Coalition's End

by Karen Traviss

  Well, most of us have rifles. That’s more than the average civvie in Tyrus has got.

  She went to switch on the radio but stopped herself. Hanging on every news bulletin was just making things worse. Not strangers. My mates. My bloody regiment. This was a global crisis, and as long as she was capable of fighting, she had a duty. But she couldn’t do a thing about it unless she could get to Jacinto, and all flights from Noroa to the mainland—once a month at the best of times—had been grounded.

  Her daily phone call to 26 RTI headquarters got the recorded message from the phone company about suspension of service again. While she dialed, she noted that the paint on the wall was peeling and added it to the mental list of things to sort out. Repair the fence, paint the hall, kill the grubs. The recorded message repeated.

  Sod it, I can’t sit around waiting for permission. Let’s do some resource investigation.

  Bernie grabbed her coat and went to get the quad bike out of the barn, wondering if she could persuade Dale to sell her a couple of horses for when the fuel ran out. The islands depended on imported imulsion. When she checked the gauge on the storage tank it showed three-quarters full, and that was the way it was going to stay. She rummaged in the tool locker for a padlock.

  Nobody on Galangi locked their houses or outbuildings. It was an old-fashioned Islander society based on handshakes and knowing every bloody cough and spit about your neighbor’s business, but this invasion wasn’t predictable and orderly like the Pendulum Wars. She had a feeling that people would change. She padlocked the fuel store and set off for the town.

  The route was a couple of kilometers over open country before the track joined the paved road down to the coast, and it was fifteen klicks before she saw another human being. Jim Kilikano had a dairy herd and traded cheese, milk, and the occasional duck for Mataki steak and mutton. He waved at her from his tractor as he hauled feed across the field, not looking particularly worried about grubs or anything else. She waved back and carried on.

  This was why people liked the remote end of the South Islands. It was another world. Noroa occasionally got tourists who were willing to spend weeks getting there to see the wild coasts and breathe crystal-clear air. They didn’t visit Galangi often, though. Maybe it had something to do with the island’s only town being called Port Slaughterhouse.

  It didn’t look as bad as it sounded. It was just the place where they slaughtered export livestock before shipping the frozen carcasses to Noroa. Nobody could accuse the white settlers who colonized the islands of being coy.

  Bernie rounded the last headland and saw the ferry still alongside at the jetty, where it had been for four days. She parked the bike outside the post office and walked up to the fuel station. One of its two pumps was already draped with a sign saying SORRY NO LIGHT GRADE.

  “How’s tricks, Dan?” The owner was bent over an outboard motor, ratcheting away with a socket spanner. “Heard anything from Government House?”

  “I’m only the council delegate,” he said, not looking up. “We’re just below the postman on the governor’s priority list.”

  “No fuel rationing yet, then.”

  “Well, the ferry office on Noroa says there’s a tanker due in a few days. It left port before the grubs invaded. So when we see how much fuel we get after Noroa’s had its share, then we’ll know if we’re being rationed, won’t we?”

  “When’s the ferry heading out again?”

  “When the fuel gets to Noroa, so we know it can get back.”

  It was a four-hundred-kilometer trip. Bernie found herself wondering whether a fishing vessel might be heading that way. But that could mean getting stuck on Noroa for weeks, and she couldn’t face turning up on Mick’s doorstep right now.

  “Can I use your radio, Dan? I need to call Government House. Bloody phone’s down.”

  He straightened up and gestured out back. “Yeah, but the governor’s staff are getting really shitty if you use the emergency channel.”

  “I’ve had worse than snotty clerks.”

  “Tell ’em you’re a war hero.”

  It made her cringe. He never let her forget that medal for Aspho Fields, and she knew from the way he said it—no matter how genuinely or kindly—that he didn’t know what drove her.

  “Don’t take the piss,” she said, “or I won’t vote for you next time.”

  She walked through to the back of the workshop and picked up the radio mike. “Galangi Protectorate to GHN, over.” It was only when she heard the crackle of someone starting to respond that she realized just how pathetic she was going to sound. A middle-aged farmer’s wife with a dodgy leg and rusting sniper skills. “GP to GHN, over.”

  “GH Noroa here, go ahead.”

  “My name’s Mataki.” Okay, she was going to lie. Nobody was going to care about discharge technicalities when every country on the mainland was being invaded. “I’m a reserve Gear. I need to rejoin my unit in Jacinto and I can’t make contact. Is there any way I can reach a garrison?”

  Bernie braced for an earful and had already worked out just where she’d tell this pen-pusher to shove his next comment. But all she got was a long pause, the sound of someone putting their hand over the mike, and then a strangely relieved and different voice.

  “Mataki, this is the duty incident controller—Constable Thomas. You haven’t had recall orders, have you?”

  “No, of course not.” Well, that was true. “How are they going to contact me?”

  “Then stay put. We need you where you are.” The copper went off-mike for a few seconds. “Look, we didn’t know we had any Gears on Galangi. We’re not going to get any help from Ephyra if the Locust attack. None of the islands will. We’re on our own. Can you organize a militia?”

  Part of her brain nodded and said that was exactly what she should do and where she’d be most use. The other part whimpered that she wanted to be with her old mates in 26 RTI again, and this wasn’t quite what she’d had in mind.

  But it’s my bloody duty. And that’s what I want to do, isn’t it?

  “Yes, I was an infantry sergeant.” It was automatic. The man didn’t seem to notice the past tense. No, no, I want to get to Jacinto. I don’t want to organize a bunch of civvies. “I can do that. Most of the adults here are competent with shotguns.”

  “Right, now we know you’re there, we’ll want you to stay in contact, okay? We’ll need a list of contact numbers and radio callsigns.”

  Bernie was suddenly aware of Dan standing in the open doorway. She shut her eyes, cringing at the glimpse into her own selfish subconscious. “Will do,” she said. “Thanks. Mataki out.”

  She put the handset back in the cradle, crushed. Dan wiped his hands on an oily rag and shook his head ruefully.

  “Bugger me,” he said. “This is all getting a bit serious, isn’t it?”

  “You’ll have to call a meeting.” No, no, no. This isn’t going to stop the grubs. I need to get back to the regiment. “Give me a day to work out how I’m going to do this.”

  “And placate your old man.” He slapped her on the shoulder. “Good on you, girl. Count me in.”

  Bernie picked up some groceries from the food store next door and put her money on the counter, still numb. Is money going to mean anything now? The bags of sugar and flour she’d just bought would probably become currency pretty soon. We’re going to be cut off for a long time. Would she end up holding back grub attacks, or keeping order among her own neighbors when essentials started running really short?

  Well, serves me right.

  “Where have you been?” Neal asked when she opened the front door. “We didn’t need any groceries.”

  “I’ve been talking to Government House.” There was no point pissing around and making excuses. “They want me to set up a local militia. We’re not going to get any help from the mainland if the shit hits the fan.”

  He looked at her for a while, head slightly on one side. Moss came bounding down the hall and thudded into her legs, tail wa
gging furiously.

  “Shit, I really thought you’d gone until I saw your Longshot was still here.” Neal let out a breath and took the groceries from her one-handed, pulling her to him for a hug as if she’d just come back from the front. Moss jumped up for a pat on the head too. “You’d never make it to Ephyra, love. I know how bad you feel, but we need you here. Don’t we, Mossie? You’re the only Gear in town.”

  “So I am,” she said, wondering how much worse she would have felt leaving the poor sod on his own again and maybe never coming back. He’d always been there. He might have bitched and griped about it, but she could count on him. “Just like old times.”

  CHAPTER 8

  We don’t have tents for an extra three thousand people. Until we’ve built more accommodation, we’ll have to do what we did in Jacinto—everyone has to share their space. Take a lodger. I think we should brace for some social friction.

  (Royston Sharle, Head of Emergency Planning, New Jacinto)

  IMULSION SITE, EIGHTEEN KILOMETERS SOUTH OF PELRUAN: PRESENT DAY, 15 A.E.

  “Jackpot,” said Staff Sergeant Parry. “Now all we have to do is pump this stuff out.”

  The forest floor was dotted with bright pools of glowing imulsion. Dom looked around at the dense screen of dead trees and equally dead stalks.

  “You going to put a road through here?”

  “Nothing fancy.” Parry picked his way between the luminous puddles. “This is a job for Betty. Once she’s flattened the trees, we can lay some trackway and get a rig set up. Stefan? What do you think?”

  The dour Gorasni rig workers looked unusually excited. Stefan Gradin kept shaking a small glob of imulsion in a glass jar and peering at it as it ran down the sides. Borusc Eugen nodded approvingly and gave Parry a thumbs-up.

  It didn’t strike Dom as very scientific, but this was the best anyone could do these days. Equipment had broken down, worn out, been destroyed, or had just been left behind because it couldn’t be moved when they abandoned the cities one by one. None of it could be replaced.

  It’s like being back in the Silver Age. Printing by hand. Distilling fuel in boilers. Making ammunition with lead shot. And it’s just going to get worse.

  That made the Gorasni who’d run the Emerald Spar platform the world experts in imulsion technology. Dom respected their guts, but he wanted to see bespectacled guys in lab coats again.

  “It’s very liquid,” Stefan said, shaking the jar like a cocktail bartender. “Not much refining needed. Very good. Very volatile.”

  “Great.” Dom looked down at his armor and noted that he was spattered with the stuff. The ground felt like a swamp under his boots. “Just great.”

  He backed off a few meters and went to stand with Marcus, who was engrossed in a three-way radio conversation.

  “Yeah… yeah, I get it, Baird.” Marcus listened with his eyes shut and a frown of intense concentration. “Colonel, did you hear all that?… Okay… Baird? Just stay with it. Hoffman’s talking to Rossi. Fenix out.”

  “What’s Baird bitching about now?” Dom asked.

  “They’ve found a contaminated zone east of Pelruan with no visible stalks. It’s spreading fast. Hoffman wants the farms in its path evacuated and cleared of food supplies.”

  “Saving cabbages. Yeah, that’s what I signed up for.” It made sense, but it didn’t thrill Dom. “Okay.”

  Parry must have heard the conversation. “How fast?”

  “They’re watching it happen,” Marcus said. “Baird says it could get close to Pelruan in fifteen days.”

  “Shit, does this thing have any pattern at all?”

  “Well, it’s still following the geological fissures.”

  “That’s damn awkward timing, Marcus. We better hope it runs out of steam before then.”

  Poor bastard; Parry and his sappers were spread pretty thinly at the best of times, even with the majority of Gears tasked on construction and food distribution. Dom gave him a sympathetic pat on the back.

  “At least we’ll have the fuel to move everyone, Staff,” he said.

  “We’ve got to recover whatever supplies and materials we can. That’s the time-consuming bit.” Parry beckoned to one of his construction people, a slight woman who didn’t look much like a bricklayer. “Rena, see if you can commandeer some tractors to haul the lumber away. Dizzy can be here and clearing a path inside an hour.”

  “I hope he’s sober,” Rena said. “It’s his day off.”

  “No, much better if he’s drunk.” Stefan held the jar at arm’s length and walked away from the contaminated area to a clearing fifty meters away. He placed the jar carefully on the ground and jogged back. “Much better. Everybody stay clear. Welcome to chemistry class.”

  He slipped his rifle off his shoulder and took a shot at the jar. It went up like a mortar. Everyone flinched except Marcus, who stared at the smoke and dying flames around it with a look that said he was waiting for the punch line.

  “See?” Stefan spread his arms. “You need a good drink before you drive into imulsion seepage like this. A man’s drink. Possibly the last that will ever touch your lips…”

  Sorotki’s voice broke in on the radio net. Dom had forgotten about the waiting Raven for a moment. “Good show!” he said. “Fill her up. Marcus, you want to finish the recon?”

  Parry paced out distances and scribbled notes on a scrap of cardboard. “Prescott’s wetting his boxers about this. He wants a sample. Can you take one back to base with you?”

  “I think I liked him better when he didn’t give a shit,” Dom said. “Yeah, we’ll do it as a kiss-o-gram. Hand it over.”

  It was just another glass jar with a screw top, and if the stuff hadn’t been faintly luminous it could easily have passed for a urine sample from someone with a hell of a lot of health problems. Dom shook it gingerly and held it up to the light as he and Marcus walked back to the Raven.

  “That’s a goddamn incendiary device,” Marcus grunted.

  “I know. Just looking. Why’s Prescott interested in this?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t trust the Gorasni.”

  “It’s probably mutual.” Dom climbed into the Raven and sat with the jar cradled in both hands. “Well, there’s always that retired chemistry teacher to take a look at it, for all the good that’ll do.”

  Mitchell held out his hand for the jar as the Raven lifted clear. He did the shake-it-and-watch thing too. “Dom, you should go see Doc Hayman about this, pronto.”

  “I thought it was yours, Kev.”

  “Ha. Yeah, that’ll teach me to drink the local brew.”

  Sorotki cut in. “I’m going to check out the whole length of this fissure.” He sounded even more cheerful than usual. “There might be some more seepage along it.”

  Mitchell settled down by the open door and tucked one edge of his folded map into the leg pocket on his pants, pencil in one hand. “If this was normal Sera, you’d be a rich man now, Marcus. A fuel tycoon.”

  “Money’s overrated,” Marcus said. “It never bought me what I needed.”

  It was as near as Marcus ever got to a personal revelation. Dom had stopped thinking of him as the rich kid a long time ago. Money hadn’t done much for Cole and Baird, either, but nobody ever seemed to gripe about it. There was a lot to be said for shared hardship.

  The sweep back and forth along the fissure took half an hour, but they couldn’t see any more pools of imulsion.

  “Well, perhaps I was being optimistic,” Sorotki said. “Damned if I can work out what the connection is, though. Leviathans with polyps. Stalks with polyps. Stalks without polyps. Stalks with dead patch. Dead patch without stalks.”

  “Stalks with imulsion,” Marcus added.

  The dead brown patch extended about five klicks northeast. Dom watched Mitchell penciling the new boundaries on his chart.

  “Okay, we have a pattern,” Mitchell said, holding up the battered map. “All the contamination’s in the top third of the island. Nothing south of this line here
.”

  Dom shrugged. “That’s assuming we’ve spotted everything. And we haven’t even scratched the surface of whatever’s in the center of the island.”

  “Got to go with the best information you’ve got at the time, Dom.”

  Marcus seemed to have his mind on something else. Dom could tell. Marcus didn’t move his head, but his gaze shifted back and forth between what was beneath the Raven and a point on the metal deck. Sorotki looped back west to overfly the new dead area near Pelruan. Dom reached across and prodded Marcus.

  “What’s up?”

  Dom had learned to lip-read pretty well after years in noisy helicopters. Marcus just mouthed one word: disc.

  Dom nodded and said nothing. All Prescott’s little bombshells, all the details he let drop when he felt like it, probably ate at Marcus on a personal level. There had been a time when his father had worked closely with Prescott. Marcus came from the decision-making classes.

  But his father had never told him much about the Hammer of Dawn until the thing was finally tested on the UIR fleet. Dom still couldn’t imagine how a father could keep anything that big from his son, even if he thought it was the kindest thing to do.

  “Wow,” Mitchell said. “That’s getting a lot closer than I thought.”

  Beneath them, a wide brown strip of dead trees pointed toward Pelruan in the distance, like a ragged highway under construction. Mitchell pulled out the camera and started recording again. Sorotki took the Raven down lower and circled above the western boundary of the contamination.

  “Well, the sooner we move everyone to New Jacinto, the easier it’s going to be to keep an eye on them,” he said. “Round ’em up and move ’em out.”

  Mitchell laughed. “You’ve been hanging out with Mataki and her sheepdog too long.”

  Sorotki turned west on his usual loop over Pelruan before returning to base. Marcus nudged Dom and held out his hand for the imulsion sample. He stared at it as if he’d never seen the stuff before.