heaven, we did it. Human soldiers, one. Jabberwocks, zero. "Vic, I read the attack stopped dead."

"I concur. No movement apparent. I'm deactivating the minefields so our forces can reoccupy the front line."

"Roger. Get those units moving." He paused, tasting something bad in his mouth. "I'll need a casualty count."

"You'll get one."

Stark spun to see where he'd left Private Billings, sagging with relief as he saw her being carried to a waiting ambulance. "She gonna make it?"

One of the medics answered without halting his careful maneuvering of the mobile stretcher. "Yes, sir. She'll be stabilized within a couple of minutes."

"Thanks. Anita?"

"Sí, Sargento."

"How many?"

A pause, whether to count or to compose herself, Stark didn't know. "One dead. Two wounded, one of those serious."

Stark extrapolated that, comparing the number of Jabberwocks they'd personally nailed against the number of casualties suffered by Gomez's platoon. Maybe we didn't lose too many. "They done good, Corporal Gomez. You've kept 'em real sharp."

"Gracias, Sargento. We gonna go after that base now?"

"I'm not planning on it." Stark walked slowly back to the command APC, wishing once again that the vehicle had been armed so that its firepower could have aided in their defense. One more thing I gotta do someday. "How's it look, Vic?"

"Reoccupation of the front line is proceeding without any trouble, except for that one bunker that the bugs nuked. I'll put some armor near there to cover the gap." He could hear the relief in her voice, the winding down of tension ratcheted up by the recent battle. "So, Ethan, 'thou hast slain the Jabberwock'?"

He looked over the barren lunar landscape, back toward where the headquarters complex lay buried beneath the ancient rock. "What?"

" 'Thou hast slain the Jabberwock.' It's a quote, you oaf. From Alice through the Looking Glass."

I guess that's where that Bander-whatsit stuff comes from, too. "How come you remember something like that?"

"They were my favorite books when I was a little girl."

"That's a surprise. That's like, Alice in Wonderland, right? Some little dressed-up Brit girl? You liked that?"

"I liked the idea of a girl wandering around exploring strange, new worlds on her own. What's wrong with that? Mind you, I always thought Alice should have been more heavily armed before she started on those expeditions, just in case any of the weirdoes she met happened to turn out hostile."

"Now that part ain't a surprise." Stark checked his scan again, pulling it far back to see a good section of the front. His laughter died as Stark stared at a corner of the scan showing activity behind the enemy lines. He centered the display on it, focusing the scan. "What the hell's going on?"

"Where? Let me see your scan. You mean that stuff on the flanks of the Mixing Bowl?"

"Yeah. I mean that stuff." Scan provided only a scattered picture at that range, showing those traces of enemy activity that could be spotted across the distance, but increasingly large concentrations of enemy symbology seemed to be easing into position, carefully screening themselves from the official American forces occupying the Mixing Bowl. "What are they doing? Are they planning to throw enemy forces against us, too?"

"Ethan, if those enemy units were going to be used against us, they'd be more concerned about screening themselves from us, not from the official forces. Look at their movements. When there's a choice of screening terrain, they're choosing the route that masks them from the Mixing Bowl."

"Why? What the hell are they doing?"

"They're getting ready to hit the official forces. Look. To the south, too. We haven't got as good a view there, but something's going on."

Stark tried to rub his face, his armored hand slapping against his face shield instead. "A double-cross. Why now?"

"Why now? That's easy. Think about it from the enemy's perspective. The official American forces hit us, we hit back, both groups are weakened, then the people that don't like any of us hit what's left in the Mixing Bowl and roll over it. After that, they hope, they hit the defenses here, which the Jabberwocks have already softened up, and take the Colony. One, two, three strikes and we're out."

"Damn. We can't let that happen."

"No, I don't expect we can. How do we stop it?"

"We've got to help 'em. The guys in the Mixing Bowl. They don't have enough forces in there to hold off surprise attacks from both flanks. Not in that terrain."

"No, they don't. Think carefully, though, Ethan. No matter how we try to help, we're going to have to open our defenses here. We're going to have to commit forces that may get shot at by both those enemy forces and by the Mixing Bowl defenders. Worst case, we'll be seriously weakened. We might lose the Colony trying to save the official force. And if we do save them, they might still try to take us."

"Yeah." Stark stared outward, above the barren black/white/gray of the lunar terrain, outward to where the white and blue bannered disc of Earth hung in the blackness, memories cascading through his mind yet somehow leaving a single clear thought. "Yeah. I know all that. But I'm an American, Vic. We all are. The idiots running the country can't change that no matter how much they screw up everything else. And for once, for damned all once, I ain't gonna let everybody else pay for the dumb things our bosses decided were smart. We're gonna save those apes in the official force, and we're gonna see 'em safe home, so they can look out for the civs on Earth like they're supposed to."

"And if those apes thank us by taking over the Colony? Our troops won't fire on Second Division soldiers, Ethan, not even to save themselves. You know that."

He took a deep breath, eyes still fixed on Earth. Somewhere on that ball, somewhere beneath the white clouds, everything he'd been raised to care about waited on his decision. There wasn't any ice filling him this time, just a steady warmth that seemed to come from somewhere other than his suit's heating system. "Yeah. I know that, too. What else can we do, Vic? We got orders from the Colony leader, remember? Don't let the official force get blown away. Those are our orders and our priorities. And those orders make sense, Vic. What's the alternative? Leave home without anybody to defend 'em? If this much of Second Division gets trashed, what's left couldn't defend the borders. The guys who are double-crossing 'em up here will go after our country back home sure as hell. We took an oath, Vic. Protect the Constitution. Nothing we've done yet has really violated that. Home, the Constitution, they've been safe. But if we let those apes die, if we let everybody with a grudge against the U.S. of A. walk in to take whatever piece they think they're owed, what then? It'll all be over. I won't let that happen, even if I have to walk by myself over there and fight on my own."

"You won't be alone, Ethan." After a brief pause, she continued. "We've got one ace we can play. Stacey just notified me she managed to plant it."

"Plant it? Plant what?"

"Remember the worm Stace found in our systems after the raid on our headquarters? The one that would've mirror-imaged our IFF so our friends looked like enemies and vice versa? Her computer geeks were able to modify that worm so the watchdogs in the official systems shouldn't recognize it and so it'll make us look just like them on their IFF."

"No kidding? That's one nice worm."

"Stacey thought it might come in handy. With that, I can load a battalion on shuttles and shoot them over the front. Drop that battalion where it can help stop the surprise attack. That's not enough, but it should do the job until somebody else can get over there."

"Do it. Thanks, Vic. For setting this up, and for agreeing with me on doing this."

"Don't thank me, you idiot. I spent my whole career hoping for a leader who cared more about ideals than their own self-interest. So I got you. Serves me right. Let's try not to get killed."

"Deal."

He stood next to the APC, pondering what his decision might do to the soldiers who had trusted and followed him to this point. I'll tell 'em what I'm doing and why. They deserve to know that. "All units. This is Stark. We've spotted enemy forces moving to attack the Mixing Bowl on both flanks. They're planning on nailing the apes from Second Division and then maybe coming after us here. We'd be safe if we just stayed here behind our lines, but the Second Division grunts won't stand a chance without our help. I'm planning on helping them. That might mean the official force can take us down afterwards. But at least they'll be alive and able to help defend the U.S. back home. If they go down here, our country won't stand a chance. I hope you'll all follow me." He began walking toward the front line, deciding to dispense with the command APC.

"Sargento! Not on point, Sargento. Let a private do that." Gomez waved a soldier forward, then brought the rest of the platoon alongside Stark at a trot. "You ain't goin' over there alone."

"Thanks, Anita."

They moved up and over the low ridge, giving them a direct view of the dead zone. "They say it gets real cold in the Leaven-worth stockade," Gomez mused. "We'll have to pack overcoats and stuff. Bet it's not as cold as here, though."

"No, I bet it ain't. Of course, I'd probably get a firing squad, not a prison cell."

"Verdad. But they say hell is real warm. You won't have to worry about no overcoat. You can pack light."

Stark laughed. "And I'll have plenty of friends waiting for me there. Nice to have you along on this walk, compadre."

"De nada."

Vic Reynolds came on, speaking in a rush. "Ethan, I've got the shuttles loaded. The handiest force was Milheim's Battalion. I think he's still reeling from the orders he's got, because he hasn't screamed bloody murder. Yet."

"Looks like the enemy's still sneaking up on the Mixing Bowl. Good thing they're moving slow."

"Ethan, they don't expect us to do anything, even if we spot them. I've just given the shuttles their launch orders. We don't know anything about the layout of the base inside the Mixing Bowl, so I'm dropping the shuttles on the north flank where I think the heaviest attack is going to be staged."

"Got it. Sounds good. When will you activate the worm?"

"At the last minute, when the shuttles are approaching the front. We don't know how long the worm will last before the system watchdogs over there axe it."

"I sure hope it works."

"Stacey promised."

Stark laughed again. "We're depending on a promise from Stacey Yurivan. Great God Almighty. We must be insane."

"Must be. The shuttles will be overhead of you in four minutes."

"Roger." Stark picked up the pace, watching the companies and battalions around and behind him match his movement. They were all following him, again, believing as he did or just trusting that he had made the right decision. Four battalions. Is that enough to stop the attack on the Mixing Bowl? No, five battalions, since we 're dropping Milheim's people in there.

A few minutes later the shuttles shot by overhead. Stark looked, trying to count, and noting the symbology for his three remaining armed shuttles among them. "Vic, are those armed shuttles there as escorts?"

"Partly. It was Chief Melendez's idea. He says the armed shuttles can fire their point defenses on the surface, using manual targeting. I think he's looking forward to trying it. Uh, I just activated the worm."

"Is it working?"

"We'll know it's not if the Mixing Bowl opens fire on the shuttles. Cross your fingers, Ethan. What's your plan for getting over there, by the way?"

"It looks like a nice day for a walk, Vic."

"I'm sorry I asked. Good luck."

"Hey, I got Gomez, Murphy, and the others with me. What could go wrong?"

"Don't get me thinking. Movement on the flanks of the Mixing Bowl is almost gone. The enemy must be about in position."

"Understand." Stark increased his pace again. Not far ahead, the fortified line awaited, and beyond that the appropriately named dead zone separating the two opposing forces. Stark had never liked venturing into it. He didn't like it now, but he couldn't see any alternative that wouldn't give him nightmares for the rest of his life.

On scan, Stark watched the shuttles hurtle over the dead zone without being engaged by defensive systems. Whadayya know. Stacey's worm worked. Good thing I didn't fire her. In the Mixing Bowl, officers would be going ballistic, wondering where the shuttles came from, how they could be friendly, and why they weren't responding to orders from whatever headquarters was operating inside the valley.

"Vic, give me a relay on the distress frequency. I want to talk to the people in the Mixing Bowl."

"That's a misuse of the frequency. You can go to jail for that, you know."

"I'll risk it."

"Relay's on."

Stark took a brief moment to gather his thoughts, then started speaking on a circuit that every soldier's armor, every ship, every comm system monitored by law. "All personnel in the official American force, inside the valley we call the Mixing Bowl. This is Sergeant Ethan Stark. You are being attacked by your allies. There are strong forces on both flanks preparing to hit you even as I speak. I have sent a battalion in via shuttle to reinforce your northern flank and will lead more units across the dead zone into your base to help you hold. I repeat, my forces are being deployed to help defend you from those enemy attacks. They will not attack you. We are advancing to help—" Harsh static buzz-sawed through the circuit.

Ouch. Jamming that circuit's illegal as hell. Of course, so is using it to broadcast speeches. On scan, Stark watched Milheim's battalion deploying from the shuttles and heading for positions near the north wall of the valley. Scattered symbols near them marked official American forces who were apparently either confused by the worm or unwilling to fire on Milheim's soldiers.

A moment later, red symbology surged over the rim of the valley. Stark held his breath as his ground soldiers raked the attackers. Threat symbology radiated from the three grounded armed shuttles as Chief Gunner's Mate Melendez and his crews provided heavy covering fire. How's it feel to be surprised, you bastards? The red symbols wavered and fell back in confusion, leaving numerous casualty markers glowing in their wake.

On either side of Stark, the bunkers of the Colony's defensive perimeter fell behind. Stark increased his pace to a low gravity trot, covering long stretches of ground with each step. He'd be a perfect target during those periods out of contact with the lunar surface, but he had to get his troops across the dead zone in time to make a difference.

"Stark? Stark! What the hell are you doing?"

"Vic? Where's that transmission coming from?"

"Official force source, Ethan, somewhere inside the Mixing Bowl."

"Huh. This is Stark. Who's this?"

"Rash Paratnam, you flippin' idiot. What's with dropping troops on us. You want to fight us?"

"No, you moron! Didn't you hear my transmission?"

"Yeah, but—"

"Open your eyes and look around. Check your scan."

"Scan's being sanitized by our headquarters, Stark. We can't see a damn thing."

"Aw, fer pity's sake. Rash, you've got enemy troops hitting you on both flanks. Your people on the south are being rolled over. We've managed to stall the attack on the north side, but can't keep holding there without reinforcements. You've gotta get your people moving and set up defenses."

A pause, then an agonized reply came. "Ah, jeez, Ethan. What're we gonna do? Our orders are to engage you guys. I asked my officers about the enemy forces, our beloved allies, and they said nothing."

"Rash, listen to me. We're on the same side here. I'm not gonna let the majority of what's left of the American Army get overrun while I sit safe behind my defenses. Hey, can you link to my scan?"

"Uh, I guess so. But you could use that back door to drop a worm into our system."

"Rash, we've already got a worm in your system."

"You do? That's why my scan's showing you as friendly? Damn." Another pause, longer this time. "You never lied to me, Ethan. Never. Okay. I'm linking to your scan, and I'll link everybody else over here into it. Then we'll be able to see what's going on. At least until the system watchdogs over here figure out what I'm doing and try to kill the link."

"Thanks, Rash."

Halfway across the dead zone, maybe, the new berm shielding the Mixing Bowl looming ever higher before them. If the forces manning those defenses were going to fire on Stark, they'd open up soon.

Another transmission came in. "Stark, we can't keep this up!" Milheim called, anger and fear edging into his voice. "My Battalion's getting hit from two sides at once."

"Who's hitting you? Enemy or official force?"

"Enemy. The ones coming in on the south aren't facing much resistance."

"That's gonna change. The official forces are redeploying to stop them."

"Thank God. We can't keep this up much longer, even with those armed shuttles tearing up the landscape."

"I hear you, Milheim. We're almost in ourselves." The berm was directly before them, rising upward steeply. Rock wouldn't have held that slope unaided against Earth's gravity, but against the moon's puny pull it stayed in place. Stark began bounding up the slope, cursing as loose rocks broke free beneath him and simultaneously grateful for lunar gravity that let him almost run up the slope.

Over the top. Stark paused to catch his breath. A few soldiers occupied a nearby weapons pit, watching him silently. Most of the defenses on the top of the berm sat empty, their occupants presumably sent off to defend the flanks. He scanned the small force of defenders quickly, frowning as the names evoked memories. "I know you guys."

"Yeah, you know us," one of the defenders acknowledged. "We used to be in your Fifth Battalion, Second Brigade."

The mutineers he had sent back to Earth. "They left you in charge of defending the berm?"

"That's right. I guess they figured we were the ones most likely to shoot at you."

"So why didn't you?"

"Because you could have shot us when you put down the mutiny. You could have sent some of us to firing squads after. You didn't. If you wanted to kill us you could've done it a couple times over by now. We decided it was about time we paid more attention to what you were doing than to what the people who didn't like you were saying."

Stark couldn't suppress a grin. "I take it Kalnick ain't up here."

"He's up here. At headquarters. The guy ain't a good field soldier, if you ask me. Poor judgment. Sorry we didn't realize that before."

"Better late than never. How's your scan? Is it showing the enemy activity yet?"

"Not the official scan. We're backdooring an accurate picture from the guys in contact with the enemy." A brief hesitation. "I guess we're surrendering to you."

"Hell, no, you're not. Why would you surrender to people who're on your side?" He pointed back down the berm, toward the battalions coming up behind him. "Your old unit is on its way. They fought good just now. When they get here, you fall in with them."

"A second chance? You're giving us a second chance?"

"I'd give the devil himself a second chance if I thought I could make a good soldier out of him. But don't plan on asking me for a third chance." I'm spending too much time here. Got to get moving. "Come on," Stark ordered his own soldiers as more came over the crest of the berm. "Second Battalion, follow me to the south flank. Third Battalion, I want you to head for Sergeant Milheim's position and go where he needs you. First and Fifth Battalion commanders, as soon as you're over the ridge head your unit for whatever point you think you're needed at. Fifth Battalion, you've got some of your people waiting for you up here."

His Tac scanned the surroundings, trying to build a picture of the base to guide his progress. Unlike the almost entirely underground Colony, the Mixing Bowl base contained many low buildings, rock piled over them to provide protection from other rocks falling to the surface. "Can you see this, Vic? There's a lot of surface structures in here."

"I see. They probably did that to reduce the amount of excavation necessary during construction. This base is surely planned to be a temporary facility."

"I bet you're right. I got a feeling it's gonna be a lot more temporary than they planned on." Stark ran, annoyed as he realized his old squad had formed up around him as a moving human shield. Just a big target. But I can't order 'em away. Scattered groups of soldiers came into view, Second Division soldiers milling around uncertainly. "Follow me, you apes." The other soldiers were swept up by Stark's force, then the low buildings all around were falling away and combat was suddenly right before them.

The enemy forces coming into the Mixing Bowl from the south rim had apparently rolled over any attempts to form a defensive line and were in the process of rushing forward triumphantly when Stark's battalion came out from among the buildings and hit them in the flank. The enemy assault collapsed like a house of cards hit by a basketball, their soldiers unprepared to form any organized defense themselves. Stark swept through them, leaving the prisoners to be secured by following forces, keeping the pressure on as most of the enemy soldiers ran toward another enemy force advancing a kilometer downrange. The panicked soldiers burst into the formations of the other force, disrupting the enemy effort to turn and confront Stark's counterattack.

"Hit 'em!" Stark kneeled, aiming and firing carefully at the confused mass of enemy soldiers. From all around him, accurate fire lashed at the enemy. More of them started running, breaking away from attempts to organize a response to the unexpected assault.

A small force of American soldiers rose from their position around a wrecked bulldozer, catching the enemy forces in a cross fire. Resistance broke, the enemy forces openly fleeing as fast as they could back toward the south rim of the valley. That should buy us a few minutes. Stark gasped for breath, winded from the long stretch of exertion. As far as he could figure, he'd been essentially running for several klicks. Even on the moon, that kind of exercise added up, especially after a day already spent in combat. "Second Battalion, keep after them. Try to run them over the rim so you can set up a line there. Don't follow them over the rim."

He approached the small force around the bulldozer, waving in greeting. "Hi. Nice day for a war, ain't it?"

"Nice as any." One of the soldiers stood forth. "Sergeant Pericles here."

"Pericles?" Stark nodded, trying to remember where he'd heard the name before. "I'm Stark."

"Didn't think I'd say this, but I'm damned glad to see you."

Another soldier came up to them. "Lieutenant Fox. I'm in command here." The lieutenant's voice was slightly shaky, which wasn't anything unusual in someone who'd just been engaged in what had looked like a hopeless battle.

Stark glanced at Pericles, who made the small gesture used to provide shorthand descriptions of officers. He's okay, huh? "Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant—"

"Sergeant Stark, I'm afraid I must place you under arrest."

Stark couldn't keep his eyebrows from raising, an expression fortunately invisible behind his face shield. His guardian platoon leaned forward, their hostile attitudes clear. Before Stark could answer the officer, Sergeant Pericles stepped in. "Lieutenant, this ain't a very good time for that." As if to underline his words, armor alert systems sounded warnings as HUDs tracked incoming artillery. "I guess our 'allies' have decided the surprise is over and it's time to get real nasty. We all better go to ground."

Stark shook his head, his body already in motion again. "I've got to link up with my forces on the north flank. I got a battle to run. Lieutenant Fox, Sergeant Pericles, I'd appreciate you lending my Second Battalion a hand, especially if they have to coordinate action with your people." Any response from either soldier was drowned out by a brief burst of static. Jamming? That strong and that effective? Got to be the work of official forces. Somebody's not with the program yet. "Can anyone pinpoint the source of that jamming? I want it off the line, now."

"It's off line," an unfamiliar voice responded. "We killed the transmitter power. Sergeant Stark, things are real bad up here on the north side."

"You with Milheim?"

"Uh, I dunno. Everybody's sorta intermingled. I. . . hey, here comes a whole bunch of new guys."

Stark cursed under his breath. "Are they friendly or enemy, soldier?"

"Friendly! Sorry, Sarge. Scan says they're from, uh, First Battalion?"

"That's my people. Can you link me to your scan?"

"Affirmative, Sergeant. Here ya go."

Stark paused, resting again, while artillery thumped into the rock behind them, studying the picture he could piece together from the fragments of scan he was picking up. The northern flank was a mess of intermingled forces, in some places advancing against the attackers and in some places falling back. At a dozen places, smoldering wrecks marked what had been the enemy armored support. Either Milheim's anti-armor teams or the weapons on the armed shuttles had blunted that portion of the attack. On the left side of the flank, fresh forces were pushing in and shoving the enemy into stubborn retreat.

The south flank looked better, at least temporarily. Second Battalion, augmented by growing numbers of Second Division troops, had been able to chase the fleeing enemy most of the way back to the valley's rim, but fresh attackers had apparently stopped the counterattack short of the rim.

"Vic? Can you copy?"

"Barely. There's serious jamming from the enemy forces to either side of you. What kind of picture have you got over there?"

"It's a mess. Can you copy my scan?"

"Uh, wait one. Yeah. Wow. What a goat-rope of a battle."

"Tell me about it. Can you tell if anything else is moving up to hit the flanks?"

Instead of replying directly, Vic linked him to the command center scan again. Reinforcements were clearly moving up, in large numbers. Stark whistled involuntarily. "We can't hold here, Vic. The position's a death trap."

"Agree. I guess that's why the official force got offered it."

"I gotta find the headquarters here and coordinate a retreat. You get some APCs across to the foot of the berm to help move people." He switched circuits, calling on the general tactical frequency. "Anybody from Second Division know where your commanders are? I gotta talk to them. Fast."

"Stark?" Rash Paratnam somehow radiated anger through the comm circuit. "Stark, you're crazy. No, you're stupid. What the hell are you doing in the middle of this?"

"Trying to save your stubborn butt."

"What do want with our commanders?"

"I need to coordinate a retreat, Rash. We can't hold this position."

He could feel Rash's uncertainty, now, and the agony of contemplating retreat under fire. "Okay. Here's a dump of the base map. I'll meet you at the main entrance."

"Thanks." Stark was off at a run again, Gomez's platoon following, their weapons restlessly probing every area they passed for threats. Stark wove through a maze of small buildings, coming finally to a low, wide structure with heavy lunar rock berms on each side and a single armored figure waiting near the entrance. "Rash?"

"Yeah. Ill-met in the Mixing Bowl, huh? Come on." Rash led the way inside, past pale-faced sentries with confused expressions fingering their weapons. "In here. Our command center."

Stark strode in, wondering at the image he presented in battle-scarred armor, rifle in his hands, a platoon of mean-looking soldiers at his back. Several officers in battle armor were gathered at the main display, their postures proclaiming various states of bewilderment. "Sergeant Stark here."

"How'd you get past the sentries?" One figure off to the side gestured violently. "Surrender yourself—"

"Shut up, Kalnick. I don't have any time for your crap today." Stark scanned the others. "Who's in command?"

A moment's silence, then one of the figures raised one hand and waved it around the group. "That's what we're trying to decide."

"Excuse me? I hate to push things, but we've got a real mess out there," Stark made his own gesture toward the picture shown on the main display nearby, "and we cannot hold this position."

"Sergeant Stark, with the additional forces you've brought—"

"No. Sir. I'm sorry. You can't see it from here, but from the other side we can tell there's a whole lot more enemy forces moving up. This place is nicknamed the Mixing Bowl because once an enemy occupies the rims he can scramble anyone crazy enough to try to maintain a position here. We learned that the hard way years ago."

"I see. Thank you for your assessment, Sergeant. I am Major Kutusov."

"Major? You're the senior officer here?"

"One of the senior ones left. You probably didn't notice several shuttles blast out of here a short time ago." Kutusov didn't try to conceal her bitterness. "Our commanding general pulled a Mac Arthur on us. He decided the situation was hopeless so he told us to fight valiantly as long as possible, while he ran for safety. Those shuttles that lifted out of here held him and most of the rest of our highest ranking officers."

Stark shook his head. "So now the senior officers are just throwing their young to the wolves. Does anybody here doubt that we're all on the same side?"

"He's lying! Don't—"

Kutusov turned her head slightly. "Shut up, Sergeant Kalnick. So far your advice hasn't proven very valuable. What are you suggesting, Sergeant Stark?"

"A truce. Between us. We're on the same side here, and we're gonna need every soldier we've got to get our forces out of here in one piece."

"Sergeant, I don't—"

Major Kutusov was interrupted by another officer running into command center. "Lieutenant Colonel Hayes, Sergeant. I'm senior. Thank you, Major."

"Colonel, I was just trying to convince the major—"

"I know. Save it, Sergeant. I've been out there, and it looks really ugly. You know the Moon and this particular position. What are our chances of holding here?"

Stark smiled at the lieutenant colonel's brusque, no-nonsense manner, as well as the knowledge that he'd been trying to organize a defense while others fled. "Chances are slim to none, sir."

"What's your alternative, Sergeant? We don't exactly have any place to go."

"Get out of here. Evacuate everything you've got inside the Colony's defensive perimeter. We'll cover you."

"There's two problems with that, Sergeant. One, we can't get everything out. Not in any reasonable length of time. There aren't enough shuttles and heavy lifters."

"Fine. Then we blow whatever we have to leave. I assume you've got a lot of ammo stockpiled?"

"We do, though I doubt that course of action will be looked upon favorably by the next promotion board. The second problem is more basic, Sergeant. I cannot in good conscience surrender this force to you."

"I understand, sir. I won't ask you to do that. Withdraw everything you can inside our perimeter, and we'll give you and your forces direct passage to the spaceport. You can go home with all your weapons."

"Why would you do that, Sergeant Stark?" Stark, feeling the surprise and suspicion his statement generated, spoke quickly but respectfully. "Because we're on the same side, or we ought to be. We know what's going on back home, how they stripped bodies out of the other two brigades in Second Division to bring your brigade up to strength. That leaves too damn little to defend America. They need you back there."

"That's it? You're willing to risk your forces to save us, then let us inside your perimeter, with all our weapons, for the good of the country?"

"Uh, yessir, that pretty much sums it up." Stark checked his scan once again. "We don't have much time, Colonel." The officers huddled, debating urgently among themselves.

"Ethan? Am I getting through?"

"Vic? Yeah. I guess somebody finally linked the relays."

"What in hell is going on? I'm trying to get more units activated and over there, but it's taking time."

"We don't have the time, and we don't want to hold here, Vic. I'm talking to the acting commander right now . . . wait a minute. Yes, Colonel Hayes?"

"I'll probably get to share your firing squad, Sergeant, but we're taking your offer. I'd welcome your suggestions on how to carry out this operation."

"Vic? It's a go. We're all pulling back into the perimeter. I'll need somebody screening our flanks as we retreat through the dead zone."

"Roger. Are you going to sort out forces there or wait until you get back here?"

"We ain't got time here."

Stark turned back to the colonel just as another officer rushed off. "Our senior combat engineer," Lieutenant Colonel Hayes explained. "He's going to see how much he can destroy with a lot of ammo and very little time. I've already ordered all noncombat personnel to head for the berm with everything they can carry."

"Good. There'll be APCs waiting at the bottom of the berm. You can load those people on them. Any of those damn Jabberwocks left?"

"You mean the autonomous robotic combatants? No. Every one we had went in on that last attack. I take it you didn't save any, either."

"No, sir. Though there's probably enough pieces lying around to slap together a few, not that we're so inclined." Stark faced the main headquarters display. "Vic, have you got the map for this place yet?"

"Yep. This is going to be hard, Ethan." Reynolds began sketching out a withdrawal plan, speaking hurriedly as Stark shunted her words over to the rest of the Mixing Bowl base command center. "That's the best I can offer off the top of my head."

"Colonel?" Stark indicated the plan now visible on the display. "That okay with you?"

"Yes, Sergeant. I hate doing it, but I can't see any holes in the plan. Let's do it."

Stark trotted out of the command center, his escorting platoon and Rash Paratnam still in attendance. "Listen up, everybody. All soldiers in all units inside this valley. Copy my Tac." Bright lines glowed across the map of the base on the tactical display, lines crafted to take advantage of what defensive shelter existed. "Everyone west of Line Whiskey take up blocking positions. You will hold until I say so. Everyone east of Line Whiskey begin falling back in good order. Pass through Line Whiskey and keep going until you reach Line X-Ray. Sergeant Milheim."

"Here."

"You've been beat to hell, but I want you to cover getting as many wounded onto those shuttles that brought you in as you can. As soon as they lift, pull back fast."

"I understand." Milheim sounded exhausted but determined. "Will do."

"Chief Melendez."

"Aye."

"Chief, you've done one helluva job, but your shuttles will be sitting ducks without infantry cover. I want you in the air along with the shuttles carrying the wounded."

"Ain't no air up here, mud crawler, but I copy. Aye, aye."

"Ain't no mud, either." Stark shifted circuits, catching Lieutenant Colonel Hayes confirming the fallback orders to his units. "Rash, I expect you've got a unit that needs you."

"I do. I'll see you inside the perimeter, you big ape."

"Look who's talkin'." Stark checked his scan again, watching the enemy beginning to tentatively follow the American withdrawal, no doubt fearing a trick. As he watched, first one, then another shuttle blasted away from its position near the north flank, followed by the rest of the cargo shuttles and Chief Melendez's armed shuttles. Other shuttles shot up from the Mixing Bowl landing field, following Stark's shuttles toward the Colony with cargoes of whatever personnel and materiel could be crammed into them on short notice.

Despite the size of the valley, a large number of soldiers were inside the Mixing Bowl now, their numbers concentrating toward the east end where the berm sat. "Sergeant Stark."

"Yes, Colonel."

"I've got equipment that won't get down that berm face, and I really hate to leave it. What happens if we drop it in this gravity?"

"If it has enough mass, it still gets messed up at the bottom, but I guess that's . . . oh, heck, where's my brain? Use the tunnels."

"The tunnels? Of course. How could I have forgotten? Those tunnels we excavated to allow covered egress for the autonomous robotic combatants are plenty big enough to handle all but our largest lifters. I'll send the equipment and as many of my people as I can out through those."

Stark checked the scan again, scowling as he saw enemy forces pressing close upon the withdrawing Americans. With their units hopelessly intermingled, the Americans were having trouble maintaining a coordinated fire and fallback operation. "On my command, everybody east of Line Whiskey stop withdrawal, face front, and fire like hell. I want to get those attackers to back off. Standby . . . fire."

Stark was moving again, watching scan with one eye and the terrain before him with the other. He saw threat symbology suddenly surge from the Americans as they unleashed a concentrated barrage, and saw the pursuing enemy recoil in response. "Okay. Fall back again." Units were passing through Line Whiskey now, moving more rapidly once the troops in the defensive line could cover them. The enemy forces, closing in again, once more got stung by a burst of fire as they hit Line Whiskey.

Stark came through Line Whiskey himself, finding he was near the Mixing Bowl command center once again. Soldiers were coming out of the building, some ready for combat and some hauling vital equipment. He wondered for just a moment if Sergeant Kalnick was retreating as well or had decided being captured was preferable to owing his freedom to Ethan Stark. The thought vanished as more artillery came in, impacting all around, many of the blasts confined by surrounding buildings. Stark and his accompanying platoon headed west, instinctively hunching over as they ran, as if it were rain falling around them instead of high-explosives and shrapnel. More shuttles rocketed past overhead, followed closely by a warning over the command circuit. "We're about to blow everything around the landing field."

Stark checked his position, finding himself still entirely too close to that area. "Let's go, people." Line X-Ray was solidifying into a jumbled but strong defensive barrier. "Everybody on Line Whiskey start falling back. Pass through Line X-Ray and take up defensive positions on Line Yankee. Milheim, how're you doing?"

"Clearing Line Whiskey."

Stark, checking scan as he talked, exhaled in relief as he saw the battered but steady soldiers of Fourth Battalion falling back. From Milheim's voice, and the number of casualty markers glowing among his force, the unit had been severely stressed. "Okay, Milheim. Keep going. Take your people all the way back across the dead zone. You've done enough today."

"If we're needed—"

"If you're needed I'll call on you. Just get back inside the perimeter."

Milheim had trouble hiding his relief. "On our way." Stark found himself and his escort mixing in with other units falling back. As the scattered portions of Second Division's Brigade Combat Team gathered into the defensive lines their numbers became more apparent. At some point, their numbers would exceed those of Stark's remaining battalions. Don't worry about it. If they're gonna double-cross me, they will. It's too late to second-guess things now.

"Fire in the hole!" The dead lunar surface suddenly rippled like a thing alive as shockwaves ripped through it. Scan highlighted debris flying high into space, as multiple detonations tore through the stockpiled ammunition near the landing field.

Stark wondered briefly how many of the attacking enemy forces might have been caught in the blasts, then mentally shrugged. At the very least, that blowup will take some pressure off our withdrawal. Indeed, the enemy forces bearing down on them had slacked off, concerned by the fury of the destruction at the landing field.

It didn't last, of course. Enemy commanders, apparently sensing their prey were escaping through an unexpected exit, appeared to be driving their soldiers hard. The withdrawal from Line X-Ray proved to be hard fought, with exchanges of fire at nearly every step.

Stark and his escort, pausing while Stark tried to puzzle out the situation on his scan, came under fire. He dropped, rolling to bring his rifle to bear as the platoon laid down deadly fire on the attackers. Aiming points glowed brightly on armored figures pressing ahead. Aim. Squeeze. Fire. Aim. Squeeze. Fire. The attackers fell back, leaving several of their number dead. "Come on, you apes, let's get out of here."

They moved fast, merging once again with the crowd of retreating forces. Line Yankee loomed suddenly, an invisible line on the map made concrete by clusters of soldiers forming interlinked zones of fire. "The enemy's right behind us," Stark advised.

More detonations added to the chaos as the combat engineers destroyed all the equipment and ammunition stockpiles they could. A fine rain of Moon dust kicked up by all the explosions drifted slowly, dreamily down around the masses of retreating soldiers, punctured by the path of bullets pursuing them and artillery shells dropping to the rocky surface. The ever-dark lunar sky seemed even blacker, with the dust screening out most of the stars overhead. Stark heard a deadpan chuckle close at hand, turning to see Sergeant Sanchez. "What's so funny?"

"I was thinking of Napoleon's retreat from Moscow." From Sanchez's bland tone, he might have been explaining the joke in a rec room back at headquarters. "I studied it recently. This is our version of snow. It seemed amusing."

"I'm in hysterics, Sanch. How's your Battalion holdin' up?"

"Like all the other forces, it is mixed in with so many other units I cannot sort out the status of my soldiers. But I have seen no indications that morale is breaking."

"Me, neither. Thanks for the escort, by the way."

"Stark, if I had tried to assign Corporal Gomez to any other duty, I would have had my own mutiny to deal with. I will see you inside the perimeter."

"You got it, Sanch." Line Yankee held just long enough for Line Zebra to begin forming, then started falling back. Stark moved through a mass of soldiers and equipment, all slogging steadily toward the berm at the entrance to the Mixing Bowl, the debris of battle now thick enough to begin fogging sensors. A heavy-lifter stalled up ahead, its cursing driver bailing out and hurriedly rigging an explosive charge to the vehicle as the crowd of foot soldiers separated to pass around the barrier. Light glowed from several points behind the retreating soldiers as stockpiles of fuel burned, supplying their own oxygen to keep the blazes going.

Stark checked scan again, cursing as enemy jamming and the fallout of battle broke up his picture. "Lieutenant Colonel Hayes. I want to drop back to the berm."

"We're still getting people over and under it. Can you hold inside the valley a little longer?"

Stark measured the soldiers around him, standing up on a nearby piece of abandoned equipment to peer back as if he could gauge the enemy pressure better that way. "Sir, I don't want to. I don't think I can stop the withdrawal at this point. I will slow it as much as I can."

"I understand, Sergeant. I'll be waiting for you at the berm." Stark paused, surprised. I guess I figured he'd be already halfway across the dead zone to safety. Good on you, Colonel Hayes.

Acting Corporal Murphy was by Stark's side, one hand steadying him and the other urging him down. "Sarge, you're awful exposed standing up there."

"I gotta see what's goin' on, Murph."

"Uh, Sarge, what would you tell one of us if we were doing that?"

"I'd tell you that you were ten kinds of idiot and to get your head down." He surrendered to Murphy's urging, dropping back into the mass of retreating soldiers. "Since you're thinking so good, do you have any ideas on how to hold off the enemy a little longer?"

"Gee, Sarge, didn't you always tell us to make sure we were using everything we had to pound the enemy with?"

I'll be damned. He did listen to me when I lectured the squad. "That's right. Vic, can you copy?"

"Your signal's weak and broken, but I hear you."

"Good. I need artillery."

"You're inside the enemy perimeter, Ethan. They'll knock the shells down before they get to you."

"That's what I was thinking, too, because I forgot they pulled their defenses out of this area when the official American force moved in."

Stark thought he could hear Vic's hand slapping her forehead.

"Yes. Of course. Somebody loan me a brain. Where do you want the artillery?"

"As close behind us as you can manage. I want to discourage the pursuit a little."

"On its way."

It took a few minutes, nonetheless, until Stark's sensors spotted the incoming shells and his HUD cried an alert. Heavy shells began impacting not far behind the mass of Americans, the shock of their detonations dimly transmitting the fury of the explosions through the soles of armored boots. Stark paused again, trying to assess the results of the artillery screening fire, but gave up as the friendly artillery tossed further junk upward to cloud scan and sensors. "All soldiers on Line Zebra, begin withdrawal to the berm." He switched to speak only to his accompanying platoon. "Let's head for the berm, too, people. Murphy, you just made permanent corporal."

Breaking out of the buildings of the base should have been a relief, but the soldiers and equipment all around maintained the feeling of claustrophobia. Soldiers were jumping down from the berm, braking their progress by grabbing rocks as they dropped. Some, obviously Second Division troops new to the Moon, had tried dropping the whole way, discovering at the bottom that even one-sixth g could add too much velocity to a falling armored body.

"Vic, we need ambulances."

"They're shuttling back and forth, Ethan, along with the APCs. Is there any organization at all intact over there?"

"I've got Gomez's platoon with me in one piece. That's probably it."

"That's what I feared. I've brought up two more battalions and placed Sergeant Shwartz from Second Brigade in charge of the covering force. She's moving those two battalions out into the dead zone to provide cover. Just tell everybody over there with you to get over here as fast as they can."

"Sounds like a plan." Stark triggered the command circuit. "Lieutenant Colonel Hayes."

"Yes, Sergeant."

"I don't know exactly where you are, sir. Scan's being seriously degraded. The situation's a mess. My second in command recommends we hightail it inside the Colony perimeter."

"What if the enemy pursues us?" It was a nightmare scenario, fleeing troops intermingled with enemy forces, so that defenders on the Colony's perimeter wouldn't be able to stop the enemy without firing on their own soldiers.

"Our artillery slowed them a bit, and I'm having two fresh battalions sent out into the dead zone to cover the withdrawal. Colonel, sir, I hate to be pushy, but—"

"Sergeant Stark, from all I've heard you've always been pushy. And usually right. Give the order. I'll accompany the rear guard off the berm."

"Yessir. All personnel inside the Mixing Bowl. Get your tails across the dead zone and inside the perimeter. On the double. Anybody who leaves their weapon behind will get to come back here and retrieve it."

The traffic over the berm doubled, then redoubled. Shots began falling along the berm as enemy forces braved the artillery to close in. Stark and his escort traded shots with pursuers as they fell back, threat alerts and detections appearing and disappearing like ghosts in the dust-shrouded valley. I don't want to climb this side of that berm with people shooting at me, even with the dust messing up visibility. But I guess. . . who's that?

An armored figure gestured urgently near the base of the berm. "You guys the last down here?" she demanded. "As near as I can tell."

"Then get through this tunnel." The combat engineer swung one arm to indicate a patch of deeper black among shadows. "And make it snappy. I'll be right on your heels, and I'm blowing it as soon as we're clear."

Stark finally noticed the gapping entrance, hesitating for only a fraction of a second before hurling himself inside. "Stay with me, people!" Even though Stark figured he'd need explosives himself to pry the platoon away from him, he didn't want to risk anyone losing contact at this point.

The tunnel was totally black inside. Which made sense, as the Jabberwocks wouldn't have needed lights. His armor automatically activated the IR sight and a light of matching frequency, revealing rough walls on either hand leading onward into more blackness. Comms stuttered and broke as relays failed or were destroyed inside the Mixing Bowl. Scan shut down, showing nothing but the area right around Stark, the platoon's soldiers, and the combat engineer urging them onward. The silence, the isolation, would have been eerie under any circumstances, but after the prolonged pandemonium of battle and fighting withdrawal it was almost frightening.

It seemed to take forever, but abruptly the tunnel curved upward, star-spangled black sky standing out against the dead black of the tunnel walls. Then Stark was standing on the surface, comms and scan active once more, soldiers streaming by enroute to the Colony perimeter.

"Ethan!"

"Here. Damn, Vic, you don't have to yell."

"Where were you? We lost you completely."

"I took a tunnel out. I don't recommend the trip, but it did the job." Stark paused as the combat engineer triggered her charges. A moment later, a long narrow stretch of lunar rock leading away from the foot of the berm bowed upward, then collapsed into a trench as it filled the tunnel. The engineer gave Stark a thumbs-up before trotting off toward the perimeter. "I'm coming in now."

"Thank God. Watch out for the enemy artillery. I've got mobile defense units in place but they can't stop everything."

A huge beetle shape surged silently past Stark, then came to a halt, its weapons facing toward the berm. "Hey, Commander Stark, mind if I join the party again?"

"Be my guest, Sergeant Lamont." The pursuing enemy couldn't bring armor over the berm, and their anti-armor teams had to have been as scattered by their pursuit as Stark's forces had been by their withdrawal. The mobile fort the tank represented would be a nasty surprise to anyone following the retreating infantry too enthusiastically. "Don't stay out here too long, though."

"Not to worry. I'll get my hogs back. There's a whole bunch of fresh infantry screening us."

"Good." Stark began walking, suddenly feeling too weary to run any more, despite the enemy artillery shells that sometimes made it through the defensive umbrella Vic had improvised over this area. Soldiers and equipment came along with Stark, no one running, just plodding steadily onward. On the flanks, enemy forces along their own front line fired on the retreating forces as well, but since they stayed close to the middle of the area between the Mixing Bowl and the perimeter, few hits were scored.

Behind, scan reported firing as enemy forces tried to occupy the top of the berm. Lamont's tanks and the fresh battalion peppered the berm with fire, driving them back repeatedly, then as the stream of withdrawing forces slackened into a small trickle, the armor and the infantry began slowly backing away, taking care to blast away at anything showing itself above the top of the berm.

Stark kept walking, finally noting with dull surprise that he'd reached the perimeter, scan displaying the comforting symbols of once-again occupied bunkers standing guard along the front. He kept walking a little longer, down a long slope until he reached near the bottom, then stopped and watched visually and on scan as soldiers kept coming. He watched until the last of the withdrawing forces had passed, and Lamont's tanks and fresh infantry retrograded inside the perimeter, then breathed a silent prayer of thanks. "Vic, you'll need to provide some marshaling areas for the Second Division people to sort out their units."

"Sergeant Manley is setting them up, now. What kind of security should be posted in those areas?"

"No security. Just escorts to help the Second Division guys find their way around. Okay?"

"Okay. I was going to say, we couldn't post enough guards to prevent those official forces from doing something if they really wanted to. We have to trust them."

"Yeah. Thanks, Vic." Stark switched circuits again, finding the simple task unaccountably difficult due to his weariness. "Corporal Gomez, get the platoon home. Thanks, you apes. It's been real."

"Maybe," Chen noted with a voice that cracked from fatigue.

"But it ain't been real fun."

"You gonna be okay, Sargento?"

"Sure thing, Anita. You apes done good. I'll see ya around."

"Gracias, Sargento. Vaya con Dios."

The platoon moved off, toward the rear, its duty done. Stark stood silent for a moment longer, savoring the security of the perimeter and the Colony's heavy defenses. "This has been one helluva day. Does anybody know where my APC is?"

 

About five hours later, fortified by generous quantities of caffeine and an hour-long catnap, he was at a conference room near the spaceport, saluting Lieutenant Colonel Hayes, who returned the gesture with ill-concealed surprise. "Sergeant, I thought you were a mutineer."

"I am. Technically. But not by choice. I render military courtesies when appropriate, sir." He indicated the others with him. "These are my senior staff. Sergeant Reynolds, Sergeant Manley, Sergeant Lamont, Sergeant Gordasa, Sergeant Yurivan, Chief Gunner's Mate Melendez."

"Yurivan?" Major Kutusov questioned. "There was a case study about a Yurivan in my military legal course."

Stacey Yurivan somehow managed to register astonishment. "Must've been somebody else, Major."

Colonel Hayes nodded to each soldier in turn. "Sergeant Reynolds. That was a fine withdrawal plan you came up with on the spur of the moment. Sergeant Lamont, we certainly appreciated your armor helping cover our withdrawal. And, of course, Sergeant Stark. Your handling of the defensive end of the withdrawal enabled us to concentrate on getting everybody out." He rubbed his neck, looking around ruefully. "I begin to understand how you've done so well defending yourselves. We kept getting told you were a mob led by opportunists. But you're an army being led by professionals. It's nice to see what such a force can do. Thank you again for getting us out of that trap."

"Speaking of getting out of the trap," Vic inquired, "have you heard from your commanding general?"

"Yes. He's on a Navy ship. He expressed his regret that the Pentagon ordered him to personally evacuate so that the enemy wouldn't score a propaganda coup by capturing him and his staff." Bev Manley coughed suddenly to cover up laughter. "The general is . . . surprised our force is intact and ready to evacuate. He's left that evacuation up to me. I've been in communication with the Navy ships maintaining the blockade. They'll be sending down shuttles to assist in evacuating my personnel and equipment as soon as they finish coordinating with your anti-orbital defenses. I'll be going up with our own shuttles in a few minutes."

"What about your wounded, sir?" Vic turned her palm unit to show the names listed on it. "We've got a fair number of Second Division personnel who shouldn't be subjected to the extra g's of a shuttle flight. If you insist on them being sent along with the others we can—"

"No. Thank you, Sergeant. Leave them in medical. I'll ask the Navy to have them evacuated when their medical conditions permit." He paused, looking distressed. "I'm going to be frank, Sergeant Stark. You've tempted the hell out of me."

"Sir?"

"I've got forces inside your perimeter, you've allowed them to retain their weapons, and they're once again organized. What would happen if I ordered them to seize control, Sergeant Stark?"

"I'd rather not speculate, sir."

"Me neither, Sergeant. That action might make me a hero. Technically. But I owe you all too much. All the soldiers from Second Division owe you."

"Thank you, sir. How come your general didn't order you to try to take us?"

"I probably forgot to mention to him that we retained our weapons. I'm sure he thinks we've been disarmed. In any event, I've no interest in repaying you in that fashion. Instead, I'll see what I can do on your behalf when I get home."

"Colonel Hayes, sir." Vic gestured upward. "You're likely to be in a lot of trouble when you get home."

"Oh, well." Hayes managed a small smile. "Thus ends my career in a burst of failed opportunities."

Lieutenant Conroy entered, saluting. "Colonel, Major, your shuttle is ready for loading. I'll escort you to the loading dock."

Lieutenant Colonel Hayes nodded, then glanced over at Stark. "Good-bye, Sergeant Stark. Perhaps we'll fight alongside each other again someday."

"I'd like that, Colonel. I didn't know anybody like you got promoted anymore."

"A few of us slip through the cracks, Sergeant." Lieutenant Colonel Hayes saluted again, the sergeants returning the gesture, then he and Major Kutusov left with Lieutenant Conroy.

"Looks like we did the right thing," Bev Manley announced.

"Yeah. Maybe we did." That night, for the first time in memory, no dreams of lost battles haunted Stark's sleep.

 

"You are one for grand gestures." Colony Manager Campbell was leaning back in his chair as Stark entered his office the day after the battle to save the Colony and the follow-on battle to save Second Division's Brigade. "It's all over the vid. Here and back home. How you broke the robotic combatants who were supposed to break you and then went on to save the official American force when their own alleged allies turned on them. Anyone who doubted your earlier promises not to attack the U.S. has to be convinced now. Are you interested in running for president, by any chance?"

"Hell, no. I'm a soldier. I don't get involved in politics."

"Too bad. You'd be a shoe in right now."

"I thought felons couldn't run for president. I'm charged with a lot of crimes."

"Convicted felons, Sergeant. You're still okay on that count." Campbell checked his display hopefully, then shrugged. "There still hasn't been any official reaction to what happened up here yet, but I'll let you know anything we find out."

"Same here."

The reaction, when it came, had Stark and Campbell calling each other simultaneously. "Did you hear?" Campbell asked first.

"I heard the Pentagon's ordered the disarming and confinement of every soldier from Second Division that we saved. They claim the soldiers are unreliable now."

"For their purposes, they may be right."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the government has declared a state of national emergency. In light of which, the national elections have been postponed indefinitely."

"What?" Stark felt his jaw literally drop at the news. "They can't do that. Can they?"

"No. They can't. Even during the American Civil War, national elections were held on schedule." Campbell sagged in his chair, suddenly looking worn out. "This is a naked power grab, Sergeant Stark. The people in power are afraid to relinquish it, and since they know they have zero chance of winning the elections, they're taking the only action which would protect them from having to relinquish power."

"They won't get away with it."

"Who's going to stop them, Sergeant?"

"I don't know. Yet. But I do know something I can do."

Campbell perked up, eyeing Stark. "What would that be?"

"The troops we saved up here have been disarmed, so they can't participate in the defense of the U.S. Some parties on Earth may figure this would be a good time to take the country out. I want everyone to know that if someone tries that, my troops will be there to stop them."

Campbell didn't hide his startlement. "You'd send some of your forces to help defend the country? Some of our forces?"

"Uh, yessir. I assume that wouldn't be a problem with the civil authorities in the Colony?"

"Speaking on their behalf, I can't imagine how we could turn you down. But how would you get soldiers back down there? They'd have to get through the blockade and past strategic defenses on Earth."

"I'd find a way."

"I'm sure you would." Campbell nodded. "Don't worry, Sergeant. We have a lot of ways of getting information down to Earth, ways which can't be blocked. I'll make sure what you just told me is known to every human on Earth within twenty-four hours."

"Thanks." Stark clenched his hands. "I wish we could do something about this election garbage, too, but we can't."

"No, you can't. But, Sergeant, there are people who can. We just have to encourage them."

 

A week later, the demonstrations in American cities had grown so huge that large segments of the cities were shut down. Stark and his staff watched vid from back home, marveling at the size of the crowds. "How long can this go on?" Sergeant Gordasa wondered.

"More to the point," Bev Manley asked, "what will the government do? They can't put the demonstrations down by force. They haven't got the force available. Besides, they couldn't justify that because the demonstrators aren't using force themselves, except for the fringe cases throwing rocks. Everybody else is just marching."

Vic nodded. "True. Stacey, do you have anything new about the situation back home?"

Yurivan smiled. "The economy's shutting down. How's that? Heard from your friend Jones again lately, Stark?"

"Not a word. Why?"

"Oh, just that the corporate bottom lines are getting nuked right now. It's all about profits, Stark, and I bet there's a lot of corporate boardrooms talking about how to get the country working again fast."

"Turning over the Colony here wouldn't help that," Manley objected.

"That's not what I'm talking about. Corporate loyalty is to the bottom line. If they have to jettison a few old friends, friends who happen to hold political office but are fast becoming major liabilities, they just might make an offer for our help. At the very least, they won't stand in the way of anybody who tries to toss those guys out of office the hard way."

Stark shook his head. "I haven't gotten any offers like that, and I won't take them if I do. None of our soldiers are going to Washington, D.C., to act against the government."

"But sending troops there might be the right thing," Vic suggested.

"Vic, we don't change governments at bayonet point. We never have, and I won't be the one to set a precedent. Period. This isn't a military issue."

Yurivan smiled again. "I understand we're planning on sending troops down to help defend the border, though. Have you worked out the movement plan for that?"

Stark glowered at her. "No, Stace. Hopefully we won't have to do it."

"Well, foreign militaries have staged a few exercises and provocations in the last couple of days, but they're being real careful. No one wants to be the first to find out if the American eagle has really had its wings clipped." Yurivan gazed upward as if contemplating the stars beyond the metal ceiling over them. "I do have some contacts in the strategic defense forces, Stark. They've let me know that if we do send people in to defend the country, the strategic defenses are likely to suffer some critical system failures if they're ordered to fire on us."

"Do tell. We'd still have to get through the blockade near the Moon, though, and survive the trip back to the World." Stark shifted his glower to the table surface, unable to sort through conflicting emotions. "I hate to say it, but I don't think there's anything else we can do right now. Nothing but wait on events. It's out of our hands."

"Whose hands is it in, then?"

"The ones who should've been deciding things all along. Stark pointed to the vid, where masses of demonstrators clogged the streets of a city. "Those people. They didn't vote better or often enough in the past, because they figured it didn't matter what they did. Now they want to vote, and I don't think they're gonna let anyone prevent them from doin' it."

Several hours later, Stark was roused from another quick nap by his comm unit. He'd been unable to sleep through the night the last few days and had to grab snatches of sleep whenever possible. "Stark here."

"Ethan, this is Vic. I need you in the command center, immediately."

"On my way." It took only seconds to straighten his appearance then Stark was out of his room. Vic stood waiting for him in the command center, her entire attitude uncertain. "What is it? An attack or something?"

"No " She turned to face the secure communications module, a small room off one side of the command center whose walls were lined with devices designed to ensure no human eavesdropper could hear conversations inside it, no matter how sophisticated the technology that eavesdropper might employ. For reasons lost in the mists of history, soldiers normally referred to it facetiously as the Cone of Silence. Reynolds nodded toward the module. "You have a call waiting in there."

"A call? The only people who have access to the gear needed to call into that room are official U.S. forces. It's for tight-beam, sealed communications, right? Are you saying the Pentagon's calling me?"

"No." Vic shook her head, then pointed to Sergeant Manley standing nearby. "You tell him, Bev."

Manley cleared her throat, then also indicated the module. "It's a Marine."

"A what?"

"A Marine," Manley repeated. "A United States Marine.

You've heard of them, right?" .

"Well, yeah." Many a late night vid had featured Marines. Stark had never forgotten one in particular, with an old star named John Wayne charging across beaches. "But I thought they were gone. Downsized out of existence a long time ago."

"Almost. The Marines are Naval infantry, and the Army brass never liked the idea of the Navy having infantry. So, when push came to shove at some point, it came down to the Navy choosing between paying for a space fleet or paying for the Marines. Guess what the Navy chose? The National Defense Reform and Readjustment Act basically put them out of business."

"If they were all that great, how come they got downsized so much?"

Manley shrugged. "From what I heard, the Marines were too focused on mission accomplishment. Getting the job done, you know? So while they were busy putting out little wars all over the place the leaders of the other armed services outmaneuvered them in the budget battles. The politicians only kept one company active. They're stationed in downtown Washington."

"D.C.? Why there?"

"Protection. Marine guards are special, so the Congress and the brass in the Pentagon kept a few to guard their precious little behinds. That's all there's been for some time, but they're still Marines. The one waiting to talk to you is a Sergeant Major Morrison."

"Sergeant Major?" Stark questioned. "The enlisted ranks were 'rationalized' a long time ago. All the different grades of sergeants were consolidated. How can this Marine be a Sergeant Major?"

Bev smiled. "Marines do things their own way, Ethan. It's one of the things that makes them Marines."

"What else makes them Marines?"

Manley took a moment to answer this time. "They're different. They look like grunts, but they're different. Don't forget that when you're talking to this guy. Marines aren't like soldiers. They're more like some sort of cult."

"So what's this cult been doing for the last few decades? Besides ignoring the rules about enlisted ranks, that is."

"Guarding D.C., like I said. Putting on ceremonies for the tourists and the Very Self-important Persons. You know the drill."

"Yeah. So these Marines are just show troops? Guys who know how to look pretty but can't fight?"

Manley shook her head. "I don't think so. I've met a few. They'd been kept in Washington, they'd never seen combat as a result of that, but they weren't show troops."

"Okay. Thanks for the info and the assessment. Guess I better see what this guy wants." Stark strode into the secure communications module, seating himself gingerly in a seat that would have been well-padded on Earth but was ridiculously overstaffed for lunar gravity. After studying the panel for a moment, Stark hit the control accepting the transmission.

A hard face stared back at him from the vid screen. Well-groomed, in an immaculate uniform, but something about him didn't strike Stark as being typical of show troops. Manley's right. Whatever the politicians have tried to do to these Marines, they've stayed professionals. At least the one I'm looking at has stayed a professional. "This is Sergeant Stark. I understand you want to talk with me."

A few seconds elapsed as the light-speed transmission made its way across the distance separating the Earth from the Moon. Then the hard-faced Marine shifted slightly, his eyes looking directly at where Stark's eyes had been a few seconds previous. "That's right. I'm a Marine, Stark. You probably never met one of us, so I'm going to tell you what that means. Our motto is Semper Fidelis. Always Faithful, it means. We've fought everywhere on Earth, and we've kicked butt in all those places. We're Marines. You can kill us, but you can't defeat us. Understand?"

"Yeah. I understand. That sounded like a threat."

A few more seconds. "What if it is?"

It felt odd, exchanging macho threat talk with someone who took seconds to reply. Maybe it's not that odd, after all, Stark reflected. There's been many a time in bars that both me and the guy I'm talking to have been so drunk we took a while to think up responses. He looked over the Marine's image again, taking in every aspect of Morrison's bearing. Yeah. He's real. So I'll treat him like a fellow soldier. "I'd take it seriously. The only place I want to fight Marines is in a bar."

"If you get into a bar brawl with us you better have the odds on your side, soldier. Heavily on your side. But you might end up fighting us for real, Stark, depending on what you do."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"The word is your troops are planning to come down here. That right?"

Stark pondered his reply for a moment, trying to guess at the Marine's motivations. "What if it is?"

"We're here to defend the country, Stark. The Constitution. We won't sit back and let anyone take over. Anyone."

"I won't discuss operational plans, but I will tell you there's only two reasons I'd send troops down there. The first is to help defend the borders of the U.S. If anybody tries to come over those borders, we'll help hold 'em."

Morrison nodded. "Fine. What's the other reason?"

"The Constitution. That's what you said. We took the oath to protect it, too. You know what's going on. The national state of emergency crap. The big demonstrations. If a bunch of civs decide to march on the Capitol and toss out some politicians who are trying to tear up the Constitution, then my soldiers will defend those civs from anyone trying to stop 'em."

Morrison's eyes narrowed, his face hard as granite now. "Spell it out. What exactly are you saying?"

"I'm saying if any military force tries to shoot at those civs then they're gonna find themselves facing my troops. Understand, Sherman? Any military force. We'll take you down if you start shooting the civs." It was mostly a bluff, Stark knew. He had no idea if his soldiers would fire on other Americans, even Americans defending the corrupt politicians trying to secure themselves in power. But he meant every word of it.

Instead of glaring, Morrison grinned. "You could try, Stark. What you just said, it's on the level?"

"You have my word on it. Soldier to soldier."

"Soldier to Marine, you mean. Listen, if you send a single soldier or a whole division down here to take over, to set yourself up in charge, we'll stop you or die trying. Clear?"

"Clear."

"But if you come down to help the civs, to protect them in the exercise of their Constitutional rights, then you won't run into opposition from the Marines. Marines don't shoot civs."

Stark paused, taken aback by the unexpected declaration. "I didn't ask that of you."

"You don't have to. We took the same oath you did. To protect the Constitution of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic.' And we'll be faithful to that oath. To the death, if need be." Morrison hesitated. "There has to be a reason we take an oath to the Constitution instead of to the government. Somebody must have figured something like this might happen someday."

"Yeah. There's a real good reason. Thanks, Morrison. If I ever run into you, I'll buy you a beer."

"As long as you're buying, I'll be drinking. Headquarters, United States Marine Corps, out." The image broke into a million fragments of jiggling colors as the secure link dissolved.

Stark walked slowly out of the communications module, only gradually becoming aware of Reynolds and Manley staring at him. Manley spoke first, indicated the module. "What'd the jar-head say?"

"Jarhead?"

"Yeah. That's slang for a Marine."

"Why? What the hell does 'jarhead' mean?"

"Hell if I know. Sounds like an insult, though, doesn't it? So, what'd he say?"

Stark looked around to ensure none of the watchstanders was listening. "He told me the Marines wouldn't fire on the civ demonstrators and wouldn't try to stop us if we came down to defend the civs."

Reynolds's eyebrows shot up. "The Marines are ready to take down their officers?"

"He didn't say that. No, he just said the Marines wouldn't do it. Like he was speaking for all of them."

"The highest ranking Marine is only a major," Manley noted. "We've heard a lot about junior officers being fed up with the system. Maybe . . ."

"Maybe," Stark agreed. "I've got a feeling things are gonna be happenin' soon back home. Keep your fingers crossed."

 

When the news arrived, it still came as a shock. Campbell appeared stunned, as if unable to accept the information he was passing to Stark. "It's over."

"What's over? What happened?"

"The government has, for want of a better word, fallen. A mass demonstration simply occupied the Capital and the White House, demanding elections be held as scheduled next week."

"And nobody stopped 'em?"

"No." Campbell shook his head as if dazed. "Apparently, there was an attempt to call some local military force in to turn the demonstrators back."

"The Marines."

"Yes. That's right. But they stayed in their, uh, barracks. So, it appears we will have elections after all."

"Who's running the country until then?"

"Some senior statesmen have been given the job. Men and women who are long retired and still well respected." Campbell smiled. "None of them wanted the job, Sergeant."

"Good. I'll have to send them a sympathy card."

 

Stark rubbed his face with both hands, trying to order his thoughts while his staff waited. "Okay. The elections have come and gone. The new government promises to make things right. Everybody's happy, except the people who've been running things for the past few decades. According to Campbell, there's a lot of folks heading for the hills. He says foreign countries will soon have a larger number of recently retired American politicians living in them than the U.S. will."

"That's their problem," Bev Manley noted. "What's happening with the mil?"

"Every officer above the rank of O5 has been retired. Effective immediately. Officers below that rank will be reviewed for competence. The government claims no political litmus tests will be used."

"I'll believe that when I see it."

"Yeah. But, maybe. . . Campbell said the same thing happened once before, sort of. Back when Jefferson was president and there were a lot of excess officers. Anyhow, here and now, everybody above O5 is gone." He looked over at Chief Melendez. "Man, that's hard to imagine. Navy captains are O6s, right? So there's no captains in the Navy now. Weird."

"Of course there's captains in the Navy," Chief Melendez insisted. "Commanding the ships. They just ain't captains."

"Huh?"

"Someone commanding a ship is the captain," Melendez explained. "But that don't make 'em a captain."

"They're captains but they're not captains?"

"Right. They're, like, commanders."

"Navy commanders are captains?" Vic questioned. "Then why are they called commanders?"

"Because they ain't captains! They're commanders who are also captains."

"Uh-huh."

Melendez frowned. "Look, it's like you ground apes. You got captains, right?"

"Right."

"But they ain't captains."

"Sure they're captains. That's why we call them captains."

"But they ain't captain captains!"

The soldiers exchanged glances. "Okay," Stark noted. "I guess that point's settled, then." Squids. "Here's the other news. Campbell says the new government wants to negotiate with everybody up here. I mean really negotiate. They're talking about adding another star to the flag."

"A new state?" Gordasa perked up. "They want to make the Colony a state?"

"That's what they're talking about."

"What about us?" Vic wondered.

"Campbell said he'd look out for us." Faces hardened with instinctive skepticism. "He promised. The negotiating team from the new government will be here in a week. We'll know for sure soon."

Manley reached backward, as if searching for something between her shoulder blades. "Hmmm. Looks like I forgot to wear my armor. I better get it, just in case somebody tries to stick a knife back there."

Stark didn't laugh even though the others did. "We stuck by the civs when they needed us. Now they're promising to stick by us. I've got a meeting with Campbell this afternoon. We'll see what he's got, then."

Campbell seemed subdued when Stark entered his office. "Please sit down, Sergeant."

"Thanks. Something's bothering you, isn't it?"

"Something certainly is." Campbell shifted as if his chair was uncomfortable. "I've been talking to the negotiating team from the new government, as you know. They've been asking some questions which only you can answer."

"It doesn't sound like they're great questions."

"They're not." Campbell tapped his display, bringing up some notes that Stark could only make out as blurred lines from his angle. "There's no way to ask this but bluntly, Sergeant. Crimes were committed up here, by you and by me. Depending on how our actions are interpreted, we could both be charged with rebellion."

"I've known that from the beginning, sir."

"Then how will you react if the government insists on trying you for your crimes?"

"You roll the dice, you pay the price, sir." Stark saw Campbell's surprise. "I know. We've fought real hard to defend ourselves up here, and I guess that sort of sounds like I'm surrendering. But it's all about fighting for an objective. Mine was to fix things and to save my people. As near as I can tell, things are fixed as well as they'll ever be, and as long as I know my people will be taken care of, I'm willing to accept responsibility."

"You don't need to think about this?"

"I've been thinking about it for a long time." Stark sat back, spreading his hands. "Sir, it's . . . oh, hell, the fact is I don't have any real choice. You understand that, don't you? If the government needs a fall guy, somebody to hang so everybody else gets off okay, I'll be that guy."

"Sergeant, you realize the word 'hang' may be literally true."

"Yeah. Don't think I haven't thought about that. But all those grunts trusted me. I've gotta live up to that."

"I see." Campbell pondered Stark's words for a moment. "What if the new government wants more, Sergeant Stark? What if they also want your staff? And anyone who took command positions?"

Stark stared back silently. What if they do? Hey, Vic, want to come along to my firing squad? She trusted me, too. All those guys who took command positions trusted me. A vision came to him, of sergeants like Reynolds, Manley, Milheim, and Lamont, walking with him up a long empty slope toward waiting machine guns. That's what it comes down to, doesn't it? Are we all willing to die for the troops? It's usually the other way around. The troops are supposed to be willing to die for you. But are we willing to die for them? "Yes."

"Yes?" Campbell questioned. "Yes, what?"

"Yes. If they want my whole staff, and they want all the people who took command positions, we'll go. Just trade that for amnesty for the troops."

Campbell seemed lost for words for a moment. "Are you certain you don't need to discuss this with them first? I mean, we're talking . . . well. . ."

"We're talking marching to our deaths. Yeah. I know. We can do that. As long as it means something, sir. As long as we know it means something."

"What if the government doesn't even offer that? What if it simply demands you accept lawful authority once again, with no promises about what will happen to any military personnel up here?"

Stark tried to conceal his distress. "Is that what they're talking about, sir? Is that what the government wants?"

"I don't know. They're clearly trying to determine what we want, what is necessary to end this situation."

"But they're coming to offer you colonists statehood, right? And they did get rid of most of the officers who've messed things up in the military lately?"

"Yes. That's all true."

"Then, sir . . . how can I say no? To anything? It's not my call. You give the orders. You do what's best for everyone. That's your job. My job is to do what those government representatives tell me to do. I'll spend my last breath asking them to treat my people right, but there's no reason left to justify mutiny."

"There's your own self-interest, Sergeant. Self-preservation."

"Hell, Mr. Campbell, if that mattered so much I wouldn't go out and get shot at on a frequent basis. Look, I did what I figured I had to do. I did it all the best I could. Now I've got to pay whatever price my actions demand. I know that."

"Speaking from the perspective of a colonist, and a person you've helped defend, I'd think your actions demand a reward, not a punishment."

"Thank you, sir. You do what you can for us. Get the best deal you can for the troops. But whatever comes out, we'll accept it."

"Are you sure, Sergeant? Are you sure all of those troops will follow you this time?"

Stark paused again, remembering the events that had brought them to this point. "I can't be certain right now, but I'm pretty sure. I'll talk to everybody. Make sure they know what we have to do, what's expected of them. We want to go back, Mr. Campbell. We're American soldiers, no matter what's happened."

"Then I will do whatever I can in the negotiations, Sergeant. Are you sure you don't want to participate directly in those negotiations?"

"That's not my department, Mr. Campbell. I don't want anybody thinking I'm using my firepower to influence what you decide. You do your job. I'll do mine."

Vic took Stark's news without any apparent surprise. "We always knew when the bill came due we'd be the ones paying it, Ethan."

"You think everybody else will feel the same?"

"Everybody I know. Well, Yurivan is a question mark, as usual, but she'll be certain of her own ability to cut a deal no matter what happens to the rest of us. It's the average grunt you've got to worry about."

"That's what I figured. I've got to talk to them, but there's not enough time for a face-to-face with everyone. I want you to set up something for tomorrow. A big room where I can talk to, oh, say one representative from each company in person. Everybody else will be linked in."

"You're going to give a speech, Ethan?"

"Yeah. And then I'm gonna answer questions. You got a better idea?"

"Nope. I'll set it up."

Stark spent a restless night composing his speech, running words through his head time and again in a futile effort to order them in just the right manner. He was still trying as he walked to the briefing room Vic had prepared, pausing just outside the entrance. Hey, this is the place where we got that briefing on synergy warfare. Never thought I'd be here again, like this. Well, I've been rolling with events long enough. It's time I took charge of myself.

Soldiers filled the room, corporals and privates sitting in the uncomfortable chairs that were standard issue on the Moon. Someone yelled "attention" and they all sprang to their feet, standing respectfully as Stark strode to the center of the stage.

"At ease, everybody. Seats." Stark stood for a moment, frowning, then shoved aside the podium and gestured down to the first row. "Pass me up a spare chair." Seating himself, he looked out across the audience.

"You all know what's been going down. You all know that reps from the new government are coming to settle this mess. And I know you're all wondering what that means for you and me. First off, I'll tell you straight: I don't know. Everybody's still talking. But I do know what we should do. We should take whatever's offered. The civ colony is gonna be part of the U.S. again, all legal and official. We should be, too."

"Look, you apes. We did something wrong. Mutiny. Bad word. Bad thing. We did it because doing anything else, or doing nothing at all, seemed to be even worse. That's how bad it had gotten. You remember. It wasn't just losing our friends, or losing one battle, or even losing a war. Everything was being lost. We didn't trust our officers, we didn't trust the civs or the government, we were watching people die for nothing and knowing inside that we'd be next and then everything that still mattered to us would be gone, too. So all we could trust was each other, and all we could do was try to stop things from getting worse. But was anybody happy about it? No. Because we knew it should've never come to that. We never should've had to choose between duty and honor, between bad and worse. It seemed the only way to save things was to make that choice, but it wasn't one we ever liked."

"But things have changed. We've worked with the civs up here. They've helped us, and stuck by us when they could've screwed us over. They're doing it now, I promise. Talkin' to the new government about how to fix things. You all know that new government got rid of an awful lot of officers, right? They're gonna screen the ones who are left, make sure they can do the job, make sure they stick to military stuff and stay out of politics. Regardless of what happens to me or any other senior noncom, the mil is gonna be better tomorrow."

"It's gonna be better if you guys stick with it. You know how it should work, now. Treat your people decent, focus on what's important, get the job done right. You can pass that down, and apply it yourselves when you become senior noncoms. And teach it to the new officers."

"I don't know what the new government's final offer is gonna be. I don't know if they'll let all you guys remain in the military. I told 'em you should, that you've done what you were told and done it well. But that mission's over and you got a new one, now. You know what it's like, when you've been on a really difficult campaign. It's hard, it's ugly, but at some point you realize you're over the crest and everything is downhill from there because you've done what you needed to do. Okay, that's here and now. The Colony is safe. The war up here's gonna end, they say, for at least a while. The rot that was tearing the mil apart is finally being ripped out. Most important, there's a new government, one that looks to be by, for, and of the people again. So there ain't no excuse for not following orders anymore. We're U.S. military. We don't mess with the Constitution. We defend it. Whatever the new government offers, we take it. That's our job. Any questions?"

A long silence descended, then a corporal stood. "Commander—"

"Sergeant. Let's keep it regulation from now on."

"Okay, Sarge. What happens to you?"

"I dunno. Probably something real serious. I started it, I ran with it, I commanded it. I already told 'em, if somebody has to pay, that's me." A low murmur came from the soldiers before him. "Responsibility, soldiers. That's the way it works. Don't do something if you're not prepared to live with it."

A private stood next. "Sergeant, are you saying we really might be able to be official again? Go back home and everything?"

"That's what I'm hoping for. I can't promise it, though. That's up to the government." Stark watched unhappy expressions settle onto the faces before him. "It's a legitimate government, people. They've got a right to tell us what to do, and we've got a duty to do what they say. I'm gonna do what they say, and anybody who thinks I'm gonna get a better deal than they are is welcome to swap places with me."

Another corporal. "Sergeant Stark, what if you're talking a prison sentence for all of us? It could happen."

"Yeah, it could. They'd have to build some more prison space, but they could do that. I don't think they will. We know they've let the Second Division people out and rearmed them, so the new government's not as stupid as the people they replaced. They know they need you. To keep defending this Colony. To help defend the country. But here's the catch; if you want them to trust us, we're gonna have to trust them. That means taking orders, whatever they are."

"What if they tell us to shoot you, Sergeant?"

"Then you do me the favor of making sure you hit clean. I don't want any lingering death scene. Understood?"

A second private. "What if we don't want to, Sergeant? We tossed out a bunch of idiots who were telling us to do something stupid. This sounds stupid, too. What if we don't want your deal?"

"Then head for the perimeter and offer your services to a country that wants that kind of soldier. Become a merc, fighting for a pay check. I don't care. We fight for our country, not ourselves. As long as I'm in charge, we'll take whatever's offered."

A third corporal stood. Anita Gomez, her face hard. "I ain't got no question, Sargento. I just want to say I've followed you for a long time, up close and personal, and I ain't never regretted doin' whatever you said was right. I'm gonna follow you now, too." She sat, leaving silence in her wake.

Finally, a fourth corporal came to his feet. "Sergeant Stark? When will we know what's gonna happen to us?"

"The representatives from the new government are arriving in three days. They've got a meeting scheduled already at 1400 Thursday. That's where we're supposed to get our marching orders."

"So I guess we all oughta have a beer Wednesday night, huh, Sarge? Just in case it's the last one for a long while?"

Stark grinned as the other soldiers laughed. "Sounds like a plan. Save one for me. I'll try to drop by."

"Sure, Sarge."

Vic waited for him off the stage, nodding at Stark as he left. "Good job, soldier."

"You think they're gonna do it?"

"I'm sure of it. They'd follow you to hell right now, Ethan Stark, trusting you to somehow beat the devil once they got there."

"Hah! How about you, Sergeant Reynolds? Would you follow me to hell?"

"Let me think about that. I am willing to follow you to the nearest bar, though."

"Let's get the rest of the staff together for that. Just in case we don't get another chance."

Thursday. 1400 in military time, or 2 p.m. as civilians measured it. The same conference room where a succession of government and military representatives had threatened the lunar soldiers and colonists numerous times. Now representatives of a new government, with new military guidance, were waiting inside. Stark and Reynolds came to a halt at the door, where Campbell and Sarafina awaited them. "Not a big group this time, huh?" Stark observed.

"This time the negotiating has been done in advance," Sarafina advised. "We only need to review the agreement."

Stark extended his hand. "It's been nice working with you, Mr. Campbell. You, too, Ms. Sarafina."

Campbell shook hands, his grip firm on Stark's. "That sounds like a farewell."

"It might be, sir. I figure there's real good odds I'll leave that room under guard."

"Sergeant, I don't know exactly what the new government will offer, but I've done my best for you."

Reynolds stepped forward. "You really don't know what their offer to us will be? Even now?"

"Sergeant Reynolds, I only know that they've asked a lot of questions and wanted to see a lot of records. They've listened to what I and the other representatives up here have said. But they've kept their cards very close to their chests."

A few moments later, Stark found himself sitting at the familiar conference table, looking across it at the representatives of the new government. He'd somehow expected them all to be young, full of fire and idealism, which had caused him some considerable concern. Young idealists tended to do really dumb things in the name of their ideals because they hadn't the experience in life to know better. But many of the representatives were middle-aged or older, seasoned veterans of their own campaigns. Down at one end of the table, Lieutenant Colonel Hayes sat along with a couple of junior officers whom Stark didn't recognize. Hayes nodded in silent greeting to Stark, his poker face not revealing any emotions. I guess here's where I find out if I did the right thing saving that guy's butt.

A civ woman stood carefully, wobbly in the unfamiliar gravity. "As a first point of order, we must be certain of the status of the military forces here. We are all too aware that nothing can be done if the military resists."

Stark stood, ramrod straight, and saluted. "The U.S. military forces assigned to the defense of the American Lunar Colony are ready to receive orders from the government's representatives and our superior officers."

"What exactly does that mean?"

Lieutenant Colonel Hayes spoke up. "I believe Sergeant Stark is telling us his forces are no longer in a state of mutiny. Is that correct, Sergeant?"

"That is correct, sir."

Instead of replying directly to Stark, the woman looked over at Campbell. "You are surrendering prior to reaching an agreement?"

"Not exactly," Campbell advised. "We still need to reach an agreement. But as I have advised you, Sergeant Stark has told me in no uncertain terms that he, as a soldier, cannot negotiate with the government. He feels he has to accept your orders."

"I see. Sergeant Stark, if this is the case, why did you fail to accept orders for so long?"

"Ma'am, things happened that nobody wanted to happen. If someone, anyone had been willing to just listen and think. . . well, it's a long story, but we've been trying to straighten this out ever since then. I accept full responsibility for all acts—"

"Yes, yes, I'm sure you do, from all I've heard," the civ woman interrupted. "It appears we may proceed, then. You may sit down, Sergeant. As our second issue, I am authorized to apologize on behalf of the government for past actions against you. You, Mr. Campbell, and the colonists you represent, and you, Sergeant Stark, and the soldiers you have led in the defense of this colony." She made a gesture, and one of the other representatives tapped in some commands on his display. "Here is our offer. Please take a moment to read it."

Stark glanced at Vic, then they both turned to their displays and began scanning the text. Stark read rapidly, skimming in search of key words and phrases. Amnesty for past actions by civil authorities. . . restoration of civil rights within the Colony. . . vote on statehood during the current session of Congress. Fine. Wonderful Where the hell's the part about my people? He read on, finally finding the subsection dealing with the military forces. Amnesty for all enlisted personnel for all acts committed during a period of civil unrest. . . reaffirmation of oaths of fealty to the Constitution. . . all acting officer assignments formalized and confirmed by appropriate promotion. Stark blinked, looking back over at Vic. "What about me?"

"It says 'all enlisted personnel,' Ethan."

"That can't include me."

"I don't believe it, either, but how about that bit about officer assignments being formalized?"

"I didn't think about that yet. Why? What do you think it means?"

Vic spoke so only Stark could hear, her voice hidden by murmurs from others at the table speaking to their neighbors. "It means, Ethan Stark, that I'll have to start calling you general."

"What?" Stark scanned the text, his eyes wide. "No. That's not possible."

"That's what it has to mean, Ethan. You will be formally appointed to command the division and promoted to the appropriate rank for that position."

"That's ridiculous! There's no way—"

"Is there a problem, Sergeant Stark?" Stark looked up to the see the civ woman eyeing him.

"Uh, ma'am, I was just attempting to determine the meaning of the document."

"Which specific portion?"

Vic spoke up as Stark hesitated again. "He's wondering what the phrase 'all enlisted' means."

"Exactly what it says."

"Ma'am, Sergeant Stark and I are also enlisted personnel."

"So I have been informed. Are you saying you don't want to be covered by the agreement?"

Reynolds stared at the woman. "Are you actually granting him amnesty? As well as the rest of us?"

"That is our intent."

"Then your offer is extremely generous, ma'am. Frankly, it surprises us. A great deal."

The woman smiled back. "I'm sure it does. I understand you've been told to expect the death penalty for your crimes."

A man near her nodded. "We reviewed your actions very carefully. Had you committed crimes against the United States or her citizens, you wouldn't be getting this offer. There have been deaths, on both sides. In one case, you executed a soldier for his role in an attack on you." Stark tried not to let his distress show at the words, a reference to Private Grant Stein's betrayal of them and his subsequent court-martial. "That particular case was of special concern, and even though we found you acted with every appropriate formality to ensure a legal outcome, we wish that had not occurred."

"Me too," Stark whispered too quietly for anyone else to hear. "But the documentation surrounding that court-martial was complete, indicating you were personally willing to accept responsibility for your actions and decisions."

"I still will," Stark declared, louder this time. "Nobody else has to be blamed or punished. It was my call."

The man shook his head. "In light of all that has happened, we must add that particular case in with all the other deaths and events which everyone wishes had never taken place. Otherwise, everyone believes you all acted always in the highest traditions of your service. I believe that's the appropriate phrase?"

"It will certainly do," Vic replied. "I must confess, at best we expected dismissal from the military. Yet this offer says you trust us to continue on active duty."

"Of course it does," the woman stated. "You had the ability to do anything you wanted, eventually, including what might have been a successful attack on the United States herself. Yet you have kept the Colony safe, you have followed the instructions of civil authorities in the Colony and your actions have been directed toward the protection of our country and our citizens. We are well aware that some of your number died heroically as part of that effort, such as the Wiseman and Gutierrez individuals and their crews who we see have been recognized in the new name of the Colony spaceport." The woman nodded toward Lieutenant Colonel Hayes. "And, of course, we cannot forget the risks you took to ensure the survival of forces which were here to attack you. Actions speak louder than words. If the last few decades of experience with national leaders have taught us anything, they've taught us that. Your actions, especially those on behalf of others, speak for themselves."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Don't thank me. You earned this amnesty, and the ranks you are being offered, by your actions. Had you acted differently, you'd be under arrest at this moment. But I believe if you'd acted differently our country would have faced a far worse crisis. The government owes you a debt as well as an apology, and it's about time we started acknowledging our debts."

Campbell smiled, his happiness at the outcome clear. "You're saying that while Sergeant Stark was winning the military war, he was also winning political battles? That's ironic. I've never met a less political individual."

The woman smiled back. "I assume that is meant as a compliment to Sergeant Stark. The politicians in this room will try not to take it adversely. But, you're correct. Sergeant Stark, by your actions you won another war, one you apparently didn't know you were fighting."

Stark nodded, his brain feeling numbed, but something nagged at it nonetheless. Something I didn't see. Oh, yeah. He checked the wording of the offer quickly. "Ma'am, there is a problem. This offer only talks about the enlisted personnel up here being given amnesty. We have some officers as well. A few combat troops, some chaplains, and some doctors. They stayed, too, by choice. They ought to be included in this."

"Sergeant Stark, we've familiarized ourselves with your military record." Stark tried not to wince in reaction to the words. "You do not appear to have had an overly high opinion of officers. Are you saying you would now refuse this offer in order to protect the interests of a few officers?"

"I can't refuse it, ma'am. I have to do what you say. But those officers are my officers. I look out for my people. I'm asking you to include them in the offer."

The woman glanced over at Lieutenant Colonel Hayes. "I see no reason to deny Sergeant Stark's proposed modification," Hayes stated. "The officers of whom he speaks have participated in the same actions which have motivated us to offer amnesty to the enlisted personnel."

"Very well." The woman looked around at her other companions, who all nodded in assent. "Our offer is amended to include the officers serving with your forces, Sergeant." She turned stern. "There will be no more amnesties from this date. Our country has come through a serious crisis. It needs to develop confidence in its leaders once again. And in its institutions. You do realize that henceforth you will be expected to follow orders from superior officers?"

Vic barely stifled a laugh, murmuring so low only Stark could hear. "He never has before. Why start now?"

Stark glared at Vic, then nodded to the civilian. "Yes, ma'am. Mr. Campbell can tell you I understand my place in the order of things."

"So he has already informed us. As I told you, that played a major role in our offer to you, Sergeant." She eyed Campbell in turn. "I suppose with the military under our control once more we wouldn't need to even offer you better conditions, would we? But being able to do something doesn't mean you should. Our offer stands. Is the civil segment of this rebellion also willing to accept it?"

Campbell looked over at Sarafina, then nodded. "Gladly. As representatives of the Colony, we are happy to accept."

"Then welcome back to the United States, all of you." Stark shook his head, drawing a surprised glance from the woman. "Ma'am, we never left. Not really."

The civilian woman seemed perplexed for a moment, then nodded. "It's strange. Americans have always feared their military to some extent. We've seen you as the greatest internal threat to our democracy. Instead, you turned out to be among its staunchest defenders."

"We could've told you that, ma'am, but at some point the military and the civilians stopped talking to each other."

"That will surely change. There will be no more televising of combat for entertainment purposes. You won't be dehumanized in that fashion any longer. When we gained control of the government we finally learned the extent of military personnel casualties in the last few years. It was a considerable shock. There is simply no way to rebuild our military forces without enlisting large numbers of citizens who did not grow up inside the military."

"Good." Stark grinned over at Vic, who looked as if she was suffering from a sudden attack of indigestion. "That'll cause some culture shock on both sides, but it'll be good for everyone."

More talk, more handshakes, then Stark was standing outside the conference room, a dazed look on his face. What the hell just happened? The troops are okay. That's what's important. He jerked himself back to alertness as he became aware of someone approaching him.

Stacey Yurivan stood before Stark, admiration plain on her face. "Reynolds broadcast the deal while you were still in there. Stark, I really underestimated you. What a plan! What a scheme! Raise total hell with everyone and everything and end up smelling like a rose. Someday I'm going to insist you show me how to work scams that well."

"Stace, it was never a plan. Never a scheme. It all just happened because it seemed like the right thing to do at the time."

"Sure. Right. Whatever you say. You, Stark, are King of Scams. I salute you, sir!" Yurivan's hand came up in a rigidly correct salute, which she held until Stark returned the gesture.

"Stace, get out of here."

"Yessir, yessir, three bags full."

"Congratulations, General Stark," Vic offered as well, rendering her own salute as she did so.

"Don't call me that."

"Sorry. Military etiquette, you know." She indicated the shoulder of his uniform. "You'll have to pull off those sergeant chevrons and put stars on instead."

"Don't wanna do it."

"Terrible things happen to people, Ethan. Some get shot, some get promoted to general. You were one of the unlucky ones."

"Can I still get shot, instead?"

"Not by me."

"Of course not." Stark grinned. "Colonel Reynolds."

"Excuse me?"

"You're second in command. That means you'll be at least a full eagle colonel." Reynolds frowned, obviously trying to think of a response. "Maybe now you'll treat me with more respect."

"In your dreams, soldier. What you need, Ethan Stark, is someone giving you constant reality checks!"

"Which is something you happen to be real good at. I never would've started this if I'd known—"

"Ethan, I went in there with you ready for both of us to walk out in chains. Maybe wanting to do right finally counted for something for once."

"And look at our reward."

"What? You still want a firing squad? Look, the troops have always known they could count on you. Now the government feels the same way. And it's not because you're handsome or smart or articulate—"

"Thanks."

"—it's because of what you did when you could do anything you wanted. Right? That's the measure of a person, Ethan. You done good. You saved us."

"I. . . guess I did. No. Anybody could've—"

"Yeah. Right. Tell it to Kate Stein next time you dream about Patterson's Knoll."

"It's a funny thing, Vic. I haven't been dreaming about that battle lately. It used to be every night. Every night."

"Maybe your subconscious is trying to tell you something. Oh, by the way, a friend of yours came up with the negotiators. Wrangled himself a position as an assistant." She pointed down the hall, to where a large sergeant stood. "Come on over, Sergeant Paratnam. Say hi to the general."

"Don't call me that," Stark repeated, then smiled at his friend. "Rash. Long time, no see."

"Not that long. At least this time nobody's shooting at us." Rash grinned, reaching out to slap Stark on the shoulder. "Damn. Glad you're back on the same side."

"Me too."

"I got one question, though. You're gonna be in charge here now, right?"

"Of the mil, yeah. Hard to believe."

"That's putting it mildly. So, Stark, if you're the big boss, who the hell's orders do you disobey?"

"I still got Vic. I ignore her advice all the time."

Vic nodded in agreement. "Most of the time, anyway."

"So," Rash continued, looking from Stark to Reynolds, "you two gonna get married now, or what?"

"Married?" Vic apparently couldn't decide between amazement or laughter at the question. "Me and this goon? What've you been smoking, Rash? You seriously disoriented by the gravity? Got some bad air on your shuttle?"

"Nah," Rash protested. "I mean, it just seems right, you two together always."

"Always?" Vic questioned. "All the time? With Ethan Stark? I fail to see just what I've done in life that would merit that kind of punishment."

"Vic, you two were made for each other."

"If so, the Maker sure has an odd sense of humor." Vic shook her head. "See you around, Rash. I've got to make sure everybody's got the word that we're all official again. Take care of yourself, you big ape."

"Likewise." Paratnam watched her walk away, then turned to Stark. "Ethan, I will never understand that woman."

"That makes two of us."

"Can I still call you Ethan?"

"Call me anything else and I'll slug ya."

"Want a beer?"

"Sure. Rash, what the hell am I gonna do being a general?"

"Hmmm." Rash considered the question for a moment. "Maybe you could do somethin' so outrageous they'd have ta bust you back to sergeant."

"Really? Yeah. That might work. I could—"

He was interrupted by Vic's voice booming back down the corridor. "Don't even think about it, Ethan Stark!"

THE END

 

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