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PART TWO
Friction

"Breaking news, The United Nations, no less, has declared Sergeant Ethan Stark and his followers to be international outlaws." Stacey Yurivan grinned at the other members of Stark's staff as she tapped the display before her. "All member states are authorized to use force against us."

Sergeant Gordasa scratched the side of his head. "They can do that?"

"Apparently, especially if the U.S. of A. is leaning on everybody and promising them major goodies." Yurivan smirked at Stark, who sat, arms crossed, leaning back in his chair with a deliberately detached expression. "I guess your noble initiative of hanging our asses out so we can inspire the citizens back home with our idealism hasn't impressed the government."

"It's impressed them enough to bring about this step," Vic pointed out. "I can't imagine what kind of effort it took to get the UN to come down on us."

Yurivan smiled a little wider. "Established governments anywhere don't care much for revolutionaries, Reynolds. Especially revolutionaries with noble motives. That's just the thing to scare professional politicians."

"Good. That's the point. Anything that scares the system and attracts support for us from the little guys is a good thing."

"The problem with little guys is they don't have enough big guns. Speaking of which, as I just reported, we're now at war with every country on Earth. That must be some kind of record."

Bev Manley nodded agreement. "I for one am proud. And with Ethan Stark leading us, this might be just the beginning. We may yet encounter an alien species and end up at war with them, too."

Stark shook his head with feigned exasperation as his staff laughed. "With people like you working for me, any kind of disaster is possible. Now, if you apes are done with your stand-up routines, we got business." He glowered at the table's surface for a moment, his face settling into grim lines, before looking up again. "We've finally got some info on how the Pentagon plans on taking us down."

Manley cocked a questioning eyebrow. "They've figured out how to do that without enough trigger-pulling enlisted soldiers?" She glanced at Vic Reynolds for confirmation, but Vic shook her head to indicate lack of knowledge, then focused back on Stark.

"Yeah. They think they've figured that out."

Lamont shrugged. "Why the gloom? I thought they were hiring foreign mercs for that. We can take them. We have taken them. Just like that raid on the power plant. Easy."

"There wasn't a lot of 'easy' involved in stopping that raid. But, yeah, we've stopped everything they've thrown at us so far. I guess sometimes even the brass in the Pentagon can figure out something isn't working if it fails often enough. After we trashed that last batch of mercs trying to set up shop nearby, they settled on another idea." Stark held up a data coin, turning it slightly between thumb and forefinger. "I got this. Don't ask how." Yurivan's smile vanished. "Don't worry, Stace. I know covert collection is your job. I'm not bypassing you. Not on purpose. Somebody sent me this for their own reasons, and that's all I know. Understand?" Everyone nodded, their expressions now a mix of curious and concerned. Stark popped the coin into his unit, holding it so no one else could see the screen even though it showed nothing but a shadowy figure.

The figure on the screen began speaking as if the words were being reluctantly forced out, his or her voice concealed by security recording protocols that randomly shifted tone, timing, and accents. It protected the speaker from identification, but almost guaranteed a headache to anyone listening for long. "Ethan Stark, you're doing too damn good up there. You've beat everything and everybody up real bad, and now the brass back here can't even dream up fantasies on how to knock you apes down. So they're doin' somethin' so stupid I had to warn you." There was a deep breath, audible to the listeners, then the speaker continued. "They're gonna employ metal-heads. The assembly lines are workin' on 'em right now. Officially the things are called Joint Autonomous Battle Robotic Weaponized Combatants. Even that name's heavily classified, but we're calling 'em Jabberwocks, anyway. From JABRWCs, see? I guess that name fits 'cause they gotta be ugly."

Another deep breath. "I know, you figure you'll take them out like usual by cutting the electronic umbilical, but like I said, the brass are being real stupid. I got it for certain that these metal-heads are designed to operate without a link. Think about that. Especially with all the civs you're protecting up there. It stinks. I don't want any part of it, even if sending you this warning means if I'm caught, we'll get to share the same firing squad." A brief pause, then the words came in a rush. "The shorter this is, the more likely it'll get through. Besides, I don't got much more detail. You'll have to work with what you've got. Beat these things, Stark." The screen blanked.

"Who was that?" Gordasa asked in the hush that followed.

"I'm not sure. Maybe a friend of mine," Stark stated, removing the coin and repocketing it. "He or she took a helluva risk sending me this."

"Metal-heads." Vic let the phrase hang alone for a long moment. "They're actually constructing robotic combatants to attack us?"

Stark nodded. "You heard what he said. Jabberwocks. What's that mean?"

"'Beware the Jabberwock, my son,'" Bev Manley quoted, "'the jaws that bite, the claws that snatch.' It's from one of the Alice stories. At least we apparently don't have to worry about frumious bandersnatchi," she added.

Stark fixed her with a glare. "I got enough problems without adding new ones. Whatever the hell a bandersnatchi is."

"I think that should be 'bandersnatchi are,'" Manley suggested, then winced as Stark's glare intensified.

Gordasa looked around as if seeking enlightenment. "I don't understand. What was that talk about links and electronic umbilicals?"

Vic moved her forefingers apart on the table surface. "Control mechanisms, Gordo. The bright boys and girls in combat systems development have been trying to build unmanned weapons for who knows how many decades. They never worked, though, because the unmanned weapons always needed a comm link for a human operator to provide the brains for the weapon."

"Artificial intelligence couldn't handle it?"

Stark snorted. "Hell, Gordo, AI still can't even handle supply without human oversight, can it? The systems can never see past their programming. Combat's too unpredictable, calls for too much imagination. It overloads any metal brains they've ever built. Besides, even when the weapon's able to function on its own, you still need to monitor it, get status reports, and stop it from doing something stupid because its little metal brain misreads a line of code."

"Exactly," Vic agreed. "So they've always needed a human calling the shots, or at least looking over the metal-head's shoulder, which meant a comm link. Problem is, the enemy could just jam the link, and then you've got an unmanned weapon with a very limited brain, just sort of running amuck."

"Or," Stacey Yurivan added, "if the enemy was really on the ball they'd copy the link and send in a stronger version."

Sergeant Gordasa nodded in understanding. "Which would allow them to take over the weapon and use it themselves, right? So why not just design a weapon that could fight along predictable lines without a link?"

"Because," Yurivan continued with a smile, "anything that can be programmed can be reprogrammed. Figure out how to insert the new programming, maybe over the air, maybe as a worm, and it takes over the metal-head. Bingo, the enemy's got a bunch of new combat mechs and you've got a big problem, especially if you can't reestablish control because there ain't no link!"

"So why not tell the metal-heads to ignore new programming?"

Stacey's grin seemed almost demonic. "Sure. You could do that. Design an AI that can reject its own programming. Then you arm it. Sound like a good idea to you?"

Gordasa paled. "Dios. It could override all its inhibits. Kill anything and anybody. Is that what the Pentagon is doing now? No wonder Stark's friend was worried about the civs up here."

"Yeah," Stark agreed. "All the old attempts at building metal-heads at least had fail-safes that kept them from going crazy and slaughtering anything that moved or breathed. But if these, uh, Jabberwocks are made to work without links, we can't count on any functional fail-safe mechanisms. And taking 'em over or stopping 'em won't be as simple as messing with their links. So, people, what are we going to do about it? How we gonna beat these Jabberwocks? Any ideas?"

Bev Manley scowled. "There's always a back door, Ethan. I learned that in Administration. Some way to get into a system. I don't care how they design it."

"Probably. I'm not a hacker, but I've worked with enough of 'em. It sounds like they're trying to lock that back door real tight, though."

Vic's eyes narrowed. "If they're really trying to cut the link, it means one of two things. Either they're creating a Frankenstein's monster and handing it heavy weaponry, or they're building in fail-safe mechanisms."

"The link is the fail-safe," Stark insisted. "Nothing else would ensure they could exercise direct control or disable the metal-heads if necessary, right?"

Lamont raised a finger. "Unless the people building these things have convinced the brass they don't need a link, that their latest software or hardwire AI inhibits can do the job. I've run into that with automated systems on my tanks. You don't need a human in the loop, the weapon geeks tell me, because the system can think fine by itself. Only it never can, and we end up nursemaiding it along with everything else."

"Exactly," Vic agreed. "So why would the Pentagon believe it this time?"

"Because they want to! Contractors are always telling the brass they've got a weapon that will cost a buck a copy, require zero maintenance, launch itself, and home in on evil. Then it ends up costing a buck an atom, breaks every time somebody looks at it, and has to be carried to the target by some ground ape. Anybody here think the Pentagon wouldn't buy something that didn't really work as advertised?"

Silence settled around the table for a moment, then Vic nodded. "That's a very good point." She looked over at Stark. "We need to assume we have to develop an ability to kill these things fast and clean."

"Even though they'll be fast and mean," Lamont pointed out. "You know how hard it can be to nail an automated target. They're just faster than us. And you gotta assume redundant critical functions, so one hit won't take 'em down."

"Depends what kind of hit it is, doesn't it?" Yurivan questioned, smiling again.

"You got an idea, Stace?" Stark demanded.

"Maybe. I'm an expert on messing with people's minds, right? So maybe I'm thinking of a new way to mess with a metal-head's mind. Maybe. Gotta check with some people."

"Do it." Stark glared around the table. "Do it careful. Nobody breathes a word about how we found this out." He focused on Chief Wiseman, sitting silent so far. "Any chance at all we can intercept the shuttles carrying these things and knock 'em out before they get here?"

Wiseman made a face. "There's always a chance. Decent chance? No, I don't think so. There's convoys coming in all the time. How do we know which one's have the Jabberwocks? Even if we could find out which convoy to hit, priority cargo like that would be protected by so much firepower my shuttles would be vaporized before we got into range, so even a kamikaze mission wouldn't likely succeed." She glanced around at the other staff members, then back at Stark. "We could lob rocks at 'em, of course. Crater the landing site."

"Rocks," Vic stated. "You mean big rocks."

"Yeah. Flippin' big rocks. Dig a few new craters and put on a fireworks show for the folks back on Earth."

Vic shook her head, looking to Stark for backup. "If we escalate to using weapons of mass destruction here, then the people we're fighting may assume we'd use the same against Earth. And if they believe that, they'll drop enough rocks, nukes, and null-bombs on us to turn this whole part of the Moon into a crater that'll make Tycho look tiny."

Stark nodded. "And the rest of the world will cheer them on, because that's the nightmare we've all managed to avoid so far, right? So, no rocks. Sorry, Chief."

"That's okay. It's not like I wanted to do it."

"Thanks for bringing up the possibility anyway. I need to know every option. Okay, that's all I got. Looks like things may be coming to a head, military-wise."

"What do you mean?" Manley asked.

"I mean either we beat these things or they'll beat us. And robotic combatants cost big time, so the Pentagon must be putting everything it's got into paying for 'em. They won't have anything left to throw at us after this."

Gordasa smiled. "So maybe the Lunar War will finally end?"

"Maybe. Maybe just from mutual exhaustion, but I can live with that. Let's hope when it does end we're all still around." Stark sat silent as his staff members rose and headed out, some talking quietly and the others silent with their thoughts, until only Chief Wiseman was left, hesitating near the door. "You got something else, Chief?"

"Nah. I, uh . . ."

Stark measured Wiseman's uncertainty, then waved her back to a seat. "Why don't you hang around for a minute? We don't get much time to talk, and I've never gotten to know many sailors."

"Lucky you. Mind if I splice the main brace?"

"If I knew what that meant I'd tell you if I minded."

She chuckled, waving toward the drink dispenser one of the previous commanding generals had ordered installed in the conference room. "It means having a drink. Booze."

"Sure. Have a beer. Get me one, too, if you don't mind."

"No problem."

Stark stared quizzically at his beer after Wiseman brought it. "What's having a drink have to do with . . . whatever you said?"

"Splicing the main brace? Beats the hell out of me," Wiseman admitted, taking a long drink. "It's just traditional to call it that. Like, you know, announcing the smoking lamp is out at taps."

"Smoking lamp? What's that, some kind of light?"

"Beats me. But every night on every ship we announce the smoking lamp is out, and every morning we announce it's lit."

"You don't even know what the thing is and you're turning it on and off every day?" Stark shook his head, taking a drink himself. "I'll never understand sailors."

She grinned back, then turned suddenly somber. "It's tradition, Stark. Don't have to mean a damn thing, and probably doesn't anymore, but it gives us structure. It says we're a warship, says we do things our way, says some things never really change. Hopefully the good things, but you never know." Wise-man stopped talking abruptly, then took another long drink. "Man, this is lousy beer."

"You don't have to drink it."

"I didn't say it was that lousy." She sat silent for a moment, eyes suddenly shadowed.

"What's buggin' you, Chief?" Stark asked. "Something's got you unhappy. Anything I can help with?"

"I doubt it." Wiseman smiled crookedly, as if at an inner joke. "I've just been thinking how important tradition can be, even when it don't make sense. You ever worry about that, Stark? That maybe we're tossing out tradition and the whole shebang is going to blow up around us because of it?"

"No. I don't. Not for that reason, anyway. We didn't choose to do this, Chief. We got forced into it." He held up a hand as Wiseman started to speak. "Wait a sec. You're worried about tradition. I understand that. It is important. Damned important. But there's two kinds of tradition. That's what I think. There's traditions that hold you together, that make your unit or your service special in your mind, that keep you going when you ought to give up. Right? But there's another kind of tradition, one that doesn't care about looking out for each other or making things work well or helping you keep fighting when any fool would cut and run. No, that's the kind of tradition that's nothing but 'we did, so you have to do it.' Or 'it's always been that way.' Or 'you have to do it that way, because that's how it's always been done.' Or 'you don't get any input on this because somebody a million miles away already decided it.' You know what I mean. The traditions that bureaucrats in uniform and idiots and sadists use to justify doing stupid things to good people."

Wiseman's smile grew a little crookeder. "I know a few of those."

"You mean the traditions or the idiots?"

"Both." The smile vanished, replaced by thoughtfulness. "You're right. I never really thought about it that way, but that's how it works, don't it? Chief Gunners Mate Melendez, my second in command, he told me once about some old army, the Brits I think, who were trying to get their artillery to fire faster. So the Brits had some specialists come in to analyze how they fired the big guns, and after they'd watched a few firings the specialists said 'how come those two guys on the gun team always stand over to the side at attention before the guns can fire?' Nobody knew, they just knew you had to do that. They finally found some ancient retired gunner and asked him. Know what he said?"

Stark shrugged. "Can't imagine."

"He said those two guys were supposed to hold the horses," Wiseman laughed. Stark stared back, obviously confused. "The guns used to be pulled into action by horses, and when the guns fired somebody had to hold the horses to keep the bang from scaring them off." She smothered another laugh in a quick drink. "The horses were long gone, but every gun still had two guys ready to hold them."

"Man, that is dumb," Stark laughed along this time. "You ever hear Stacey Yurivan's story about some old Russian ruler? Catherine or Kate or something."

"What about her?"

"Seems one spring day she was walking on the lawn of her castle or whatever and she saw some pretty flower that'd just bloomed. So she told her people to put a sentry on that spot to make sure nobody stepped on the flower. Well, maybe a hundred years later some other Russian ruler looks out at the same lawn and wonders for the first time why there's a sentry standing out in the middle of it. Turns out nobody ever told anyone to stop posting a sentry once the flower died, so there'd been a soldier posted there ever since, rain or shine, summer and winter, guarding the spot where a flower'd once been."

"Hah! Sounds like something our own bosses would've done." Chief Wiseman sobered again, sipping her beer slowly, eyes distant. "Yeah. There's dumb stuff. But the good traditions are important."

"The good traditions are important. And no matter what else happens, we're going to keep 'em. What got you thinking about 'em? Anything in particular?"

"My birthday." She quirked a small smile at Stark's reaction. "Don't bother singing me 'Happy Birthday.' The only thing I celebrate about birthdays now is the fact that I've survived long enough for another one. No, it just got me thinking about my family. My two brothers joined the Navy, too. Of course. What else you gonna do when your parents are Navy?" She still smiled, but her eyes were looking somewhere into the past. "We'd have some kinda bar crawls when we were in port together. People used to call us the Three Wisemen."

"Used to?"

"Yeah. Joe died when his ship got nailed during a heavy action up here. The USS John Hancock. Whole thing blew to hell while she was covering some transports. They shoulda run, but they had to save those other ships, right? We didn't have to worry about burials for any of the crew 'cause there weren't any bodies left to speak of." She took another drink, her face shading into sadness. "They awarded the ship and crew a Presidential Unit Commendation. Posthumously. Fighting their ship to the end in the finest tradition of the Naval Service. All that crap. But they did their duty, didn't they? Good ship. Good tradition. My brother did us proud." She sat silent a moment longer. "Now it's the Two Wisemen. So far."

"Sorry."

"I heard you're the only mil in your family, Stark, that all the rest are civs. That right?"

"That's right."

"Does that make it any easier?"

Stark shook his head, frowning. "Does it make what any easier?"

"Ordering people into combat. Knowing some of 'em will die. I mean, since they ain't relatives, and since you didn't grow up with 'em."

"They're still friends. No, it's not easier at all. Maybe harder."

Wiseman smiled again. "Reminds me of another joke, one my grandfather told me. Back when the Russians controlled Poland, in the twentieth century, I guess, some Russian went to Poland and asks a native whether he thinks of the Russians as his friends or his family. The Pole says family, of course, because you get to choose your friends."

Stark laughed. "There's a lot of truth in that, ain't there? But family's still important. Where's your other brother?"

"Wet Navy, now. One small blessing. I won't run into him up here. He always told me I was crazy for staying a space surfer. Said ships ought to float on water, not on nothing."

"I guess he's got a point. The Air Force always said the same thing, right?"

"Yeah, sure," Chief Wiseman snorted. "When they were trying to claim they should control all ops in space. But they couldn't figure out how to build luxury accommodations for their pilots up here, so they left the job to sailors. We're used to livin' miserable." She drained her beer, then stood. "Thanks for listening, boss."

"That's part of the job."

"Yeah. But some people are better at it than others. You ain't a bad boss for a mud crawler."

"Thanks, Chief. You ain't bad for a squid."

"Says you," Wiseman snorted again, then saluted. "By your leave, sir."

Stark stood as well, returning the salute. "Take care of yourself, Chief. Sure you don't wanna talk anymore?"

"No, thanks. Besides, I gotta get going if I'm gonna be back with our little fleet in time for eight o'clock reports."

"Eight o'clock? You mean twenty-hundred?" Stark asked, converting the civilian time measurement into military time. "You got plenty of time 'til then."

"No, I don't. The Navy always holds eight o'clock reports at seven-thirty."

"Then why are they called eight—? This is like that crazy lamp thing, ain't it?"

"Sort of. It's a Navy thing. You wouldn't understand." She saluted again, almost cheerfully, then left, practically running into Vic Reynolds on her way out.

Vic glanced curiously after Wiseman. "You guys planning some special op?"

"Nah. Just doing some personnel counseling."

Reynolds sat, looking concerned now. "Does the Chief have some problems?"

"Nah. Just the usual. Worried about things. She needed a little hand-holding and a sympathetic ear. You know the drill."

"The same one I give you every time you get depressed? Yeah, I'm familiar with it."

"That's because you're a decent leader," Stark stated. "I hope I am, too. Thank God we can talk to each other when things get rough."

"I guess. And, speaking of leadership responsibilities . . ."

"Oh, man. Now what?"

Vic pursed her lips in thought for a moment. "How do I say this? We're winning and morale is great, but the troops are edgy."

"Yeah. I've felt it, too. Can't quite put my finger on it, but something's wrong. You got any ideas?"

"A couple." Reynolds leaned back, staring upward where rough metal shielded and armored the ceiling. "Part of it is the old end game question. You've given us a reason to fight, now, besides just surviving, but the problem with holding yourself up as a symbol is there's no way to know if it's working."

"A lot of people are trying to find out, Vic. The demonstrations back home are getting bigger. The government's been tossing mercs at us, and now they're cooking up those Jabberwocks, so you know they're worried. Stacey and the civ security people keep spotting attempts to intrude on our systems or plant worms. Oh, yeah, and the government's propaganda mills keep churning out stories about how horrible we are. If you go by how hard our enemies are trying to beat us and discredit us, we must look like a real threat to them."

"I know. But even if it works, we don't know how long it'll take. We've been fighting up here for what seems like forever already. No one wants to keep fighting a day longer than we have to."

Stark nodded. "I wish I knew the answer to that. Hell, I wish I could end the war right now. All I can say is the civs in the Colony are working like crazy to stir up hate and discontent back home with the government. Sarafina's been keeping you briefed on their efforts, right?"

"Uh-huh. There's no way the government can totally block the civs' ability to download info into systems back on the World, so they can't stop our own propaganda from getting through. But she doesn't know for sure how well any of it's working or if or when it'll succeed, either. But then she's not being asked to be shot at while she waits for the answer." Vic held up a hand to forestall Stark's words. "I know. Cheryl Sarafina's a decent human being, and I respect her judgment, which I never thought I'd say about a civ, but it's a fact. There's a different level of stress. Still, I don't think that issue is entirely the problem."

"Huh. What else, Vic? What're your guts telling you?"

"They're telling me our friends back home are up to something we haven't spotted. Spreading their own brand of hate and discontent up here. Or trying to, anyway."

"Wouldn't surprise me in the least."

"Stacey got anything?"

Stark shook his head. "Nah. She's worried, though, for the same reason you are. Stace figures the spooks back home have got to be trying to cause trouble up here, and she hasn't been able to spot it, not with the tools we've got."

"We could try some loyalty screens . . ."

"No. That won't happen. I start loyalty screens, and it'll hurt us more than anything the spooks are trying to do. I've got to trust my people, Vic."

She nodded, her face unhappy. "I guess you're right about loyalty screens. But some people don't deserve trust, Ethan. This isn't like before, when you could know every person who worked for you in your squad. There's people in this little army of ours that you and I never heard of, let alone know personally. And you know soldiers aren't angels." Vic reached to activate the nearest display panel, punching in some codes. "Like here. We've had almost a hundred grunts hauled up on charges for using that new synth drug, Rapture. Somebody's making it, and somebody's selling it, but we haven't nailed them, yet."

"We will. Stacey's real ticked off about that Rapture stuff. It's the sort of thing she'd have tried running in the old days. Well, maybe not. Rapture can mess up people permanent, right? Stace wouldn't have played that game. But she's still determined to take the dealers down."

"After which some other designer drug will pop up to keep things ugly," Vic noted. "Okay. So, what do we do about the people issue? Try something proactive or wait for something bad to happen?"

"Let's try to think of something proactive. I can't think of anything we haven't already done, but maybe there's something. It's pretty late in the day now to be trying creative thinking. Let's get together tomorrow, say during lunch, and hash out some ideas."

"Sounds good." She gazed at Stark. "Something else bothering you?"

"No. I don't think so. Probably just like you said. The agencies back on Earth have got to be working on something to make us unhappy. I really wish I knew what it was."

 

Stark had just entered his quarters, trying to decide whether to dig through the virtual mound of paperless paperwork on his terminal, when his comm unit buzzed urgently. "Stark here."

"Commander Stark, this is Security Central." The watch-stander sounded breathless, bringing Stark to full alertness as he listened. "There's some sort of situation going down."

"What do you mean 'some sort of situation'? What exactly is happening?"

"Uh, sir, we got some warning messages coming in from two areas. That'd be Chamberlain Barracks and Morgan Barracks. We've also lost remote monitoring signals from the ammunition magazine nearest those barracks—"

"What kind of warning messages?" Stark broke in, aching to leap into action but forcing himself to wait until he could learn more. "Are you talking another raid?"

"No. No sir. I've got no reports of enemy action. These messages are hard to explain. Let me replay one for you, sir." After the briefest pause, a different voice began speaking hastily. "Hey, you guys. Somethin' funny's happenin' here in Morgan Barracks. We got soldiers coming through in full combat gear, claiming there's some new Enlisted Council that's gonna be running things. Says Stark and his gang are just using us so we're taking over. I says who the hell is 'we,' and they looked sorta confused. We told them to get back to their damn barracks, but it looks like they're try in' to occupy this one. I think they're all Fifth Battalion troops from Second Brigade. You better get—"

"Security, the message broke off."

"Yessir. That's what happened. We've activated the on-call company in that area, but, uh, what are we supposed to do, sir? I mean, are they supposed to attack someone?"

Stark closed his eyes, wishing his lunch with Vic had happened a few days earlier, before apparently being overtaken by events. "One, notify everyone on my staff. Two, put out the word all soldiers should remain in their quarters or barracks unless they get orders from me otherwise. Three, you get the on-call company down to those two barracks and tell them to block anybody trying to take over those locations or seize control of any area without authority. No shooting. Understand? You haven't told me about any shooting, yet, so I assume there's been none."

"That's right, Commander. No reports of firing and no sensor indications of combat."

"Good. So get our own people in place and just block these other guys until we find out what's going down."

Vic broke into the circuit. "This is Reynolds. Get the on-call companies in the adjacent areas going, too. What's the backup battalion in the area?"

"Uh, that'd be Fifth Battalion."

"Okay," Stark acknowledged. I guess we can't use them. "Get the next backup battalion closest to those barracks going. And all those on-call companies, like Sergeant Reynolds said. I want a wall of bodies holding in this so-called Enlisted Council."

"Yessir. Uh, what about the magazine, Commander?"

Stark took a slow, deep breath, imagining what panicked soldiers might do around a large quantity of high explosive. "Same thing. Get the exits blocked. But no offensive activity around that magazine. No pressure. I don't want it blowing half the Colony to hell."

"Yessir. Troops are on the way, Commander."

"Vic, meet me in the command center."

"On my way. Does this mean our lunch date is off?"

He grinned involuntarily at the black humor. "I don't expect to have much time for eating in the next few days. Don't forget your battle armor."

"Ethan, I'm a big girl. I know enough to wear battle armor in a crisis. Are you going to remind me to bring my rifle, too?"

"No. But I sure hope you won't have to use it."

The command center felt off-balance, its normal smooth functioning disrupted by an event the watchstanders had never trained for. "Are you telling me I can't get a map of the barracks area on this display?" Stark demanded.

"We're looking for one," Sergeant Tran advised. "That isn't an area we're supposed to have to worry about."

Vic entered, shaking her head at Tran's words. "What about if the perimeter had been penetrated? There has to be a self-defense plan for the military complex."

Tran slapped his forehead. "Of course there is. We'll get it up right away." He hastened to a console, conferring with the watchstander there as they sought the needed planning document. A moment later, the display lit with a 3-D depiction of the Chamberlain and Morgan Barracks. "We'll get enemy activity posted on here real quick, Commander Stark."

"Thanks. But they're not enemy. Let's keep that in mind." Stark fiddled with the controls, frustrated as his instincts urged him to do something quickly but he was forced to wait for more information. "I oughta go there," he muttered so only Vic could hear.

"No. The situation's too confused." Vic eyed the display as red markers began appearing where so-called Enlisted Council activity had been reported. "Ethan, I just remembered something."

"Doesn't sound like it's anything good."

"It's not. Remember who used to belong to Fifth Battalion? A guy named Kalnick."

"Kalnick?" Sergeant Kalnick had briefly served as commander of the Fifth Battalion, before losing the confidence of his soldiers when he tried to undercut Stark's authority and almost disastrously delayed the battalion's response to an enemy breakthrough. After Kalnick's own people voted him out, Stark had sent him home to Earth, not wanting someone he couldn't trust so close at hand. "Why didn't we think to keep a special eye on that unit?"

"Probably because we both thought everybody had gotten fed up with Kalnick. But I bet he still has some friends in Fifth Battalion. Friends who've been keeping a low profile. Speaking of which," Vic pointed to her console, "looks like the Second Brigade commander is calling in."

Stark called up the incoming transmission. "Sergeant Shwartz? You don't look happy."

"I'm not," Shwartz stated. She turned slightly to issue a command to someone near her, then faced Stark again. "I am forced to report that significant portions of one of my battalions are not responding to orders. They have occupied portions of two barracks and the closest ammunition magazine to their location."

"Portions of the barracks?" Vic questioned. "So they haven't been able to take over both in their entirety?"

"No. Only a small portion of Morgan Barracks is being held, even though it appears practically all of Chamberlain Barracks has been taken over. I believe most, if not all, of the mutineers are from my Fifth Battalion. Despite their talk of an Enlisted Council, whatever that is, they don't seem to be garnering extra support. There hasn't been active resistance to this council that I'm aware of, just passive refusal to go along with the mutiny."

Stark couldn't help internally mocking himself. I ended up in charge because I started a mutiny, and now I got people mutinying against me. Serves me right for setting a precedent. "First things first, I see the on-call companies moving into position at those barracks. Are you in contact with them?"

"Yessir. But they lack specific objectives."

"Not anymore. Move them up, nice and slow. Fifth Battalion is quartered in Chamberlain Barracks, right? So I'm guessing the parts of Morgan Barracks that are occupied aren't held too strongly at this point."

Shwartz nodded. "That matches with what I can see from here."

"Try to push those Fifth Battalion people out of Morgan. Just move your own people forward, occupying rooms as they go, and see if the Fifth Batt guys pull back. If weapons get pointed, I want the advance stopped. Understand?"

"I understand. No firing. Stop the advance if firing is threatened. What about the ammo magazine?"

Stark scowled, checking his display. "I'm being told there's an unknown number of troops sealed inside. Send a couple of people, no more than that, to knock on the entrance and try to talk them out. Make sure those people are unarmed. I don't want to make the soldiers sitting on all that ammo nervous." As Sergeant Shwartz gave orders to her soldiers, Stark leaned toward Reynolds. "Vic, whadayya think?"

"I think you're doing the right things. Or at least as good as we can do at this point. We need to contain this mutiny and prevent it from erupting into violence."

"That's what I figured. Sergeant Shwartz? I take it you had no warning something like this might happen?"

"No, sir. Fifth Battalion aren't the best motivated troops I've got, but I had no indications of this level of problems. I don't understand why the senior enlisted in the Battalion didn't pick up some signals."

"Sergeant Shwartz, I think you've got to assume some of those senior enlisted are part of the problem." She looked shocked. "We'll handle that once we've got a perimeter established."

"Sergeant Stark, given my failure to prevent this mutiny from occurring I would understand if you lacked confidence in my ability—"

"I have every confidence in your ability. None of us saw this coming, and I can see you've reacted quickly and correctly to contain the mutiny. You remain on-scene commander. However, if anybody from this Enlisted Council tries to talk to you, patch 'em in to me. We need to handle any talks from a single location to minimize the chance for misunderstandings or crossed wires." Stark looked toward the watchstanders. "Nobody's reported any problems with normal comms into Chamberlain Barracks, have they? Somebody start calling in there. I want to talk to whomever thinks they're in charge."

Over the next hour, the situation slowly stabilized. Under Shwartz's careful prodding, the rebellious Fifth Battalion soldiers fell back from Morgan Barracks, but once the advancing loyal troops reached the entrances to Chamberlain Barracks they found firm defenses had been set up. "The soldiers inside the ammunition magazine are refusing to open up," Shwartz reported. "They say they need orders from that council."

"Don't make them nervous," Reynolds advised.

"They're already nervous. I've got a couple of squads watching the exits from the magazine, but I've pulled them way back and told them to keep their weapons grounded."

"Good move," Stark approved. "Do the same at the exits to Chamberlain Barracks. Let's make sure no shooting starts." Unless and until we want it to start. What happens if it comes to that?

As if reading his mind, Reynolds leaned close to speak softly. "Ethan, we need to try to talk these guys out, but we might need to use force."

"I can't. No, this isn't just morality speaking. It's realistic. If I shoot fellow soldiers to uphold my authority, then I've lost it. Nobody else up here will trust me." He glared at her. "And don't bother telling me not to let on that I know that when I'm talking to this council."

"I never even considered it. Speaking of which, I think we've finally got some comms with that council."

A corporal stared out of the screen. He was clearly trying to project calm and confidence, but Stark had enough experience observing people under stress to know the corporal was putting up a front. He's rattled. And he's got lots of people with weapons listening to him right now. I better treat him like a live grenade. Real careful. "Corporal? This is Sergeant Stark. Do you represent this Enlisted Council I'm hearing about?"

"Yes. Yes, I do. I'm Corporal Hostler. Sergeant Stark, you, uh, no longer have authority to, uh, issue orders to us."

That sounds like something he's been rehearsing. Maybe something someone else told him to say? "Corporal, the other units aren't following your lead. You can see that. You're alone and isolated in your barracks."

"If you try to retake this barracks we will resist with all. . . with all necessary force!"

"Calm down. I didn't say anything about attacking you. We're on the same side, right?"

"No. No, we're not. You're just out for yourself. You and your gang."

"My gang?" Stark looked over at Reynolds. "You mean my staff?"

"Yeah. Yes. Reynolds and, uh, Gordasa, and, uh, Yurivan and—"

"Sergeant Stacey Yurivan?" Stark couldn't stop from breaking into the corporal's recital. "Come on. Sergeant Yurivan's from your unit originally. She served there a long time, and you all know her. She's nobody's stooge, and she sure as hell ain't mine." The corporal stopped speaking, apparently thrown off balance by Stark's rebuttal. Or maybe listening to somebody else tell him what to say? Stark thought again about Sergeant Kalnick and his friends among the senior enlisted in Fifth Battalion. "Listen, Corporal, if you've got a grievance there's a lot better ways to deal with it. If everybody lays down their weapons we can talk about this."

"No! No tricks!"

Real nervous. I hate nervous people with loaded weapons. "I'm not talking tricks, Corporal. Let's just make sure nothing happens that all of us might regret. What is it you want?"

The corporal brightened visibly. Apparently that question was part of his canned presentation. "You must, uh, relinquish command. The Enlisted Council will give orders from now on."

"Give me a break."

"The Enlisted Council represents the true interests of the enlisted personnel. Your, uh, corrupt and, uh, incompetent leadership is over."

"Corporal, the only people your council may represent," Stark replied, carefully emphasizing the 'may,' "are some soldiers in Fifth Battalion. I will not break faith with every other soldier up here by giving in to your demands."

Corporal Hostler gulped. "We, uh . . ."

"Where are your senior enlisted, Corporal? Where are the sergeants from Fifth Battalion?"

"They're. . . all under arrest. Hostages." The words came quickly, almost too quickly.

Stark glanced over at Reynolds, who shook her head skeptically, then he spoke with a mix of calming and authority. "Let's take things one step at a time. First, I have to know any hostages are safe. Second, I need your people to evacuate that ammunition magazine they've occupied."

"No! That's our ace! You wouldn't dare do-anything as long as we hold that magazine!"

"Listen, Corporal, if somebody blows that magazine, either on purpose or by accident, it'll cause one helluva lot of damage. And kill everyone inside the magazine, as well as a lot of people outside it. A lot of your fellow soldiers. You don't want that, do you?"

"It's . . . our ace," Hostler insisted, his confidence waning once more.

"I can't let you hold this Colony hostage. I can't let you hold the lives of a lot of your fellow soldiers' hostage. There's too much chance somebody'll make a mistake that you and me and everyone else will regret. You understand, right?" Stark waited a moment, letting his statement sink in, speaking again only after Hostler's eyes reflected growing worry. "I can talk. I don't want shooting. But I can't let you hold on to a magazine full of ammo. If somebody on your side screws up, or somebody on my side, a lot of soldiers could die. A lot of civs, too. I don't expect you to care about the civs, but how many of your buddies are you willing to see blown to hell?" Hostler started to reply, then bit his lip, his eyes straying slightly to one side. So, like I thought. You're not in charge, are you, Corporal? There's somebody talking off-screen, and you're listening.

"Uh, Sergeant Stark, we don't want to risk any of our, uh, fellow soldiers, either. But we need something to make sure you don't attack us."

"I'll give you my word."

"Uh, no. We need, uh, a hostage. Somebody important."

Stark didn't have to look around to know Vic was vigorously shaking her head at him. "You can't volunteer for that!" she hissed.

"Why not?"

"Because you're in charge! Who makes decisions if you're a damn hostage?"

Stark screwed up his mouth as if he'd tasted something bitter, then glowered at Corporal Hostler. "You got anybody in mind?"

"Yessir. Sergeant Reynolds. You provide her as a hostage, and we'll withdraw from the magazine."

Keeping his face carefully composed, Stark looked over at Vic, but instead of answering him she leaned into the vid camera and nodded. "Done. I'll be at the entrance to your barracks in fifteen minutes. Do you need any assistance communicating with your people inside the magazine?"

"No. We're talking to them." Hostler grinned in relief, then looked anxious again, his eyes once more indicating he was listening to someone off screen. "You come here unarmed, Sergeant Reynolds. No weapons, no armor."

Reynolds pursed her mouth in disdain. "Of course. I'll be there, unarmed." Hostler broke the connection, leaving Stark staring at Vic. "Come on, Ethan. Private conference." She led the way to a briefing room just outside the command center, where no watchstanders could overhear their words. "I know you don't like this, Ethan, but it's necessary." Stark looked mutely at her as Reynolds unstrapped her sidearm, laying it carefully on a table nearby. "Keep an eye on this for me, will you?"

"Vic, I—"

"Save it." She looked straight at him. "I agreed to be the hostage for two reasons. First, because I'm sure those fools wouldn't agree to give up the magazine for any other hostage. Second, because it gives us an edge. A big edge."

"An edge."

"You know what I mean, Ethan. Those apes," she stated with a wave in the general direction of Chamberlain Barracks, "think you won't let me get killed."

"Which you might be! What if they panic? What if the enemy hears about this and tries a push and everything falls apart? What if they just decide they can demand anything they want as long as they got you as a hostage?"

Her expression didn't alter. "You stop them, Ethan. You stop them. You take them down."

"And they kill you."

"And they kill me. That's our ace in the hole, our edge, if we need it, Ethan. They don't think you'd let me get killed in order to save everyone else up here."

The ice he'd once felt fill his body had come back, so his limbs felt frozen in place, yet Stark could still speak, though only in a hoarse whisper. "I would if I had to. To save the others. I'm responsible for taking care of them, Vic."

"I know. Nobody else knows you'd do that, but nobody else knows you as well as I do." She reached out one hand, slapping his shoulder lightly. "There's no time for speeches. Do what you have to do, Ethan." Vic turned to go. "If the worst happens, I'll see you in hell."

"Sure."

"Hell's likely to be real crowded, but I'll try to save you a seat."

"You do that." The ice filling him broke, thoughts tumbling through his brain. How can she joke about this? Because she's scared to death, you idiot. Vic's going into a life-and-death situation without any weapons, without any armor, depending on me to handle things right and get her back, and I don't exactly have a perfect record in either respect. "Vic." She paused, not looking back. "I'll get you out of there."

"You do your job, soldier. That's what matters." Then she was gone.

The transfer took place almost too smoothly, Reynolds standing at relaxed parade rest at one of the Fifth Battalion barricades as the mutineers evacuated the magazine and Shwartz kept her loyal forces calmingly out of sight. Stark watched on vid as Reynolds was escorted by the mutineers into the barracks, feeling simultaneously empty and full of dread. Now what do I do? I don't know. What would Vic advise? She'd tell me to talk to my staff. Let the civs know what's happening. Keep people informed so I'm not indispensable, and so they know the situation's under control. Okay. Let's get on it.

Half a day dragged by, then a full twenty-four hours. Corporal Hostler, looking increasingly ragged from tension, kept repeating his demands that Stark step down from command. The failure of other units to follow Fifth Battalion's lead had apparently thrown off the mutineers' plans, but they showed no signs of surrendering despite that.

"Alright, people." Stark's staff, augmented by Sergeant Shwartz, the Colony manager, and another civilian Stark had never met, sat around the conference table looking as if they hadn't slept for more than a day. Which was appropriate, Stark noted to himself, since they hadn't. "What've we got?"

Sergeant Shwartz gestured toward her display. "I've been canvassing the other senior enlisted in Second Brigade on who in Fifth Battalion might be behind this Corporal Hostler and so-called Enlisted Council. We have some good candidates, but we also have quite a few people we're certain wouldn't take part. We have to assume they're hostages, just like Sergeant Reynolds."

Sergeant Stacey Yurivan checked the list. "Good assessment. When did you have a chance to put this together?"

"I just used my copious free time," Shwartz replied, trying to stifle a yawn.

Stark nodded. "You've done a good job keeping things stable around that barracks. What about you, Stace? Any leads on who's behind this?"

Yurivan made a face. "I'm sure our good buddy Harry Kalnick is behind this, like you guessed, but I can't find any footprints and probably won't be able to find any until we get at the stuff inside Fifth Batt's barracks."

Bev Manley shook her head. "I met that guy a few times. Kalnick's competent, I guess, but he's no evil genius. Could he have had any help in bringing this about?"

"I'm sure he had help. I'm sure some professional knuckle-draggers from certain national agencies have been using our boy Kalnick as a means to an end, though Kalnick might believe he's pulling the strings. But proof of that is likely to be real hard to come by." Yurivan tapped her screen again. "But, good-news-wise, it doesn't look like we're dealing with a full Battalion of malcontents. The guys in Intelligence have been adding up the numbers of soldiers seen when the mutineers tried to take over, and it doesn't add up to anywhere near a battalion. Maybe two companies worth of grunts, more or less."

"Surely they held back some soldiers," Gordasa argued.

"We thought about that." Yurivan nodded toward Sergeant Shwartz. "The mutineers manning the barricades haven't disabled the IFF systems on their battle armor."

"IFF?" Colony Manager Campbell asked.

"Identification friend or foe," Stark explained. "It's a system that makes sure you don't shoot at the people on your side by telling you who's enemy and who's friendly. How's that helping, Stace?"

"Because you can query a suit's IFF to get an individual identification, without alerting the suit's wearer. Didn't know that, Stark? Most people don't. So Shwartz's people have been monitoring the mutineers manning the barricades. Based on the turnover of individuals, we're talking maybe six platoons worth of soldiers actively involved in this little party."

"Two companies," Stark mused. "That ain't great, but it's a lot better than a full battalion. Good work. Anything else?"

Yurivan smiled like a cat digesting a canary. "My little idea for handling the Jabberwocks turns out to be doable, and it may also allow us to take down these mutineers without hurting anybody." She paused to relish the surprise radiating from most of those present. "You can tell me how brilliant I am later. For now, I think Mr. Campbell can fill you in."

Campbell shook his head. "I know just the bare bones. This is the expert." He indicated the man sitting next to him, an individual who at first glance seemed small in stature until you realized he held himself small. "This is my head of Nano-Research and Development, Doctor Gafton. He has some important information."

Doctor Gafton blinked a few times before speaking. Even though no one had to wear glasses anymore, Gafton somehow looked as if he needed them. Focusing closely on Stark, the doctor began speaking. "Mr. Stark—"

"Sergeant," Stark interrupted.

"Sergeant?"

"Yeah. Sergeant."

Gafton blinked again. "Mr. Sergeant—"

A strangled sound came from one end of the table as Sergeant Manley attempted to hold in laughter. Stark glared at her, then back at Doctor Gafton. "Sergeant is my title, Doctor."

The doctor's face creased in puzzlement. "My netlink informs me 'sergeant' is a low-ranking position of limited responsibility. The commander of a large force should be titled 'general.' "

Stark glanced over at Campbell, who shut his own eyes for a moment in seeming exasperation before replying. "Doctor Gafton doesn't get out much, I'm afraid. Doctor, Sergeant Stark is the commander of our military forces."

Before Gafton could say anything else, Stacey Yurivan raised an accusing finger toward him. "You've got an active netlink implanted? Despite the danger?"

Gafton grimaced, then nodded. "It is necessary. I could not coordinate our work without an implant. Of course, the risks are severe despite all the security measures provided, but I must take those risks to fulfill my duties."

Stark glanced from Yurivan to Gafton. What's that about? Nobody else seems confused. I'll have to ask Vic later. If there is a later. He shied away from the thought. "So, what is it you've got to tell me, Doctor?"

"The nanobots you have requested are in final design testing and should—"

"I requested nanobots?" Stark looked around the table. Everyone else looked back with blank expressions, with the exception of the smug smile on Sergeant Yurivan's face.

"Yes, you did. Absolutely. A special order."

"Tell me about it, Doc. What do these nanobots do?"

More blinking. "What you requested, of course."

"And that would be?"

"Internal reprogramming and system disabling of a complex, autonomously operating robotic entity. I must admit the requirement that the nanobots had to be delivered using a high-velocity penetration device made the design process a little tricky even with current nanotechnology, but once we established a cushioning medium—"

Stark stopped the flow of words with one hand slapping onto the table with the sudden shock of a rifle shot. "You've designed nanobots to knock out robots?"

"Ah, well, the specifications indicated reprogramming was also desired, but since we know nothing of the hardware or software to be used in the original programming, we cannot build enough options into the nanobots to achieve that function."

"But the nanobots will stop a robotic combatant?"

"Certainly. They will seek out command junctions and interrupt control signal flow. Simple jamming seemed the most reliable concept to pursue, though there is a backup short-out of power relays function which will also be employed." Doctor Gafton peered around as if trying to assess whether his words were understood. "In basic terms, the robots will suffer the equivalent effects of a human exposed to a nerve agent such as sarin."

Manley leaned forward. "How can you be sure they'll work?"

"There is no guarantee of success, pending the outcome of experimental trials. There are a number of variables we must deal with. The degree of shielding of command junctions, the power of command signals which are to be blocked, the presence or absence of defensive nanobots designed to stop or repair internal sabotage—" Gafton stopped in mid-sentence, his expression thoughtful. "Mind you, defensive nanobot systems have not been utilized prior to this time, so we have no reason to expect their presence. This nonetheless represents an uncontrolled variable."

"So we can't be sure they'll work until we use them?"

"Ah . . . yes. Unless you can acquire a working model of the targeted robotic entity to conduct tests upon, that is correct."

"Great." Stark didn't have to exaggerate the level of praise in his voice. "Not perfect. I wish we could try them out beforehand, but that'll give us a real leg up on these Jabberwocks." He looked first at Yurivan and then back at Gafton. "But how exactly does this help solve our mutiny?"

Gafton blinked once more. "I was asked if the nanobots and delivery device could be modified to deliver a disabling function to a standard military battle armor system. The modifications were fairly simple."

It took a moment for the implications to sink in, then Stark grinned. "We've got a way to insert worms into battle armor?"

"Worms?" Gafton questioned. "The slang term refers to destructive software. The disabling function in question will be achieved by nanobots taking all movement, weapons, and communication systems into inoperable status."

"Damn." Stark smiled at Yurivan. "Stacey, I'm glad you're on our side. Can I equip people with these delivery systems right now?"

Gafton shook his head once. "No, not now. Twenty-four hours. In twenty-four hours, plus or minus four hours to allow for unexpected developments, I can provide you with approximately two thousand individual delivery devices manufactured according to the custom specifications for shoulder-employed antipersonnel launch mechanisms."

Stark glared at the doctor for a moment, then shifted his gaze to Sergeant Gordasa. "That sounds like Supply talk. What's he mean?"

"Bullets," Gordasa explained. "He's talking two thousand rifle rounds."

Gafton nodded twice. "That is what I said."

"Two thousand." Stark pondered the number for a moment. "That's enough to load the magazines of maybe a company of loyal troops. I'll find one and—"

"You've got one," Stacey advised. She was clearly enjoying herself immensely.

"Thanks, but I'll want to evaluate—"

"You'll like this particular company. Trust me."

Stark nodded, trying to keep his feelings from showing. Great. Vic's a hostage, so I have to place my trust in the likes of Stacey Yurivan. I sure hope I'm doing the right thing.

A few hours later, Sergeant Sanchez saluted Stark, his face as composed and emotionless as ever. "It is good to see you again, Commander Stark."

"Knock it off, Sanch. We're old buddies. You don't need to be formal with me. Your company really volunteered to go in with me?"

"I could not have stopped them," Sanchez assured Stark. Something that might have been a smile flickered on the edges of his mouth, then vanished.

"I bet not. Hell, Sanch, it seems like yesterday that you and me and Vic were all squad leaders in the same platoon. But it also seems like forever. I hated leaving my own squad. I'd led those apes for years."

"It was you who triggered the mutiny which deposed the officers in our division," Sanchez reminded him. "Had you not done that, the senior enlisted would never have had the opportunity to elect you to command the entire force."

"I guess with Vic Reynolds being held hostage you get to be the one to remind me of past screw-ups that I'm still paying for, huh? I tell you, Sanch, there's times I wish it'd never happened."

A too-brief-to-be-readable expression flickered across Sanchez's face. "I am certain there are many in Third Division, those saved by your actions, who feel differently."

"I sure hope so. You're leading the company in with me, then?"

"Unfortunately, no. I must grant that duty to its appropriate holder, the current company commander."

Stark tried not to show disappointment. That's right. Sanchez got bumped up to battalion commander. I oughta know who the company commander is, blast it. "Who is that now, Sanch? Anybody I know?" He'd known everyone in the unit, once, but there'd been battles since then, and a few replacements.

Another flicker of a possible smile. Sanchez had grown a lot more expressive in the last several months. "I believe so." He turned slightly, waving someone forward. "You remember Lieutenant Conroy?"

Conroy saluted Stark smartly. "Good afternoon, Commander Stark."

Stark returned the gesture, fighting down a smile of his own. "You got the whole company now, huh, Lieutenant? How's it going?"

"Not bad. A little testing and pressure at first. A few soldiers were surprised to see me."

"I bet. I sure never expected any of our old officers to volunteer to stay up here, under my command."

"There weren't exactly a lot of us. Sixteen total, if I recall."

"Sixteen's a lot," Stark noted, "when you consider it meant working for me and guaranteeing a court-martial if we lose. But I was grateful you stayed. We needed some good officers around to remind people how important you are. When you're doing your jobs right, that is. So the troops haven't given you too much trouble?"

"There were some interesting moments. I just had to remind them I was still an officer. We get along fine, now."

Stark nodded, thinking of how tough some of those moments might have been from enlisted personnel with healthy heads of resentment against an officer corps that had usually been concerned with promotion instead of leadership. "Well, Lieutenant, you know the situation. I guess you've got to rescue me again."

"The last time I did that they took my platoon away and made me a desk jockey." Stark had stayed behind after a risky raid, acting as a rear guard to enable the platoon to escape. Conroy's participation in an unauthorized relief operation to save Stark's life had earned her the enmity of superiors who weren't interested in risking expensive equipment to save one pain-in-the-neck sergeant. "But things are a little different this time," Conroy noted. "I think you'll be happy with the new commander of your old platoon. I'm sure you remember Corporal Gomez."

"Cor—?" Stark broke off his exclamation. I'll be damned. Anita Gomez, commanding a platoon. Best corporal I ever had. Bet she keeps those apes sharp. "How'd you talk her into that?"

"I didn't. She volunteered. Maybe she'll tell you why. When's the operation going down?"

Stark gestured the two to seats, then paced back and forth. "We need the special rounds for our rifles, first. These are non-lethal rounds. They'll disable the battle armor of anyone shot with them." Neither Conroy nor Sanchez could hide their curiosity. "The special rounds shoot nanobots into the armor, and the nanobots break stuff inside. But they're still manufacturing the rounds for us. After the special ammo is ready, we'll mount the op during the next available downtime. Meal, sleep, whatever. I'm worried about hostages, and I'm worried these mutineers might get desperate and start shooting at us."

Two nods as Stark continued. "We're facing about two companies' worth of soldiers total. That's bad odds for an attack, but they'll be spread out and hopefully won't have any clue about the special rounds we'll be firing."

"A single hit anywhere should disable the soldier?" Conroy asked.

"Right. The barracks has a standard layout. There's three main entrances; two for personnel access and one heavy cargo dock. I'll lead one platoon in the primary entry, and the other two platoons will take the other two." He saw the disapproval register instantly on their faces. "Yeah, I know. I'm not supposed to be leading a combat op, and that's what this might be if the mutineers start throwing live rounds back at us. But if I'm walking in from the front, maybe they'll surrender without shooting at all. I figure the risk is worth the chance to end the mutiny without bloodshed on either side."

"Your rationale seems solid," Sanchez noted, "but Sergeant Reynolds will still give you hell for it when the operation is over."

"No doubt. Any other questions?"

Conroy sighed. "I guess I should lead one of the other platoons in the same way. Seeing a lieutenant apparently walking calmly toward them might cause some serious hesitation on the part of the mutineers. Maybe enough to get past their barricade without shooting."

Sanchez managed a temporary questioning look. "Calmly, Lieutenant Conroy? You will be walking calmly?"

"I said apparently calmly. Besides, you know the Infantry School motto: Follow Me."

Stark laughed. "Yeah. Easy to say, ain't it? Until somebody's pointing weapons at you. Okay, there's not much else to say right now. Lieutenant, we're going to load floor plans for the barracks into the Tacs of each soldier. We can't afford to brief them all before the op goes down. We can't risk the mutineers getting a warning."

"I understand."

Sanchez made a gesture, which in another person would have registered as a powerful frown. "You intend loading a detailed plan into the Tacs and not briefing the soldiers prior to that? This does not sound like the Ethan Stark I knew."

"No," Stark replied. "No, it doesn't and no, that's not the idea. You'll get the floor plans. You'll also get what little we know of troop dispositions, mainly where the barricades are at the entrances. It'll be up to individual soldiers to get in there and take down the enemy." Stark grinned. "Maximum individual initiative. Does that sound like the Ethan Stark you knew?"

"Absolutely. It should be an interesting operation. Lieutenant Conroy and I will hold her company in readiness until we receive word from you."

"Thanks. And Lieutenant? Please let Corporal Gomez know I'm really looking forward to working with her again."

"Certainly, Commander."

Stark sweated out the full twenty-four hours Doctor Gafton had projected, plus three of the plus-or-minus-four-hours fudge factor Gafton had added on. When the ammo arrived, he examined the rifle magazines doubtfully. "They're sealed magazines. How can we be sure they're really nanobot rounds?"

Doctor Gafton offered up his characteristic eye blinks, then pointed to the magazine Stark was holding. "They are labeled with the appropriate ammunition designation."

"What if the label is wrong?"

"It shouldn't be. That would create problems."

Stark exhaled, looking toward Sergeant Gordasa. "Gordo?"

Gordasa smiled, gesturing to indicate the crate of rifle magazines. "I double-checked. Broke open a couple at random to verify contents. That cost you two magazines and forty rounds of this special ammo, but I figured it had to be done."

"It did. Thanks, Gordo. You're my kind of supply officer." Stark palmed his personal comm unit. "Sanch? Get Conroy and her people over here. We got some ass-kickin' to do."

Less than half an hour later, Corporal Gomez stood stern-faced before Stark, her hand held at a rigid salute. "The platoon is ready for action, Sargento."

Stark looked down the line of soldiers, noting familiar faces who were trying to suppress grins. He returned the salute. "Good to see you, Anita. We gotta get together more often."

"Maybe when we ain't getting' shot at, huh, Sargento? We gonna kick these mutineers' butts?"

"That's right." Stark waved all three platoons into seats, briefly explained the nanobot rounds, discussed the probable number of mutineers, then called up the floor plan for the Chamberlain Barracks and pointed out the barricades. "That's about all we know. You all have a copy of this floor plan in your Tacs."

"The tactical plan in there, too?" asked Sergeant Rosinski from Third Platoon.

"No." Stark waited a moment for the reaction to wind down.

"There ain't no plan, because we don't know enough to make one. So here's what you apes do. You go in there. You spread out and disarm everybody. If anybody starts shooting, you take 'em out with the nanobot rounds."

"But, where do we go?"

Stark waved at the floor plan. "Wherever you need to go. Listen, I'll explain so you'll see why I'm doing this." It was a habit Stark had been criticized for in the past, by officers annoyed at the time it took him to explain orders that his squad should have been executing without thinking about them. "Put yourself in the enemy's place. Somebody's attacking. What's the first thing you do?"

A pause, and then Corporal Gomez answered. "You figure out where they're putting most of their effort. The main attack, sí? So you send reinforcements to stop it."

"Right. Suppose instead of a main attack you've got about a hundred soldiers all moving independently?" Another pause, then soldiers around the room began smiling. "That's the idea. You're all vets. Break into fire teams, go individual if you need to, and spread out to check out every room of that barracks. Your rifles will be loaded with flash-bang grenades to help confuse anybody who needs confusing, and we'll be pumping some smoke into the barracks through the vents to hinder visibility a little. Not too much smoke, because we don't wanna suffocate anybody not in armor, but enough to help."

"So what are we doing while our troops run around by themselves?" Rosinski demanded.

"You're keeping an eye on them," Stark advised. "Somebody's gonna run into trouble. Maybe trapped, maybe facing too many defenders. You watch for that on your scans, and direct help where it's needed. Look, I know this is unconventional as hell, but we need two things to make sure we rescue the hostages without harm. The first is surprise and the second is speed. By spreading you guys through the barracks by every route possible we should be able to maintain both. Any questions?"

A corporal from First Platoon raised his hand. "We'll all be in the same armor as the mutineers. How do we know who's who?"

"We've tweaked the IFF in your outfits to give a special return so you'll know who other members of the company are. Any armor without the tweak that queries you will get a standard reply, so that should help confuse the bad guys a little. Hell. I almost forgot something real important. These nano rounds ain't lethal to anybody in armor. They shouldn't even penetrate the armor. But if you shoot one at an unarmored soldier the least you'll do is shock their nervous system bad. Don't fire at anybody who's not in armor."

"What if they're shooting at us, Sarge?" Private Chen from Stark's old squad asked.

"Then you get close enough to hit 'em over the head and take their weapon away." He saw the order didn't meet with great enthusiasm. "Sorry, people. That's the way it's gotta be. None of those mutineers are gonna be KIA because of something we did. And, yeah, in case you're thinking that's easy for me to say, don't forget I'll be right in there with you. I'm leading Second Platoon in. Walking through the front door."

Reaction rippled through the company, the members of Second Platoon grinning with delight. Then Conroy stood. "I'll be leading in First Platoon. The same way. Rosinski, you get Third Platoon all to yourself."

"Lucky me. I gotta walk in, too?"

"That's up to you. How's your command presence feel today?"

"It's been better. But it should be enough to handle a bunch of apes from Second Brigade."

"Good," Stark grunted. "Anything else?"

After a long moment, another corporal stood. "Sergeant. I gotta tell you, some of us are worried about these, uh, special rounds for the rifles."

"They'll work, Corporal. They've been tested on battle armor. Don't worry about that."

"With all due respect, that's not the worry." The corporal looked around, licking his lips at the stern, questioning expressions on the faces of the senior enlisted. "Some guys are wondering . . . well. . ."

"Spit it out."

"How do we know these ain't normal lethal rounds and we're going in there to really take down these guys permanent?" the corporal blurted.

Stark held up a hand to suppress the angry murmurs that followed the question. "I take it my word ain't good enough?" The corporal gulped, but shook his head. "Well, you got guts to ask that question. Who else is worried about that? Show me hands. I mean it." Slowly, hesitantly, another score of hands raised. Twenty. Twenty-one counting the corporal. I can't afford to leave that many people out of this op. The odds are too bad as it is. How can I reassure these guys? Breakin'open another magazine wouldn't convince them. What would? Oh. Well, if you gotta, you gotta.

Stark took four steps to the side, away from the display, sealed his armor's face shield, then turned to face the other soldiers again, spreading his arms out slightly. "Okay, you apes are worried about the nano rounds killing your buddies. So shoot 'em at me." Stark could feel the incredulity radiating from the company. "I mean it. I trust 'em enough to let you pump rounds into me if you want to. I can't give you any more assurance than that." And Anita, for God's sake don't you shoot the first soldier who raises a weapon at me.

No one did. The corporal grinned, nodded, and sat down. "That's good enough for me."

"Good." Stark raised his face shield again, relieved that he didn't have to worry about fitting himself into another set of battle armor on short notice. "Now, let's kick some butt."

"In a gentle, nonlethal fashion?" Sergeant Rosinski asked.

"Hell, you can beat on 'em all you want, 'Ski. Just don't shoot any of 'em if they ain't in armor."

Everything looked deceptively quiet at Chamberlain Barracks. The mutineer barricades resembled the piles of furniture dumped in the hallways whenever the solid lunar rock floors in the living quarters were resealed. It was just past normal dinner hour, when everyone should be relaxing. Stark glanced back at his platoon and smiled with an odd degree of contentment for someone about to walk head-on toward fidgety mutineers packing rifles loaded with bullets that would kill. "You ready, Corporal Gomez?"

"Sí. Feel's good, don't it? All us together again."

"Damn right. I wouldn't want any other squad, any other platoon with me, not if I could choose from anywhere and anytime." He felt a bit awkward after saying that, as if it were too much, but the truth behind it reassured him.

Stark checked the time, counting down the last seconds on his HUD. "Okay, everybody. Let's go. By the numbers." Gomez was right. It felt good, leading a small body of soldiers again, responsible for only a limited number of bodies in a limited area.

Stark unsealed his face shield, raising it fully so his face could be seen. Holding his rifle at loose port arms, he began walking toward the main entrance of the barracks. Above the door, an embossed image of a soldier, wearing a high-necked uniform adorned with stars on the collar, gazed severely downward, his big mustache seeming to droop in disapproval of the activity inside. So that's Chamberlain. A general, I guess. Wonder what he did, and when he did it? I oughta find out, someday.

The mutineers manning the barricade had noticed Stark's slow, casual progress. Rifles came up, aiming toward him. Twenty paces behind, the platoon followed, not in formation, not dispersed for combat, but ambling along in a nonthreatening manner. At the other entrances, he knew, Conroy and Rosinski were doing the same thing.

"Halt!" The command sounded firm enough, but Stark kept coming. "Halt! We'll shoot!"

Stark didn't halt, continuing his steady, measured pace, but he began talking. "This is Sergeant Ethan Stark. You know who I am, and you know you can trust me. I don't care what somebody else might have told you. I won't lie to you. Put down your weapons and nothing has to happen." Some of the rifle barrels wavered. "We've got plenty of real enemies out there. We don't need to be fighting each other. If you guys have got grievances, you'll get a hearing. I promise."

"He's lying!" The corporal apparently in charge of the barricade rounded on his troops. "You can't trust him. He's just out to be dictator, over our bodies! Our blood! How many of you have lost friends in one of Stark's little wars?"

The weapons aimed at Stark drifted a little further, none directly aimed at him now. That's it. Keep 'em talking. I'll just keep walking. Any second now they'll notice the platoon behind me. . . . "I don't start wars, Corporal. I end them. I'm trying to end the one we've been fighting up here. I don't see how fighting each other helps anyone but our enemies." He was almost at the barricade, measuring the hesitation among the mutineers. A couple more steps—

"Nail him!" the corporal ordered, but his fellow soldiers hesitated, looking at each other. The corporal cursed at his troops, then leveled his rifle at Stark. Okay. Game over. Stark jumped forward and to the side, keeping just high enough to clear the barricade, his rifle swinging to line up on the corporal as Stark fired a short burst directly into his target. He pulled his face shield shut as he dropped on the far side of the barricade, landing on his shoulder and bringing the weapon to bear on the mutineers from the back.

The near-silence of a moment earlier shattered into a million harsh sounds as some of the mutineers tried to target Stark while others returned fire at the members of Stark's platoon. The shock of rifle fire echoed from the walls, oddly disturbing to soldiers who'd grown used to combat in the airless silence of the Moon's exterior. Flash-bang grenades exploded with disorienting light and concussion effects. Most of the mutineers simply broke and ran, some leaving their weapons. Amid the confusion, Stark lay flat where his jump had landed him, carefully targeting each mutineer firing a weapon. Bullets sparked off the wall near his head, throwing chips of rock out in tiny sprays, then the soldier responsible stiffened and fell as Stark's own rounds caught him and froze his battle armor. Love those nanobots. His HUD screamed a warning, highlighting a mutineer fumbling with her weapon, and Stark dropped that one as well.

As quickly as it had erupted, the firelight ended, any remaining mobile mutineers dropping their weapons in surrender. "Anita! Detail a guard for these guys. Let's go!" Stark ran down the hall, his armor's microphones picking up the sounds of mutineers fleeing before him and the clatter of most of the platoon following in his wake. "Spread out when you hit intersecting corridors. Keep 'em guessing." He came up against a corner, breathing heavily, taking the barest moment to pull back his scan to see how the other platoons were doing. Rosinski's was apparently stalled near the loading dock, but Conroy's force was streaming into the barracks just like the platoon with Stark. That's one damn good lieutenant. Shows what you can do if you train an officer up right.

Stark went around the corner, hunched over and moving fast. Shots spanged into the rock around him as he rolled to the far wall. Behind him, other soldiers followed, returning the fire. He felt a thrill of fear, knowing he was too exposed, but unable to fall back without drawing more attention. Been out of tactical ops too long. Gotten rusty. Didn't think this one through. The only thing saving him was the apparent reluctance of the mutineers to risk being hit. They were keeping down and firing without aiming carefully.

"Sargento, you okay?"

"Yeah, Anita. But I ain't happy. Is there anybody in position to get behind those mutineers?"

"Sí. Any second now." A flurry of shots ahead of Stark, and then firing ceased as the small pocket of mutineers surrendered to the soldiers hitting them in the flank.

Stark surged back up despite the little voice in the back of his head insisting that he was being an idiot. Gotta get to Vic. If they're gonna shoot anybody, it'll be her. Another scan of the barracks as he ran down the hall along with a small group from Second Platoon. The symbols crawling through the 3-D representation of the barracks were frustratingly confusing. As Stark watched, a scattered patch of symbols tagged with First Platoon's ED converged on the red symbology representing the mutineers that were keeping Third Platoon tied down on the loading dock. The red symbols fell away rapidly, some freezing in place and marked as incapacitated, others lost as they ran into halls and rooms where the individual sensors on the battle armor couldn't spot them. "Corporal Gomez."

"Sí, Sargento."

"You've got some people close to the central comm relay for the barracks. If you take that, we can see anywhere in here again."

"I'm on it."

It was a very good thing to be able to trust someone so absolutely in combat. Stark put the comm relay out of his mind as he studied the diagram again, letting some of the other soldiers dash past him. Okay. Figure a big room so they can minimize the number of guards. A big room with only the two exits required by fire code. There were four possibilities, all briefing rooms. Stark headed for the nearest, watching for any surprises. He was alone now, the other soldiers from Second Platoon scattered in search of targets.

A pair of armored figures came around the corner. Everyone pointed weapons, but the tweaked IFF pronounced them members of First Platoon. "Sergeant Stark?"

"Yeah." Even as Stark answered, his HUD bloomed with new symbols as the barracks comm relay began forwarding data from every room to his battle armor. "You guys getting the full picture now, too?"

"Yessir. Hey, there's a couple of those Fifth Batt guys one room down."

"You take 'em. I'm heading the other way."

"No problem!" Stark left the others, heading down the hall with more confidence now that his HUD showed what must be most of the mutineers. I can't assume somebody hasn't worked some bypass on their room's sensors. Soldiers did that, to cover up illicit activity, or just the presence of a visitor sharing legal but intimate activity. The briefing rooms all showed blank, not bypassed, but openly disabled. So they are being used to hold people. And those people got unhappy enough about that to knock out the sensors. I'll bet that ticked off the "Enlisted Council.'

A briefing room far from Stark blossomed with detections, as some soldiers from Third Platoon burst in. "This place is full of privates," one reported. "Unarmed, looks like."

"Was the door locked from the outside?" Sergeant Rosinski demanded.

"That's affirmative, Sarge."

" 'Ski," Stark broke in. "It looks like maybe a company worth of enlisted in there. Those'll be some of the ones who didn't go along with the mutiny, but keep an eye on them until we're sure. There's probably another company locked up in another one of the briefing rooms. You copy, Lieutenant Conroy?"

"I copy. Any sign of the senior enlisted?"

"I think I'm about to find some," Stark replied, pausing outside the room he had been heading for. Inside, he could hear shouting, some of it amplified by battle armor and in the angry, panicked tones of a person who thought they were losing control of a situation.

Stark came through the door in a rush, sweeping the room with his rifle as he moved. In front of him, an armored figure hesitated, its IFF tagging it as a mutineer. Stark put a short burst into it, then pivoted to focus on where Vic Reynolds and a couple of other sergeants were struggling for the weapon of a second guard. "Get clear!" Stark bellowed over his outside speaker, and as the sergeants dropped away obediently Stark planted two rounds in the guard's armored chest. The guard tried to bring his own weapon around, then fell.

Stark scanned the room again, carefully, but saw no other threats. "Vic? That the only other guard?"

She was staring at him with a mixture of shock and outrage. "You just shot them both? That casually? What the hell—?"

"I asked you if those were the only guards, soldier!"

Vic stopped speaking, then nodded. "Yes. Those were the only two."

"Good." Stark checked his HUD for any signs of other mutineers in the area, but the few red symbols still active were some distance away. He leaned over the second guard. "Don't get all in an uproar, Vic. He ain't hurt for real." Unsealing the guard's face shield, Stark revealed a sweating face with wide eyes. "Mind you, if this clown had killed anybody in here, I might've left him in his armor until he starved to death."

Private Billings from Stark's old squad came storming in, her weapon at the ready, then halted, sweeping the room. "You okay, Sarge?"

"Yeah, I'm okay."

"Wow. Thanks. Corporal Gomez would've eaten me alive if anything'd happened to you."

"What? Explain that."

"Uh . . . well, Corporal Gomez told me to stick with you no matter what and make sure you didn't get hurt. But I lost you during one of the firefights. You move awful fast for an old guy, Sarge."

"Thanks a lot. You and Gomez oughta know I can take care of myself."

"Okay, Sarge. Um, they're doing a sweep through the rooms, so I guess I should—"

"Yeah. Go ahead. And, Billings?" She paused in mid-step. "Thanks. I mean it. See you around."

"Sure thing, Sarge." Billings headed out of the room, already back in combat mode as she reached the hall.

Vic was on one knee, examining both guards. "Their suits are disabled. What the hell kind of bullets are you using?"

"Something special we were putting together for some guests we're expecting. They turned out to be handy for this little mess, as well." He glared at her. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

She flinched. "I'm very sorry, Ethan. I should have known you wouldn't have done that, not unless it was absolutely necessary."

"Yeah, you should have. Who're the rest of you guys?" They seemed to be mostly sergeants, with a scattering of corporals.

One strode forward. "The senior enlisted from Fifth Battalion. Most of them, anyway. We owe you an apology, too, Stark. This never should've happened. We should've seen it coming, and we should've stopped it."

"We'll figure out how it happened later. You said you're most of the senior enlisted? Where's the others? The only guy I've talked to is a corporal named Hostler."

"Hostler? Oh, man, wait'll I get my hands on that sorry little sack of—"

"Lieutenant Conroy," Stark called over the command circuit. "Anybody pick up Corporal Hostler yet?"

"Yes, Commander. One of Rosinski's people caught him trying to sneak out of the barracks. He's currently in Sergeant Yurivan's custody."

"Yurivan? How'd she get him so fast?"

"She came in with me, Commander. Showed up at the last minute and said she ought to walk along with me since she was from Fifth Battalion originally and probably knew the soldiers manning the barricade. It worked. We took the barricade without a shot. After that, things got hot, though."

"So I saw. I think I've got all the loyal senior enlisted in here. Anybody else you pick up was probably in on the mutiny." Stark scanned his Tactical display one more time, noting the lack of ongoing combat, then unsealed his own face shield and raised it so he could speak directly to the soldiers in the room with him. "You guys'll have to wait to work over Hostler, I'm afraid. Sergeant Yurivan's got him at the moment."

"Stacey?" The Fifth Battalion sergeant grinned. "Oh, man. Hostler ain't gonna enjoy that." His smile faded. "But he ain't behind this. Not enough brains and not enough guts. Nobody's told us, but we figure at least some of the sergeants who ain't in here with us were involved."

"By any chance are any of these missing sergeants friends of a guy named Kalnick?"

"You got it. We wanta talk to them, too. Unless Stacey's planning on working them over when she's done with Hostler."

"I'm sure she's looking forward to it, but I'll see what I can do. Speaking of which . . ." Lieutenant Conroy entered, along with four soldiers from First Platoon, escorting several sergeants. "Where'd you find these?"

"A couple were in battle armor. After we disabled it, we pried them out to bring them to you. The others were hiding in one of the conference rooms. I guess that was their headquarters."

"Do tell." Stark lowered his face shield long enough to check his HUD. "I read all rooms secure and no remaining resistance. You concur, Lieutenant?"

"Yessir."

"Any casualties?"

"A couple wounded and four disabled by friendly fire. The mutineers mainly fired wildly, from what I saw."

"Me, too." Stark switched circuits. "Sergeant Shwartz, Chamberlain Barracks is secured. Send in the Military Police on standby to take custody of the building and our prisoners. Oh, yeah. Nobody's hurt except a couple of our people who were wounded. Tell anybody and everybody that." Another switch, to the command center. "Sergeant Tran. Broadcast to all locations that the mutiny has been ended, order has been restored, and none of the mutineers were injured." Not seriously, anyway. Though I'm not taking bets on what might happen when these sergeants get their hands on some of those mutineers. "Get the word out." He turned to Lieutenant Conroy. "Turn over the building to the MPs and put your company on liberty. Turn 'em loose as fast as you can."

"Commander Stark, standard debriefing—"

"We'll do a debrief later, Lieutenant. I need your soldiers out and about boasting how they took down these mutineers without hurting any of them."

"Ah." Conroy nodded. "I understand." She moved away, passing on Stark's orders to her platoon leaders.

Stark finally focused on the bedraggled sergeants who had been behind the mutiny. "Game over, ladies and gentlemen. You should've known better than to listen to Kalnick." A couple of them jerked in involuntary reaction. "Yeah, we know he helped start this. Now you're expecting to get the hell kicked out of you and then some firing squads, right?" Faces settled in lines of fear or determination, depending on the individual. "Well, I ain't gonna give you the satisfaction. That'd make you martyrs, wouldn't it? No, you're going to be locked up. Anybody who sings about the people behind this gets better treatment. Anybody who doesn't, gets forgotten in their cells for a while so I can deal with more important things. Forgotten by me, anyway. I'm sure Sergeant Yurivan will want some interviews to help you pass the time. Is that clear? Think about it."

Stark began turning to face the other sergeants, then pivoted back. "Oh, one more thing. If even one of my people had been killed as a result of this nonsense I'd have personally torn you all apart." A group of MPs entered, their leader saluting Stark. "Get these people out of my sight. Lock 'em down tight."

"Yessir. Uh, we're going to need a list of the charges against each individual. That's paperwork required by the stockade."

"You'll get one." He faced the other Fifth Battalion sergeants, not trying to hide his regret. "I hope you'll all understand that we've got to go through everybody in this barracks and make sure they weren't involved in the mutiny. I don't expect anyone in here to have problems proving that, but I have to keep you in the barracks until we've done the investigations. There's a sweep going through now searching for any weapons or stragglers from the guys who fought us. After that, you guys can go back to your quarters. We'll let you know when you can move about freely again. Any questions?"

None of them looked happy, but no one objected. The Fifth Battalion sergeant who'd spoken to Stark stiffened into attention and saluted. "We understand. We do ask that we be consulted on the new leadership for the battalion."

"New leadership?" Stark shook his head. "Whoever set this up was good enough to keep it hidden from everybody. You guys who didn't go along with the mutiny can expect to return to the same positions you've held, unless I get reports of anything especially negative about any particular individual." And I know you'll be trying ten times as hard to do your jobs well to help make up for this mutiny happening under your noses. Motivation was motivation, and Stark had no intention of throwing away people who had every reason to work hard in the future.

Relieved smiles spread across the faces before Stark. "You won't regret that, Stark. I knew that crap they were trying to tell us about you wasn't true."

Vic cleared her throat. "Am I confined to the barracks as well? You said everyone here was to be interviewed."

Stark gave her a level look. "No. Since you weren't here when the mutiny started, I guess we can assume you weren't involved. Now, I've gotta get back to the command center to make sure any fallout from this mess is handled right." He headed out without waiting for her.

Vic caught up before he left the building. "Ethan, I said I was sorry. It was unpardonable of me to berate you in front of the other noncommissioned officers, and inexcusable for me to fail to focus on your proper concern over the possible presence of additional guards."

"What about thinking I'd gun down fellow soldiers like I was taking a walk in the park? You sorry for thinking that?"

"I already said so. But you are a very hard man when you think you have to be, Ethan Stark."

Stark had never seen Vic look so contrite. Maybe she'll feel guilty and cut me a little slack for a while. "That's okay, I guess."

"Now what the hell were you doing leading this operation in person?"

That sure didn't last long. "I had good reasons. But the biggest one was that I wasn't gonna send people into a fight to maintain my authority without making a last personal effort to shut the mutiny down without a fight. And if it came to a fight, I was damned if I'd let someone else run all the risks."

"Ethan. . ." Vic rubbed her forehead, looking pained. "Oh, hell. What can I say? That's how you are. It'll probably get you killed some day, and I'll be there saying damnit-I-told-you-so. and they'll build a monument to you because you died doing something so flipping noble and self-sacrificing."

"Don't you ever let them build a monument to me."

"It'll be a big one, Ethan. Fountains and towers and pillars and a huge statue of you gazing up at the heavens—"

"Don't you dare!" He gave her a smile. "How was it in there? Bad?"

"It wasn't good. They thought they had you over a barrel. I could tell by the way the guards were acting. There's something about being locked up under guard, Ethan. Something ugly."

"I bet. I'm glad you made it out in one piece."

"Me, too."

 

Stark reviewed the last of the paperwork relating to the mutiny. Yurivan's interrogations had produced plenty of results, but all of them had ultimately led nowhere. Contacts who had encouraged the mutiny turned out to be people who apparently didn't exist in any record system and couldn't be found. Kalnick's name had been used freely, but actual evidence against him simply didn't exist. Well, we knew the people working against us were professionals. The mutineers had been promised many things, most notably amnesty for themselves for any acts relating to the original rebellion led by Stark, and extensive external support once the mutiny was under way. The external support hadn't materialized, either because the mutiny had been so limited or because the support had never actually been planned.

The mutineers had been carefully screened, with many of the privates given administrative punishment if their participation had been minimal. That left maybe thirty soldiers in the stockade for charges ranging from leading the mutiny to firing on the force Stark and Conroy had led into the building. What am I going to do with them? I don't want to hold that many court-martials, but I don't want them all locked up indefinitely. That wouldn't be right or legal. Hmmm. I bet there's still plenty of family members of soldiers up here that we can swap them for, if the authorities back home are still willing to deal That'll get them off my hands and get us some more people we do want, which won't hurt morale any.

His comm unit buzzed. Stark closed out the mutiny records with a sense of relief then keyed his display to receive the incoming call. The screen cleared to show the face of Colony Manager Campbell, looking more than a little bemused. "Sergeant Stark, I assume you're aware that one of the official shuttles has just arrived for the continuation of our talks, not that we're expecting any results."

"Yes, sir. I knew one was coming in. The last I heard it didn't have any military representatives so I didn't need any presence at the meeting. But there is something we need to raise."

"Oh? What's that?"

"That mutiny I dealt with. I've got thirty soldiers who were too heavily involved to just let off easy, and I don't want them stuck in cells up here. Can you guys work another swap like we did with the officers?"

"Certainly, Sergeant Stark. It's not too late for me to raise that during our talks. Thirty, you said? I'm sure we can get something worked out. But I called you because the official shuttle brought a visitor along. An unexpected visitor."

Stark raised his eyebrows. "Somebody I need to know about?"

"I assume so, Sergeant. He says he's your father."

Thirty minutes later, Stark stood fidgeting at Sentry Post One at the main entrance to the military complex. He'd put on a clean uniform, and Vic had gone over it to make sure he looked decent. "It's not every day you meet your dad," she remarked.

"Vic, I haven't seen my dad since I enlisted in the mil. He was mad as hell at me, told me I was an idiot to join, and we hadn't even talked after that until about a year ago. Since then it's only been a couple of pieces of mail."

"I know, Ethan. So what's he doing here, on the official shuttle with the latest batch of non-negotiators?"

"I guess I'll find out in a few minutes."

"Do you need me along? Never mind. You wouldn't know until you meet him. I'll be in the command center if you want me."

"Thanks." Now Stark was waiting for a man he hadn't seen in person since Stark had been barely out of his teens. A small group of figures appeared down the hallway leading to the sentry post. Stark recognized Cheryl Sarafina first, leading the group. In the back, he saw two Colony security guards who had accompanied Campbell in the past. Finally, as the group got closer, Stark recognized the man they were escorting, holding onto an arm or shoulder whenever he wobbled in the low gravity. The group came to a halt before him, and Stark stood tongue-tied, having completely failed to think up in advance some way of saying hello in person to his long-estranged father.

The silence stretched for a long moment, then Sarafina smiled politely, as if she recognized what was going on. "Sergeant Stark. This is your father."

The innocuous words broke the ice. Stark reached to shake his father's hand. "Dad. Good to see you."

His father took his hand, moving with the exaggerated care of someone new to lunar gravity who mistrusts his every move. "Good to see you, son."

"You have a good trip?"

"Not bad. I've had worse."

Sarafina seemed to be fighting down another smile. "I can tell this is a very emotional moment for you both. We'll wait here for your father, Sergeant Stark."

"Okay. Thanks. I appreciate you bringing him in." He held out his hand to his father again. "Do you, um, need a hand with balance or anything?"

His father waved the hand away, though his expression was uncertain. "I think I can manage. Try to keep your speed down, though."

"No problem." They moved past the sentry post, the sentries on duty snapping to attention and rendering salutes as Stark passed. He returned the salutes with unusual care. "He's with me," Stark assured the sentries.

They went a few paces in silence, then his father spoke. "Why did they do that?"

"Huh?" Stark glanced over at his father, puzzled. "Do what?"

"That jumping up and saluting stuff. Did they do that for you?"

"Sure. That's standard military courtesy."

"I see a lot of military people passing each other, and they aren't doing that."

"They did that with me because I'm their commander," Stark explained.

"The boss, you mean. So you're the boss here? Of how much?"

"Uh, everything." Stark gestured to take in the hallway. "This place. These people. Everybody and everything military that's defending the Colony."

"Everything?" His father looked around, an unreadable expression now on his face. "Well."

"Yeah." I gotta get Vic. This is too clumsy. We don't know how to talk. But, then, we never did. "Let me show you the command center first."

"Alright." His father followed obediently through the hallways, occasionally raising his eyebrows as a passing soldier saluted Stark.

Stark palmed the access to the command center, trying to avoid looking at the new metal of the door that remained a painful reminder of the raid on his headquarters that had cost a number of lives. "This is, uh, the command center."

"So you said." His father peered around. "Pretty impressive gear. Some of it looks like it's been damaged, though. Surely it's not secondhand?"

"Uh, no. There was an attack here. Right here. We had to fight it off behind these consoles. They've been repaired since then. Like the door."

"Oh." His father seemed momentarily at a loss for words. "I remember, now. We heard about it."

"Ethan." Vic came forward. "You have a visitor?"

"Yeah. This is my dad. Dad, this is Vic Reynolds. She's a real good friend. She's also second in command here and a real good tactical thinker."

"A pleasure," his father beamed, leaning slightly to look at Vic's shoulders where her stripes were displayed. "You are also an, uh, sergeant?"

"That's right."

"But you are my son's assistant?"

Stark flinched at the term but Vic merely smiled. "You might say that. My main job seems to be trying to keep him out of trouble. It's an endless task."

"I imagine so! You and I can probably swap some hair-raising tales about that. You sent Ethan's mother and I a letter once, didn't you?"

"I did." She smiled again, then hooked a thumb toward the door. "Why don't we go somewhere quiet to talk, Ethan?"

"Sure." I don't believe it. Five seconds with him and she's got my dad talking like he's an old friend. "After you."

Vic led the way to the rec room nearest Stark's quarters, getting coffee as the others sat. His father peered around at the small space and its rock walls. "This is where you work?"

"Sometimes," Stark admitted. "My room's just around the corner from here. It's about the same size."

"Really? As a boy, you always complained your room was too small. This is smaller than that."

Stark felt himself flushing at the memory. "I bitched a lot more than I should have. You and Mom did a helluva lot for me. And taught me a lot of important things."

"I guess we did, though I admit I can't recall just when we taught you to stage revolutions and overthrow governments."

Stark winced. "I can't blame that on you."

"Don't look at me," Vic added. "It's not my fault." She turned to Stark's father, face serious. "I'm sorry, sir, but I must ask you something directly. What brings you here? The government has banned unofficial travel up here, yet you arrived on the shuttle bringing an official negotiating party."

"I was wondering when someone would ask me that." He stared at the floor for a moment, his face reflecting anger. "To put it simply, I'm here to try to convince Ethan that he should give up. Surrender. Accept whatever offer he gets from the government before anyone else gets hurt."

"I see. You don't appear to be happy with that mission."

"I'm not. I happen to be very proud of what my son has done. I've had to spend my life kissing the butts of people who think they're better than me. My son has now kicked those butts nice and hard. And from all I've been able to tell, he didn't do it to get anything for himself, but just to help others."

An awkward silence reigned for a moment. "Hell, Dad," Stark noted, "you never let people walk on you."

"Yes, I did! I'm doing it now by coming here! Not that I had much choice. Your mother's ill. I'm sorry. We hadn't told you. You have enough to worry about, and you'd probably think it was a government trick anyway. No, she's in pretty bad shape, but it can be treated successfully. High odds of remission, they say. If the treatment is approved. Do you know who has to approve the treatment, Ethan?"

"Let me guess."

"Correct. A government official. They'll do it, they say, but I was told it would certainly expedite any decision if I came up here and begged you to give up."

"Bastards." Stark slammed one fist against the wall, oblivious to the blood spotting his knuckles afterward. "I guess Mom's just one more little guy who doesn't count, except when the bosses can use them. Well, hell, tell the government you begged me on your knees and I refused to listen at all. I mean it. If they think they can get to me through Mom they might try some other games with her treatment."

"You're probably right," his father sighed, noticing his coffee for the first time and taking a drink, then twitching in involuntary reaction. "This stuff is awful. This is what you have to drink thanks to the blockade?"

"Nah. This is what the government always gives us. Standard military coffee."

"You ought to try the beer," Vic suggested. "It makes the coffee taste good by comparison."

"I'll take your word for it." Stark's father took another cautious sip, then shuddered. "Well, I've had my say, and I'm sure you want to get rid of me, now."

"No," Stark protested. "Dad, I know you've only got a little while, but you don't have to rush off."

"Thank you." He glanced around, puzzled. "Is it safe here? We've been told you're under siege, your defenses crumbling. But, none of you seem worried at all."

"We're worried. No one knows how things will work out in the end. But we're not crumbling. No way. We've taken everything the government's thrown at us so far and broken it into little pieces."

"There was a tremendous explosion on the Moon a few months ago. A lot of people saw it. The government said it was in the Colony, but there's a lot of people who claim the explosion was outside the Colony."

"It was. We caused it. Blew up a lot of ammunition the government had sent up here."

"You did?" His father laughed. "Serves them right. So, you're safe? You've defeated every attack?"

"I don't want to make it sound too cut and dried. We've been lucky a few times," Stark hedged. "Sometimes it's been pretty close. And we've lost people."

"Lost them? How?"

It took Stark a moment to realize his father truly didn't understand what the term 'lost' meant in the case of a soldier. "Killed, Dad. They've been killed fighting up here."

"Oh." Stark's father ducked his head to hide his embarrassment. "I'm . . . I'm sorry. I really didn't—"

"I know. That's okay."

"But you still seem confident, if I'm any judge of people. Everyone I've seen here seems confident."

Stark pondered the statement, then shrugged. "Yeah. That's right. Truth be told, I think we could grab a lot of extra territory if we wanted it."

"Extra territory?" Stark's father's eyebrows rose, then lowered into a frown. "But the military situation up here has been stalemated for years. That's what the government kept telling us. Were they lying?"

"No. Not about that. It's just the way we were fighting, the way they were telling us to fight, that kept us from breaking the stalemate. Everything was too rigid, too preplanned all to hell and gone, too much micromanagement of the guys with weapons from people way behind the front line. When we got rid of the people behind the front, and managed to survive long enough, we figured out how to do it better."

"I'm not sure I understand. You mean you can, what's the word, command better now?" His father leaned forward, intent on the question.

Stark rubbed his forehead, arranging his thoughts. "Everything's been top down in the past, Dad. You know, just like in civ, uh, civilian jobs. The big boss tells little bosses who tell littler bosses who tell somebody else until you finally get to the apes who do the actual job, and then they're expected to do exactly as told. Oh, there's always talk about letting the guys doing the job have a lot of input, but it never happens much because too few bosses want to share information or authority. It's been that way since forever, I guess, and maybe it had to work that way because only the big boss could collect all the data and maybe understand what was going down."

His father frowned again, this time thoughtfully, then nodded. "Of course. Every system I've seen functions the same way. They collect information and funnel it to what you call the boss, which is whoever is allowed to make decisions. Then the boss uses the same system in reverse to tell everyone what to do."

"But why does some guy at the top have to decide everything?" Stark stood, pacing back and forth as he spoke, the long, low lunar-gravity steps carrying him almost across the room with every stride. "Maybe in the old days, yeah, that had to happen. But now every grunt can know as much as the guy at the top. They've got access to the same data, even though the bosses are usually trying to block them from seeing it because they claim low-level guys can't understand things. We're mushrooms, right? Keep us in the dark and feed us crap."

His father laughed. "I hadn't heard that one before."

"But you know," Stark continued, "maybe now a low-level guy like you or me can understand some or all of that information better, because we're right there where things are happening, not somewhere way behind the front where you can't feel stuff."

"Feel stuff?"

"Yeah. You know. It's not what you're being told, or what your sensors say, it's how the troops feel, how the enemy's reacting, how the ground feels to you right there. And you can't get that through a data stream. No way." Stark paused, his hands moving as if forming his words in the air before him. "So we tried it different. We've let the guys on the scene call the shots. Change the plan if they want. Go for what seems best."

"But. . . I thought the purpose of a plan was to achieve a desired end."

"It should be! But the plan always turns into the be-all and end-all. A little thing like the objective gets lost in all the planning, and everybody ends up worrying about jumping through every hoop in the plan. You can plan something to death, Dad. Until you've got everything every person has to do spelled out, right down to the times when they get a latrine break. Then you ask them what they're trying to accomplish, and all they can do is point to the plan. "

"Hmmm." His father looked toward Vic for her opinion.

"It may sound crazy," she assured him, "but it works. The whole historical basis for military action has been massing defending forces against whatever point the enemy is attacking. If the attacking force is moving forward as dozens or hundreds of autonomously operating units, yet thanks to our technology is able to still coordinate the actions of each one of those units when necessary, it makes it almost impossible to identify the main attack. It's like trying to stop water with your hands."

"Right. Because there isn't a main attack," Stark elaborated. "We tried this in its purest form during an, uh, recent problem up here. Put a bunch of troops into a building held by hostile forces and let them just run where they liked. The bad guys tried to organize a response but couldn't figure out where to react."

"I see," Stark's father replied, though his tone remained doubtful. "I take it you're saying you can now defeat any other military force?"

"I think so. Yeah. If we wanted to."

His father looked even unhappier. "And your primary enemy now is the U.S. government."

"I guess so."

"Then I suppose you're planning to attack that, aren't you?"

The question caught Stark by surprise. He was sure his reaction showed on his face, but he denied it verbally anyway. "I ain't doing that. I'm not launching any attacks on the U.S."

"If he did," Vic added, "I wouldn't help him."

His father pursed his lips, eyes searching Stark's face. "You know you can't win that way. I may not be some military hotshot, but I know sports, at least. If all you do is let the other guy try to win while you only try to stop him, sooner or later that other guy will win."

"Dad, sometimes winning ain't worth the price you'd pay for victory. Those people, the civs back in America, they depend on us to protect them. They've done one lousy job of saying 'thanks' in the past, but that don't matter. I'm not gonna win this war if it means hitting them. Or if it means hitting the government that they're still supporting. It sucks, but that's all there is to it. Pardon my language."

"We're all adults here, son. What about your people, then, Ethan? What about all the soldiers who are following you? You realize you're possibly condemning them to an endless and ultimately losing war?"

"Yeah." Stark stared back stubbornly. "I've always kept the faith with the people I'm responsible for. In this case, that means I can't lead these apes into an attack on our home and feel I've done what's right. And we're all responsible for keeping the faith with those civs, to protect them. Nothing we've done so far really hurts the Constitution, and that's what we're sworn to uphold. If we go in to physically take down the government, we've ripped up that piece of paper. I won't do it, and I won't lead other soldiers to do it. If they don't like it, they can choose another boss."

His father smiled. "That was the big question in my mind, and in the minds of a lot of other people back home. What's this Stark guy have in mind? And I didn't know, son. I knew the boy who left home a long time ago, but I wasn't sure how he'd changed. Now, I know. I'll make sure a lot of other people know, too."

Vic chuckled. "It sounds like the government's plan to use you against Ethan is going to backfire."

"It does, doesn't it, Ms. Reynolds? Serves them right."

"Uh, Dad," Stark advised. "That should be sergeant. Sergeant Reynolds."

"I'm sorry! I just have trouble seeing such a nice, young lady as being in the same line of work as you. Uh, that is—"

"Don't worry, Dad. I know what you meant."

"Me, too," Vic stated. " 'Nice, young lady,' huh? You've got a real perceptive father, Ethan."

"Sure. He just thinks that because he's never seen you lead a squad of ground apes as you shred an enemy force into little quivering pieces."

"A girl has a right to have some fun in life, Ethan." Vic checked the time on the nearest display. "I think we need to let you go, Mr. Stark. I'll escort you back to the landing field so you can catch that shuttle when the official delegation leaves."

Stark shook his head. "Vic, Cheryl Sarafina's waiting at Sentry Post One to take him back to the shuttle. I oughta go along—"

"No, you don't." She pointed a firm finger his way. "You don't go near an official shuttle that's packing who knows what possible weapons. I'm not offering our enemies that attractive and valuable a target. Now say good-bye to your father."

"Yessir," Stark grumbled. "Sorry, Dad. Vic's right."

"She sounds a lot like your mother."

"Don't say that. I'm really glad I could see you. Say hi to Mom, and tell her I really hope she's well soon. I hope everything works out so I can get down there again. Someday."

"I think if anybody can make that happen, it will be you. If not, at least you tried. Good luck." They shook hands again, then his father was gone. Stark sat for a long time afterward, sipping the cold, bitter coffee before him, until Vic returned and sat down again.

She glanced over at the monitor he'd activated, displaying a view of barren lunar landscape without signs of human activity. Dead rocks. No air. Dust. "You seem depressed. That view isn't going to help things."

"No, but it's not hurting, either. I've been thinking. Something came up while you were a hostage of those mutineers. I meant to ask you about it right away but then forgot."

"So ask."

"The civ scientist who developed those special rounds for taking out the Jabberwocks. He had an implant that tied him in to his lab's net. That seemed to spook a lot of people, including Stacey Yurivan, and she don't spook easy." Stark stopped speaking as he watched Vic's face seem to ice over. "Obviously it ain't something you like, either. What's the deal? Why does talk of implants make everyone act like they've been snakebit?"

She turned her head enough to frown in his direction, then gazed back out over the dead lunar landscape again. "I guess you wouldn't know. Not with being raised as a civ. Everybody in the mil does, but it happened a generation ago, and I don't expect civs ever heard much about it. Classified forever, you know. But it's the sort of horror story mil kids learn and don't forget."

Vic's tone held less warmth than the emptiness outside on the surface, causing Stark to shiver involuntarily. "What was it?"

The reply was a long time coming, then Reynolds spoke with flat, emotionless words. "They created a special experimental unit. All the latest super gizmos to enhance everything. Implants in all the best places. Infrared sensors in the eyes, stuff to speed up reaction time, stuff to keep the heart pumping fast and furious, stuff to boost muscle strength, stuff to fix injuries from inside real fast. Super soldiers. They really kicked butt the first couple of times they went out. Then the opposition figured out what they were up against and cooked up countermeasures."

Vic's words halted again. "Countermeasures?" Stark prodded.

"Yes. Anything that can be programmed can be reprogrammed, right? I remember we talked about that during the meeting where we heard about the Jabberwocks. Well, every implant has instructions programmed or hardwired in that tell it how to do its job."

"Like the metal-heads."

"Like the metal-heads. So the opposition manufactured nanobots. Lots of them. They're cheap. Some were designed to open holes through suit filters to let other nanos in. The guys with the implants breathed in the others. Some nanos reprogrammed implants. Some fused with the hardwired stuff and took them over."

Stark shivered again. "No."

"Yes. They died in different ways, depending on which nano viruses activated first. Some of the soldiers went blind, then their hearts stopped. Some had their nervous systems short out."

"Jesus." The single word encompassed a prayer for long-dead soldiers who'd never had a chance. Stark took a deep breath as Vic stopped speaking once more. "They all die that way?"

"Not all of them. A few further back realized what was happening. Knew they were doomed. They killed every one of their stricken fellows they could target, then they turned their weapons on themselves."

"Oh, my God." Stark shuddered, trying to block the image from his mind. "No wonder. So how come our use of nanobots seems to be new to a lot of people?"

"I imagine because people stopped using targetable implants. And our armor is self-contained, you'll notice, so the nanos used back then couldn't enter through any filters. The technology to fire them into a target and keep them functioning didn't exist earlier, either. So people stopped using them, and thinking about them. Until now."

"Vic, pardon me for asking, but you seem to take this harder than the others. Like it's personal. Did you—?"

"Don't go there, Ethan."

"Okay." He stared at the wall helplessly, knowing he didn't have the words he needed. "Uh, so why don't civs have implants?"

"I thought a civ would know." She shifted her head to gaze at him. "But I bet the reason got suppressed to avoid copycat problems."

"I dunno. Like I said, I never thought about implants that much. Or heard much about them."

"No one's encouraged to think about them. In the case of civs, it was the Joker Virus. That happened well before the nanobot massacre. I read about it in a classified study. Basically, way back when a lot of science types had implants that allowed direct comms between their brains and the net. Remote programming and stuff. But that junk has to work two ways if it's going to work at all. Some psycho hacker with a grudge against college professors put together a computer virus inspired by his favorite comic book character. It ran through the comm link and added a subprogram to their brain implants that started sending commands into part of their brains. All the profs started laughing so hard they spasmed to death. There'd been hacker games with viruses before, like one that made people with implants act like they were drunk, but nothing like the Joker Virus. After that, nobody wanted implants. Police and emergency personnel even had their communication implants removed. Those were only for back-and-forth communications, but everybody started worrying you could mess up brains with sound pulses or something." She stared toward the view of lunar emptiness. "So, now you know."

"You keep telling me things I don't really want to know. One of these days I'll figure out I should stop asking."

"Maybe. I'm not holding my breath until then."

"Thanks." Stark brooded along with her for a while, his thoughts cascading randomly. "Vic, you think we'll ever build something we can't destroy or turn into a weapon? Something humans won't figure out a way to mess up?"

"No. That would mean we were better at creating things than we were at destroying them. As far as I can tell humans are just too damn good at destroying things for that to ever happen."

"You know, people wonder why, if there's aliens from other stars out there, they haven't contacted us. Maybe the aliens are afraid."

"You might have something there. Humans might be the hands-down best at destroying things." She paused. "I guess it's good to be the best at something, but that's not the 'something' I would have picked."

"Me, neither." Stark reached a decision, leaning toward the vid screen and keying in a command. The ugly, blasted lunar landscape vanished, replaced by a green meadow, dotted with flowers and framed by trees lit by an unseen sun. In the foreground, a multitude of cute, fluffy bunny rabbits frolicked.

"What in the hell is this?" Vic demanded. "It's revolting."

"Nah, it's cute."

"I hate cute. Can't I be moody in peace?"

"No. Either snap out of it, or I'll make you watch the bunnies."

"Sadist." Vic suddenly started laughing. "You realize that the next time you're moping around I'm going to call up this same scene."

"No, you won't. I have it locked under my own access code."

"You planned this? Ethan Stark, I swear I'll get even."

"You can try." He gripped her hand for a moment. "You're always telling me not to live in the past. That's good advice."

"I know. And thank you. But I'll get even anyway."

Stark stared at his message queue, dreading one from medical tagged for his personal attention. He almost avoided looking at it, then noticed the incongruous presence of a smiley emoticon at the end of the originator line. The message turned out to be extremely brief, just three words, yet it held more meaning for Stark than all the novels he had ever read. "Private Murphy's awake." It only took a second for Stark to recover from his shock and head for medical.

Even though it was past normal working hours, the tired-eyed medic was waiting for him, a ghost of a smile on her face. She wagged her head toward Murphy's bed. "Miracles happen. You owe one to the Big Guy upstairs."

"I owe that Big Guy a lot more than one. Can I see Murphy?"

"Sure. He's healthy. He's been healthy. But he's probably still a little disoriented, and he's definitely weak from lying in bed so long. There's only so much passive exercise you can accomplish on a body. So take it slow."

"Got it. Thanks, Doc. Thanks more than I can say."

"I didn't do it, Sergeant. Your boy there did. Thank him." Stark walked quietly to the bed, but his footsteps were still noticeable. Murphy turned his head to look, smiling when he saw Stark coming.

Stark sat carefully next to the bed, studying Murphy's face. The soldier appeared to have aged, the seemingly perpetual boyish curves in his face somehow now flattened into the harsher planes and angles of maturity. His smile, too, wasn't quite the same. It seemed slightly restrained, as if Murphy had seen too much to ever give in to simple joy again. "Hey, Murph. Welcome back."

"Hey, Sarge." Murphy's voice sounded rusty from disuse. "They tell me you came by a lot when I was out of it."

"I visited a few times. Not often enough, but, you know, there's been a lot goin' on."

"Yeah, Sarge. I understand. I guess I had everyone worried."

Stark nodded, smiling. "You sure did. You've overslept before, Murph, but never that bad."

"Hah! Same old Sarge, huh?"

"Mostly. I've got a few more scars, inside and out. Just like you, I expect." Stark left the last sentence hanging, offering Murphy an opening if he wanted to talk about his experience.

He did. Murphy licked his lips nervously, then glanced upward. "I did a lot of thinking, Sarge, when I was out of it. A lot of talking."

"Talking? Who'd you talk to, Murph?"

"Her. Mostly."

Stark fought to keep his face fixed in a calm expression. "You mean Robin?" Murphy's civ girlfriend, killed in the raid on Stark's headquarters, which had also nearly killed Murphy himself.

"Yeah, Sarge. I know she's dead. I did my best to save her, but I guess that wasn't good enough."

"Murph, you personally nailed a whole group of those raiders. You did more than anyone could have imagined doing."

Murphy looked embarrassed by the praise. "I wanted revenge, Sarge. I wanted to get even. At first, I was like, gonna kill 'em all once I woke up. She told me that was wrong."

Stark nodded.

"And she was right. Any idiot can pick up a gun and try to kill people. Oh, sure, some people are real good at it, but it don't prove nothin'. Right, Sarge?"

"Not if you're killing just to kill."

"Right, Sarge," Murphy repeated. "So I'm gonna do different. I'm gonna spend the rest of my life tryin' to save people. Like you, Sarge. I never realized before, all the risks you took for us. How hard you worked to keep us alive. I wanna do the same."

"That's nice, Murph." Stark hesitated, looking down for a moment, then gazed back up at Murphy's anxious face. "It's a real good thing to wanna do with your life. But it's hard, Murph. Real hard, sometimes. Takes you places you don't wanna go. Makes you do things you don't wanna do."

"Like you, Sarge? But that's the point, ain't it? Doin' what you wanna do is the easy way. She told me, make it matter. Make it mean somethin'. I'm gonna do that, Sarge."

Stark stared back wordlessly, remembering his own past, the dead scattered across the surface of both the Earth and her Moon. His unit dying on Patterson's Knoll, Corporal Kate Stein among them, ordering him to safety with her last breaths. His own vow to save others the same fate. And now Murph had his own Patterson's Knoll to carry around inside judging his every action. It ain't fair to the kid. He wasn't the greatest soldier under the sun, but he was a good kid. Now the kid's gone, I think. But I can't change his mind. Not gonna try. I know how it is. Only thing I can do is keep watching him and help him handle it. "That's a real good goal in life, Murph."

"Sarge? Last I knew, the squad needed a new corporal, what with Gomez moving up. Can I apply for that?"

Stark blinked in disbelief. "Sure you can."

"Of course, Corporal Gomez, I don't think she'll want me. But I'll show her I can do it, Sarge. I'll work as long as I have to, to convince her I can do that job. Not as good as you and her, but I can do it."

"Sure," Stark repeated. And someday you'll have a squad, Murph, and after that maybe a platoon. And you'll never sleep peaceful again, worrying about every soldier in them. "I'll talk to Gomez. She's platoon leader, now."

"Huh? Wow. That's kinda amazing. I bet you're proud of her."

"I'm proud of all of you, Murph. When you getting discharged from here? They tell you?"

"Not yet, Sarge. I gotta do a lot of physical therapy to get my muscles back and all, and they wanta check me over careful." Murphy grinned with a flash of his old mischief. "They wanta check my head, too, I bet."

"I don't think you have to worry about that, Murph." Stark noticed Murphy sagging backward. "You're still pretty worn out, huh? I'm not gonna stress you any further. You get some rest, get those workouts going, and get back to your squad. I'll be keeping an eye on you."

"Thanks, Sarge." Murphy relaxed, lying flat but watching Stark as he walked out.

Stark pulled out his comm unit as he headed back toward the command center. "Corporal Gomez. You busy?"

"No, Sargento. What's up?"

"Murphy's awake." Stark paused to let her absorb the news. "He's okay."

"Gracias, Dios. I'm gonna tell the squad, Sargento."

"Wait. Before you go, I got a request to make."

"A request? Anything you want."

"Murph wants to try out as corporal in the old squad." Silence. "Hello? Anita?"

"Uh, Sí, Sargento. Uh, Private Murphy, you know, he's not the, uh, most professional and dedicated guy in the world. I mean, corporal? Murphy?"

Stark suppressed a smile. "I know exactly what you're thinking. But I've talked to Murphy since he woke up. He's changed. Grown a lot. And he wants to work for the job."

"If he wants to work, he sure as hell has changed. He volunteered to be corporal? Verdad?"

"Yeah. I'm asking you, as a personal favor, to consider it. Take a look at him when he gets out. See how he does."

"Uh, okay, Sargento. For you. You judge people pretty good, so if you think he can handle it. . ."

"I think he might be able to handle it, yeah. Like I said, Anita, he's changed."

It took a moment for her reply. "Sargento, that almost sounded like you weren't too happy Murph has changed."

"I'm happy he's back, and I'm happy he wants more responsibility. But I think I'm gonna miss the old Murph every now and then. Who'd have thunk?"

"You miss the old Murph too much, and I'll come over and screw a few things up for you. Then you'll feel like he's back. Okay, Sargento, you got a deal. I'll take a look at him. Right now, I wanna tell the rest he's okay."

"Sure thing, Anita. Say hi to them all for me."

Stark paused in his progress, then altered his path, ending up at Sergeant Reynolds's room. "Vic? You got a moment?"

She rubbed her eyes. "It's late. I hope you're not calling a staff meeting."

"Not that. I need to tell you, Murphy's awake."

Vic brightened. "That's great." Then her face slid into skepticism. "So how come you're so subdued? What's up? He okay in the head?"

"Yeah. But." Stark explained his conversation with Murphy. "You see. He's gonna have a tough road."

"Right now, he sounds a lot like someone else I know."

"Guilty as charged."

She grinned. "After all this time you've got yourself a son, Ethan. In the spiritual sense, anyway. You ever think it'd be Murphy?"

"No. The universe sure has a funny sense of humor, don't it? Anyway, Vic, I got a special favor to ask. A big one. If anything happens to me . . ."

"Don't worry, Ethan. I'll look out for Murphy if anything happens to you. Promise."

"Thanks. Means a lot."

"Nyet problema. It's been a while, but I reckon I remember how to handle a kid."

Stark glanced at her, unable to hide his surprise. "You got a kid, Vic?"

Instead of answering him, Reynolds yawned, then looked at her watch. "Man, it's late, and I've still got some stuff to do before I hit the sack. See you tomorrow, Ethan."

"Sure." Stark watched her with curious eyes for a moment, Vic outwardly cool as she worked, then waved farewell and left. He wandered through the headquarters complex for a while, checking on things, speaking to soldiers standing watch in different areas. Finally entering his own room, Stark sat heavily for a moment at the desk where his monitor displayed work still awaiting his attention. Hey. I just realized. This system gives me access to the personnel records, and I have the command clearance to look at personal histories on anyone. I could find out anything I wanted about Vic's past. No more mysteries. His hand reached, one finger tapping the key that sent the machine into hibernation. But I ain't gonna. Maybe I ain't learned near enough in this job, but I have learned that one of the most important things about being in charge is not doing some of the stuff you could do if you wanted to. If Vic ever wants to tell me, she will. Stark took advantage of the low gravity to launch himself into a roll/push that deposited him in the bunk, coming to rest on his back, staring upward at the metal sheet that covered lunar rock, which was covered in turn by a thin layer of dust. Above that, endless emptiness opened into forever. Stark gazed at the imagined vista of eternal darkness and smiled. Screw you. I'm still here, and my rules matter.

 

It was easy for the days to run together, for time to pass almost unnoticed in the grind of everyday events, especially in a place where the very idea of a "day" had been imported by humans from somewhere else where the sun actually rose and set once every twenty-four hours. Stark came back to his room after watching a company run through some tactics Vic had been working out to deal with Jabberwocks. He removed his battle armor wearily. It looked good. It oughta handle those monsters. We think. How are we gonna know before they get here and start shooting at us ?

His door enunciator chimed. Stark, still standing, took one long step to open it. "Mendo? What's up?"

"Commander Stark." Private Mendoza hesitated, glanced down at the old-fashioned paper-printed book he held in one hand, then looked back at Stark with renewed determination. "There is something I should discuss with you. If you have the time."

"Sure." Mendo volunteering information. That's new. But then, his dad told me Mendo would rise to the occasion if I gave him a chance. "Come in. Sit down."

"Thank you, sir." Mendoza waited until Stark sat down in front of his desk, then took the room's other chair. He held out the book so Stark could see the title, handling the book as if it were a precious, fragile item. "This is an ancient history text."

"I can see it's pretty old."

"No, sir. I mean it was written millennia ago. One of the first histories in human record. It is about a series of wars."

"The first history we've got and it's about wars? That figures."

Mendoza smiled, relaxing in response to Stark's humor. "Yes, Commander. The book's title is The Peloponnesian War. It was written by a man named Thucydides."

"Sorry. Never heard of it."

"The war was very important at the time," Mendoza insisted. "It was fought between alliances led by the city-states of Athens and Sparta."

"Sparta? I know about them. Thermo . . . ?"

"Thermopylae?"

"Yeah. That battle where just a few of those Spartans held their line until they died. It inspired all the other Greeks to fight together. They the guys you're talking about?"

Mendoza nodded, though he had trouble hiding his surprise that Stark had known even that much about ancient Greece. "Yes. Exactly them. That battle at Thermopylae took place long before the Peloponnesian War."

"Okay. I guess that makes sense, if the Spartans and the guys from Athens were fighting each other in this war you're talking about. So why do I need to know about this book?"

Mendoza paused for so long Stark felt a stab of impatience, but he waited until the private started speaking once more. "This was my father's book, Commander. He had made many notes in the margins. They are fragmentary, but I have been reading them, and I believe I should tell you of the conclusions my father had reached."

"Lieutenant Mendoza, your dad, he knew what he was talkin' about. Anything he came up with I'd like to know."

"You understand the notes are not complete," Mendoza cautioned, "but the main arguments are fairly clear." He pointed to the book. "Briefly, long ago the city of Athens had become extremely powerful. So powerful it did whatever it wanted, and no one could stop it. Finally, Sparta and most of the other cities in Greece went to war with Athens, but they could not defeat it."

"Hmmm." Stark rubbed his chin. "Sounds familiar. Like here, right? The U.S. of A. is big dog on the World and pretty much does anything it wants. Everybody else just had to put up with it, until we tried to grab the whole Moon, too, and then they all combined to try to stop us up here. Is that what you, your dad, that is, was driving at?"

"Yes, Commander." Mendoza's face glowed like that of a teacher with an apt pupil. "But the Athenians finally went too far. As part of their aim to become all-powerful, Athens attacked the mighty city of Syracuse."

"Ain't that in New York state? It's not that old."

"No, Commander. The original city of Syracuse, in Sicily. It is in the Mediterranean." Mendoza gathered his thoughts, then plunged ahead. "Syracuse, powerful though it was, could not defeat the Athenian attack alone. It called for help from the Spartans. The Athenians in turn sent more reinforcements. But the Athenian commanders were chosen for their political loyalty and skills, not their military prowess. After a long campaign, the Athenians were defeated. The entire army and fleet they had sent to attack Syracuse were themselves destroyed or captured. Athens never recovered from the loss of so much. A few years later, it was decisively defeated, and it never regained the power it had once held."

Stark stared at Mendoza after the narrative halted, eyes narrowing in thought. "That sounds familiar, too. A bit, anyway. So your dad thought the American attempt to seize the Moon was like these guys from Athens trying to take out Syracuse?"

"Yes, Commander. Overreaching at the height of power. Here, too, strong reinforcements were sent to try to win the war. They failed."

"Yeah, but there's no chance we're gonna fail, Mendo. Nobody's gonna take this Colony. We'll hold it 'til hell freezes over."

"But that is the point, Commander." Mendoza indicated the book again, excitement animating his features. "You will hold. You are in command. My father believed in the wake of General Meecham's failed offensive we would have lost the Colony, and every soldier up here, exactly as the Athenian expeditionary force was destroyed at Syracuse. That is, we would have but for two things."

"Two things? What's that?"

Mendoza hesitated again, then pointed toward Stark. "You are one, sir."

"The hell. What's that supposed to mean?"

"My father's notes indicate he believes our former senior officers were as incompetent as those of the Athenians at Syracuse. He had reached the conclusion that Meecham's offensive might have led to the loss of the entire Colony due to our lack of faith in our commanders, the hesitation and confusion among those same commanders, and our heavy losses. All these combined to create conditions under which an enemy counteroffensive might have prevailed, or at least seized such territory as would have left our position here untenable."

Stark frowned, remembering moments of fear and uncertainty. "Like it was right after we took over? We almost lost then, when the enemy hit us hard and the line crumbled. But I thought that was 'cause we didn't know for sure what we were fighting for right then."

"That was part of it, certainly," Mendoza agreed. "But had Meecham and the other officers remained in command, would our forces have had any stronger motivation?"

"Hell, no. You know that. We wouldn't have had any motivation at all. Not after watching what they did to Third Division. Somebody like Meecham wouldn't have had a snowball's chance in hell of rallying the troops."

"Just so, Commander. The only thing that could have prevented disaster here, as at Syracuse, would have been a dynamic commander, one trusted by the army and able to rally them after a series of serious setbacks."

"That didn't have to be me," Stark demurred. "Any good leader could have done it."

"No, sir," Mendoza objected, his normal reticence lost in the cut and thrust of the argument. "It had to be someone able to overcome the habit of obedience, able to act when action was required. Only you could do that."

"I don't. . ." Stark's words trailed off as he stared into space, remembering the day Third Division had been effectively destroyed during General Meecham's ill-conceived and ill-executed offensive. Thousands of soldiers dying in increasingly futile assaults on the enemy defenses surrounding the Colony, while the aghast lunar veterans of First Division looked on from their positions on the American perimeter. Everybody else seemed to be looking to me to do something, and nobody else acted until I did. Why was that? I never wondered before. "Why'd your dad think that about me?"

"Because you did not join the military until you were a young adult." Mendoza gestured toward one wall of Stark's room. "Just about everyone else in the military, such as I, grew up in military families, on forts or bases. Obedience, following the rules, were inculcated in us from our earliest childhoods. It was part of life. For you, such rules were far looser. Just for example, as a child, you were not required to stand to attention when the national anthem was played. You made choices about many things, for better or worse."

Stark felt a sense of dislocation as the conversation brought him back to another talk years before, on a troop transport on the way to the Moon. "Pablo Desoto and I talked about that once. How different growing up was for me compared to him. You remember Pablo, don't you, Mendo?"

"Of course, sir." Corporal Desoto had died early on in the lunar war, hit dead-on by a heavy artillery shell. There'd been no body left for his friends to grieve over. "Then you understand? Your early experience with making many such decisions meant you could finally act when you thought it necessary, where those of us indoctrinated in obedience from youth could not. Unlike those of us who grew up within the military, you lack an automatic deference to and respect for authority."

"I'm an American. If I wanted to respect authority, I'd be something else." It made sense to Stark in that way something does when it both fits events and feels right. I'm nothing special, but I did grow up different. Is this one of the things we lost when the mil became so professional people literally grew up into it? The ability to say "no" when you really have to? Is that what all that 'citizen-soldier' crap really comes down to? Having people in the mil who can tell their superiors to go to hell when it really matters? Or just having the superiors know their people could do that if they push too far or too hard? "Let's leave that for now. You said two things. One was me. What was the other?"

"Technology. The command and control systems which allowed everyone to know of your actions." Mendoza leaned forward, one extended forefinger tracing patterns in the air as if an HUD combat display hung there. "At Syracuse, a single, low-level leader in the Athenian army could have made no difference. His unit would have followed him, a few soldiers in the whole army, but no one else would have known of his actions and orders. That one small unit could not have survived. But, here, your assumption of command could occur almost instantaneously thanks to the manner in which every soldier is knitted into the command and control system."

"Sure. Our command and control systems were designed to allow senior commanders to dictate every action of their subordinates, and that's exactly how they've been used by senior officers who wanted to tell everybody exactly how to do everything. But we've been figuring out to use the systems our own way for a long time." Stark didn't know which unknown sergeants had first arranged for covert comm circuits to be laced into the command and control systems so the senior enlisted could talk among themselves without the officers being aware of it, but tricks like that and unauthorized back doors into the command scan levels had been available as long as Stark had been using the systems.

"Just so. It enabled you to bypass the top-down chain of command, to instantly coordinate your actions with other small unit commanders all around the perimeter. Those command and control systems can be used by any junior personnel, allowing them to know things only the highest levels of the chain of command could once know. It allows them to act with tremendous speed and flexibility while easily coordinating their actions. This is how you could successfully assert command in a matter of minutes without significant disruption of our forces."

Stark nodded. "You know that's how we've been using the command and control gear in operations. Trying out just that sort of thing."

"Yes, sir." Mendoza grew so excited his hands began sketching pictures in the air again. "I have been following the tactical and operational innovations you have been using in combat. It is almost like the Roman Legions at the height of their capabilities. Their tactical deployments emphasized an open, flexible formation, able to adapt to whatever enemy formation opposed them. Rome's enemies were locked into rigid formations, which worked only against similarly rigid foes." He grew calmer. "You remember, soon after you took command, when the enemy attack threatened to break our line? You could use the same systems to rally our troops at every location at once. You see, Commander? This could not have happened before. The fact that it could happen here is all that saved the Colony."

Stark stared into an empty corner of the room. "I think you're right. We were brittle enough as it was. First Division had been fighting too long up here. Watching Third Division get sent into a meat grinder for nothing had us all ready to quit, didn't it? We wouldn't have held if the enemy had hit us hard, because we wouldn't have been able to care anymore." He remembered the enemy push soon after he took command that had nearly ruptured the front line irreparably. Rallying the troops had been critical, and had nearly been beyond him. "And if America had lost Third Division and First Division, that would've been almost two-thirds of its existing ground forces. Not to mention all the ships that might've been lost trying to evacuate personnel or in a last-ditch attempt to save the Colony. And with the Colony gone for sure all at once, the economy would have tanked just as fast, not sorta slow like it has been. It would've been like those guys from Athens, wouldn't it? Pushing too far, committing too much, and finally getting their butts kicked so hard the rest of the world could take them out."

"I believe so, Commander. As long as the status of American forces on the Moon remained uncertain, as long as the loyalty of the Colony remained undecided, the rest of world would not perceive enough weakness to unite in a full push to dethrone the last superpower. In summary, my father believed your actions saved the United States from its own overextension, but those actions alone could not have made a difference without modern command and control systems."

Like so much advice from Lieutenant Mendoza, and from his son, it made sense. The only major problem Stark had with the explanation was the role he played in it. So I'm this big special guy, huh? Saved the Colony, and the country, and all my pals. He had felt it, sometimes, after a successful action, the sense that he could always do it again, that victory was sweet and defeat unthinkable. I don't need anybody encouraging me to think that way. But I can't be the first or only guy to have thoughts like that. ."Mendo, you know a lot of history besides this Greek stuff. There's been a lot of generals that won pretty much all their battles, right? What happened to them?"

"I'm not sure I understand your question, sir."

"I mean in the end," Stark explained. "These generals were good. Good enough they won battles, anyway. What happened in the last chapters, though?"

"Ah. I see." Mendoza thought, frowning as he focused on the question. "There are basically two categories of such generals, Commander Stark. Some generals take their victories, but stop. Something prevents them from overreaching. General George Washington was one such. He was not the most brilliant commander of all time, yet he knew his limits and won his war. Then he refused many chances to become dictator or king of the United States."

"No wonder we put him on our money. What's the other category?"

"Generals such as Napoleon, or Alexander, or Julius Caesar. They won battles, then kept reaching for more. More conquests, more titles. Eventually, they reached too far. Napoleon made himself an emperor, then lost a huge army in Russia, and never recovered. Alexander pushed his soldiers to the ends of the known world, and eventually they mutinied. They wanted to go home. Alexander's empire was so big it could not be sustained, and it fell apart as soon as he died. And, of course, Caesar was set to declare himself dictator when assassinated by those who feared his ambition."

"Huh." Stark sat, lost in thought for a moment, remembering fragments of nameless battles on nameless fields. "That's the choice, ain't it? You either get so full of yourself you push too far and get cut off at the knees, or you take a reality check and hold yourself back from what you figure you could do. There's always one more mountain, right? Sooner or later, you either stop trying to climb them or you fall off one." He thought a moment longer. "Like those guys from Athens."

"Yes, Commander. Exactly like the Athenians."

"You'd think war would be like any other job, the more you do it the better you get at it. But it doesn't work that way, does it?"

Private Mendoza nodded. "Clausewitz stated that this was because of friction."

"Friction?"

"Yes. This was the term Clausewitz used to describe the many problems which bedevil any commander. All of the difficulties, the missteps and misunderstood orders, the equipment failures, the unforeseen events, the unpredictable actions of the enemy or of the weather. In short, everything which separates the theory of war from the actual experience of fighting."

"Sort of like that mutiny we had in Fifth Batt? Nobody expected that."

"Yes. Just that sort of thing."

Stark nodded, letting out a long breath. "Yeah. That stuff never lets up. And sooner or later, some of it's bound to trip you up." I just gotta have enough guts to walk away from some of the mountains in front of me, that's all. Sounds easy. But I'm sure better commanders than I am have decided to climb just one more mountain. "You still talk to your dad, Mendo?"

Private Mendoza ducked his head to hide his expression at the reference to his father, Lieutenant Mendoza, who had died helping defend this same headquarters complex. "I pray every night."

"Good. You tell your dad from me that you're doing one helluva good job of keeping your commander's head screwed on straight."

"Thank you, Sergeant. I'm sorry. Thank you, Commander."

"You call me whatever you want. And I happen to like being called Sergeant."

Whatever else he may have said was interrupted by a voice from his comm unit. "Commander Stark? This is the command center. There's a situation developing upstairs that you might want to watch."

"A situation?"

"Upstairs" meant something going on far above the Moon's surface, at orbital heights or beyond. "Tell me more."

"It looks like there's some civ shuttles trying to sneak in past the blockade." Stark nodded to himself. There were a number of things that brought premium prices if smuggled into the Colony, and a number of items whose value far exceeded their weight in gold if smuggled out. Not to mention the orders for essential spares that had been carefully floated in places where black marketers could be found. "But they might not make it. The Navy's spotted them and is moving in."

That could create a lot of problems, including the possibility that the Navy warships might try to pursue their prey inside the Colony's anti-orbital defenses. "Got it," Stark acknowledged. "I'll be right there." He turned to Private Mendoza. "Mendo, I'm afraid I'll have to cut this short. Looks like some more friction just hit the fan. Thanks for coming by, and thanks for all that stuff you figured out. It'll give me a lot to think about." He hesitated for a moment after Mendoza left, habit urging him to don battle armor, then shook his head. I won't need that for something going on upstairs, and those situations tend to develop awful fast. I'd better get to the command center quick.

The huge main display in the command center was focused on the "situation" in space. Stark pulled back the perspective on the view so he could see the huge arc of the Moon's surface in relation to the spacecraft symbology crawling through the emptiness above it, then focused back in on the shuttles again. Sergeant Tran came up, nodding in greeting. "Commander Stark, those shuttles are going to have problems getting down here. See those warships?" Large symbology tagged with warship identifiers displayed huge acceleration vectors, their projected tracks running into those of the shuttles.

"Yeah," Stark agreed. "Looks to me like those warships are gonna get to the shuttles before the shuttles get inside our orbital defenses." He studied the tracks of the shuttles for a moment. Something's missing. What? Oh, yeah. 'Tran, those shuttles must know the Navy's seen 'em, right?"

"Sure. There's no way they could avoid spotting those warships with the Navy piling on that kind of speed."

"So, if they've figured out the Navy's seen 'em, there's no sense trying to hide. Why aren't they running? Trying to get inside our defenses before the Navy can get to them?"

Tran frowned. "That's a good question."

"We have any idea what they're carrying?"

"No, sir. We checked the command system as soon as we spotted those shuttles. There's nothing in there on them."

Something about the reply seemed ominous to Stark. It shouldn't have. Shuttles trying to run the blockade didn't tell anyone they were coming and didn't broadcast their cargo manifests. But this worries me. Those shuttles aren't acting like blockade runners. Maybe they're Trojan horses? Putting on an act so they can get inside our defenses while the Navy pretends to chase them? But then why aren't they doing a better job of acting like blockade runners? "Tran, notify Vic Reynolds of what's going on and ask Chief Wiseman to get her armed shuttles hot."

Sergeant Tran looked back at Stark, clearly surprised. "Sir?

This happens every now and then. This particular situation's not routine, but—"

"I know. Call it a gut feeling. Somethin's really wrong here. I want us ready to react if we have to." Tran nodded and hurried off to make the calls. Now I'll owe Wiseman another beer for making her crew up those shuttles of hers.

The Navy warships had piled on even more acceleration, pushing the intercept a little farther outside the Colony's defenses. For whatever reason, the shuttles still hadn't reacted. Stark was studying the display so intently he wasn't aware Vic had entered the command center until she spoke beside him. "What's up?"

"What you see." Stark waved toward the display. "Blockade-running shuttles, apparently, getting chased by the Navy."

"I see that. Nothing unusual. I'm wondering why you put the armed shuttles on alert. That's unusual."

"Yeah." Stark rubbed his chin. "I dunno. Those shuttles ain't running, and they ought to be. Right?"

"I would if I was them."

"Maybe their cargo is really fragile? Something that can't handle a sudden acceleration? I wish I knew what was in those shuttles."

"Whatever it is can be replaced," Vic noted with a shrug.

"Commander?" one of the watchstanders signaled. "The Colony manager is calling. He says it's real urgent."

"Great," Stark grumbled, keying in the connection. "Another complication. Stark here."

Campbell spoke quickly, without his usual greetings. "Sergeant, are you aware there's a group of shuttles trying to land here?"

"Yeah. We're watching 'em now." Symbology crawled slowly against the vast backdrop of the main display, the barest slice of the Moon's huge arc now glowing down and to one side as the display angle shifted to maintain a picture of the entire situation. "I wouldn't put any bets on their chances of getting down here, though. There's some heavy Navy units moving to intercept, and our gear says they'll close on the shuttles before our defenses can cover 'em."

"That's what our orbital systems are saying, too, but that's wrong! Those Navy ships should be letting those shuttles through."

Stark fought down an immediate blistering response, instead just staring back at Campbell. "Why? Are you saying these shuttles are officially scheduled?"

"Of course. You know we've been negotiating with the government. This group of shuttles was cleared, but the Navy warships are reacting like they're blockade runners. I'm very worried,"

"Me, too. If these shuttles were cleared and scheduled, how come my people didn't know they were coming?"

"You didn't? I. . . don't know. The government negotiating effort was reorganized not long ago, but they should have—"

"Mr. Campbell, my people haven't heard about these shuttles. If the military here didn't get the word, it's pretty safe to assume the military up there didn't get told either. That'd be why the Navy's assuming those shuttles are blockade runners and reacting accordingly. Tell the shuttles to explain to those warships what's happened. They might get held up for a few orbits, but—"

"They've been trying to tell the Navy they're an approved mission! But the warships just keep coming. You know they're authorized to destroy any shuttle trying to run the blockade!"

"They wouldn't ice somebody trying to surrender." Would they? What kind of orders have they got?

"The shuttle pilots think they might. They're scared. Too scared to stop, I think."

Stark looked to Vic for advice, but she just spread her hands in exasperation. "Sir, I don't know what I can—"

"Sergeant." Campbell slowed his speech with an obvious effort, speaking with care. "The 'cargo' on those shuttles are humans. Relatives of people in this Colony, trying to rejoin their husbands, wives, fathers, and mothers. Do you understand?"

"Ah, hell. There's civ passengers on those shuttles? Kids and everything?"

"Yes, Sergeant."

"And you knew they were comin' in now?"

Campbell closed his eyes before he spoke. "Everyone was supposed to have been informed."

"Well, that is one helluva nice surprise, sir. Just for the record, somebody forgot to inform the people with weapons, and that's causing some real problems. Okay, I'm getting my own shuttles up." He gestured again, highlighting the four symbols that represented his own little fleet then swung his thumb up. Reynolds nodded and began calling commands into another circuit. "But, the odds are real bad. Those warships are closing for intercepts outside our defenses. My shuttles won't be able to prevent that. The best I can do is try to divert the warships' attention while your shuttles try to get the Navy brass to call off their sharks."

"I understand. Please, Sergeant, protect them."

Stark stared momentarily, caught between anger at the lack of warning and surprise at the naked plea, then nodded. "That's our job, sir. We'll do our best. But we'd have had a lot better chance if we'd known in advance that this was going down."

"I understand."

Vic looked as if she'd just bitten into something sour. "I guess I was wrong. Some cargo can't be replaced. I wonder which idiots failed to get the word out that kids were coming in through the blockade?"

"Beats the hell out of me. I'm gonna get me a piece of those idiots' hides when this is all over. Right now, we've got another job."

"Hey," Chief Wiseman called in. "What's up? We gonna bail out those smugglers?"

"They ain't smugglers, Chief," Stark advised. "It's a pre-approved run, but nobody got the word, so the Navy's going after them. We might have to save their butts. Can do?"

"Can't do. My shuttles can't hold off cruisers."

"Chief, there's civs on those shuttles. Family types. Kids."

"Aw, for. . . then they oughta surrender now. If there was a good chance, I'd say different, but. . ."

"Roger. The civs are trying to call off those warships, but they're worried about the Navy's orders."

"I would be, too. We know standing orders are that any blockade runners are toast."

"Right. So get up there. Just in case. Maybe you can run interference if worse comes to worst and help those shuttles get inside our defenses."

"I sure hope it doesn't come to that. We're on our way. Man, I'm getting too old for this much acceleration."

Stark grinned, then lost his humor as he studied the display. Acceleration vectors had suddenly jerked on the civilian shuttles, angling longer as they boosted their main drives. "What the hell? Somebody up there's panicking. Those fools are trying to outrun the Navy ships. Tran, ask Campbell if he's gotten through to the government side, yet. If those warships don't get called off soon, we're going to have a really ugly problem."

"Something's happening," Vic noted, peering at the display. "Are the warships firing weapons?" A half-dozen smaller objects had detached themselves from each Navy cruiser and begun accelerating toward the shuttles at even higher rates than the warships had been maintaining. The combat identification system quickly slapped symbology over each object, with an "unknown" tag prominent.

"Negative," the orbital systems watchstander replied. "I'm trying to ID the objects now, but those are way too big to be torpedoes."

"Maybe the cruisers are launching their own armed shuttles," Vic suggested.

"Those are too small for shuttles," the orbital systems watchstander objected. "And there's too many of them. Cruisers can't carry that number of shuttles."

"Then what are they?" Stark demanded. "Chief Wiseman?"

"Yup." Over the comm circuit she sounded close, so that Stark had trouble remembering her shuttle was actually approaching orbit even as they spoke. "What's coming off those cruisers?"

"I was hoping you'd know."

"Not me. I've never seen anything like those, and my onboard combat systems can't provide an ID, either."

Stark glowered at the symbology that represented the new spacecraft, watching them slide into rigid formations as they boosted away from their cruiser mother ships. I've seen something like that before. What? Something about how they're moving . . . damn. "Vic. Were you in Operation Ice Storm?"

"No. Fortunately. I heard it was pure hell. Why?"

"The way those new ships are moving reminds of something." Stark swung his arm across the symbology as the small craft homed in on the blockade runners. "The Air Force tried some new uncrewed aircraft in that op. Latest and greatest thing. Robotic with a special tight, scrambled link. Some of 'em crashed, some got suicided when they started shooting at friendly forces, and the rest were nailed by enemy defenses. But they moved like that."

Vic stared at the display. "Like that. You're sure?"

"Yeah. Real precise. No hesitation or bobbles when they moved in formation. Just like that."

"Navy metal-heads. Autonomous robotic combatants designed for space combat. I guess your friend didn't hear about them."

"Can't fault him or her for that." Stark keyed Wiseman's circuit again. "Wiseman. Those new shuttles or whatever that the cruisers launched. They're metal-heads."!

"What? You sure?"

"Sure as I can be without cracking one open."

"Oh, man. Things just got bad, mud crawler. Things just got real bad." Stark frowned as he watched the course/speed vectors for Wiseman's shuttles on the main display suddenly lengthen and shift. "Heading for intercept," she reported.

"Intercept? Negative, Chief. Pull back. You can't engage all those things with four shuttles."

"Yeah. I know. But those things are headin' for the shuttles full of kids, ain't they? I gotta stop 'em."

"We're trying to straighten this mess out, Chief. The Navy's not gonna push an attack once it realizes those shuttles have kids on board. There's no reason—"

"Wrong," Wiseman interrupted. "With all due respect. Sir. I'm guessing these Navy metal-heads are like the ground ones we got word on. No control link. So we got metal-heads on the loose and ordered to attack those shuttles. You sure they're gonna understand surrender? Sir?"

"Oh, God."

Stark looked over at Reynolds, who shook her head in anger. "She's right, Ethan. Those civs are being targeted by things smart enough to kill them, but possibly too stupid not to kill them if they don't have to. Maybe that's why the shuttles are running, now. Maybe they've heard rumors about those things. Maybe more than rumors."

"Campbell said the pilots were scared. Now we know why. Tran!" Stark spun and shouted in one motion. "We can't wait any longer for word to get to those warships through official channels. Get on a direct circuit to those cruisers. Tell 'em the shuttles are full of civs. Including kids. Tell 'em the shuttles were officially scheduled but we're ordering 'em to surrender anyway. They gotta call off those metal-heads."

"Yessir. Immediately. We'll use the universal distress frequency." That frequency was reserved for life-threatening emergencies, but this case arguably fell into that category.

Stark took a deep breath, trying to calm his suddenly adrenaline-charged system. Nothing I can do from here. Just try to get the word to the right people and hope they do the right things. "Vic, call Campbell and tell him what's going down. If he's got anyone who can make sure those shuttles stop running, he better get them talking fast." Intercept vectors were shifting only subtly, now, the Navy metal-heads arcing in on intercepts guaranteed to nail the fleeing shuttles outside the range of the Colony's defenses.

"Is that the best advice?" Vic wondered. "Given what they're up against, how do we know that wouldn't just make those shuttles sitting ducks?"

"I don't know! But at least if they surrender those cruisers should help protect them from the metal-heads."

"Commander," Sergeant Tran reported, "the civilian spaceport reports the shuttles have acknowledged orders to stop fleeing from the Navy, but refuse to alter their courses. The Navy ships have definitely received our messages, but have not responded to them."

"This could be incredibly ugly," Vic murmured. "Are the shuttle pilots being stupid or scared, now?"

"Maybe all of the above. Hell, if I had those things coming after me . . . Tran, what'd Campbell say?"

"He's threatening the shuttle pilots that he'll arrest them and confiscate their ships if they don't surrender to the Navy. But Campbell thinks they're going to try to outrun the metal-heads. He says the pilots sound scared to death and are screaming for us to protect them from the metal-heads."

"So why'd they run in the first place with cargoes of kids? If they hadn't, maybe the Navy wouldn't have launched the things. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. If I get my hands on those guys . . . and on those sorry bastards who were supposed to notify everyone about those shuttles coming in . . ."

"For what it's worth, Campbell looks like he feels personally responsible."

"A fat lot of good that'll do anybody."

"The cruisers are transmitting something," Tran reported. "Can't pick it up. The beam's too tight. Looks like they're trying to call off their metal-heads."

Stark exhaled in relief, then waited with growing anxiety as the robotic combatants continued on course. "So why ain't the metal-heads breaking off?"

"Autonomous means autonomous," Vic noted. "Like we feared. Somebody did a story about this a long time ago. Fail-Safe I think it was called. Some weapons got launched by accident and no one could figure out how to recall them."

"What happened?" Stark wondered, his eyes fixed on the display.

"Some cities got blown away."

New symbology blossomed to life, radiating out from one of the Navy cruisers. "Now what's happening?"

"One of the cruisers is firing," the orbital systems watch-stander reported.

"Those bastards are shooting at the shuttles?"

"No, sir. She's firing on her own metal-heads. See the weapon trajectories? They're trying to stop those things the hard way."

"Good for them." It couldn't have been an easy decision for whoever was in charge of that big ship to make. A commander interested primarily in protecting him or herself would have waited until the metal-heads actually committed an atrocity before firing, thereby ensuring any board of enquiry would exonerate them. But that wouldn't do the civ kids any good. "They getting any hits?"

"Uh, no sir. Odds are very low. Their weapons are in a tail chase. Low relative velocity so the metal-head point defenses are taking them out." On the display, weapons symbology blinked out time and again as it neared the metal-heads.

The civilian shuttles accelerated once more, pushing their lunar approaches into danger readings. If they didn't slack off their speed soon, they'd be unable to brake in time for a safe landing.

"Going in," Chief Wiseman announced, startling Stark.

"What the hell do you mean?" He searched for the four symbols representing her armed shuttles, catching them with vectors arcing up from the Moon to a point somewhere between the fleeing civilians and the metal-heads. "Those metal-heads have got to be too heavily armed for you to slug it out with. There's too many of them. Break off. Get back here."

"Sorry. Didn't copy your last."

"I said get back here!"

"Say again?"

"Wiseman—!"

"Engaging enemy." Weapon symbology separated from the armed shuttles, shooting past the fleeing civilian shuttles and adding to the confusing mass of vectors filling the display. As Stark watched, all the weapons converged on the two nearest metal-heads, overwhelming their defenses. The two metal-heads were momentarily blocked from view by the detonation detections, then blossomed into expanding spheres of metal fragments and gas.

"That's two," Tran stated. "But she fired every weapon on her shuttles to get them."

The remaining metal-heads came on, still focused on the civilian shuttles. "They're not going to let go," Vic stated. "Those damned things are going to keep after those civ shuttles until they blow them to hell."

Stark saw the acceleration vectors on three of Wiseman's shuttles change as they altered course, angling back toward the Moon, but the armed shuttle carrying Chief Wiseman kept heading for intercept with the metal-heads. "Wiseman! What the hell are you doing?"

"Gotta get those things' attention," Wiseman noted, her voice strained by the acceleration of her shuttle. "Draw them off the civ shuttles before they reach engagement range. And that's any second now." A moment later, the symbology of her shuttle seemed to glow twice as bright.

The orbital systems watchstander stared at the display with a slack jaw. "She's . . . she's turned off all her countermeasures and is transmitting on every frequency."

Stark didn't need that information interpreted. "That's making her shuttle stand out like a target on a firing range." Survival in battle often came down to not being noticed. Countermeasures were designed to hide things that might make weapons notice you, and systems were kept passive to avoid sending out signals that weapons could lock onto. Chief Wiseman was deliberately drawing the maximum possible amount of attention to her shuttle.

Vic's hand was on his shoulder, her eyes sick. "That's the idea, Ethan. She's turning her shuttle into a decoy, to draw off the Navy metal-heads. They're bound to start shooting at her now, instead of those helpless civilian shuttles."

"A decoy." Stark clenched his fists in frustration. "A weapons magnet. Wiseman!"

"Here."

"Break off! That's an order! Reactivate your countermeasures and get out of there!"

"Got a job to do, ground ape." The Chief sounded oddly calm, though Stark could detect the tension underlying her tone. "Gotta shield those civ shuttles. Damn the torpedoes. It's a Navy thing."

"We've told the cruisers to break off! They know the civ shuttles' cargo includes kids. They're trying to stop their metal-heads."

"Stark, those metal-heads aren't breaking off action, and those cruisers can't stop 'em. Not in time. I'm gonna hold these space bugs as long as I can."

It all sounded so familiar. Stark gazed helplessly at the display, where the metal-heads had altered trajectories and spat out a swarm of threat markers that were converging on Wiseman's shuttle. He remembered his own stand to hold off pursuit of his platoon. Ages ago, and yesterday, it seemed. A miracle had saved Stark that day. A miracle in the form of reinforcements arriving at the last moment. And I ain't got nothing else to send up there to save those squids. Please, God, if there's anything you can do for that crazy sailor, please do it.

Alerts sounded, pinpointing Wiseman's shuttle. "They're taking hits, Commander," a watchstander sang out. "Incoming weapons are getting past their point defenses."

"Chief Wiseman, that's enough! You've delayed the metal-heads! Break off!"

"Receiving reports of cascading damage," the watchstander continued. "Critical system hits."

"Wiseman! Get the hell out of there! Wiseman!" A hand on his shoulder brought his attention back to the command center, back to Reynolds mutely pointing to the marker on the main display. A blossoming cloud of debris dominated scan for a few moments, its heat and fragments showing up brightly against the dead space all around. Then the scan system corrected for the noise, screening out the debris to concentrate on threats, and the remains of an armed shuttle and her crew vanished from the display except for a bright marker warning of hazardous wreckage radiating out from the center of the explosion.

"Hell," Stark breathed. "Good-bye, Chief. Now, there's only one Wiseman left." He slammed one fist onto the console before him. "Get the rest of those armed shuttles back down here now!" On the display, the fleeing civilian shuttles were closing rapidly on the boundary of the Colony's anti-orbital defenses. The metal-heads were still in pursuit, but their initial volleys of weapons had gone after Chief Wiseman's shuttle, and the brief battle had delayed them just enough to shift intercept points inside the Colony's defenses. "Those stupid bastards are gonna make it now, aren't they?"

Vic measured the vectors for the civilian shuttles with her eye, then nodded. "Looks like it. If the metal-heads keep coming, we can take them and anything they fire at the civ shuttles with the Colony's defenses. Chief Wiseman bought them the time they needed."

"She paid too much. Tell Campbell I want those pilots the instant those shuttles touchdown. They're gonna pay for costing us a damn good ship and a damn good crew. And I'm gonna want to talk to Campbell about this. About losing good people and risking kids' lives just because some idiots couldn't send the right notifications to the right places. I'm gonna want to talk." He paused, gritting his teeth. "And tell Chief Gunner's Mate Melendez he's not second in command of our naval forces anymore. He's in charge, now."

"Yes, sir," Tran responded. "Anything else, sir?"

The Navy robotic combatants were still coming, seemingly oblivious to the Colony defenses in their pursuit of the civilian shuttles. "Yeah. Tell the anti-orbital defense guys I want those metal-heads blown into so many pieces that God Himself couldn't put 'em back together again."

 

He sat in his darkened room, a cup of coffee forgotten by his side, staring at nothing. "Ethan?" Vic stood in the door, waiting for his permission to enter.

"Yeah. Come on in."

"Thanks." She sat heavily, something weariness and sorrow could achieve even in lunar gravity. "I've confirmed that every metal-head followed those shuttles down and everyone was blasted by our defenses. They won't be going after any more kids."

"Great. Maybe the damn Pentagon will rethink how smart it is to use the flipping things."

"I wouldn't bet on it." Vic bowed her head. "Wiseman and I never got along that well, but she was a real professional. I'm going to miss that squid."

"Me, too. But maybe I needed this. Maybe I needed to fall off a mountain."

"Fall off a mountain? What does that mean?"

"It means maybe I needed to be reminded how much it costs to win or to lose. And maybe to be reminded I can't make anything I want to happen come true just because lots of people take orders from me."

"If you say so. Ethan, you've always cared about the people who work for you, and you've kept your head on pretty straight despite being in charge."

He shook his head, looking away from her. "Yeah, but. There's so many of 'em now, Vic. So many people. It's not easy. You lead a squad, it's easy. By comparison. You know every guy in it. You know their names, their faces, the names of their wives and husbands and boyfriends and girlfriends, the names of their kids. Every one of them is an individual. We've got a bunker to take down. Who do I send? There's a sniper out front. Who's the steadiest shot? Everything you do is based on who they are."

Stark took a long, deep breath, staring into a darkened corner. "But up here, at headquarters, they're all symbols. And you don't know them. Not really. Maybe a face here, a name there, but otherwise it's just so many hundred or thousand privates, so many corporals, so many sergeants. They ain't people anymore, not in your head. They're units you shove around on a big map to do things for you. Vic, if you're a squad leader and you lose five soldiers it rips you up. Almost half your squad is dead, and you'll be writing to their families to say 'damn, I'm sorry.' But from here? You can lose five hundred and not really feel it, 'cause you don't know them, don't see them die, and they're just a few. Just a few compared to all the other people you're moving around."

Vic sat silent, as if sensing Stark had more to say.

"And that's just combat! Vic, at headquarters you got people falling over themselves to do stuff for you. You're the boss. Get him some coffee, get him a beer, make sure he's got a comfy chair, make sure he never has to wait for anybody else and everybody's waiting for him. And if he gives some order that screws over the people under him, well, hell, you do it anyway because he's the boss. After a while, if you're not real careful, you can start thinking that's the way it ought to be, that you're somethin' special and the treatment you're getting ain't special, just what you deserve."

Stark finally looked at her, his mouth a thin line. "It's a helluva corrupter, Vic. Your soul disappears in little pieces, and you don't even know it's gone or even realize what you sold it for."

"I see. That's why Wiseman's death isn't affecting you at all." He glared back at her, but Vic continued, her voice scathing. "Ethan, if you'd let all this get to you like you're saying, then you wouldn't be so torn up by losing Wiseman and her crew. You'd cry some crocodile tears in public, then set up some grand ceremony to say great things about her sacrifice at the same time as you maneuvered to take credit for what Wiseman did. And if anybody raised any questions about screw-up's, you'd appoint an investigation with a wink-and-nod mandate to cover up what went wrong and blame any problems that couldn't be covered up on somebody else."

Stark sat silent for a long time, looking down at his hands where they lay clenched in his lap. "That's not the way I work, Vic. You know that."

"Duh. So do the troops. Why do you think the troops like you, Ethan? Excuse me, they respect you, which is a helluva lot more important. They think a lot of you because they know you care more about them than you do about yourself. Or your precious career."

"They're just grateful I haven't killed 'em. How's that for a great job? As long as you don't kill too many of your own people, you're a goddamn genius and your soldiers love you. Am I wrong to think maybe I oughta be judged by a different standard than that?"

"What standard do you want to be judged by? You command combat troops, Ethan. They have to be willing to sacrifice themselves, and you have to be willing to sacrifice some of them. It's a weird bargain, I grant you, but there's a lot of different ways to handle it. Getting the job done while taking minimal casualties is something to be proud of."

"That's the other thing." Stark gazed morosely downward.

"The other thing? You're depressed because you keep winning? Ethan, you'll never cease to amaze me."

"I'm serious. Winning too much can be dangerous. I was talkin' to Mendo a while back, and you know what he told me? All the big shot generals in the past, even the very best, a lot of 'em got to think they could win regardless of the enemy and the terrain and the fortifications and the weather and everything else. So they all ended up doing something stupid. Not just ordinary stupid. Spectacular stupid. And thousands of their soldiers died for nothing, and maybe they ended up losing the war they were supposed to win."

"That's called a reality check, Ethan."

"So how come their troops have to be the ones who get blown away when the generals get their reality checks?"

"I don't know. Are you asking me why the universe isn't fair?"

"I guess I am." Stark raised his head, determination replacing the moodiness of a moment before. "I'm grumbling about things not being fair like I'm some private just out of boot camp. Okay, maybe I can't fix a lot of stuff, but I can change things right here and now. First I'm gonna tell Campbell if he wants our trust he damn well better trust us in return. Then I'm gonna make sure everyone's sacrifice up here matters, Vic, and I'm gonna make sure heroes like Chief Wiseman get remembered. Maybe get a monument built, maybe get something big named after her. What do you think?"

"I think losers don't get to build monuments or name things, Ethan. Only the winners get to do that."

"Then I guess I'm gonna have to make sure we win."

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