Gears of War: Jacinto's Remnant

by Karen Traviss; David Colacci

  Dom didn’t know, and hoped that he never had to find out.

  Control must have told Marcus to get back to Ephyra, because all Dom heard him say before he signed off was, “No, we’ll make sure the route’s clear.”

  Dom nudged him. “We’ve got five hours, Marcus.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “If I didn’t think there was plenty of time, I’d send you all back now and wait here myself.”

  Padrick seemed to be enjoying the release of smashing into inanimate objects. He went on clearing wreckage over a bigger area than he needed to, and eventually Marcus had to flag him down to make him stop. They took the ’Dill west along the highway until they saw headlights in the distance, then pulled off the road until the convoy reached them.

  The lead Packhorse slowed to a halt and the driver dropped the side window. “You should join the Engineer Corps, Fenix.”

  “Maybe I will,” he said. “Where do you want us, point or tail?”

  “Tail.”

  Pad went off-road and skimmed past what felt like a never-ending line of military vehicles, commercial trucks, livestock transports, private cars, and tankers until they reached the end of the line. Dom wanted to talk, but Marcus was feigning sleep, Tai stared at his clasped hands as if he was meditating or praying or something, and Pad had his eyes on the road. Dom felt there was nothing he could say that wouldn’t make him sound like a total asshole.

  “This is going to be one of the last convoys that makes it home before the deadline,” he said at last.

  “Thank fuck we’re in it, then,” Padrick muttered.

  Dom had to ask. “Guys … have you still got family out there, in the Islands?”

  Marcus made a sound that could have been a sigh, a snore, or a hint to shut up. Tai looked up from his clasped hands.

  “The Hammer of Dawn would waste its time targeting most of the Islands,” he said. “So I can hope.”

  Dom had no comfort to offer. The ’Dill kept a sensible distance from the last truck in the convoy and rolled past the Ephyra checkpoint with three hours to spare.

  “Home,” Dom said.

  Marcus opened his eyes at last. “Yeah. Whatever that’ll mean tomorrow morning.”

  CHAIRMAN PRESCOTT’S OFFICE, 2401 HOURS, TWO HOURS BEFORE HAMMER OF DAWN DEPLOYMENT.

  Even now, Prescott still watched the door.

  He realized there was still enough of the helpless human being left in him to wish for a last-minute reprieve. Perhaps—just perhaps—Adam Fenix would walk through the door declaring that he had an answer, a way to stop the Locust Horde without destroying anything or anybody. Perhaps Salaman was heading this way to say that word had reached the Locust commanders of the planned Hammer strike, and that they now wanted to talk terms.

  But Richard Prescott had long ago given up believing that problems solved themselves miraculously. It was when he was around twelve years old and worked out that grown-ups didn’t have all the answers, and that even his mighty father, Chairman David Prescott, could not come back from the dead no matter how much his son wanted it to happen.

  Prescott wondered how his father would have felt about him stepping into dead men’s shoes to lead the COG rather than winning an election. But Dalyell’s heart attack now looked like a lucky escape from the hell to follow.

  You didn’t have to succeed him. A deputy chairman can always say no.

  Nobody ever had, of course. Anyone who stood for office wanted to sit in this chair eventually, but now there were no deputies to lean on, and no elections to replace them.

  No miracles. No luck. Just decisions, and the willingness to stand by them.

  I just wish I knew—really knew—what was happening to Sera.

  Until then, Prescott was guessing about everything—except the fact that the Locust were close to overrunning Tyrus, almost at the Ephyra border as predicted, and that he had one card left to play.

  The door opened, and it really was Adam Fenix.

  “Do you have any miracles?” Prescott asked.

  Fenix looked taken aback. “No, Chairman. Just data.”

  “That’ll have to do, then.” Fenix looked drained, and Prescott wondered if he needed a drink. “That boy of yours is hard to keep on a leash. I hear he’s just returned from convoy escort duty. We did try to keep him out of harm’s way, Professor, but he’s determined not to be special.”

  Fenix didn’t seem to know his son had been on operational duty today. His brow creased briefly, just a flash of a frown. “He’ll never manage to be anything but special.”

  “Help yourself to a drink,” Prescott said, indicating the decanters on the sideboard. He opened the doors onto the balcony and stared up at the night sky to look for the orbiting Hammer platforms.

  If he lined up on the Octus Tower, he could distinguish stars from moving satellites. It was getting harder to see objects in the night sky because of the airborne pollution from fires and destruction, but tonight the pinpoints of light showed themselves in a brief window of clarity, warning him: Look at us, Richard. Be sure you understand what you’re about to do.

  “People think you’re bluffing,” Fenix said.

  “Who’s there to bluff?” The thought disappointed Prescott. “The other COG leaders? There’s nothing for them to concede now. And we have no communication with the Locust whatsoever. How can I possibly give them an ultimatum?”

  Fenix looked distinctly uncomfortable. Prescott had catalogued the man’s vanities and weaknesses within half an hour of first meeting him, but it was seeing Hoffman skirmish with him that filled in the gaps. Hoffman watched Fenix’s eyes a lot. It was more than simple human eye contact or even aggression—although Hoffman had an excess of that. Fenix’s eyes were his barometer. He went from an unnerving stare to rapid blinking. The rate seemed to indicate his degree of anxiety.

  He was close to off the scale now.

  “You’re right,” Fenix said after a long pause. “But people aren’t rational. They want to find a reason to believe we won’t carry this out.”

  We. How collegiate. Fenix was both vain—ferociously gifted, a history shaper, and rightly aware of it—and given to martyrdom. He wasn’t prepared to wash his hands of his creation even when it was about to be turned on his world.

  “I know you’re deeply conflicted over this, Professor,” Prescott said.

  Fenix laughed, the little desperate bark of a man closer to tears than to humor, and cupped both hands over his nose and mouth for a brief moment. He was still staring up at the sky. He hadn’t helped himself to that drink after all.

  “You have no idea how conflicted, Chairman,” he said at last.

  “Adam …” First-name terms after weeks of rigid formality often helped cement an idea in someone’s mind. Names had power. “Either you’re a monster who built a weapon that will kill millions, or you’re the man whose genius will save humankind.” Prescott paused to let that sink in, and realized it was one of those moments when he caught himself telling the raw truth even when he didn’t plan to. “You’ve given us our last hope. That kind of power always has its consequences, Adam, believe me. Governance is about choices. All too often, it’s about working out which is the least hideous.”

  “I’m not a politician,” Fenix said. “I’m a scientist.”

  “You build strategic weapons. Join the club.”

  “I’ve failed.”

  “Only if the Hammer strikes don’t work.”

  “No, as a scientist, I should have found a nonviolent solution in time.”

  “So that’s why there are so many scientists and engineers working on military projects.”

  “That’s where the research grants are.”

  “Ah, science ethics at work …”

  “I’m talking about my conscience. Not theirs.”

  “You were a serving officer.”

  “I was. A major in Two-Six RTI.”

  “You always returned fire, yes?”

  “Sometimes you sound just like Hoffman.” Fen
ix seemed to decide he’d had enough of the sky, and now gazed at the floor. “But I killed men rather than let them kill me. This is not the same.”

  Prescott stopped short of the lecture on collateral damage. Fenix had done the work the COG needed him to do, but if the man was tipped too far, then he might not cooperate further. Prescott checked his watch and the antique clock on the table.

  “It’s time to save humanity, Adam. Are you sure you won’t have that drink?”

  Fenix shook his head. Prescott put his hand on the man’s elbow and steered him toward the door.

  The offices and corridors were almost empty as they made their way to the command center. Ephyra was safe, but nonessential staff had taken Prescott at his word when he said that they might want to be at home with their families tonight. Only the security officer at the main doors was on duty; he was reading a newspaper while a television under the desk illuminated his face with flickering light. Prescott could hear the faint, tinny voice of a reporter. But he knew that if he stopped to look or listen and saw the streams of refugees or the other cities still full of people refusing to leave—or unable to—that it would only make things harder.

  The security guard dropped the paper and stood up, startled. “Good evening, sir.” He went to switch off the TV, but Fenix held up his hand to stop him.

  “Just a quick look,” Fenix said, and walked behind the desk to watch the screen. “That’s live, isn’t it?”

  “Yes sir, from Gerrenhalt.”

  Prescott watched, too. Gerrenhalt wasn’t far from Ephyra—four hours on a light traffic day, perhaps. Now everyone on that screen—the people in cars, the pedestrians, the defiant householders determined to sit it out—would be dead in hours. They weren’t going to make it to Ephyra.

  They were dead already.

  And the reporter.

  The TV station had a reporter on the spot. What kind of person would volunteer to do that? Was the man so stupid or so arrogant that he thought he was immune? Or was he just so blinded by the need to do his job, so shocked by the scale of the story, that he had to be there?

  What kind of person would do my job right now?

  There was only him. And that was why he had to do it.

  CIC OPS ROOM, HOUSE OF THE SOVEREIGNS, 2545 HOURS, SIXTEEN MINUTES TO HAMMER STRIKE.

  “Colonel? Are you all right?”

  Adam Fenix was standing right behind him, but Hoffman didn’t notice until the man handed him a sheaf of papers. He wanted those papers to be checkpoint reports from Corren, handed to him by Anya Stroud or Timothy Sherston, or any of the other CIC controllers who were in touch with the movement of civilian traffic.

  But the checkpoint teams had all been pulled back to Ephyra half an hour ago, and none of them had found Margaret Hoffman or her sister, Natalie. All Hoffman knew was that Natalie had left the hospital emergency room in Corren two days ago and hadn’t returned.

  “Professor.” Hoffman refused to lose face in front of Fenix. It was bad for morale. Every Gear needed to believe that the senior commanders were fully in control, not sweating next to a phone, hands almost shaking, for some word of hope. “I won’t pretend I’m fine. If I thought things were just dandy now, then I shouldn’t be in this job.”

  “I understand. I really do.”

  Hoffman suspected that Marcus Fenix would have understood a whole lot better than his father right then. Fenix senior was more talkative but somehow managed to say less. Hoffman was never sure what was going on in Marcus’s head, but he could judge by his actions and fill in the gaps, and that told him he was dealing with a modest soldier, a professional, an honorable man who simply didn’t broadcast what he felt. Adam Fenix just struck Hoffman as someone who thought he always knew best and paraded his conscience in half-assed moral debates for lesser beings like Hoffman to admire.

  “Your son’s a credit to the Coalition,” Hoffman said. Take it as a conciliatory gesture or an unflattering comparison, whichever you like, Professor. “If anyone lives the Octus Canon, it’s him.”

  Fenix looked a little embarrassed. “I often wonder if he ever thinks of ideologies at all. Yes, he’s an exceptional young man—thank you. He has Elain’s independent streak.”

  Well, at least he talked about his dead wife. He’d never done that before, not that he’d ever made small talk with Hoffman. It was as good a night as any for the dead to wander back into conversations and remind everyone just how many of them there would be very soon.

  Ten minutes.

  Margaret was still out there.

  I need a miracle.

  What was the last thing I said to her? That I couldn’t and wouldn’t stop the Hammer strike. What was the last thing she said to me? “Fuck you.”

  Would I feel any better now if we’d lied and said that we loved each other?

  “And how’s Margaret?” Fenix asked.

  “Missing,” Hoffman said.

  He didn’t mean to hit below the belt. But it was true, and there was no other answer he could give.

  “Oh God.” Fenix looked genuinely shocked. “I’m so sorry—I had no idea. Colonel, everything’s in disarray at the moment, I’m sure she’s safe somewhere in Ephyra, but you’ve seen the chaos—”

  “She left for Corren after the announcement,” Hoffman said quietly, “and as of this moment…” He checked the bank of clocks on the other wall, each showing local time in every major city. “As of this moment, with nine minutes to go, she has not returned.”

  They just looked at each other. On the wall behind them—and Hoffman was sure that Fenix was avoiding looking at it unless he had to, just like Hoffman—hung a backlit chart of Sera’s surface, skinned and pinned like an animal hide into a ragged-edged, flattened shape. Every major city was marked with concentric rings showing blast radii. Many of those rings overlapped, and when Hoffman found the stomach to look at it, he had to search hard to find areas that would be beyond the range of the orbital lasers’ destruction.

  It was going to take three phases of fire to hit every target, realigning the lasers after each strike. The number of satellite platforms needed for a synchronized apocalypse probably exceeded the COG’s budget, Hoffman thought, but then nobody sane would ever have planned for the almost total destruction of the planet’s surface.

  Not almost. Ephyra’s a speck compared to Sera. It might as well be the whole damn world.

  “Colonel, I have no idea what to say to you,” Fenix said. “Other than how very sorry I am.”

  The room was a blur for Hoffman now. He was aware of everything in it, and he was functioning, competent to do his job, but everything was distorted. The normal focus of his vision, background and foreground, had gone. Everything seemed to be in sharp focus regardless of distance, and as for the sounds—he could hear everything, too much, every conversation, without the instinctive filter that told his brain what to concentrate on and what to ignore.

  Salaman and Prescott were standing at the Hammer control panel. It needed three separate keys to be inserted and turned simultaneously to remove the failsafe lock. In minutes, Hoffman would have to walk over there and place his key in the slot.

  I deserve this, but Margaret doesn’t.

  “Sir?” Anya Stroud edged close to him, as if she wanted Fenix to walk away, but he didn’t. “Sir, just so you know—I’ve tracked down every Gear who’s been on checkpoint duties anywhere within Tyrus, and I’m afraid nobody recorded her outbound, let alone inbound. She must have taken a back-road route to Corren. Every highway and minor road to Ephyra is at a standstill now.”

  Anya was a sweet kid, all heart if you knew how to listen to her. “I wondered why you hadn’t rostered off for so long.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more, sir.”

  “You’ve done more than you’ll ever know, my dear.” It was far too familiar a way to address a junior officer, but he didn’t give a shit right then. Anya was being Anya, so he would just be Victor for a few moments. “Thank you for trying. I won’t forget i
t.”

  And now he had to carry on. Fenix hadn’t moved.

  Five minutes.

  We’re going to incinerate Sera, and all I can think about is one woman.

  Maybe that’s all any of us can manage tonight. To grieve on a manageable scale.

  “Victor?” Salaman gestured to him, beckoning almost casually, like he wanted him to join them for a drink, but his face was that awful pasty yellow again. “It’s time. Let’s do it.”

  Hoffman had a terrible feeling of walking to his own execution, not crossing the room to be the executioner. Fenix caught his arm.

  “If you prefer, Victor—give me the key. I’ll do it. Like you said, it’s my bomb.”

  Fenix rarely called him anything but Colonel. The damnedest things happened at times like this; you could never really tell with people, not until they were pushed to the limit, and then they could shock you for good or ill.

  “Thanks,” Hoffman said, and meant it. His lips were moving, and he could hear himself speaking, but somehow it wasn’t him. It was the Hoffman who had to front up and earn it, the one who had to be seen to be holding it together because so many depended on him doing just that. “I won’t be the only man widowed tonight. I shouldn’t dish it out if I can’t take it.”

  Salaman and Prescott waited. Hoffman just got it over with. He placed his key in the slot first, followed by Salaman, then Prescott.

  “Three … two … turn,” said Salaman.

  The command keys had now started the arming process.

  It’s as good as over. Where the hell are you, Margaret? Don’t be afraid. Please, don’t be afraid.

  It was the duty tactical officer’s job to physically deploy the Hammer. But there were just two switches on the console to press, nothing requiring expertise because the computer system ironed out the timing, and Prescott had decided it was his responsibility alone.

  The officer moved aside without being asked. Prescott held his finger above the illuminated plastic buttons, and took one last glance at his watch before looking up at Fenix. The professor nodded.