Stark's Command (13 page)

A long night hadn't generated any special wisdom, either. Stark grumbled internally as he took his seat. The meeting room sat near the edge of the headquarters complex, close enough to the rest of the Colony that Stark thought it qualified as neutral territory.
And I sure as hell ain't gonna let the civs see that wonderland the General used for conferences.
Besides, in Stark's experience uncomfortable conference rooms made for quicker meetings and decisions than comfortable ones did. He sat along one side of a standard-issue metal table, forged from lunar ore, his makeshift staff seated to his left and right. On the other side of the table, Colony Manager Campbell sat opposite Stark, his aides also ranked to either side.

Campbell looked nervous, though he hid it pretty well. Sarafina, seated next to him, smiled briefly at Stark. The other civilians either stared at the table top or glowered upward. Stark turned to whisper a comment to Vic, the words dying unuttered as he realized his own people all mirrored the attitudes of the Colonists.
Oh, man. This is gonna be as bad as I feared, ain't it?
"I guess we ought to start," Stark finally suggested. "But I'm not sure how this should work."

"None of us do." Campbell smiled tightly. "It's been a long time since Americans staged a revolution."

A wide-featured man down the table from Campbell sat straight at the words. "I was not aware any decision had been reached regarding this situation. The potential for extremely serious—"

"Yes, yes," Campbell interrupted wearily. "This is Jason Trasies, Chief of Security for the Colony."

"And I take that responsibility very seriously," Trasies insisted sharply.

Stark's staff exchanged cold glances with Trasies, who stared back as if he was imagining them all in prison garb. "I assure you," Stark stated evenly, "that the Colony is secure."

"Thanks to us," Vic added. "We also take our responsibilities very seriously."

"Our own Navy almost attacked us!" A woman to Campbell's left leaned forward, eyes flaring like a deer watching a party of hunters. "We don't have normal communications, we aren't getting regular supply shipments, I'm told we're under heavy attack—"

"Ma'am," Stark broke in, "the heavy attacks are over. We beat them back and hurt the enemy bad enough that they won't be returning soon."

"You killed them! You killed a lot of them! And now you want to run this Colony?"

"Ms. Pevoni." Campbell glared down the table. "As I explained earlier, the military has made it clear to me that they do not desire to run the Colony. Indeed, they have indicated they want to grant us far more freedom than we have ever experienced to date."

"And you trust them?" Trasies needled. "Did they take an oath to respect your decisions?"

Stark felt his face grow hot, but Bev Manley spoke before he could. "None of us need ethics lessons from corporate storm troopers," she noted, smiling mock-pleasantly as her words slid into Trasies like a stiletto.

"I work for the Colony," Trasies stated stiffly.

"You work for me," Campbell corrected, his own face flushed. "I will not tolerate any further insults directed at the military representatives."

Pevoni leaned forward again. "It's not insulting to bring up their own recent behavior. That's their track record—"

"Who the hell are you?" Vic demanded icily.

"Yvonne Pevoni, Corporate and Government Liaison," the civilian responded with more than a trace of hauteur. "As such, I am responsible for evaluating the character of those we deal with, and I cannot imagine rendering a favorable assessment of armed criminal elements—"

"That's enough," Stark cut her off sharply. "Campbell, your people are out of line."

Trasies purpled with anger.
"We're
out of line? Just who the hell do you—"

"Sergeant Stark's right." Campbell, his jaw muscles tight, glanced around the table. "This isn't getting us anywhere. We need a time-out."

Stark nodded back. "Good idea."

"And privacy while I talk to my staff, if that's acceptable."

"Sure." Stark stood, ignoring the daggerlike glances from Trasies. "We'll wait in the hall, if it's not too long. How much time you want?"

"Half an hour. If we can't settle a few things by then, we'll probably need a lot longer."

"Okay." Stark stood, leading his people out of the room, then turned to face them in the narrow corridor.

Vic leaned against one wall, pulling out her palmtop. "Might as well get something constructive accomplished," she remarked in an idle tone as her fingers began tapping the palmtop's surface.

"I'd like that, too," Stark suggested bitingly. "Alright, people. What happened in there?"

"You know as well as we do," Bev Manley replied with a bitter smile. "Civs are trying to roll us. It happens in bars all the time."

"I know that security chief is bad news, and I could do without that pure-as-driven-snow liaison broad, but—"

"They're all bad news, Ethan. They think we're dangerous. They want to use us for whatever they need and have nothing to do with us otherwise."

"The rest of you agree with that?" Stark looked at each soldier in turn as they nodded, Vic glancing briefly up from her work to add her assent. "Even Campbell and Sarafina? They didn't seem hostile to me."

"Campbell also didn't seem in control," Reynolds suggested dryly.

"He hasn't had a lot of real power up to now. He's got to get used to that."

"If any of
my
subordinates acted like that little slimeball Trasies," Manley noted, "I'd take him apart and feed the pieces to rats."

"Commander," Gordasa chimed in, "those civs need us, just like always. We don't need them."

"Huh." Stark looked around, eyeing each soldier in turn. "I got a funny feeling in there, you guys. I felt like I knew how Campbell felt. I felt like I could talk to the civs. But you guys are telling me you didn't feel any of that."

"Nope," Manley answered for them all.

"So why should I feel different about them?"

Vic grinned wickedly, though her eyes remained fixed on her palmtop. "You were born a civ, Ethan. You're just reverting to type."

Gordasa frowned. "Stark ain't no civ now."

"Not like them," Stark agreed. "Joined the mil a long time ago, just like you apes. But I grew up like them. So maybe I understand the civs just a little because of that? I dunno. I do know we're gonna need those civs even if we don't need them right this minute. Who's gonna talk to the authorities on the World about us sending the officers back and getting our people sent up in return?"

Silence for a moment, then Manley nodded reluctantly. "The authorities won't talk to us, that's for sure. As far as the Pentagon's concerned, we're poison."

"Verdad,"
Gordasa agreed. "And, you know, if we really want spares, and we're going to need them eventually if this drags on, we'll have to find a backdoor into the corporations that make them."

"Backdoor?" Vic questioned. "There's a way to get suit spares through unofficial channels? Those parts are all classified, official-sales-only equipment."

Gordasa shrugged and smiled simultaneously. "There's ways to get anything unofficial. You guys know that. I never played those games, but I know about them."

"So," Stark continued, "all you apes agree now that we need to talk to these civs?"
I should've laid better groundwork for this meeting. But it all just seemed to make sense. Next time I'll know better.
"That we need to work with them?"

"To some extent." Bev Manley glanced around as the others nodded with varying degrees of reluctance. "Nobody likes it, though, Stark."

"Nobody likes Administration, either, Bev, but we need it." Stark eyed his watch, then the door. "When we go back in there, I'll handle Trasies if he shoots off his mouth again. Maybe show Campbell how it's done. Vic, give that Pevoni woman a death-stare if she looks like she's gonna talk again."

"Can't I just follow her out of the meeting until I can catch her alone in an alley?"

Stark stifled a laugh, trying to look stern as the others guffawed. "Okay, it's not like I don't know how you feel. But let's see what we can get done with the others in there."

Time finally up, Stark led his people back inside the meeting room, where Campbell wore the expression of a man trying not to reveal serious exasperation. He stared down his side of the table, eyes lingering on Trasies. "It appears there are some issues which require considerable coordination prior to successful agreement."

"We don't have considerable time," Stark reminded him. "What's the sticking points? Where's the hang-ups?"

"I'm afraid the specific issues are inflammatory enough that further discussion here would add nothing to our chances for working together." Campbell exhaled heavily, looking weary. "It's not your fault. This is something we have to work out ourselves."

"I understand. If you need any information or assistance from us while you're working things out—"

Trasies broke in. "We're quite capable of making decisions on our own."

Stark narrowed his eyes as if sighting in on the Security Chief. "And I'm sure Mr. Campbell is quite capable of speaking for himself. Or do you think you're in charge?"

Campbell held up his hands to forestall further conversation. "I believe it's best if the meeting end at this point."

Stark raised his own palm in objection. "No. There's one thing that needs to be addressed right away, and we need your help on it. We've got our officers locked up, and we want them gone. Sent back to Earth."

Sarafina looked eagerly toward Campbell even as she addressed Stark. "So the officers are still safe? None have been injured?"

"They're safe, but not happy, not with being in confinement. I want them home where they're no threat to us."
And where none of my soldiers can go berserk or get drunk and hurt one of them. Even I fantasize sometimes about finding Captain Noble and bouncing him off a wall a few times.
"But nobody back home is going to talk to us. You can negotiate with them, though, work out the deal so we can shuttle the officers home."

Campbell frowned even as he nodded. "That shouldn't be hard to arrange if you allow us to use the communications circuits again."

"There's more. In exchange for the officers, we'd like our family members sent up."

"Families. Of course. We'll need a list of officers and another of the people you want in exchange—"

Yvonne Pevoni waved her hands frantically. "I do not advise getting involved in this. We'd be in the middle of a critical situation—"

"And acting on behalf of these individuals," Trasies finished coldly.

Campbell flushed again, looking to either side, where his advisors watched expectantly. "This," he stated slowly but firmly, "is a humanitarian issue. We are not acting on behalf of anyone if we facilitate a transfer of confined officers for family members of people remaining up here."

"I do not—" Pevoni started.

"No further debate is necessary," Campbell snapped. "Ms. Sarafina, work with Sergeant Stark's people as necessary to facilitate the negotiations."

"Thank you," Stark stated, the emotion behind the simple words apparent despite his best efforts. He glanced over at Vic, who made a brief okay-Campbell-showed-he's-in-charge expression. "Sergeant Reynolds will be our POC." The civilians stared blankly back. "Sorry. Point Of Contact. The person you should work with, Ms. Sarafina."

Campbell stood, looking downward, face grim. "There is much to resolve. I'm sorry this meeting couldn't have been more productive."

"Me, too." Stark reached out to offer his hand, gripping firmly as Campbell shook it, then watched the civilians file out before holding out the same hand to his staff. "See. I touched him and nothing horrible happened."

"Have you still got your watch?" Vic wondered. "If you do, it's because he didn't want it."

Stark glared back. "I can't do anything about the civs' attitudes, but by God I expect my own people to back me up."

"We didn't say anything—"

"No, but your negatives were obvious to the most casual observer! I'll say this one more time. We gotta work with the civs. Anybody who isn't ready to do that just let me know and I can find you a job where you'll never have to see one!"

A storm rumbled down the halls of the headquarters complex. Stark wore a thundercloud on his face, ready to spit lightning at the slightest provocation, but everyone who saw him hastily veered aside before they came within range.
I
cannot
believe everybody is being so damn stupid and stubborn. Working with these civs is
important.
Why am I the only guy who sees that? When the hell did
I
become the most reasonable person around?
He turned a corner near the empty suite of rooms once occupied by the Commanding General, coming to a halt as his anger locked on to three soldiers standing by a small door. "Who the hell are you guys?"

"The gardeners," the Corporal answered rapidly. The two Privates accompanying him nodded vigorously even as they stared at the Corporal in an obvious attempt to keep Stark's attention focused on him instead of them.

"The . . . ?" Rubbing his forehead, expression now pained, Stark paused before speaking again. "Gardeners. There's a garden here?"

"Yessir. Two gardens."

"Two gardens." Stark waved the Corporal on. "Show me." As the Corporal fumbled with the door, Stark looked around. "Isn't this near the Commanding General's rooms?"

The Corporal nodded. "That's right. This is sort of a back door so we wouldn't tromp through his rooms on the way to the garden." He opened the door, leading the way inside.

"A back door into the General's quarters," Stark muttered, thinking darkly of security violations, then stopped as he saw the garden. The layout resembled courtyards found scattered around the Colony, a square room with windows set in the ceiling or one wall to view the outside. Instead of a view of the bleak lunar landscape, however, these overhead "windows" projected images of cloud-speckled blue sky. Stark blinked in amazement as his gaze wandered away from the windows. The walls had been worked with smooth stone and carefully painted to resemble an outdoors scene with rolling hills and ruins vaguely similar to those Stark had seen in the Middle East. Against the walls with their painted-on trees and other vegetation, real planters filled with bright flowers or carefully trimmed bushes stood neatly ranked. Full-spectrum lights overhead mimicked sunlight. On the ground, a carpet of bright green grass beckoned, its individual blades grown thin in the low gravity, but dense and finely manicured.