Stark's Crusade (7 page)

"I take it negotiations aren't going well?" Vic asked.

Campbell made a face, using one hand to indicate Sarafina, as she shook her head. "No progress at all. We've been in almost constant touch, sent out a lot of feelers for different ways to resolve the issues in dispute, and host regular parties of official negotiators, but we're getting no meaningful replies."

Stark shook his head in turn, not trying to hide his disgust. "The government still won't talk to us?"

"Oh, they'll talk. They'll talk until the sun goes nova. But, as I said, they offer nothing except the standard orders to submit to lawful authority this instant if not sooner."

Sarafina gestured toward the ceiling. "There's no question our parent corporations on Earth are very much behind this. They're insisting that the politicians they paid for make every effort to recover their property up here, and they're backing up those demands with what they call 'patriotic contributions' to help pay for the military options being employed against the Colony."

"You're kidding. The same corporations that avoided paying taxes to support us when we were protecting them are willing to pony up extra bucks to attack us? Am I the only one who thinks that's dumber than dirt?"

"It makes sense up to point. The point at which projected losses begin to exceed projected gains. The corporations would not fund this sort of activity forever given that profit-loss equation, but they also must factor in some noneconomic issues in their decisions."

"Such as?" Vic asked.

"Such as the fact that the corporations have invested heavily in the current occupants of the Congress and the White House. As we have discussed before, loss of the Moon Colony prior to the upcoming election might well result in loss of control of the government by those politicians in the pay of the corporations. Obviously, this would create any number of negative consequences for the corporations."

Campbell pointed vaguely upward, toward Earth, as well. "Don't forget the politicians have their own motivations. At the very least, they have to spin whatever happens as a victory to the electorate. The economy back home continues to sink deeper into recession, apparently due to a combination of the shock of losing the corporate assets up here and the results of all the money being diverted to the effort to defeat this Colony. Or rather to defeat your forces, to give credit where it's due. The government is making a mighty effort to limit information about us to whatever the government wants people to know, but it isn't working."

He stopped speaking for a moment, pondering his next words. "People will put up with a great deal as long as they think the people running things know what they're doing. If they lose that confidence, they start asking awkward questions about many things. There have been demonstrations. Large ones. Officially, those demonstrations involve some sort of un-American radical fringe. Our own information indicates they have consisted primarily of middle-class and blue-collar workers who are, to put it bluntly, fed up."

Vic sketched a small smile. "I'm afraid Ethan Stark appears to have a nasty habit of triggering revolutions."

"It doesn't appear to be heading toward revolution. Certainly not armed revolution. It may all fizzle out, especially if the economy improves a little. But the government has to produce a significant victory up here to have any hopes of justifying its policies toward us to date. If anything, the corporations are more likely to cry uncle when the bottom line suffers enough. Changes of policy are no big deal to them. But the government is another story."

Stark nodded, this time wearily. "They won't quit trying to win, no matter how much it costs everybody else. Will the election back home come in time to make a difference?"

"It's hard to say," Sarafina admitted. "More to the point, there's increasing pressure within the Colony to hold a referendum on independence as soon as possible, and if the sentiment for independence prevails, to announce the result immediately, without waiting any longer in the hope that the national election will make a difference. People are tired of waiting."

"And we're tired of fighting. So what's the time frame here? When would this referendum be held?"

Campbell and Sarafina exchanged looks again. "Potentially within a few weeks," the Colony manager stated. "Any longer than that would require me to actively stall the measure, and quite frankly I've had it up to here with our government."

"You're not alone in that. My old man was fed up with 'em years ago."

"One additional thing concerns us," Sarafina added. "So far the military attacks on us have been . . . what is the right word?"

"Conventional?"

"Yes. That's it. No weapons of mass destruction. There have been software intrusion attempts to destroy our automated infrastructure, but they have all been frustrated. We worry, however, what the response will be if we declare independence? What weapons might the authorities use against us then?"

"They're not going to use nukes or null bombs," Vic advised. "Too much fallout, in every sense of the word. Besides, destroying what's here would defeat us, but wouldn't be a victory for the authorities. They'd have lost the Colony and everything associated with it. That said . . ." She looked over at Stark. "We're a bit worried about what might be coming, too."

"That's right," Stark agreed. "The basic situation when this started hasn't changed. Thanks to a long period of downsizing, and generals and admirals who constantly cut force levels to pay for their latest pet weapons, the military doesn't have enough war-fighters. We were stretched to the max prior to all this, but since then the Pentagon has lost Third Division to sheer stupidity and our First Division up here. That only leaves Second Division to keep our enemies in line, as well as our 'friends' and 'allies', and protect the U.S. from any kind of ground incursion. That doesn't leave any soldiers to try to pry us out of here."

"So, they've been hiring mercenaries and cutting deals with foreign forces," Vic continued. "That hasn't worked. Sooner or later, they'll try something else, and we don't know what that might be."

Campbell frowned. "Surely you can guess what sort of method might be employed."

"Mr. Campbell, if the powers that be were going to do something smart, then yes, I could hazard a pretty good guess. But the powers that be don't have a very good track record when it comes to the concept of 'smart.' If they go the stupid option, every possible card is on the table. Except the nukes and nulls, of course. That'd be above and beyond stupid."

"I've learned not to underestimate the stupidity of some people, but I'll accept your assessment because I simply don't have anything else to go with." Now Campbell looked pained, sharing another look with Sarafina. "My executive assistant and I aren't at all sure about the wisdom of the course we're following, but events don't always allow time for careful evaluation, and circumstances often don't allow every possible option."

It was Stark's turn to frown. He stared toward the floor for a moment as he once again experienced that falling-off-a-cliff feeling, the sense that he was being carried along with events instead of making his own decisions.
And I like making my own decisions. They're not always the right ones, God knows, but at least they're mine.
He looked back at the two civilians and at Vic Reynolds, all of them displaying curiously similar attitudes, as if whatever happened in the future would be something to be endured rather than something to be controlled. None of them seemed any happier with that idea that Stark felt.
There's got to be another way of looking at this. I tried to promise myself, don't
get trapped in a sea of bad options. Plan ahead, look ahead. But I'm damned if I can see anything else to do.

Outside the office, Stark waved Reynolds onward. "You go on back to headquarters if you want."

"What if I don't want?" She raised one eyebrow. "Where are you going?"

"Medical. I oughta visit the wounded from our raid."

"Just them? No one else?"

Stark closed his eyes. "You know damned well there's someone else."

She gripped his shoulder for a moment "I'm not trying to needle you, Ethan. Just snap out of the denial. I'm glad you're going to check on Murphy, but you and I have both seen the reports. He's still out, and he shouldn't be. But we'll do everything we can. Just don't tear yourself apart over it."

"He's mine, Vic." Stark had come to the Moon commanding his own squad, twelve soldiers who were his personal responsibility. Some of those soldiers had died pretty early. Some had died recently. Murphy had been with the squad a long time. Not a great soldier. More of an easygoing, I'll-get-the-job-done-if-I-have-to sort of guy. Stark had been forced to leave that squad when his fellow noncommissioned officers voted him into command of the entire rebellious military force, but his heart had stayed with those few soldiers. "Maybe if I'd done something different—."

"Ethan, knock it off. You kept that boy alive through a dozen operations. If he pulls through now, that'll be thanks in great part to you as well. Save your guilt for something you couldn't have helped."

Stark glared back at her. "Thanks for the kind words."

"You don't need kind words. You need someone to tell you when you're being an idiot." Vic grinned. "That's me."

Stark managed somehow to smile slightly in return. "And you do it well, soldier. Thanks."

" 'Thanks,' he says. Say hi to Murphy for me."

"I will."

* * *

Medical always felt hushed, always quiet, even after an attack when doctors and nurses were rushing frantically to save casualties, even when a variety of equipment hummed and roared as part of that effort. Stark braced himself, then walked down the hall past the reception desk, his gliding, low-gravity steps even quieter than usual.

The wounded from Fourth Battalion were still where Milheim had reported. Even the medical science of the twenty-first century couldn't repair damaged organs, muscles, and bone in a day. But they were closing in on that goal. The main limit seemed to be the inability of the human body to absorb accelerated healing at the same time as it was weakened by the damage that required the healing.

Everyone perked up at Stark's arrival, managing to broadcast cheer despite haggard, pale faces.
And why not? If you make it to medical nowadays, you're gonna live. You're going to be put back together. Why not be happy about that?
Stark shook hands, clapped backs (gently), asked about families, praised their unit and their performance in battle, and in general did all the things soldiers needed when they were still in giddy shock from a brush with death.

But when he came to the last wounded soldier, he sat silently by his bed. The soldier remained sedated, hooked up to machines that kept him alive, while other machines and his own system worked to repair damage that would have surely killed the man a few decades earlier. A few patches of pale skin showed among the surgical coverings, the plates where machine joined human, and a few articles of clothing artfully arranged to provide the soldier some modesty. Stark squinted at the chart displayed near the bed, filled with medical terms he couldn't understand, watching the tracks of pulse and respiration flow by uninterrupted.
If he did wake up, right now, what would I say? What would be enough and not too much?
Finally he whispered "good luck, soldier," and headed for another area of medical, where another casualty awaited him.

Private Murphy had a small room to himself, sectioned off with lightweight panels. The machines around him hummed and blinked, reassuring in their steady rhythm. He lay flat on his back, eyes closed, looking absurdly healthy. Only someone who knew him as well as Stark could have spotted the thinness of the skin over Murphy's cheeks, a small sign of the stress his body had recently endured.

At the foot of the bed, holding the status display in one hand, stood a familiar figure. Stark cleared his throat, drawing her attention. "Hi, Doc."

The tired-eyed medic turned, quirking a small smile of welcome. "Welcome back, Sergeant. I can't seem to get rid of you."

"Sorry. But I gotta . . . you know."

She nodded. "Visit the wounded. Of course. When the generals came through here they used to have vid photographers recording the event. I guess that's not your speed, though."

"Hell, no. I already dropped in on the new ones, and now I wanted to see how Murphy was doing." Stark let his anguish show for just a moment. "What's wrong with him?"

"Nothing." The medic rubbed her cheeks with her palms, gazing at Murphy bleakly. "We call it half-life. That's just a nickname. The real term is some big medical phrase, but it adds up to a person who's been fixed up so everything should work, but the body doesn't seem to believe it. It's like we've got something inside that knows how much hurt our body has taken, and after a certain point it decides the game's over."

"I don't get it. He's healthy?"

"Sort of. Like I said, all his organs are functional. But if we shut off the life-support gear they'll fail anyway. Not because they're broken but because they apparently think they're broken."

"Is he—? I mean, you talk like you've seen this before. Any chance Murph will come out of it?"

The medic smiled sadly. Even as she spoke, Stark wondered briefly if she'd ever looked anything but tired and sad. "Any chance? Yeah. Some do. Maybe after a few days. Maybe after a few years. But maybe never. At some point, the relatives have to decide whether to pull the plug. Has the kid got relatives up here?"

Stark shook his head. "Nah. Just me, I guess."

"He could do worse." She paused, staring at Murphy with hooded eyes. "You know, even if he does come out of it, he may not be the same guy. He's been as close to being dead permanent as a human can get. It's not easy on someone."

"I guess not." Stark motioned cautiously toward Murphy, as if afraid to disturb him. "Is it okay if I talk to him?"

"You're the boss. You can do anything you want. It can't hurt."

"Can he hear me?"

"I don't know. Assume he can. I saw a case like this once where the girl's boyfriend showed up and she smiled. Dead to the world, but she smiled." The medic motioned toward Murphy's still form. "He got a girl?"