It was just the start of a long chain of consequences that Hoffman could now see unfolding before his eyes. Food shortages. Hoarding. Us and them. He had to nip this in the bud.
“We’ve had a lot of practice at managing food supplies,” he said. Damn, these people needed an officer assigned to them permanently, not just to make things happen but to give them some confidence that they weren’t going to get screwed over any more than they had been already. He needed these people. He needed their cooperation even more than he needed the Gorasni fuel. They were the ones who knew how to live off this island. The Jacinto civilians were all city folk. “You’ll have a member of my staff assigned to you to make sure you get a fair deal.”
It was the kind of thing Anya could handle. Hoffman stopped short of dumping the job on her there and then, but his mind was already made up. This was made for her. She could play frontline Gear, too, but she’d also do what she did best—organize, deploy, and reassure.
“What about the curfew? And the radio blackout?” Gavriel asked. The crowd behind him was gradually growing as more people seemed to notice the COG command had come to town. “Is that because of the Lambent, or the Stranded? The no-go areas were bad enough.”
“I’ll talk to the Chairman,” Hoffman said. Why the hell am I doing this? Why aren’t I just relaying the orders? It went beyond his pragmatic need to keep this town sweet. He knew it. “Leave it with me. You’ll get your radio net.”
Anya gave him a wary look as they got back into the Packhorse. They were four or five klicks down the road before she said anything at all. Maybe she’d worked out that she’d be spending more time in Pelruan than at the naval base, and she’d see even less of Marcus Fenix.
“Are you okay, sir?” she asked.
“Why?”
“I didn’t realize you felt so responsible for Pelruan. You seemed quite agitated.”
So maybe it’s not about Marcus. And maybe I’m the one with the issues.
“We can’t leave this to politicians.” He realized that sounded like he was plotting a coup. “Anya, you’re the right person to take charge of the town. Will you do it?”
“I’ll do whatever you ask me to do, sir.”
“You can say no.”
She hesitated just that fraction of a second too long. “I’ll do it.”
“It’s not a soft girly option. You’ll have command of a couple of squads.”
Hoffman let that sink in. Anya just nodded.
Yes, he was worried about Pelruan. And the worry sprang not just from necessity, but from the last time he’d been responsible for the day-to-day survival of a city.
Not Jacinto. Whatever I felt, I was never alone in Jacinto. Anvegad—that was different. That was desperate. That was all down to me.
“Thank you, sir,” Anya said. “I won’t let you down.”
On the way back to base, they had to stop to let the route-proving vehicle pass them. One of the giant grindlift derricks had been fitted with a chain flail and drove the main roads twice a day to clear any explosives. Dizzy Wallin brought the juggernaut to a stop and stuck his head out of the cab.
“All safe behind, Colonel,” he called. “Trust ol’ Betty. She don’t miss a thing with her new grass skirt.”
“Thanks, Wallin.” The height of the cab gave the man a good view over the countryside. “Anything happening on the ground?”
“Just those Indies out lookin’ for the gang.”
Hoffman bristled. “What Indies?”
“Ol’ piss-and-importance Trescu and his heavies.” Dizzy sounded as if he thought everyone knew, but then his expression changed. “They’re out in the woods with that kid. Nial. He was leadin’ ’em somewhere.”
Trescu hadn’t said a damn word about it. The last thing Hoffman knew was that Trescu was still interrogating the teenager and had agreed to hand over whatever intel he got. The bastard had lied. Surprise. Hoffman wondered what had made the Gorasni extra negative about Stranded, because this went far beyond the COG’s dislike of them. After the sinking of the Trader, his was starting to look like a concerted purge.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” Hoffman said. Dizzy saluted, forefinger to the battered rim of his nonregulation hat, and the derrick groaned on its way. “At least someone keeps me in the loop.”
“What are they going to do with that boy when they’re finished with him?” Anya asked.
“I don’t plan to leave that to Trescu,” Hoffman said. “Screw humoring him. He’s not a law unto himself, no matter how many damn imulsion rigs he’s got.”
This was how things went to rat shit; a blind eye turned here, a concession made there, and questions not asked. Human civilization was fragile enough as it was. Private armies like Trescu’s were the road to anarchy, and Hoffman had to assert his authority before things got out of control. Prescott had to be made to see that.
Hoffman was still fuming silently, watching the countryside passing by, when Anya started to brake.
“Someone up ahead, sir. Gorasni.”
The Gorasni had set up a roadblock. Hoffman could see it clearly, a token effort of branches and a few strands of razor wire across half the width of the paving. It wouldn’t stop a Packhorse. Who the hell did these needledicks think they were?
“Stop twenty meters back, Anya, just in case.” Hoffman felt for his sidearm. Common sense said he didn’t need it, but instinct said he did. “If they don’t pull that goddamn junk off the road before we get there, that is.”
As the Packhorse slowed, it was clear the three militiamen weren’t going anywhere. Anya brought the vehicle to a halt. Hoffman got out and strode up to the first Gorasni, a square-looking middle-aged man with sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve.
“Get this off the road.” He was so close he could smell the man’s breath—onions, tooth decay, and whatever the hell these people rolled for a smoke. “I’ll tell you where and when to place checkpoints.”
The sergeant didn’t blink. “Commander Trescu said we were to stop traffic entering this area for the next hour.”
“Commander Trescu can kiss my ass. This road remains open.” Hoffman never reminded anyone of his rank. It was the resort of an officer who couldn’t command. A man had to show his authority. “I’m getting back in that vehicle, and if you haven’t pulled that garbage off my goddamn road by the time I start the engine, I’ll be driving over you.”
Hoffman was pretty sure they understood Tyran well enough to get all the nuances. He marched up to the driver’s side and opened the door.
“Move over, Anya. And get ready to duck.”
From that moment on, he couldn’t back down. He started the engine, engaged the clutch, and moved off. The Indies just stood there. Hoffman accelerated.
If he hit them, it was too bad.
The roadblock loomed in the windshield. His instinct was to brake, but he just put his foot down. The last thing he saw seconds before the Packhorse thumped into the barrier and smashed it to one side was the Gorasni jumping to safety.
He almost expected shots from behind. He didn’t bother to look in the mirror.
“Assholes,” he said. “The next man who calls them Indies is on a charge. They’re not a separate state anymore.”
“Well done, sir.” Anya flicked the radio control and held the mike where he could grab it. That girl could read his mind. “You’ll be wanting this.”
Hoffman could hear sustained rifle fire in the distance. It didn’t sound like Lancers. He’d have known if there’d been a contact on that scale anyway, but nobody had given Trescu clearance to deploy men. This had to stop.
“Mathieson? Get Trescu on the radio for me.”
“Wait one.” The link went silent for a few moments. “Sorry, sir, he’s not using the kit we gave him. He’s on his own net. They’ve got a transmitter on board one of their ships.”
Hoffman almost spat. He wasn’t going to tolerate two armies here. If Trescu wanted to play soldiers, he could do it where Hoffman could hear it
and see it. Gorasnaya was part of the COG now.
That was the deal.
“Jam it,” he said. “Shut that damn thing down.”
TRAWLER MONTAGNON APPROACHING VECTES NAVAL BASE.
The mood on board Montagnon had shifted through shock, relief, and anger, and had now dried to a shade of shaky, hysterical humor.
Surviving close calls had that effect on everyone except Marcus, Baird noted. He just sat on the tool locker listening to the comms channel. If they ever built a statue of him, that was the way Baird was sure it should look; finger pressed to his earpiece, staring into mid-distance, and frowning. From time to time he made a noise in his throat like a disgruntled dog.
“Told you there was glowies down there, didn’t I?” Cole said to Gullie. They were all sitting on the deck while the crew sorted the catch very, very carefully. “And you laughed your ass off.”
Gullie clutched a mug of hot broth. “I’m sorry. We just never saw these things. How did you live with these monsters coming up under your streets for fifteen years?”
“That was grubs. They don’t explode much.”
Baird joined in. “Unless you make ’em. Then they blow up just great.”
He moved over to Bernie, trying not to look as if he was fussing over her. Without armor and the extra bulk of a rifle and webbing, she looked pathetically thin in her wet fatigues. She reminded him of a waterlogged bird huddled on a branch waiting for the rain to stop. She was just an old woman; he couldn’t believe she’d ever knocked him down with a single punch. Even her Islander coloring had drained out of her. Her skin looked more gray than brown.
“Hey, Granny, you’re not going to die on me, are you? Fishing you out of the water’s getting to be a habit.” He waited, but she didn’t bite back. “Who’s going to bitch at me when you’re gone?”
“I’m okay,” she said. “Hot shower and a night’s kip, and I’ll be fine.”
“I hope kip means sleep. Because you’re in no shape for anything more athletic.”
Cole sat down next to her and put his arm around her shoulders. “Doc Hayman better check you out, Boomer Lady.”
“Look, I promise I’ll stay alive until we hold Andresen’s funeral,” she said. “Okay?”
That shut everyone up like a smack in the mouth. Marcus’s voice suddenly carried across the deck.
“Shit,” he said. “That’s all we need.”
“What?” Bernie asked.
“Some clusterfuck ashore.” Marcus stood up slowly. “A disagreement with our Gorasni citizens.”
“Riot?”
“Hoffman and Trescu. I can only hear one side of it. Michaelson’s blocked the entrance to the tanker berth with Falconer to stop their fuel freighter leaving for the rig.”
“Wow, war on the high seas,” Baird said. “Are they bored or something? Did they miss the message about seagoing Lambent? Maybe we better repeat it in capital letters.”
Marcus got back on the radio. “Let’s see if Hoffman wants us to do anything special.”
“In a trawler? Yeah, let’s bombard them with shrimp and force a surrender.”
Dom’s voice emerged from the wheelhouse radio. “This is M-Seventy. Anyone want to tell us what’s happening?”
Montagnon’s skipper, leaning against the open wheelhouse door, picked up the mike. He’d learned all the Gears’ technical terms. “Shit, as usual,” he sighed.
Baird grabbed a pair of binoculars and looked north from the bows. He could now pick out the carved frieze on the signal tower at the naval base, which meant they were less than thirty minutes out. Falconer, the NCOG’s fast patrol boat, was sitting in the entrance to the fueling berth.
“And we were all getting on so well,” Bernie said.
Cole stood up to look. “So do we raise the alert state from damp pants to urgent change of underwear?”
Marcus looked like he’d made contact with Hoffman. He said “Why?” a couple of times and then “Understood.” Everyone turned to see what he had to say next.
“It’s just a pissing contest,” he said, sounding almost disgusted. “Hoffman jammed the Gorasni transmitter to force them to use our net. Michaelson’s stopped their tanker leaving for the imulsion rig until they let us fit an NCOG transceiver in it. He’s citing safety issues.”
“Why’d Hoffman do that?” Cole asked.
“Because Trescu’s not been sharing intel. He went hunting for the bombers on his own.”
“Shit, we never used to be this sensitive,” Baird said. “How come we all got so petty so fast?”
Cole sat down next to Bernie again and nudged her. “Remind me who we’re supposed to be fightin’ today. I get confused.”
“Did he get them, though?” Bernie perked up a bit. “I can see the problem for Hoffman with Indies going off the grid, but did Trescu do us a favor and slot any?”
Marcus shrugged, silent.
“What about the kid?”
“Eight’s a kid,” Baird said. “Fifteen is adult.”
Gullie interrupted. “The Lambent,” he said. “Forget the Stranded. What about the Lambent? What are we going to do about the Lambent?”
Nobody answered for a while. Baird hated displays of ignorance, and thought the man deserved a rational response.
“Treat ’em like stray mines,” he said. “Fishing boats were always catching unexploded mines back on the Tyran coast. It’s a risk you have to set against all the times you don’t find one in your nets.”
That was sensible and honest. It didn’t answer any of the other questions milling around in Baird’s mind, but he’d take this apart and put it back together a piece at a time, like he did when he was a kid dismantling anything he could get his hands on. He’d work out what was going on.
There’s always a reason. There’s always a method. There’s always an explanation.
Montagnon and M70 chugged into the base. The surface of the water was iridescent with a thin layer of fuel, and it hadn’t been that way before the Gorasni imulsion tanker arrived. Filthy Indie slobs; they were flushing their tanks inshore. Chemical hazard regulations had gone down the lavatory a long time ago, but Baird thought the Indies would at least understand that this was a fishing community, and everyone had to eat whatever swam in that shit. Gullie looked over the side and shook his head.
“At least the Stranded didn’t do that,” he said sadly.
Marcus peered over the side and frowned. “I’ll have a word with them.”
Baird was expecting some sign of trouble on the quay, but it was all very quiet when they stepped ashore. Major Reid met them. That in itself said that the big boys were busy elsewhere.
Reid was an asshole. He had the kind of petulant face that Baird could have punched all day without getting bored. If Hoffman dropped dead, this was the guy who’d take command—or else it’d be Major McLintock, another rectum on legs. Baird would almost have taken a bullet for Hoffman to avoid both options.
“Fenix, Mataki—Hoffman wants you in his office for a debrief, seeing as you eyeballed the thing. He says get yourselves checked out by the medic first.” Reid looked them over critically. “Did you recover any parts of the creature?”
Marcus fixed Reid with the cold blue stare. “We were kind of busy not getting our guts scattered everywhere.”
“We don’t have the lab equipment to examine that shit anyway,” Baird said, and walked past Reid. “Did you want souvenirs? I’ll grab some next time.”
“Corporal, where do you think you’re going?”
Baird turned, still walking. “Until the next patrol? Got to be some ’Dill that needs servicing.”
“You, Santiago, Cole, and Byrne—civil order patrol.” Reid was the admin boss, good at organizing food supplies, which was probably why nobody had fragged him when Hoffman wasn’t looking. But he wasn’t the kind of guy you’d die in a ditch for. He never quite got the hang of inspirational orders. “We need boots on the ground at the north perimeter to reassure the civvies.”
&nb
sp; Dom appeared as if the mention of his name had conjured him up. “More explosions while we were away?”
“No,” Reid said. “More hassle between the various contingents inside the wire. Keep a lid on it.”
As soon as the Jacinto population had landed, the race had been on to build new housing. People crammed into ships and barracks that were never designed to hold a city’s worth of people, and they had to be decanted fast before disease and overcrowding got the better of them. Baird thought of New Jacinto as an organized shantytown, a growing sea of basic wood-frame houses stretching out from the northern wall of the naval base and pushing the city limits further every week.
But however instant New Jacinto was, however much a fresh start—the first thing it acquired was neighborhoods. Baird found it funny that no amount of encouraging people to mix or taking trouble not to call the former Stranded “Stranded” changed one damn thing. The ghetto lines were drawn by the inhabitants.
The line he walked now was between the few hundred Stranded—ex-Stranded—and a mix of huts and emergency tents that housed Old Jacinto locals. The Gorasni refugees were located on the western edge of the shanty. The main road was a run of trackway laid by the combat engineers, an interesting mix of scavenged wood, metal, and plastic planking. Baird paused to admire the ingenuity.
That’s where I should be. In the Corps of Engineers. As long as I get some frontline action, too, of course. There’s only so many latrine blocks a guy can take.
“I think they’ve done a good job.” Sam took the other side of the trackway, turning to walk backward a few paces every ten meters or so. “I’ve lived in worse.”
Dom ambled ahead. Baird noticed that he didn’t stop to coo over kids now. He just turned away. “You know what would help? Putting more civvies on food production. Get them out digging and planting. Useful. And makes you feel good.”
“I’m still gonna take up fishin’,” Cole said. A Stranded woman was hanging out washing on a line strung between the huts. A snot-nosed toddler clinging to her legs stared suspiciously at the Gears. Cole waved. “All them streams we got here. Gotta be fishin’.”
Gears of War: Anvil Gate Page 15