Stark's Crusade (26 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I thought they were already plenty complicated."

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

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

"Bandersnatchi."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Cooperate?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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