Coalition's End

by Karen Traviss

  “I’m a selfish cow, aren’t I, Mossie?” The dog stopped sniffing around the corpse-coated grass and followed her up the track to the calf shed. “All those people dead somewhere, and I’m worrying about stock I’m going to slaughter anyway.”

  Neal was late. She could normally set her watch by him. So this was how it was going to be for the rest of her life, a daily routine of talking to animals and worrying about the weather, without even the occasional glimpse of the rest of the world on the TV.

  Home, my arse. What’s so great about it? It’s a building. It’s not people.

  The first task today was to get one of the calves to feed from a bucket, but the poor little sod wasn’t a quick learner. Most got the idea in minutes; this one was on day two. Bernie dipped her fingers in the milk and let him suck on them, but every time she sneaked her hand lower to get his muzzle into the bucket and hold his head down, he panicked and jerked free. She now had more milk up her sleeve and spattered over her face than she’d managed to get inside the calf. He didn’t care much that she was a sergeant who’d never had a baby Gear fail one of her training courses.

  “Okay, sweetheart, I’m going to put you back on your mum,” she said. He tottered away, mooing plaintively. He was just a baby and he wanted his mother. “Sod the milk. I can get it from Jim Kilikano.”

  Cows didn’t forget a slight. This one had been calling for her calf for days and she came at Bernie like an angry bull when she opened the gate. Bernie let the calf loose and ran for it. She slammed the gate behind her just in time and stopped to watch the reunion for a few minutes.

  They’re just like us. Emotional. Maybe that’s how the grubs see humans. Not an enemy, maybe, just another creature they can’t afford to be sentimental about. How do the cows see me?

  The sound of boots on the gravel track made her look up. She expected it to be Neal, but it was Dan.

  “Morning, Bernie.” He rummaged in his pockets for too long, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to find what he was looking for. “Shit. I don’t know where to start.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Let’s go into the house.”

  It had to be Neal—an accident, or something that would upset her or piss her off. “Just spit it out, mate. Is Neal okay or not?”

  “It’s not about him. Are you sure you want to talk here?”

  “How do I know until you tell me what it is?”

  “Okay.” Dan took a breath. “It’s your brother.”

  “What about him?” Bernie hadn’t heard from Mick since he’d sent the photo of his new granddaughter a year ago. She really should have found a way of calling him on the radio. But even this war hadn’t made them any closer. “We don’t talk. You know that.”

  Dan had a crumpled piece of paper in his hand now. “He’s dead, Bernie. I’m really sorry.”

  That took a few seconds to sink in. Her first thought was a heart attack. He’d spent his days either sitting on his arse driving a bus, or sitting on his arse watching the telly.

  “How come you know?” It was such a pointless question that she knew she was shocked and going about this the wrong way. She didn’t ask how Mick had died. “Who told you?”

  “Some guy sailed in to Noroa last night. Took him months to get out of Kaia. He brought a list.”

  Dead. I never got on with Mick and now he’s dead. And I feel terrible. I feel guilty. What the hell am I going to say to his wife, the snotty bitch?

  “You’ve lost me, Dan,” she said. “What’s Kaia got to do with it? Was he taken to hospital?” If you needed cardiac surgery, you went to Kaia. That was it. It was all starting to make sense. “But the place was trashed by the grubs ages ago.”

  “I know,” Dan said. “Forget the hospital thing. Mick was working in Jasper when the grubs came. The whole family was over there.”

  Dan stopped. Bernie had no idea that Mick had even left Noroa. Maybe that was why he sent the photo. She tried to make sense of the dates, and why he hadn’t sent her a forwarding address, but all she could think of was that she’d been watching TV while the grubs were killing him. Drill kicked in and she made herself take control.

  “Dan, are they all dead?”

  “’Fraid so, love… look, I don’t know what to say. Jasper was flattened. This guy’s a paramedic and he ended up with a lot of IDs from the morgue.” Dan held out the scrap of paper to her. She could see handwriting on it, a list like a grocery order. “You want to talk to him on the radio? He only made it because he hooked up with a couple of Gears and they took a boat.”

  The focus came back. Gears.

  It felt like someone had plugged her back into reality, all bright color and sharp lines. “They pulled out of Kaia, then.”

  “I don’t know.” Dan’s expression said it was a strange question to ask when he’d just told her that her brother and his family had been slaughtered. “Should I have asked?”

  There were Gears on Noroa. That changed everything. “I’ll ask them myself.”

  “I’m not quite following you. You sure you’re okay, Bernie? You want someone to come and sit with you?”

  “No, I can manage. Thanks, Dan.”

  Dan should have known her well enough by now. She wasn’t callous. She was just defaulting to what she’d been trained to do. When Gears in her company got killed, she had to park it for later and get on with whatever had to be done.

  And she’d been a lot closer to them than she’d ever been to Mick.

  Bernie found herself back in the barn with no recollection of walking in there or of Dan leaving. Guilt at being a bad sister nagged at her until she made herself look at the piece of paper and saw all the names he’d scribbled on it— her name, her tribal name, Mataki: Michael J., wife, two sons, two grandsons, and one granddaughter, Philippa Jane, not a year old. Bernie had never even held the baby, but for some reason that death cut her up a lot more than any of the others.

  There’s no sense keeping things going here anymore. None of it. The line’s broken. I’m the last Mataki. And Gears are back to Noroa. So that’s where I need to be.

  Neal wandered in at last. She didn’t check the time.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Bloody ash clogged up the air filter and I broke down outside town. Had to clear it out.”

  “Mick’s dead.” She assumed the news was out and that everyone knew before she did anyway. Dan didn’t mean to gossip. He just thought he was keeping people off her back. “They’re all dead now.”

  “Yeah… I heard,” Neal said. “I’m sorry, Bern. Sorry for what I said about him, too.”

  “You want to do me a favor?”

  “Look, I said I was sorry—”

  “No, I mean it like it sounds. I’m asking you to do something for me.” As soon as she said it, the relief settled on her. She hadn’t realized she was even thinking that decisively. “I want you to take over the farm.”

  Neal did his silent sigh, shutting his eyes and shaking his head. “You’re upset, love. Give yourself some time.”

  “No, it’s yours. Just take it.” She really didn’t need any time. The longer she buggered around with the options, the less certain she’d be. “You made it what it is. Do what you want with it. I’m going to go to Noroa.”

  Neal sat down on the hay bale next to her. “You don’t know anyone there. And you’re the home guard, remember.”

  “The grubs don’t even know Galangi’s here. I can do more good on Noroa.”

  “Shit, Dan told you about the Gears, didn’t he? Silly bastard. I told him not to.”

  If anything made her mind up, it was that. Neal thought she needed protecting from herself. Well, fuck that. She was leaving as soon as she could get transport. She took her house keys off the fob on her belt and shoved them into his hand.

  “The farm’s yours. I’ll write it all down on a piece of paper, not that there’s a land registry left to argue about it. Dan can witness it, like he witnessed the divorce. Clean break, okay?”

 
; “God, Bern, you were always such a sensible woman. Why the hell are you doing this now? Galangi might end up being all there is left of Sera.”

  “And if I do this, maybe it won’t be. Come on. You owe me that much.”

  “Okay,” he said. She could see he was just humoring her. “Whatever you want, love.”

  Maybe she was more shocked and grieving than she wanted to admit, but when she started clearing out the farmhouse and deciding which things were really worth keeping, she felt better than she had for years. This is me. This is who I am. I don’t have to sit here and wait for death to come and find me. She packed her rucksack and filled every spare space and belt pouch with ammunition for the two rifles.

  As soon as she loaded herself up and tested the pack for balance, she felt fucking terrific—capable of anything, ready to go anywhere, and years younger again.

  I shall remain vigilant and unyielding in my pursuit of the enemies of the Coalition. I will defend and maintain the Order of Life as it was proclaimed by the Allfathers of the Coalition in the Octus Canon. I will forsake the life I had before so that I may perform my duty as long as I am needed. Steadfast, I shall hold my place in the machine and acknowledge my place in the Coalition. I am a Gear.

  That was the oath every Gear swore on recruitment, and she hadn’t forgotten a word of it. As long as I am needed. Neal could take the piss out of her all he wanted, but she could still do the job, and that job needed doing more than ever before.

  It took her three days to persuade Gabby to do some trawling off Noroa and take her along for the trip. He was a solid bloke. She’d known him all her life.

  “You’re afraid of the water,” he said. “Always were. You sure you want to do this?”

  “It’s only four hundred klicks.” He’d forgotten she’d taken part in amphibious landings during the war, shit-scared of water or not. She could make herself do anything if it needed doing. “Anyway, you’ve got to take me now. I already radioed GHN that I was coming.”

  “Okay. Just remember—wave once. Just once. And don’t look back again. It’s a lot less painful.”

  Bernie didn’t ask him how he knew that, seeing as he’d lived here as long as she could remember. She just took the advice.

  And he was right. It was.

  OBLIVION CENTRAL SQUATTERS’ CAMP, TYRUS: 182 DAYS AFTER THE HAMMER OF DAWN STRIKES.

  One day, there’d be a world where assholes got what they deserved. Dizzy comforted himself with that thought, and made a silent pledge that he’d still be around to see it.

  He had to be now, for his girls.

  Twins. Goddamn. Can’t say Rosalyn didn’t warn me, but… goddamn.

  He picked his way through Oblivion, looking for a gift. Folks brought things for the babies but they forgot that the new mom needed a little something personal to make her feel like a lady again, something … well, he didn’t know exactly what, but he’d know it when he saw it.

  He walked along the rows of people sitting around waiting to trade. One fella had a gilt brush and comb set on a little matching tray, a real nice thing if you had a dressing table to put it on. Dizzy squatted on his heels to look at the stuff laid out on the checkered cloth and turned over a leather-bound book. The back cover and some of the end pages were missing, and the edges of the leather were charred.

  “Looking for anything in particular?” the man asked. “What have you got to trade?”

  There were two things Dizzy did better than anyone else he knew. He could keep a big ship running, and he could brew great hooch. The two were connected. A good engineer knew how to build an efficient still. But nobody needed a ship’s turbine fixing, and pretty well everybody needed to get away from the real world sometimes. Some careers just picked themselves.

  “’Shine,” Dizzy said. “I make pretty good ’shine.”

  The man perked up a little. “Ooh, yeah. I heard. Got any brewed now?”

  “Just lettin’ it rest a little. Acquirin’ a bit o’ character. Two days.”

  “You want to come back then?”

  “Maybe. My need’s kinda urgent today, though. I want something nice for my missus.”

  The man pushed forward the brush and comb set for closer inspection. There were still a few strands of hair in it, very fine, very blond. Dizzy put the thought out of his head and took a small wrench out of his pocket.

  “Hate partin’ with tools,” he sighed, trying not to look too keen.

  “Long as you come by with some of that hooch and give me first refusal, I’m willing to deal.”

  “Done.”

  Dizzy and the man shook on it and the brush set was his. He tucked it inside his coat just to be on the safe side. There were some nasty assholes crawling out of the woodwork these days. Most folks in the camps were decent human beings who were just unlucky—unlucky to have a shithouse government that didn’t care if they burned alive so long as goddamn Jacinto was okay. They didn’t know how to look after themselves in a place where there wasn’t any law, so they were easy meat for the criminal types.

  And the grubs. Most of the world’s dead now, but the grubs are back. More of ’em than ever. What was it all for? What good did that goddamn Hammer do?

  If anyone touched Dizzy or so much as looked at his wife and kids the wrong way—human or grub—he knew how to handle that. He felt in his pocket for the reassuring grip of heavy steel. A big industrial wrench was handy for more than fixing engines.

  The barter market was at the end of what had been a rich folks’ street full of trees and smart iron railings. Some of the trees were dead or just stumps, but one or two had survived somehow and were trying to sprout new growth. All the houses had been flattened. Kids squabbled over the bricks, fighting to collect them. If they took them to the volunteers building shelters on the other side of the camp, they got paid in food. It was quite a business.

  Dizzy waved to them. “Found anything ’cept bricks?”

  One of the kids—nine, ten years old—stopped and looked up at him suspiciously, hugging a red plastic bucket that didn’t have a handle.

  “Nah, these were the nobs’ houses,” the kid said. “They all got away and took their stuff with ’em.” He kicked a few bricks out of the way. “See?”

  “We don’t need their stuff, son. We’re gonna do all right on our own.”

  “Yeah!” The boy brightened up as if a really good idea had occurred to him. “And when they come crawling to us for help, we can tell ’em to piss off, just like they did to us!”

  Dizzy didn’t have the heart to tell him not to cuss. The kid had a right. Jacinto had left them to die.

  “I know it’s hard not to hate ’em.” Kids were impressionable so Dizzy tried to pick his words carefully. “But we’re still alive, ain’t we? The grubs couldn’t kill us and neither could the government. And we ain’t got an army, but we get by. We’ll still be here when Jacinto’s long gone.”

  The boy really looked as if he was taking it all in and feeling better about things.

  “You’re nuts, mister,” he said, dropping more bricks into his bucket. Then he straightened up. “Listen! Listen!”

  Everyone stopped. For a moment, there was only thing on Dizzy’s mind: grubs. Kids had good hearing, better than most adults, and definitely better than a guy who’d spent years in a noisy engine room. The whole site held its breath, waiting for a rumbling vibration to tell them the grubs were coming.

  But it was another kind of rumbling. An armored vehicle was coming down the road.

  “Gears!” the kid yelled. “They’re coming! Gears!”

  Dizzy didn’t want to be part of this. He took a few steps back as kids and grown-ups alike grabbed rubble from the debris and surged past him to stand on the edge of the road. He understood why they were angry but he just couldn’t join in with all this stupid shit.

  “Come on, fellas, they’re just workin’ men like us,” Dizzy pleaded. Could have been my Richie. They didn’t want any of this. “Ain’t their choice what hap
pened.”

  “Ah, you’re a COG-lover,” someone muttered behind him. “You’ll learn.”

  The APC came into view. “Right, you bastards!” one of the men yelled. “Come on, let’s see how frigging tough you are now!”

  The APC barreled down the road, hatch open, not slowing down or preparing for trouble. Dizzy could see the Gear on top cover. When the vehicle was about twenty meters from the angry crowd, they let fly with a hail of bricks and stones, screaming abuse. The missiles bounced off the armor plate. The poor asshole on top cover ducked to shield himself but still got hit.

  Dizzy thought the APC was just going to drive on like they always did, but this time it came to a halt and a Gear jumped out of the front hatch holding his rifle one-handed and looking like he meant business. He stormed right up to them and shoved one of the men in the chest. The rifle sobered folks up for a second and everybody dropped the bricks they were about to throw, but the storm of abuse carried on. Goddamn, some of it was even from the little kids.

  “COG asshole!”

  “Scum! Fuckin’ scum!”

  “Come to finish the job, have ya? Haven’t killed enough of us yet?”

  The Gear just waded through it. “Shut your mouth. Now.” No, it wasn’t a fella. It was a woman, but it was hard to tell with the full-face helmet and bulky armor. “You want to live like animals—fine. But you stay out of our way. Understand?”

  The guy she’d shoved squared up to her. “Or what?”

  “Or I’ll clear you out of the way. You impede my operation and you’re aiding the enemy. Now either shut the fuck up or grow a pair and enlist.”

  “Yeah, like we’d want to take orders from fucking Prescott after he fried us to save his frigging oil paintings. And we’re still up to our asses in grubs.”

  The Gear rolled right over him, but then she’d probably heard it every damn day since the Hammer strike. “Oh, and another thing—if I catch you looting weapons from my boys’ bodies, I’ll make sure you join them.”