His father looked frantically to the side, as if searching for a forgotten text. "I, uh, I. . . I'm glad you wrote. Good to know you're okay. If you, um, ever get down here, please, um, stop in. Wear your, uh, uniform if you like. I'm sure you look real good in it. It's . . . been a long time." Screen static replaced his father's aged face; then the coin popped out, ready for replay or reuse.
Stark took the coin carefully in his hand, weighing it like a talisman. "You didn't let me down, Dad," he finally told it. "Not really. And thanks. Don't worry. I won't let these apes down." He pulled out a fresh coin, inserted it, then laboriously began recording a reply, trying to ignore the way his halting delivery mimicked that of his father.
Stark fidgeted outside the door to Robin's apartment, wondering anew just why the civ woman had called him, and feeling extremely out of place in uniform amid the civ furnishings, decorations, and people who filled this portion of New Plymouth. He stood stiffly as a police officer paused nearby, then walked over.
I'm not a kid anymore. If this guy tries to ride me, I'll—
"Excuse me." The officer spoke politely, not trying to hide his curiosity but without any obvious hostility. "Can I help you?"
"No. Thank you."
"If you need directions—"
"This is where I want to be," Stark interrupted, with a sharp gesture toward the door.
"All right. If there's anything you need, you let me know."
Stark finally turned his head, frowning at the officer. "Sure. Mind telling me why you're being nice to me?"
"I don't understand."
"Neither do I. I'm a soldier, right? I'm in a civ neighborhood. That doesn't bother you?"
The officer frowned back. "I've seen very few military people here, so naturally I'm curious. It's my job to look out for this area, just like you look out for the colony."
Stark paused in mid-reply as the officer finished his sentence. "You're not worried about me?"
"Most of us worry about the soldiers on the perimeter."
"That's not . . . never mind. Thanks. I'm okay." He watched the officer walk on down the corridor, well lighted here, with actual living plants growing in occasional planters set along the walls.
What was that about? Damn strange. Maybe I should have listened to Vic.
"Ethan," Vic had offered in tones of utter seriousness after he'd discussed his plans for the evening, "you want me to come along?"
"Two women on one date?" Stark joked. "That'd sure boost my reputation."
Vic hadn't smiled. "Ethan, you know mil, like me. You don't know civs, and you sure don't know women. I just want to keep you out of trouble."
"Thanks, Mom. But I think I can handle this alone."
"Famous last words." Vic had let him go, watching with worried eyes.
Robin's door finally slid open to reveal the civ woman smiling in welcome. "Thanks for coming by. It's important."
"Mind if I ask why?" Stark wondered, standing rigidly in the small room that made up the apartment's living room/bedroom/office.
"I've a friend who needs to talk to you." Robin gestured toward the kitchenette. Another woman stood there, middle-aged with streaks of gray along each temple, a woman who radiated the kind of confidence that comes with high rank in any profession. Stark had to fight down a sudden urge to salute as the woman walked up to him and extended a hand.
Stark shook it, sitting awkwardly in an offered seat as the two women sat opposite him. "Would you like something to eat or drink?" Robin offered.
"No, that's okay." On a small shelf nearby stood a short, fat figurine, a silly grin plastered on its comical face. Stark smiled in sudden memory. "This yours?" he asked, indicating the toy.
Robin half smiled back, as if embarrassed. "Yes. My mother gave it to me when I left Earth. It was hers. She thought it would remind me of home."
"Does it?"
"Yes. Why do you ask?"
He touched the figurine's face gently with one fingertip. "My mom has one, too. Back home. Guess all the women that age bought 'em, huh?"
"Many did," the other woman admitted. "It was quite a fad. Where is your home?"
"You mean, where did I grow up?" Stark smiled at the silly figurine again. "Seattle Area."
"Really?" Robin asked. "I'm originally from the Portland Area. I didn't know there was a fort in the Seattle Area."
"There isn't. My parents weren't mil. Military. I grew up just like you did, I guess."
"That's fairly unusual, isn't it?"
"Yeah, well, that's me. Fairly unusual." Stark felt himself relaxing, as if the ridiculous figurine were a talisman summoning memories of his life as a civilian. "Funny, you from the Pacific Northwest, too, and having the same whatchamacallit."
"Pacas. They're called pacas. I don't know why. Did you ever go to the beaches?"
"Sure. Everybody did."
"I miss the beaches," Robin remarked wistfully. "I wish the Moon had an ocean."
"It's got seas," Stark joked.
"That doesn't count," she laughed in reply.
A momentary silence settled. "What's this about?" Stark finally questioned. Nothing about the encounter seemed social, despite the relaxing atmosphere, sparking reminders of Vic's worried attitude.
"Mr. Stark," the older woman began.
"Sergeant."
"I beg your pardon?" The woman seemed genuinely bewildered.
"Sergeant," Stark repeated. "That's my title. In the mil. The military. It's what I do."
"I see." The older woman nodded in apparent understanding. "Well, Sergeant Stark, I'm Cheryl Sarafina. My title is executive director to Colony Manager Campbell. Do you know who that is?"
"Sounds like the head civ."
"That's right. James Campbell is the senior elected civilian official in New Plymouth, which means he's the top elected civilian on the entire Moon, though his actual power is severely limited as long as we're under martial law." Sarafina paused, then stared grimly at Stark. "Mr.—I'm sorry—Sergeant Stark, I'd very much like to ask you some questions about the military."
"I can't divulge any operational stuff to you, ma'am, not without clearance from my chain of command."
"Ma'am?" Sarafina seemed amused by the title. "Don't worry. I don't want to know anything you can't tell me. No, I'd just like to know your opinion on some issues."
"My opinion?" Stark laughed. "I'm a Sergeant. Nobody cares what I think, except the grunts in my Squad."
"I care." Sarafina leaned forward, eyes intense. "Sergeant Stark, would you regard a negotiated peace settlement here on the Moon as a betrayal?"
"Huh?" Stark scratched his head, glancing at Robin and then the paca on the nearby shelf. "Why would I do that?"
"Because of all your comrades who have died up here. All the fighting you've done to achieve victory."
"Ma'am, most of the fighting I've done was to achieve my personal survival. As for my comrades, yeah, I've lost too many, here and a lot of other places. And let me tell you, one is too many. But it happens, and nobody cares all that much except us."
Sarafina frowned in puzzlement. "Surely your officers care."
"A few do, most don't. A lot of them, the higher-ranking ones in particular, seem to think of us as nothing more than spare parts sometimes."
"I don't understand."
Stark shrugged. "Neither do I, ma'am. Why are you asking me this?"
"Because," Robin chimed in, "we, the civilians here in New Plymouth, would like the war to end. Everything we want to accomplish on Luna is being limited and stymied by the need to fight, by the resources we're forced to send back to Earth as what we're told is our share of the war's cost, by the partial blockades that make getting people and materials up here harder than it needs to be. And, of course, the heavy taxes on anything and everything up here."
"Taxes?" Stark questioned. "I thought civs could elect people who wouldn't make them pay a lot of taxes. Has that changed since I enlisted?"
Robin Masood smiled bitterly. "It's not that we don't expect to help pay for the military forces that protect us, but we seem to be taxed beyond that, certainly much, much higher than our counterparts on Earth. And there's nothing we can do about it. We can't exercise the same rights to self-government that Americans back on Earth can, because as long as the war lasts, we'll remain under martial law. We're not even allowed to vote for representatives in Washington."
"In addition," Sarafina noted, "the corporations that sent us up here invested heavily, and as a result continue to demand ever larger output from our mines, labs, and factories. Yet we cannot meet those output goals as long as the war demands resources from us and limits our ability to expand."
"So you're between a rock and a hard place. You saying your bosses don't listen to you either?"
Sarafina smiled grimly. "Sergeant Stark, are you familiar with the term 'chattel labor'?"
"Can't say I am."
"It refers to workers who are so indebted to their employers that they must continue working. Workers who have no say in their own fates. Workers who are effectively little more than slaves. We are tired of living such lives, Sergeant Stark, yet there is no hope of improvement as long as the war continues. Therefore we want to negotiate a settlement."
Stark shrugged again. "So negotiate it. That issue's way above my pay grade."
Sarafina speared Stark with another intense gaze. "Sergeant, as I noted, we've been told by your officers, the most senior ones, that any attempt to negotiate a settlement would be regarded as a betrayal by the enlisted personnel. We've been told you would never stand for it."
"Nobody ever asked me." Stark screwed up his face in puzzlement. "Hell, I've been in more than a dozen campaigns. They all ended, and a lot of them didn't end the way we wanted. Nobody asked me if I cared or liked it then, and nobody's asked me up here."
"Are you saying you'd actually like a negotiated settlement?"
"Ma'am, I generally like it when people stop shooting at me."
The two women exchanged glances. "It appears your officers may be lying to us," Sarafina noted.
"They lie to us all the time," Stark agreed, then frowned in sudden concern.
Damn. Shouldn't have said that. Way too relaxed. So what if Robin's from Portland Area and her mom had one of those dumb smiley things, too. They're civs.
"I probably shouldn't be that blunt with you. I'm sure my officers would be real unhappy if they heard what I've been telling you, even if it is just my opinion."
"Sergeant, I swear anything you have or will tell us will remain confidential," Sarafina promised. "Your officers will not be told you ever spoke to us."
Can I trust that? Hell, I don't know. They seem nice, but
. . .
Vic's right. I'm out of my depth here.
"Suppose I asked you not to tell anyone else."
"No one?" Sarafina didn't seem pleased at the prospect.
"Right."
"Please reconsider. I believe this information is very important to Mr. Campbell, and therefore to all the inhabitants of New Plymouth."
If she was lying to me, she' d just promise anything to keep me talking. Yeah. No question.
"That's okay. You can tell Campbell. Just keep it quiet beyond him. I talk too much for my own good sometimes."
Sarafina didn't try to hide her relief. "Certainly. You have my word, Sergeant Stark."
"Thanks. Look, I can't help you on this negotiation issue. I don't have any power outside the twelve soldiers I command. And my officers have made it plenty clear they don't want to hear my opinions on any subject."
Sarafina smiled. "On the contrary, Sergeant Stark, you have helped us. Understanding your opponent is important in politics. I assume it is the same in military matters, isn't it?"
"That's right."
"In the same way, knowing what motivates your senior officers will help us in our dealings with them."
"Good luck." Stark looked around to mask another wave of uncertainty. "Uh, Robin, I guess that's the whole point of this? Nothing social? Not that I expected anything," Stark added hastily.
She flushed slightly. "I'm very sorry. You probably expected something else when I sent you that letter, didn't you?"
"You didn't promise anything."
"No, but. . . I am sorry for implied expectations. It's nothing personal."
Stark found himself grinning. "It never is. Don't worry about it." He nudged the paca again. "Nice to see this thing. My mom's used to embarrass the hell out of me. But that was a long time ago. You ever get back to the Portland Area?"
"I can't afford it. Like most of the workers up here, I seem to get deeper in debt by the day. Have you been to the Seattle Area lately?"
"I've been up here longer than you. So, is there anything else I can do for you ladies? We're pretty busy these days. I probably ought to be getting back."
Sarafina glanced away, seeming somehow embarrassed to Stark. "There is one more thing, Sergeant. Is there anything we, the civilians in New Plymouth, can do for you?"
"For me?" Stark shook his head. "I don't need anything special."
"No, not just you personally. Anyone, everyone in the military. What can we do?"
Sometimes things happened that simply didn't fit. Lately that sort of thing had been happening often. First the cop, then this. Stark rubbed his neck, puzzled. "Why are you asking?" he finally wondered.
Robin answered, pointing off toward the spaceport. "We see them all the time, sometimes just a few, sometimes more. The . . . the . . . containers for the dead."
"The body bags." Stark nodded. "Yeah, I know they're not bags anymore, but that's still what they're called."
"You're dying for us," Robin continued, eyes suddenly reddened. "We know that. You keep us safe at enormous risk to yourselves. That's one of the reasons we insisted on visiting the hospital where we saw you, so we could gain a better understanding of your sacrifices for us."
"One of the reasons?" Stark asked.
Sarafina smiled tightly. "We also wanted a chance to speak to some military personnel for their candid opinions. However, if you recall, no such chance presented itself. The officers who escorted us made it clear we shouldn't ask too many questions and they effectively intimidated anyone who might have given us the answers we sought anyway."