Gears of War: Anvil Gate

by Karen Traviss

  She could hear a Raven in the distance as she kept to the cover of the hedgerows. Her reaction was to look up from time to time just to see where the helicopter was heading, but as this one got closer, she could see it was covering a narrow search pattern. Her radio clicked.

  “Hey, Mataki, where are you?” It was Gill Gettner. “I’ve got a rough fix on you from the transmitters, but for fuck’s sake come out in the open so I can see you.”

  There’s a surprise. “Roger that, Major.”

  Bernie wasn’t expecting to be extracted. She broke cover cautiously and dropped to one knee while she waited, just in case some arsehole was out there waiting just as patiently as she had to claw back a little revenge. The Raven landed close enough to sandblast her face. Mel Barber beckoned from the crew bay.

  “Is this a lift home?” Bernie ducked her head and ran to the chopper. Mac slunk behind, not used to those rotors and smells and terrible noises. “What a kind and well-brought-up young man you are.”

  “Shit, Bernie, look at all that firepower on your back. Someone piss you off?”

  Bernie picked up a hesitant Mac and shoved him bodily onto the Raven. “Yeah, my estrogen flatlined. Come on, help me stow this stuff. I had to cache the ammo.”

  “Did you get their gold fillings as well?”

  “Bugger. Knew I forgot something.” She fastened her restraints, clipped Mac’s collar to a safety line, and sat him between her knees. “So what brings you out this way at a time of fuel crises?” A thought crossed her mind, and she wasn’t amused. “Hoffman?”

  “No. Fenix requested we haul your ass back to base after we dropped off supplies for Anya.” Barber always was an open and honest soul. “He says to save your ammo for the glowies.”

  “Shinies,” Gettner said. The Raven lifted and banked steeply, making Mac scrabble for a grip on the deck. “I prefer shinies. And don’t let that dog pee in my bird.”

  Gettner and Barber were usually a double act of vitriolic commentary, but they were definitely forcing the banter today. Bernie wondered how bad it had been out on that rig.

  “Too late,” Bernie said.

  “The piss?”

  “Too late to save the ammo.”

  It was probably too late for a whole lot of things now, but all Bernie could focus on was the next twenty-six hours. Anything after that was a renewable daily bonus.

  ADMIRALTY HOUSE, VECTES NAVAL BASE.

  Hoffman had already seen how Prescott conducted himself at the end of the world—twice.

  The man had held his nerve through the Hammer of Dawn strike, and he hadn’t batted an eyelid when Jacinto was sunk. Hoffman wondered what it was going to take to make the sweat bead on that aristocratic top lip.

  He couldn’t decide if Prescott didn’t know enough to be scared, if he knew something nobody else did, or if he was just missing a pair of adrenal glands. Whatever it was, he sat at the long meeting table in the sail loft as if it was another emergency management meeting of the kind they used to hold weekly in Jacinto to measure just how deep the shit was getting.

  Trescu, not one of life’s nervous types, looked a lot closer to the edge than Prescott ever had. Despite himself, Hoffman found something to admire in the guy’s willingness to roll up his sleeves and do the tough jobs. One moment, he’d blown a prisoner’s brains out; the next, he’d turned around and calmly faced an all-too-possible death to save the team on that rig. The only thing that seemed to scare him was losing his people. Gorasnaya, a proud nation for a thousand years, was now a dwindling village. Hoffman realized that was worse than galling for the Gorasni; it was a collective death, an extinction, a reflection of what now faced all of humanity.

  I know how it feels, Trescu. You wake up sweating because you might screw up and the human race goes extinct on your watch. Now place your bets on the odds of Prescott putting his ass on the line for us.

  “Losing the supply is a major blow,” Prescott said. “I admit that. But it’s something we can deal with in time. What will it take to restore the wells?”

  Trescu’s face was covered in small marks as if he’d taken a shrapnel blast. He nursed a badly burned hand under the table and probably thought Hoffman hadn’t noticed.

  “Would that be before we stop the Lambent, or after?” he asked quietly.

  “For argument’s sake.”

  “I have no idea how damaged the wellheads are. We would need divers with special equipment for that, or a remotely controlled deep-sea bot. And once we evaluated the damage, we would need to use the most advanced engineering techniques to rebuild the entire platform.” Trescu leaned forward and folded his arms on the desk, slipping his injured hand out of sight. His voice suddenly hardened. “And in case it has escaped your attention, Chairman, none of those things exist on Sera any longer. So my technical assessment is that we are completely and utterly fucked.”

  Hoffman reached a decision at that moment. It was something he never believed he was even capable of thinking.

  I can’t just be a good loyal soldier and obey the Chairman. I can’t do this any longer. We have to have a plan for when the wheels come off this damn thing completely.

  And they would. As the remnants of the world lurched from crisis to crisis, it always felt like this had to be the rock bottom. But it never was. There was always some new depth to plumb.

  Trescu knew it, too.

  He turned his head very casually and met Hoffman’s eyes for less than a blink, and leaned back in his seat again.

  “Well, I understand that,” Prescott said. “Your tanker crew did well to get that last consignment off the rig. That buys us some breathing space. The question now is how much of our resources we devote to reconnaissance off the island. We could wait and see what comes our way. We could also expend a lot of irreplaceable fuel gathering intelligence. But my biggest concern is that we have no idea how many forms these Lambent have evolved into, or how to kill them effectively.”

  The bastard was always good at restating the obvious. Hoffman decided to embroider reality a little. It was better than asking permission from a man who really didn’t seem to be on the same page as everyone else.

  But he’s not stupid. What’s he up to?

  “I’ve got Ravens out doing an aerial recon on the course the stalks were taking,” Hoffman lied. Well, he’d have them airborne again inside the hour. “Whatever we learn from that tells us how long we might have. But we’ve got to assume that they’ll reach us sooner or later. We have to be ready.”

  “Give me a plan.”

  “I don’t know what we can do to stop the stalks, but we know we can kill polyps,” Hoffman said. “I’m thinking in the same terms as I would for human infantry—obstacles to slow them down and concentrate them in a kill zone while we pick them off. The problem remains—how many of them can a stalk disgorge? And is this aquatic, or is it a land-based organism? We need to work out what kills most for least effort.”

  Trescu sat in silence, just staring at the charts on the wall for a while.

  “Commander?” Prescott said.

  “Stranded,” Trescu said.

  “What about them?”

  “Make them do something useful. They have enclaves on the mainland. We know these vermin stay in touch with one another, so who better to tell us about any stalk incursions there?”

  “And they’re going to cooperate fully after the recent unpleasantness with your people, are they?”

  Trescu raised an eyebrow. “Even garayazi recognize that what kills us will also kill them. And to defend this island, we will need them to work with us, not against us.”

  Trescu rarely suggested anything that he hadn’t already thought through to its logical conclusion. Hoffman had seen enough to know that. But he’d given up wondering if the guy had an agenda beyond keeping his people alive, because even that was starting to look massively ambitious now.

  “Just spit it out,” Hoffman said. “Are you saying we should recruit them for however long it takes, or ju
st ask them nicely not to bother us while we’re fighting something worse than them?”

  “I don’t know.” Trescu shrugged. “I think I mean that we should talk to whoever runs the biggest gang now and explain what’s going to overrun us and them if we fail to pool our resources.”

  Prescott did his unimpressed gesture, that slight backward tilt of the head so he could look down his nose at someone without needing to stand up to do it. Hoffman struggled daily to find something human to like in the man.

  “They’d use this as an opportunity to undermine us,” Prescott said. “They see themselves as the alternative future for Sera. If we go cap in hand to them and say we need help to deal with the Lambent, they won’t be able to focus on the size of the threat. Only what leverage they can gain from it.”

  Takes one to know one. Hoffman had reached the stage where Prescott’s objection to anything became a powerful incentive to do it. He made a mental note to be careful of that, because that asshole could spot any pressable button in others. He’d use it.

  “If it only succeeds in making them crap their pants and leave the island, that’d be a plus,” Hoffman said.

  Prescott didn’t forbid him to make contact with the gangs. In fact, he didn’t say anything. Hoffman hated it when he couldn’t get a definite answer out of him. He waited for one anyway, but it was Trescu who broke the silence.

  “Either way, Chairman, we have to fortify the island.” Trescu pushed his chair back with a definite gesture of this-meeting-is-over. “I would like to discuss operational detail with Colonel Hoffman later. Now I have to explain myself to Gorasnaya. Many of my people thought I was insane to bring us here and surrender our fleet and our fuel. I must persuade them that schisms and power struggles now will be the end of us.”

  Prescott understood that, if nothing else. Hoffman could see the change in the set of his jaw. It would have been fascinating to carry on watching these two maneuver and double-bluff each other, if only there hadn’t been an unknown quantity of goddamn Lambent waiting out there to kill every last human on Sera.

  “I’ll walk with you, Commander,” Hoffman said. “Just don’t expect me to take a bullet for you.”

  Trescu held the door open for him. “Colonel, I would never presume such a thing.”

  Outside, Royston Sharle, the emergency management chief, was waiting to see Prescott with Aleksander Reid. Hoffman exchanged nods with them as he passed. Reid shuffled his papers and managed a smile at his superior.

  “Three more Stranded,” Reid said. “I have to say that Mataki’s a game old bird. You Royal Tyrans really are hard as nails.”

  “What?”

  “She slotted three Stranded transporting ammo. Gettner’s just brought her back.”

  Damn. Bernie certainly picked her moments. It was the worst possible time to piss off the gangs. As soon as the dismay crossed Hoffman’s mind, he despised himself—how could he even think that? Andresen and the others not even cold in their graves, and here he was, worrying about offending these motherfuckers? He was inhaling too much around politicians. Screw that.

  “Gettner can head back out and get me some aerial recon,” Hoffman said. “And I want your projections of fuel use on my desk by twenty-three hundred.”

  “Very good, sir.” Reid nodded. That was the smart response. “Of course.”

  Hoffman and Trescu headed down the stairs in total silence and were halfway across the parade ground before either of them said anything. Hoffman was still working out how to broach the subject of making sure things got done the army way.

  Trescu slowed down to a leisurely pace.

  “So … you don’t like Major Reid. You don’t like Prescott. You don’t like me. I don’t like Prescott, and I certainly don’t like you. But I trust you, Hoffman, and I do not trust him. Better a bastard I can trust than sociable company who would put a knife between my ribs.”

  “I’ll remember to get that put on my gravestone.” Shit, I’ve got more common ground with an Indie psychopath than my own head of state. Fine. That’s what it’s going to take. “I’m up for telling the gangs what’s coming and striking a deal until we get rid of the Lambent.”

  “It took fifteen years to deal with the Locust, so this might be a very long-term plan,” Trescu said. “But let us live in hope that we can get on with killing each other again soon.”

  “There’s regular anti-Stranded sentiment, and then there’s the extra-strength version. What’s your problem, Commander?”

  “If we ever return to the mainland,” Trescu said, “I shall personally show you the mass graves at a Gorasnayan town called Meschov. Or Chalitz. Or a dozen other places where we buried our women and children.”

  It was one of those answers that cut any further questions off at the knees. But at least it was an indication that Stranded could organize themselves well enough to fight a tough enemy. It was just their bad luck that they’d picked on the Gorasni.

  “Okay,” Hoffman said, making a mental note to look up Meschov as soon as he got a chance. “When the recon information comes back, we put a plan together. In the meantime, we make contact with the gang chiefs, and then Prescott can disown us if the civvies object to the plan.”

  “Mine won’t. There are murmurs, but they’ll follow me in the end. And remember we still have two Stranded prisoners.”

  “That’s not going to bring the gangs to the table. Not now.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of hostage tactics. Not this time.”

  Trescu nodded politely and walked off in the direction of the camp that was still effectively a separate state, whatever Prescott thought. Hoffman went to CIC and sat gazing at the sector chart on the wall, trying to imagine how the hell he could fortify an island against something that could punch its way through ships’ hulls and seabeds.

  He moved over to sit at the comms desk and picked up the mike. He really needed to know how far this stalk had traveled.

  “Hoffman to KR-Eight-Zero. Where are you, Gettner?”

  The response was instant. “Threatening a technician in the machine shop, sir. I need a fuel-line part, and I need it now.”

  “Well, when you’ve beaten it out of him, take a bot and get back on recon. Find that stalk and send me back some images.”

  “A bot would be Jack, then. He’s the only one still running.” Gettner broke off for a moment to savage the technician. “Colonel, we’ve still got the extended range fuel tanks. Want us to take a look at some other dry land and see if this thing has come ashore anywhere else?”

  Nobody had been back to the Tyran coast since the evacuation of Jacinto, or even overflown other islands. It hadn’t been worth the fuel when all resources were needed to build a new home on Vectes.

  But Hoffman needed to know if the stalks could spread ashore, and how. So far, they’d only emerged at sea. It would also provide a handy lie-detector test when he came to talk to the Stranded gangs.

  “Do it, Major,” he said. “And no dumbass risks. Take Delta with you.”

  KING RAVEN R-80, NORTHWEST OF VECTES: DELTA SQUAD ON RECON.

  “Do they know?” Baird asked. “The pirate demographic, I mean. Do they understand what skewered their boat?”

  Marcus leaned on the starboard door gun as the Raven combed the featureless carpet of choppy white waves beneath the Raven. “Depends how much they get to hear from their buddies inside the wire. Because they weren’t taking any advice from me.”

  Baird thought that was one more reason why Prescott should never have given the assholes an amnesty. Even if they’d been searched for weapons and radios going in, it was impossible to maintain that level of security. Gears on watch got tired and bored. Components got smuggled in one at a time. People sneaked out. It just wasn’t possible to lock down New Jacinto.

  When we were surrounded by grubs back home, nobody wanted to sneak out.

  “So even if they know it’s not us sinking their boats, what difference does it make?” Dom asked. “It’s not like they’re an arm
ored division whose ass we need to kiss to help us out.”

  Cole was scribbling on a scrap of paper spread on his knee, occasionally pausing to tap the end of a stubby pencil against his chest plate while he pondered something. He was still writing letters home to a dead mom. Baird wondered what it felt like to have that kind of bond with your folks. It had to hurt. He was glad he’d got all that dependency shit out his system when he was a kid.

  “Beats having them in our hair when we’re busy with glowies,” Cole said.

  “Shinies,” Gettner said. “Hey, come on, Delta. Concentrate on the search. Mel, are these bearings right?”

  “’Fraid so.” Barber was on the other door gun. “That’s where it was.”

  There wasn’t a trace of the imulsion rig visible, not even much of an imulsion slick. Baird felt a glimmer of hope that the wells had somehow been capped, although he was sure the Gorasni guys had said they’d only stopped pumping, because that gave him hope. In time, he could rig a bot to dive and investigate. Much later, he might even be able to work out how to rebuild the rig.

  Come on, who the hell am I kidding? Where am I going to find that kind of heavy engineering now? It’s not going to happen in my lifetime.

  The realization depressed him more than he expected. He tried to work out if it was any intelligent man’s reaction to the loss of the COG’s only source of imulsion, or some sort of sentimental attachment to a clever piece of engineering, or just … shit, he didn’t know what it was, or why it had hit him now so many years after civilization had gone down the lavatory. He pulled his goggles over his eyes and busied himself staring at a zillion square kilometers of nothing.

  Dom nudged him. “You okay, Baird?”

  Shit. So I tell a guy who had to put his wife down like a dog that I’m upset about a piece of metal. Yeah, that’s going to help squad relations a lot.