Coalition's End

by Karen Traviss

  “Yes, sir.” The driver walked up to him and started a salute, but then stopped as if he’d remembered he didn’t have a cap on. He held out his hand instead. “Shit, sir, you haven’t changed much, have you? Haven’t grown any hair, either.”

  Hoffman grabbed his hand for a moment and then just hugged him. “Damn! Damn! Where the hell have you been, Pad? What happened to you?”

  Padrick Salton—Private Salton, 26th Royal Tyran Infantry, a sniper just like Bernie—jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the line of trucks behind.

  “I’ve been with the Pesangas, sir. Nobody messes with them.” Pad suddenly noticed Bernie. “Mataki? Oh God, I thought you were dead. Everyone’s here. It’s a bloody Two-Six RTI reunion.”

  “Pad, did you bring Pesangas with you?” Hoffman asked.

  “Yes, sir. We heard you moved back into the fort. You don’t mind, do you? We just thought you might need some backup. They’re no trouble. Well, not to us, anyway.”

  Hoffman’s voice shook. “Mind? The whole damn Pesang nation’s welcome here. Get ’em inside. We’re still fixing the place up, but there’s room for them. You bet there is.”

  “Their leader wants a word with you first.”

  Hoffman glanced at Bernie, looking stunned. Seeing Pad walk back from the dead was enough of a shock, but to have a load of Pesang hillmen show up too must have winded him completely. He loved those little buggers. It brought it all back for her, too. Yes, this was a 26 RTI moment. The refugees watching this unfold wouldn’t have had a clue just how bittersweet this was for them all.

  The past never leaves you alone. But maybe that’s for the best.

  “Fine by me,” Hoffman said. “My Pesan’s a bit rusty, so I hope he speaks some Tyran.”

  “You’ll manage,” Pad said. “And she does.”

  “She?”

  Pad walked back up the line of trucks and helped someone down from the cab. A tiny Pesang woman in a traditional knee-length tunic and scarf walked up to Hoffman and gave him a polite bow of the head. He returned it. Bernie watched, transfixed. Hoffman seemed baffled, though. He really didn’t know her.

  “Ma’am,” he said. “I’ve had the honor of serving with your people. Welcome to Anvil Gate.”

  The woman smiled at him. “You do not know me, Hoffman sah?”

  Something she said seemed to startle him. Bernie saw his lips twitch.

  “Apologies, ma’am,” he said. “But I don’t think so.”

  “We never met. Until now. But I know you.”

  She took a small blue cloth from her pocket and unfolded it. Bernie couldn’t see what she was unwrapping at first, not until she held it up by a striped ribbon. It was a medal. It was the Embry Star.

  “Oh God,” Hoffman said. “Oh… God. Harua? You’re Harua? You’re Bai’s wife?”

  He put his hand slowly to his mouth, completely stunned. The woman took his other hand and placed the medal in his palm, gently folding his fingers closed around it.

  “I could not sell it,” she said. “It had to come home to you. Bai would want that.”

  “Damn…” More Pesangas had climbed down from the truck. They walked up and stood with her, grinning at Hoffman like he was a movie star they’d wanted to meet for years. “I’m so sorry. I am so sorry.”

  “No sorry, Hoffman sah. These are Bai’s sons and grandchildren. Your money—it kept us alive. We do pretty good, lots of cattle and land. Now we look after you.”

  For a moment Bernie thought Hoffman was going to collapse. She took a step forward but he seemed to pull himself together and straighten up to become the Colonel again. He helped Harua back into the truck and beckoned Ormond to take care of the convoy.

  Pad just stood there, arms folded, smiling. He winked at Bernie.

  “Job done, mate,” he said.

  “Can’t wait to hear where you’ve been all these bloody years.”

  “Are Dom and Marcus still around?”

  “Yes, but they’re at sea now.” She patted Pad on the back, completely lost for what to say. “This has to call for a drink. I’ll come and find you later when I’ve jump-started Vic’s heart.”

  Pad laughed. “You don’t give up on anything, do you?”

  He got back into the truck and started the engine, still grinning like an idiot. Hoffman stepped back and watched the convoy roll through the gates.

  Bernie held out her hand. “Can I see it?”

  Hoffman fished the medal out his pocket and gave it to her. The inscription around the edge read: major victor hoffman 26 RTI—for courage. It was a very plain medal. The more you did, the less it needed commentary.

  “So you didn’t just send her this,” she said.

  Hoffman found his voice at last. “It was damn shabby, babe. No medals and no pension. I told Chairman Dalyell exactly what I thought of it. It’s a hard life out there. The Pesangas live on next to nothing.”

  Hoffman still had his secrets, then. She was so proud of him that it hurt. If he’d done nothing else in his life, if all he’d ever done was save Bai’s family from starving, then he was worth his salt.

  “You’re a good man for a bad-tempered, callous, bald old bastard, Vic,” she said. “I might let you have a share of Mac’s dinner tonight.”

  He smiled. She hadn’t seen that kind of smile for bloody years. Only a few days ago he’d been fretting about being Stranded, dreading a purposeless existence, and battling with ghosts again. Now he wasn’t Stranded at all, and he wasn’t a refugee. This was where he was meant to be.

  He sidestepped Mac and didn’t even gripe about dogs getting under his feet for a change.

  “Come on, woman,” he said. “Let’s go home. I’ve got a garrison to run.”

  CNV SOVEREIGN, OFF THE COAST OF SOUTHERN TYRUS: EIGHT DAYS AFTER THE EVACUATION OF VECTES.

  “Now, who’s the last person you’d expect to hear from?” Anya peered around the greenhouse door. “Dom? Are you there?”

  Dom stood up from behind the rows of tomato plants. For a split second, stupid reflex optimism bypassed his memory and made him think the impossible: Maria. Shit, he should have been past that stage by now. He must have been really engrossed in the plants to have zoned out that much.

  “Is this good news?” he asked.

  Anya looked put out. “Well, Marcus seemed pretty pleased.”

  “Who, then?”

  “Padrick Salton. You remember Pad, don’t you? The sniper?” Anya did a circle around her face with her fingertip. “Ginger-haired Islander with face tattoos?”

  Damn, how could anyone forget Pad? Now that was news. Dom tried to remember the last time he’d seen him. It must have been twelve or thirteen years, not long after the Hammer strike. Miracles happened. He’d been sure Pad was dead.

  “So… where is he?”

  “He showed up at Anvil Gate with a convoy of Pesangas. We just received Hoffman’s latest sitrep.”

  “Goddamn.” But Anvil Gate might as well have been the other end of the world. Dom really wanted to see Pad. “Are we going to get any radio time? Man, I’d love to talk to him again.”

  Anya winked. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  She seemed at ease living in this crowded ship, or maybe the novelty hadn’t worn off yet. Perhaps it was suddenly having Marcus around all the time. Some people thrived when they were cooped up like this, and some didn’t. Dom was already hearing reports of people on some ships asking to be put ashore whether it was safe or not because they couldn’t stand the confinement. And they weren’t even two weeks out of Vectes.

  It took some getting used to, he had to admit. It was often the little things that grated. He had to remember to sweep up the dirt he’d spilled in the greenhouse and scatter it back in the pots. Every scrap of soil had to be brought on board now. All the animal waste was recycled for fertilizer, and even some of the human variety. If he’d thought life ashore was tough, living on a self-sustaining ship was a whole new world of frugality.

  And this crew’s not
going ashore. Not for years, maybe.

  He picked up his Lancer and went on watch. Marcus was walking up and down the port side of the flight deck, keeping a lookout. Sovereign was ten kilometers offshore but the coast was busier than Dom had expected, with Stranded fishing boats passing close every day to check them out. An NCOG warship was a real novelty here. If anyone got ideas about going after the small boats in the fleet, the sight of the massive carrier towering over everything was a sobering warning. Even with her flight deck covered in huts, storage tanks, and vegetable beds, Sovereign still looked like a heavily armed steel island.

  “Here we go again,” Dom said, pointing northeast at a beam trawler heading their way. “We should charge a fee.”

  Marcus was watching the trawler through his binoculars. It was chugging closer, almost on a collision course.

  “When did they last see a Raven’s Nest?” he asked. “You can’t blame them.”

  “Well, as long as they remember we can’t swerve to avoid them.”

  The trawler held its course. It was moving so fast that Dom got ready to fire a warning shot to get the skipper’s attention, but the trawler gradually slowed and swung around to come up alongside Sovereign.

  They looked down over the side. The skipper came out on the deck and craned his neck to look up at the skyscraper towering above him.

  “Hey, are you navy?” he yelled. “We ain’t seen the COG at sea for years.”

  There was no easy answer to that now. “There’s no COG anymore,” Dom yelled back. “No Chairman Prescott, either.”

  “Ha! You’re Stranded too! Goddamn. That’s a fancy tub for Stranded, fella. So what are you doing here?”

  “Just looking after our fleet.”

  “You got anything to trade? Couldn’t help noticing the fuel tanker passin’ through with you. The bright green one.”

  He meant the Gorasni tanker from the Emerald Spar. Dom could imagine what kind of welcome the trawlerman would get if he caught up with them.

  “You better avoid that guy. He’s Gorasnayan. They use Stranded for target practice.” Dom looked up and wondered automatically where Zephyr might be lurking. The last thing everyone needed now was another Stranded boat getting a torpedo up the ass like last time and starting another turf war. “So what fishing towns are active around here?”

  “Right now? Port Lorrence.”

  “See many stalks?”

  “Ah, don’t worry about them. You can just steer around them.”

  “Yeah, right,” Marcus muttered. “If we want to trade sometime, where do we go?”

  “Well, there’s me…”

  “What if you’re tied up in a meeting?”

  “Just go ashore anywhere you see a camp and ask around. Or signal a boat. How come you don’t know that?”

  “We’ve been away for a bit,” Marcus said.

  The trawler skipper looked at him sideways for a moment, then waved and chugged away. Word was getting around the Stranded network. But this was the way the evacuees were going to have to live, reaching some kind of understanding with every Stranded tribe out here, whether ashore or at sea.

  “You heard about Pad Salton, then.”

  “Damn… yeah.” Marcus shook his head. “After all these years.”

  “I always thought he’d kill himself. Remember how weird he used to get after Baz died? Proves one thing. Stranded survive.”

  “That’s us,” Marcus said.

  Dom was trying to get used to the idea. It wasn’t going to be easy to stop thinking in terms of the COG. It was a whole culture, not just an administration. It was like trying not to be Tyran. It took time. For the next hour or two he wandered up and down the deck, an area big enough for a few games of thrashball if every available space hadn’t been taken up with the business of survival. There were even pigs penned topside, rooting around in a trough of food waste.

  Is this really so bad? We’ll adapt. We always do.

  But he was missing Hoffman and Bernie already. It wasn’t right to split up the last of the regiment.

  A sound from the ship’s broadcast system made him look around. It was just loud enough to get his attention, but it was snatched by the breeze. “Hey, Marcus, was that the collision alarm?” Dom was still getting used to the variety of signals and pipes on board ship. He didn’t respond to them by reflex yet. “Damn, you can’t hear anything out here.”

  “Control to Delta Squad.” It was Anya on the radio, not Mathieson for a change. “Report to the command bridge.”

  Marcus responded. “On our way. Was that an alarm? We can’t hear.”

  “We’ve got a visitor,” Anya said. “He showed up on the radar, and now he’s on the radio. Lyle Ollivar.”

  “Well… imagine that.” Marcus began working his way through the maze of huts and crops that covered the flight deck. Dom followed. “He’s a hell of a long way off his turf.”

  “He’s talking to Michaelson now. Says he’s got something we want.”

  Dom could think of one really good reason why Ollivar had come all this way. “Looks like the Prescott pirate deal theory isn’t so off the wall, huh?”

  “Well, Ollivar isn’t the welcome wagon, that’s for sure.”

  The Stranded bush telegraph was pretty impressive. Dom wasn’t sure exactly how they did it, but a combination of ground relays and archaic signaling systems seemed to give them almost a global network. It was slow and uncertain, but right now it was doing a hell of a lot better than the failing satellite technology of the COG. In a world that was sliding backward, the Stranded way of life was coming into its own, just as Ollivar had warned them.

  And they probably outnumber us. We’re trying to be like them now, just to stay alive. The whole damn world’s turned upside down.

  They reached the ship’s island, the huge control tower that made Sovereign look in danger of tipping over, and headed for the bridge. Michaelson was standing at the console, binoculars trained on the horizon. Cole, Baird, and Anya were watching the radar over Mathieson’s shoulder.

  “He must be missing us,” Marcus said.

  “Oh, we parted on quite civilized terms, remember,” Michaelson said. “And he can still count. He’s not going to be a silly boy and start a ruck.”

  “Has he said what he’s got that he thinks we want?”

  “No, but the speculation is entertaining.” Michaelson lowered the binoculars. Dom peered out of the window and saw Ollivar’s big white powerboat roaring toward them. “And he’s putting himself in our hands, so he must think there’s a deal worth doing.”

  Baird snorted. “Can’t wait to see his face when he asks for a ransom and we say he can keep the asshole.”

  “I see everyone’s betting on our beloved Chairman being returned to us,” Michaelson said. “Fascinating.”

  So Prescott had hooked up with Ollivar. Well, maybe Trescu wouldn’t feel so bad about losing the Chairman—ex-Chairman—when he heard about that. But Prescott had a reason for risking that meeting, and all the unanswered questions surfaced again.

  Now we’ll get some answers.

  Dom looked at Marcus and nodded. Yeah, he was thinking the same. The pieces were coming together.

  They met Ollivar as he climbed up a long ladder and a scrambling net from the boat below. It was the only way to transfer, but Dom thought it was a nice psychological bonus to remind the guy that COG or no COG, he’d be taking on a fucking warship if he got any pirate-shit ideas this time.

  Ollivar stepped onto the flight deck and looked around.

  “I bet your Raven pilots love all the debris from this,” he said. “Well, good morning, Captain. And how nice to see you again, Sergeant Fenix. Oh, wait… no, it’s just Quentin and Marcus now, isn’t it? I’m glad you dropped that COG delusion at last.”

  Ollivar was a well-spoken guy in his thirties, a long way from the blue-collar, moonshine-drinking Stranded image. This was organized crime. He’d organized his pretty efficiently. Dom didn’t underestimate his gang�
�s abilities.

  “What can we do for you, Mr. Ollivar?” Michaelson asked. He’d run anti-piracy patrols for years and it was clear that he still relished the sport of tormenting them. “Lovely boat, by the way. I’m so glad she’s still running.”

  “Oh, I think you know why I’m here.”

  “Welcoming us to the Stranded family?”

  “Exactly.” Ollivar strolled a few paces and looked at a raised bed of bean plants with its scruffy but effective irrigation system. “I’m really impressed with all this.”

  “Major Reid’s brainchild. You’d like to trade vegetables?”

  “In a way.”

  Ah, here we go. Dom glanced at Baird, who had that smug look of a man who’d bet on the Prescott option. But why does Ollivar think we want him back? Maybe he doesn’t understand us as well as he thinks. Or he’s got half a solution, and needs our other half…

  “I’m all ears,” Michaelson said. “I haven’t forgotten what you did to help us deal with the Lambent, by the way. As you can see, it didn’t hold them back for long, but it did buy us a little time.”

  Ollivar looked at him as if he was trying to work out if this was another one of his elegantly worded and smiling threats. “You’ve found another source of imulsion, haven’t you?”

  “Possibly.”

  “You got a fairly substantial fleet up here from Vectes and made enough noise doing it, so I’d say it’s more than possibly.”

  Michaelson’s expression changed a little, a kind of oh-dear slow revelation. “You do realize that we left Vectes because the stalks overran the place, don’t you?”

  Now it was Ollivar’s turn to look caught off guard. “I hadn’t realized things had gotten quite that bad.”

  “Ah. I see.” Michaelson changed tack. “Look, we’re not trying to muscle in on your various territories. Please don’t worry about it. Just pretend this fleet isn’t here. Especially the big gray vessels with the guns. They’re not here at all.”

  Crafty old bastard. Dom loved watching him psych someone out, and it was obvious that Michaelson loved doing it. And he’s put him off sniffing around Vectes by telling him it’s infested with Lambent. But when the hell was Ollivar going to play his card?