“Should we read anything into that?” Marcus asked.
“He said he’d only be going out of curiosity, and that it was more important to send personnel who could assess the situation professionally.”
Baird found a space on the edge of the desk to perch his ass. “As in, the Raven might not make it back.”
“It’ll be back,” Gettner said flatly. “He’s just making sense again.”
“Okay, me and Dom,” Marcus said. “Baird and Cole can help the Captain here look after Prescott’s richly varied needs.”
“He’s got Lowe and Rivera for that,” Baird said.
“So you can keep an eye on them too,” said Marcus.
“Done.” Hoffman looked pointedly at Sharle. “Anything else you want done, Royston, now’s the time to shout.”
Sharle shrugged. “We could do with Parry along, but we can save him for the follow-up recon. Maybe sail to the mainland and fly the Raven off deck next time. It’ll give us a better range.”
“Okay, tomorrow morning, people—oh-eight-hundred on the landing pad.” Hoffman stood back to let Sharle and Michaelson squeeze out of the room. He tapped Baird on the arm when they’d gone. “I’m going to go see Trescu now. What’s the mood like over there?”
“It’s just some asshole called Nareci whining—nothing Trescu can’t slap down,” Baird said. Now’s the time. Do it. “And… well, you know that databurst shit? The Gorasni thought it was us. I told them we thought it was them.” Baird blurted it out and braced for one of Hoffman’s incandescent rages. “So it’s Stranded, or else the polyps have worked out how to use a radio dial despite the lack of thumbs.”
He’s going to shoot me. Disc or no disc. I’m dead. So very, very dead.
Surprisingly, Hoffman didn’t ignite. He just looked a little more battered and tired. “Well, at least that’s one thing less to worry about.”
“But we still don’t know who it is,” Cole said.
“It’s not Trescu,” Hoffman said. “And that means we’ve still got an ally who’s playing straight with us.”
Baird took the data disk out of his armor, relieved at escaping Hoffman’s wrath. “Maybe it’s time we let him have a go at this. He knows just about everything else that we do.”
“When the time’s right,” Hoffman said. “And the priority is having a contingency plan.”
KING RAVEN KR-80, EN ROUTE FOR THE MAINLAND: NEXT MORNING.
“You think we’re going to keep this quiet?” Dom asked. “Once people find out we’re flying recons, they’ll think we’re preparing to ship out.”
“So we tell them,” Hoffman said. “And we tell them we’ll be doing it on a regular basis because that was the plan. Prescott’s adamant about that.”
“He can be most persuasive,” Trescu murmured. He was wearing one of those old-fashioned UIR radio headsets, bulky things compared to the COG models. “The more open you are, the less people mistrust you, even if you’re stealing their wallets.”
Hoffman sat opposite Dom, arms folded, jammed up against Royston Sharle. Trescu gazed out of the other door while Marcus sat listening to the radio net with his hand to his ear. Barber was behind the door gun, messing around with the camera in his lap. From time to time he went and sat up front in the cockpit with Gettner. It wasn’t exactly a high-spirited office outing.
Marcus leaned back in his seat. “Okay, we’ve lost the signal. We’re definitely out of radio range. We can’t rely on the global sats staying operational much longer.”
“Better not get into difficulties, then,” Trescu said. “Or let Baird use the Hammer again.”
Gettner cut in on the radio, probably because she was fed up hearing them bitch, Dom decided. “Okay, here’s the latest fuel calculation. We’ve got enough to cover a fifty-kilometer coastal strip to just north of Jacinto. Depending on the conditions we might get further inland, but I’m not taking any chances. If we see anything worth a closer look, we come back with a ship and fly a Raven off it. Okay?”
“Understood.” Hoffman picked up his Lancer and hugged it as if he had plans for it. “I’m not expecting to find a beach resort and make a down payment. We’re just assessing the degree of stalk infestation for now.”
Trescu took a small monocular from his belt pouch. It was a satin-polished black tube with intricate gold-work at each end, very old, probably the same era as that antique wristwatch he always wore. Dom doubted it was a fashion thing or even the only device he had, because he could simply have used a detached rifle scope. No, this stuff was his father’s, or maybe his grandfather’s, a comforting link with a happier past. Dom understood that all too well. He put his hand to his collar and felt for his COG tag, intertwined with Maria’s necklace.
Little cherished things like that made the difference in a world that was becoming more terrifying and alien by the day.
“If and when we leave Vectes,” Trescu said, “I intend to resettle Gorasnaya. Even if it means living on board Paryk in Branascu harbor.”
“I don’t think we’ve got enough fuel to check it out, Commander,” Gettner said. “Not on this trip, anyway.”
“I know.” Trescu peered through the monocular again. “I’m simply saying it to ensure that I do it.”
Marcus got up and went to stand at the door gun. Nobody spoke. Dom looked at Hoffman and caught his eye. Hoffman shrugged.
“Anvil Gate,” he said suddenly. “Anvegad. I ought to give it its proper name.”
Gettner huffed. “Colonel, that’s way out of range and you know it.”
“I’m just saying that if I return to the mainland, I’d like to go back there one day.”
If this had been a bunch of ordinary guys talking over a beer about moving house, it would have been idle conversation. But this was two men who’d decide the fate of the last organized human society on Sera. Dom felt his stomach knot. They were hard men who’d spent their entire adult lives in combat, and here they were talking nostalgically as if they were now looking for the best place to lay down and die. And Trescu was roughly Dom’s age.
But if he thinks it’s the endgame, he’s right, isn’t he? Because we’re running out of everything. Time. Resources. Land. People. Hope.
Hoffman gazed up at the deckhead. He was still chewing it all over. “See, I can defend Anvegad, stalks or no fucking stalks,” he said, almost to himself. “We could hold that place against any goddamn thing.”
That was more like it. That was the Hoffman Dom knew and believed in. Dom decided not to point out that stalks could probably punch up through the fort as easily as they had on Vectes.
“Not a lot of room in there, though, sir,” he said. “Five or six thousand people at most, Sam says. Not big enough for us.”
“Yeah. Intimate. But with a water supply, and hydroelectricity, and a damned good view—nearly three-sixty degrees.” Hoffman turned in his seat and stared out onto the sea below again. “But you’re right. We need to find somewhere big enough to house a city.”
“I keep telling you,” Sharle said wearily. “We won’t find anywhere with the kind of infrastructure we need. That’s why we ended up on Vectes.”
“We ended up on Vectes because it was warmer and Prescott suggested it,” Hoffman said.
“We could try Port Farrall again if infrastructure is all we need, but it isn’t. It’s about being able to respond to threats.”
Hoffman rubbed his forehead and said nothing. It seemed to be an argument they’d had before.
Nobody had any easy options, and Dom didn’t need Sharle’s qualifications to work it out. If there was anywhere habitable within easy reach left on the mainland, then Stranded would have found it. And if they’d found it, they’d either already stripped it of every usable plank of wood and scrap of metal, or they’d taken over the place. Nobody was in the mood for more fighting even if they’d had unlimited ammo.
“We’ve rebuilt once,” Marcus said. Dom wasn’t sure what had prompted him to say that. Maybe it was a thought from a co
nversation in his head that had just spilled out. “So we can do it again.”
They still had a few hours before they hit the coast, so Dom shut his eyes and dozed. He’d spent two wars desperate for sleep, dreaming of a day when he could just ignore reveille or switch off the alarm, and now he had his chance. It was surprisingly easy to sleep in a helicopter. The vibration was blissfully numbing and after a while the engine just became white noise. He didn’t surface until someone shook him—Trescu, of all people—and he woke with a start.
Barber gestured down and pointed out of the bay door. Dom leaned over to look, expecting to see the coastline of southern Tyrus.
He could see a coast, all right, but he could also see what looked like a mangrove delta stretching for kilometers.
It wasn’t made up of trees. It was a forest of stalks.
“Oh God,” he said. “The Stranded weren’t kidding. They’re here too.”
“It’s just the shallows,” Barber said. “They’re the first we’ve seen. There was nothing out in deeper water.”
Dom almost pointed out that Barber had only covered a narrow strip in a vast ocean, so for all they knew the stalks were springing up like bristles everywhere else. But that was the kind of parade pissing that Baird did. Dom kept his mouth shut.
“We’re coming up on Corren,” Gettner said. Barber left the gun to grab recon images. “But when I say we turn back, we turn back, okay, Colonel? I’m not taking risks with fuel if we don’t have radio contact with base.”
“I’ll man the gun,” Marcus said. “I’m more worried about Stranded taking potshots. Last time we saw Corren they had a goddamn army.”
“That’s my kind of thinking, Fenix. They won’t have forgotten how much they love us.”
The stalks thinned out as they got closer to the city but when Gettner dropped lower, Dom could see some poking up through the buildings. The Raven circled over the center of town, but there were no signs of life at all.
“This used to be a really busy place,” Gettner said. “Thousands of Stranded.”
“Well, it’s not busy now,” Sharle said. “Stranded keep moving. It’s how they’ve survived this long.”
Sera looked like a wasteland, but over the years Dom had become attuned to the small detail that said a place was inhabited—smoke, attempts to tend crops, even seabirds that hung around looking for garbage left by messy humans. The bigger settlements like Corren had sentries and observation posts you could see from the air. But there was nothing like that down there now.
Marcus unfolded a chart. “Okay, Major. Go east along the coastal highway. Look for the athletics track.”
There were certain places that Stranded preferred. Every Gear knew they liked reservoirs, river estuaries, high outcrops or tall buildings that could be defended—and sports stadiums. Stadiums were ready-made forts.
“Okay,” Gettner said. “I see it.”
“And everybody keep an eye open for ground fire.”
Dom rested his Lancer on his knee as the Raven descended. All that was left of the stadium was a skeleton of girders, but the lower half of the walls were intact enough to make the place defensible. Gettner circled cautiously as Dom kept an eye out for signs of habitation. There was nothing inside but a few ramshackle huts that were too dilapidated to be in use.
“Over there,” Hoffman said wearily. “Stalks. Two of ’em.”
Gettner skimmed close alongside. The stalks looked long dead. Dom strained to see any signs of the pods on the trunks, but there was no way of telling what had been a blister and what was just gnarling now that they were just gray husks.
“Hey, what’s the one thing we haven’t seen here yet?” Barber asked.
Marcus nodded. “Dead zones.”
“Yeah, but we haven’t covered any grassland so far,” Dom said.
“That’s next on the tour.” Gettner turned north. “Reservoir at Hatton, Marcus?”
“Yeah. I’d be surprised if the Stranded abandoned that.”
“It’s like being the first explorers,” Barber said. “We’ve got no idea what’s down there now. Well, except we’ve got accurate maps. We know the geography and the shape of the coastline.”
“Except Jacinto Bay.” Marcus studied his chart. “I think we made that a lot bigger…”
Nobody asked the obvious. Were they going to take a look at Jacinto’s submerged crater? Dom hadn’t thought much about it since they’d escaped the flood, but now the prospect of having to look at it again seemed unbearable. Maria was down there in the tunnels somewhere with the drowned grubs and the Gears who’d died fighting them.
I couldn’t even bury her. I couldn’t even take her back to Mercy and let her rest alongside her folks. Maybe I can at least take her necklace back there one day.
“Absolutely not,” Gettner said. They’d all been together so long that they all knew what the others were thinking. “I’m not diverting to Jacinto unless the Colonel’s got a really pressing reason to see it.”
Hoffman shifted in his seat. “Don’t think I have, Major. Not yet, anyway.”
Dom counted eleven stalks on the way to Hatton, all of them in built-up areas. On the way out of town, the concrete gave way to woodland and big gardens so overgrown that it was hard to make out the boundary fences.
“Stalk,” Barber called. The Raven passed over a park. The metal structure of a kids’ climbing frame and a bandstand were still visible, poking above the ocean of unmown grass like icebergs, but the wooden planks had been stripped off. “Let’s take a look.”
“Well, most of the grass is still alive.” Gettner headed for the stalk. As the Raven passed directly above it, Dom could see a pool of bare soil stretching for about twenty meters around it. “Oh, yeah, that’s a dead zone. But at least we know it stops eventually.”
“Actually, we don’t, because we can’t tell how recent that is,” Barber said. “Colonel, how do you feel about trying to raise some Stranded on the radio?”
Hoffman glanced at Trescu but he didn’t twitch at the mention of the word. Hoffman nodded.
“It’s got to be done, Corporal. But let’s see if we can eyeball any first.”
The reservoir was visible for kilometers, a lovely lake from a distance. But the closer they got, the more they could pick out the shabby detail of a shantytown around its man-made shoreline. Smoke curled up from the rooftops. There were Stranded here, all right.
“Well, they can’t miss a Raven, and we’re the only guys flying these days,” Gettner said. “You want me to flash them, Colonel, just to show manners? They usually hog the old emergency frequencies.”
“Grit your teeth and be charming, Major.”
“Charm offensive acquiring target… Stranded encampment, this is COG KR-Eight-Zero, the big black noisy thing heading your way, over.”
Dom listened for the response, watching Marcus’s reaction—completely blank, all emotion locked down—and then Hoffman’s, which was a kind of glum resignation. There was a long delay. Gettner circled and tried again. “This is KR-Eight-Zero to—”
“This is the Reservoir, COG. We heard you.” It was a woman’s voice. “You’ve been out of town awhile. What do you want? Water? ’Cause we got plenty of that if you want to trade.”
Hoffman cut in. “We want information.”
“Who’s that?”
“This is Colonel Victor Hoffman.”
“Ooh, we got the brass coming to inspect us! Damn, we might even clear the dead dogs off the carpet for you. What’s in it for us, COG?”
“Fuel.”
Gettner snapped back at Hoffman on the Raven’s internal circuit. “No, we haven’t, Colonel.”
“A five-liter can won’t kill us.”
“Shit, sir.”
Hoffman ignored her protest. “Reservoir, we’re planning to land. You tell us what you know about the state of the mainland, and I’ll give you fuel. Deal?”
“Mainland? That’s us, right? Sounds like you ran a long way away when you skipped
town.”
“I said—deal?”
“Why not? Just stay back from the houses, okay?”
Barber patted the door gun. “You bet,” he muttered.
The Raven set down a cautious distance from the edge of the shanty and everyone checked their weapon. Even Sharle was carrying a pistol this time. Marcus and Hoffman got out first and Dom decided to stick close to Trescu in case the temptation to slot a few more despised Stranded got the better of him. A small crowd of armed Stranded, mainly men, gathered to block their way into the camp.
“The prodigals have come home, then.” A woman aged about forty stepped forward, all tight-braided red hair and beads. When Dom looked more closely, he could see the beads were actually wedding bands, steel nuts, and coins—small barter currency. “Either you’re nursing a delusion that it’s safe to come home, or you’re in the shit.”
She’d got that right on both counts. It stung. Most of the Stranded leaders Dom had come across in the later years of his search for Maria were women, at least in the larger camps. They seemed better at holding a big community together than the male Stranded. He suspected it was less about the maternal wisdom thing than the fact they were more ruthless.
Marcus took a casual step forward next to Hoffman, cradling his Lancer, but said nothing.
“Just checking how far the stalks have got, ma’am,” Hoffman said. “Have there been any polyp attacks?”
“Some.” She looked Marcus over, then Dom, and then Trescu. He didn’t seem to provoke a reaction in her, but then maybe Gorasnaya didn’t mean much down here. “The bad news is we’re seeing ’em more often. The good news is that we haven’t seen a grub since the end of last summer, thank God. Why do you give a damn? You crapped your pants and ran away last year, didn’t you? We hear you sank Jacinto.”
“That’s why you haven’t seen any grubs,” Marcus said, polite but pissed off. “We drowned them when they tried to tunnel under the city.”
“My my, the COG’s finally done something for us. Where did you go, then?”
“The Serano Ocean.” Hoffman had obviously decided there was no harm telling them. The Stranded grapevine worked so well that they’d probably heard it from the pirates anyway. “There are islands out there.”
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