Gears of War

by Jason M. Hough

  The shift in strategy took only ten minutes to implement. Kait stood in the road, Del at her left and Marcus at her right, watching the three other Minotaurs drive off into the darkness. When she turned away, Salvador was behind her, with twelve villagers he’d chosen to stay behind and wait for evac.

  “Let me guess,” Kait said to him. “You’re thinking, ‘Wow, if this is the kind of protection the COG can offer, we might as well slit our own throats now and be done with it.’ That about right? Go ahead, say it.”

  Sal shook his head.

  “You were right, Kait.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He gestured around them. “About the Swarm.”

  Kait waited.

  Sal added, “We’re ten miles from the village. If they’d found us there, instead, there wouldn’t be a single one of us left.” The man’s gaze expanded to include Del and Marcus. “This fight could have been a bloodbath, too, but as things stand, all but one of our people are still alive and kicking.”

  “Sorry for your loss,” she said.

  Sal eyed her, gravely. “You, maybe better than any of us, know the risks we take living as Outsiders. It’s a tragedy, no doubt, but a much bigger catastrophe has been averted, and for that, you have my thanks.”

  “We’re not out of the woods yet,” Marcus said.

  “True,” Sal replied. “But we’ve seen one more sunset than we otherwise would have.”

  Kait hoped he was right.

  * * *

  When Sal suggested they camp under the open sky, Kait felt a strong desire to agree, if only for the nostalgia. But Del insisted they make use of the Minotaurs’ armor.

  “Only one of them is upright, though,” Kait said.

  “So, let’s do something about it.”

  No one complained when she gathered them all to help push the lead Minotaur back onto its wheels. Other than the destroyed radiator and the broken window, the truck had fared surprisingly well.

  About a hundred yards back, the rear vehicle was in far worse shape. Quills poked out of every tire, fuel leaked from holes in its tank, and there were gashes along its canvas-covered rear section. An explosion—probably from a poorly thrown grenade—had torn the front axle off its mounts, too, but the cab was intact, as were the armored sides of the cargo area.

  Just now, that was all that mattered.

  They divided into two groups. Marcus took the rear truck; Kait, Del, and Salvador Pasco went to the front one. The twelve Outsiders were divided between them. Kait took first watch, sitting atop the cab. Now that the dust had settled, she could see the second truck. Marcus was seated atop its roof, and lifted a hand when she did.

  A freezing cold wind came up from the south, blustering along the road and sending eddies of dust off into the flat expanse that surrounded them. Kait wondered why Sal had put his village in such a bleak place, and resolved to ask him in the morning. For a man who’d spent most of his life surviving off the forest, this seemed almost like a self-imposed punishment. Or a challenge.

  He’d made it work, though, she had to give him that.

  * * *

  Her watch ended without incident. Four hours of sitting in the icy wind, a jacket wrapped about her head and jaw, eyes covered by goggles. By the time Del finally popped up through the hatch to take over, she’d become stiff and had to work to extricate herself from her position.

  “Anything?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “G’night then.”

  Yawning, she nodded and went below.

  Sal was in the driver’s seat, one cheek pressed against the armored door, snoring softly. She took the passenger seat and drew her knees up to her chest. For a time she just stared out through the small, filthy front window, willing sleep to come. But sleep was an asshole, she’d come to think, and refused to arrive. She’d have to try if she wanted to get there, and knew her only real reward for the effort would be the nightmares.

  Funny, she thought, how up on the roof when she’d absolutely had to stay awake, she’d found herself constantly nodding off on the verge of true rest. Now, when she could afford to get some shuteye, she could barely even will her eyes to close.

  In desperate need of distraction, Kait switched on a flashlight and fished a satchel from behind the passenger seat. She wasn’t sure why she’d brought it—force of habit, she supposed. She’d write a report for Jinn, she decided. It held a lot of appeal, the idea of walking into her office after this and just slapping down a folder.

  “It’s all in the report,” she’d say, and stride out, evoking a “you don’t own me” saunter. The thought made her grin.

  She hadn’t opened her personal bag since they’d left, and though the binder she’d brought was still in there, along with several pens, she was surprised to see another folder she hadn’t packed. It was blue, and when Kait pulled it free of the leather satchel she read the words printed across the cover.

  COALITION OF ORDERED GOVERNMENTS

  DEPARTMENT OF THE ARMY—

  PERSONNEL REPORT

  184729-H55R9-LM (DIAZ, GABRIEL)

  And then, stamped below:

  TOP SECRET

  EYES ONLY

  Kait swallowed. Her fingers trembled slightly. What the hell was this? And why was it marked secret? Then she saw the yellow square stuck to the lower right corner. She read it aloud, whispering.

  “Knowledge is the best weapon. Read up. H.”

  H?

  Hoffman. Had to be. Kait glanced back out the window, her eyes unfocused. She wondered what rules—no, what laws—she’d break by opening this. What kind of trouble Hoffman would be in if anyone found out. He was pushing ninety, though, so perhaps he didn’t really give a shit.

  She could see him now, wandering around the basement of Government House, making friends with the staff in Records. Making himself a fixture. Becoming someone that no one need bother paying attention to. The man knew his craft. Getting a file out would have been child’s play for him.

  Kait broke her gaze away from the tortured road ahead of her, shifting her focus instead to the past.

  She opened the folder, and started reading.

  Right away she knew something was very, very wrong.

  ACT 2

  LESSER ISLANDS

  79TH YEAR OF THE PENDULUM WARS

  1: NO EIGHTY

  Lieutenant Colonel Gabriel Diaz broke into a sprint. Sand under his toes, the sun just peeking above the eastern horizon, he counted off the seconds as he raced toward the sign.

  It had been planted in the sand and surrounded with barbed wire, and it faced away from him. On the far side was a pictographic warning to the civilian population telling them they were entering a restricted area. Land mines and death! Keep out! All bullshit, but so far it had worked.

  The sign was exactly five hundred yards out from the last bit of grass that marked the true edge of Vectes Naval Base. Gabe always sprinted this stretch, counting the seconds, trying to improve. For the last three weeks he’d barely shaved a second off his best, though, and yesterday he’d actually lost a second for the first time in… well, since arriving here a few months back.

  He pushed. His lungs burned. The sign was ahead.

  And then he was past it. Gabe swore. He’d lost two seconds, but at least this time it wasn’t his fault. He’d been distracted. Because between yesterday and today someone had painted a message on the back of the metal sign:

  NO 80

  It was a message appearing all over the place, lately. Chanted in the canteen, written on mirrors or bathroom stalls, scrawled on the sides of patrol boats, or muttered over the comm as a greeting or even a goodbye. Gabe was already tired of it, but hadn’t yet summoned the energy to crack down on those who were using it.

  Truth was, he agreed in principal.

  No Eighty. No eightieth year of war. The conflict had gone on way too long—only an idiot or a psychopath would argue against that. The problem was, none of the superpowers were going to give u
p. Not until they controlled the Imulsion. And the slogan didn’t identify a specific outcome, just “no more war.” Win, lose, draw? Were these meatheads suggesting the COG surrender on the last day of the seventy-ninth, or unleash one last epic offensive, just to accomplish the end of the conflict?

  Perhaps, Gabe mused, all they would accomplish with this graffiti was to knock another second off his time.

  Slowing to a jog, he got his breath back under control. The tide was in. Cool water splashed under his bare feet. The regular group of locals were here, fishing. They waved at him as he passed, and as always Gabe waved back.

  He jogged another mile, until the sand became a rocky shore of teeming tide pools. Here he rested, studying the life forms that lived in the tiny temporary ponds.

  The sun was over the horizon now. Another dawn in the Lesser Islands, another day at Vectes Naval Base. A reward posting, one Gabe was supposed to be grateful for.

  Part of him was. Filling his lungs with the brisk, heavy ocean air, Gabe Diaz knew things could be much, much worse. He’d been there, after all. Fought in the mud and flame, been ordered to kill, and then later, ordered others to kill. They had, in great number. And many of them had died.

  Victorious or not, the guilt he’d amassed with each Gear that perished under his orders weighed him down like a chain and anchor in the deep ocean. Which is why he’d been given a medal—for “showing tactical prowess in the face of overwhelming odds”—and a posting here in this backwater corner of Sera. His reward for winning a great battle, despite the losses that had come with it.

  Gabe scanned the horizon, unable to keep from contrasting this tranquil place with the horrors he’d witnessed in the frigid steppe north of Meschov. Yes, there was that part of him that felt grateful. But there was another part, too. The one that felt time was slipping away from him. Time, and the war itself.

  He turned around, toward Vectes, and did his morning run again in reverse.

  By the time he saw the walls of the base, the sun was well above the horizon, eroding the morning’s chilly salt breeze. The fishermen had gone, their work for the day already done. Gabe half-heartedly considered going into town and buying a fishing pole of his own. Setting up next to them some morning and learning about their lives.

  He considered that as he passed the sign warning of explosives hidden in the sand. “NO80” had been painted on this side, too. He found his usual gap in the barbed wire and wove through, unconcerned if anyone saw him do it. The passage wasn’t exactly a secret, and anyway, there were no Union of Independent Republics personnel for a hundred miles to note the hole in the base’s defense. The enemy stayed at their end of the island chain, way to the north, and the COG stayed at this end in the south. That was how it worked. For as long as Gabe had been stationed here, anyway. Perhaps neither side wanted to ruin a good thing. Reward posting, indeed.

  The beach gave way to a solid wall. A narrow access stairwell had been built into the side, leading up to a walkway that ringed the entire base. Usually by the time he was halfway from the warning sign to the wall he could see at least one Gear on patrol. This time, though, no one was up there.

  Gabe took the steps two at a time, ready to dress down whatever Gear had pulled wall duty this morning.

  “But the Indies never come here! What’s the point!?” He could hear some private saying it even now, after being accused of being lax in their duty.

  “They don’t come here,” Gabe would reply, “because they know we’re ready and waiting.”

  And they’d grumble and mutter their yessirs and fuck off up to the wall. Later they’d come find him in the mess. Buy him a drink, maybe indulge him in a round of Fractured Lands. That would make the whole thing worth it, Gabe thought. Fewer and fewer challengers played the game against him lately because it required more tactical thought than most here cared to exercise. For Gabe, it was as important as his morning jog.

  At the top of the stairs he realized he’d been wrong. It wasn’t that there was no one on patrol, it was that they were all down at the seawall on the southern edge. Four Gears stood down there, all facing the ocean, each with an arm up to fight off the rhythmic spray of saltwater that crashed against that barrier. They were looking at something in the ocean.

  Gabe jogged up behind them, slowing as he arrived.

  There was no need to ask what had captured their collective attention, or why it merited ignoring the rest of the perimeter. Half a mile out to sea a ship was at anchor. Gray and sleek, definitely COG, but not a type Gabe had seen before. Not in person, anyway. The vessel was low slung, built for speed.

  “Bus?” one of the men beside him said, a slang term for the Landing Craft, or LCU, class of ship.

  “That’s my guess,” another replied, “but I’m no fish-head.”

  Gabe found he agreed with the guess, but waited to see all the same. The ship was in profile, and had no markings at all. No name, no number, not even a COG flag above its conning tower, but there was something about its lines that implied Landing Craft class. Maybe not of the utility variety, but the purpose seemed the same.

  “Starting to get a bad feeling about this,” he said, despite himself. The Gears beside him turned. They hadn’t noticed him arrive, and at the sight of their commanding officer they suddenly found other things to do. Like, for example, their duty.

  “Lieutenant Colonel,” they said in turn, as they went back to their patrol routes. Routes that seemed to suddenly require a very slow and careful trek along the southern sea wall, with full attention on the ship anchored out there. Gabe started to doubt his initial guess. The vessel seemed too small.

  After a few minutes, the bow of the mystery ship rotated open, splashing into the water.

  So, an LCU after all. Not going to be many tanks that could fit in that hold, though, and even if they could, they wouldn’t deploy a half-mile out. So what were they landing from it?

  The answer came immediately. As the forward ramp touched the waves, several small inflatable craft powered out from the mothership and turned toward shore. They came in fast, each carrying a full complement of six Gears. There was a moment, though brief, where Gabe had a flash of panic that this was some kind of UIR trick. One of their own boats disguised as an LCU, delivering squads wearing stolen COG armor. A dawn raid that would mark the day the Lesser Islands north of Tyrus were finally thrust into the war.

  But it wasn’t that. He knew with certainty because—as the boats approached the narrow harbor entrance—Gabe Diaz recognized the man sitting front and center in the first craft.

  “Well, shit,” he muttered into the breeze. Suddenly the lack of markings made sense. “This’ll be interesting.” Quickly he clomped down the inner set of stairs, heading toward the shipyard.

  “LC,” a Gear said as he passed. There were more, and the greeting was repeated by each of them in turn. Gabe responded with their ranks, despite knowing all their names. Names were for personal connection, or the need to get someone’s attention. Using a name meant showing you cared, that you were deadly serious, or both, and that was a resource to be spent wisely.

  He only used it for those who’d earned it. And if there were ever any combat on these shores, he’d use their names then, too.

  “Diaz!”

  The bark of his boss. Gabe winced slightly and turned.

  “Captain,” he said. “We have visitors. Four inflatables—”

  “I’m well aware,” the stout woman replied. She marched over and looked him up and down. Though Captain Phillips knew of his morning routine, she had no compunction about pretending his lack of uniform was an issue, at least when she needed it to be.

  Their relationship was complicated.

  She was COG Navy, not Army, for one thing. The overall commander of Vectes Base. Gabe, being Army, was responsible for all the Gears stationed here, and answered only to her. But he also answered to the Army, whose views and priorities didn’t always line up with the Naval side of the Coalition. Compounding the
problem, Phillips was new here—only a few months in the Islands, barely more than him. As her first stint in command, so far she’d been quite keen to prove Vectes was a Naval installation first, and the Gears were merely guests. But more than that, she also seemed hell-bent on keeping the place quiet and, as a result, off the radar of their leadership.

  Gabe opened his mouth, but was quickly cut off.

  “Who they are and why they’re here is none of your goddamn business,” she said. He hadn’t asked, but decided not to point that out. Asking had, after all, been exactly what he was about to do.

  Phillips went on. “Get down there and make sure they have whatever supplies they need. Don’t ask them questions. Don’t even fucking look at them unless you have to. Get ’em their stuff, and get ’em out of here A-SAP. Clear?”

  “Clear, ma’am.”

  “Good.” She nodded. “Dismissed.”

  Gabe saluted and marched off, weaving through the barracks and the maze of cargo containers that stood just beyond. All the evidence was in place now, he thought. As if the unmarked boat, or the sight of Wyatt, hadn’t been enough, the demand of cooperation and discretion sealed it.

  A spec-ops team had just landed at Vectes.

  * * *

  “Ho-lee-shiiiit. Gabriel Fucking Diaz, as I live and breathe.”

  “The hell are you doing here, Wyatt?” He embraced his younger brother for the first time in…

  “How long has it been?”

  “Three years, I think,” Wyatt replied. “Wait, shit, that was Oscar I saw then. Four years!”

  “Four? Damn. Too long, brother.” He realized suddenly that both the spec-ops squad and his own people were all standing around, waiting for the love-in to end so they could get to work.

  “Forget my question, by the way,” Gabe said. “Not supposed to ask what you’re doing here.”

  Wyatt shrugged. “Doesn’t bother me. It’s no secret. We’re here to do a bit of this and a bit of that.” The Ghosts behind him all laughed, practically in unison, at the no-doubt familiar line.