“No, they’re genuine. He’s fine. Well, a great deal better than the prison officers, anyway. The inmates seem to be running the place now, but the Justice Department is in regular touch with the senior officer by phone.”
“And you’re going to assure me that Marcus is safer inside than out.”
“I am indeed. Because he is. I do have a vested interest in his welfare beyond guaranteeing your best behavior, Adam.”
Sometimes the best way of muddying the waters and shifting Adam from his binary, linear mentality was to tell the whole truth. It wasn’t simply a matter of do-this-or-else. It was about leveling with Adam, explaining why Marcus mattered, but in such a way that he understood that his son’s life still depended on his cooperation.
Adam was lying again. Prescott knew it but couldn’t pin it down. Louise Settile knew it, too. She’d shake it out of him eventually.
“You’re dying to tell me,” Adam said.
“He’s an exceptional soldier. Perfect for small unit and one-man ops. I’ll need him again one day, and when the risk to morale passes—when the Gears who thought he should have been shot are so beleaguered that they’ll take whatever help they can get—then I’ll have him released and deployed.”
Adam looked as if he was mulling it over. Prescott hoped he did it fast, not that he needed his consent. The satellite window was brief.
“That’s a very elegant threat,” Adam said at last. “If I don’t cooperate, you’ll make him pay for it. But you’ll keep him alive for suicide missions. I really have underestimated your capacity for managing complexity, Richard.”
“I’m just a lateral thinker,” Prescott said. “And I have nothing against your son. Now, is there anything else you want to tell me?”
Adam always paused a heartbeat longer than the satellite delay. Yes, there was something going on there. “No, other than that I’m going to be looking at physical means to destroy the pathogen while Dr. Bakos pursues a pharmaceutical approach. At the risk of repeating myself, if any more Lambent life-forms are found, we really do need samples to monitor its progress in the wild. We’re very limited here and there’s no guarantee that the organism behaves the same under laboratory conditions as it does in the environment. It’s not even the same organism from week to week.”
“Understood,” Prescott said. “The Lightmass data’s being put to good use, by the way, so thank you. And I hope I have some good news for you next time we talk.”
Prescott switched off the video link and rolled his head a little to ease his stiff neck. Louise Settile, stretched out in the deep-buttoned leather library chair in the corner, raised her eyebrows at him.
“He’s definitely up to something,” she said.
“I know. The trouble with Adam is that secrecy is his default. It might not even be anything significant.”
“Which is his view of us, of course.”
“I didn’t say I was blinded by the veil of irony, Lou.” His father wouldn’t have approved of her, but times had changed beyond his recognition, and she was the only woman Prescott could trust who also functioned on his level. She understood his professional burdens and he understood hers. No aristocratic home-making kind of woman could have risen to that challenge, not in the world he’d inherited, and he needed the kind of companion who would do more than just listen sympathetically. “Look, you are going to let Paul do what he does best, aren’t you? Leave the intelligence gathering to him.”
“I’ll be fine. God, if I operated behind Ostri lines in the last war, I can certainly deal with a few Locust.”
“But you don’t have to.”
“And I can’t spend all my time on Azura, either. Adam and Nevil are the only remotely interesting challenges there.” She bounced up and was suddenly sharp and breezy again. “Got to go, dear. You’re sure I can’t borrow Marcus Fenix?”
“I’m sure. If anything went wrong, what would I tell Adam?”
“You really must learn to lie properly. I mean tell complete, unashamed porkies. All these finely polished technical truths won’t get you anywhere. This isn’t politics. Nobody’s going to discredit you or cause embarrassing headlines, not when we’re heading for an apocalypse.”
It was almost funny, a spy telling a politician that he needed to stop being so honest. She chuckled, ruffled his hair, and let herself out. Nobody had done that to him habitually since he was seven years old. It was comforting not to have to be Chairman Prescott every second of every day.
No. It’s about sanity. Everyone needs someone to unburden themselves to.
Jillian, with all the silent discretion of a priest, opened the main door again two minutes later. “Will you be going over to CIC, sir? Colonel Hoffman’s doing a briefing in half an hour.”
“Oh, he’s not leading the charge today, then?”
“I know he’s rude, sir, but he means well.”
Prescott made an effort to stop himself feeling sorry for Hoffman. He was there for a reason, like everybody else. Like me, in fact. David Prescott had always warned his son that as soon as he allowed one relationship in his life to become more than necessary utility, then he’d begin eroding the steel shell needed to take the kind of decisions that other men were too emotionally tied to countenance. His duty was to care generally, not specifically. It was the only way to survive the numbers game that statesmen were doomed to play: one life for many, one loss to gain more. Prescott had been the one kept in the dark at various times in his career, had accepted it, and now reminded himself that was happening to Hoffman for a good reason. But the steel was definitely beginning to pit. He’d have to keep an eye on that.
“At least I can cheer him up about the Lightmass project.” Prescott fastened his tunic and picked up his leather folio. “Would you be a dear and procure me some more of those treacle cookies, by the way? If we’re going to break through to Wenlau Heath again soon, I’d like to show up with some comforts for Adam’s son. They’re eating dogs now, you know.”
“People do.” Jillian shuddered. “Worms. They have worms.”
It was a short walk from the office to CIC, something that had once been a pleasant stroll through courtyards and gardens to break up the day and breathe fresh air. The day was as sunny and fragrant as any had been, but the scent was overlaid by brick dust, charred varnish, and the resin odor of sawn wood as the repair teams patched up the House of the Sovereigns complex again. There was only the occasional Reaver strike and small raiding parties of drones, more psychological warfare than real destruction, but it sent a message: we can get to you, to the heart of your city. Repairing official buildings sent the riposte: and we will carry on. Prescott sent the message not to the enemy but to the citizens of Jacinto.
Only Adam Fenix had tried to speak directly to the Locust. That hadn’t ended well.
Hoffman was in the briefing room to address the company commanders and senior NCOs, flanked by Anya Stroud and the young lieutenant who’d lost his legs. Mathieson, that was his name: Donneld Mathieson. It was his first week learning the ropes in CIC. Prescott walked up to him before anyone had a chance to snap to attention and just took the lad’s right hand in both of his to shake it. It was an art as well as a courtesy, his father had said: make people feel they matter, Richard, make them feel you’ve taken the time to find out their names and who they are.
“Good to have you back, Donneld,” Prescott said. He couldn’t recall seeing him before, but that was academic. He might have passed him a hundred times and not seen his face under the helmet. He was terribly, unfairly, unsettlingly young. “Let me know if there’s anything you need.”
Mathieson beamed. “Thank you, sir.”
Hoffman just looked at Prescott, nodded, and carried on talking. He looked as if he hadn’t slept properly in weeks. Stroud looked exhausted too. Prescott stood back in an alcove and watched the briefing unfold, the charts and overhead projectors showing the Locust positions.
“Okay, people, as of two hours ago, the grubs have fallen back
to this line here.” Hoffman dragged his finger along the transparent sheet, casting a thick black shadow on the projection. “Mostly drones and Boomers. Three batteries from Six-POA are currently pushing them out of West Barricade, and Eight-Oh-Two Raven squadron is concentrating on the Brumaks. Time’s of the essence. We don’t know how long it’ll be before they can deploy Reavers again. So I want every Gear from the northwest boundary and the East Barricade corridor pulled up to here.” He tapped his finger on Brodeau Square. “Alpha and Echo companies push through here and clear the area building by building, Connaught and Chevron divert either side here and close on the grub positions on the Andius highway. I want to see a carpet of dead grubs ten deep, people. Get to it. And Rossi?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Don’t leave without me, you hear?”
Prescott watched officers and NCOs almost jog out of the briefing room, charged with determination. This was what Hoffman was born for. This was what made him far more valuable deployed in Jacinto than sitting around on Azura doing strategic planning with Bardry. He was a hands-on commander willing to share the hard graft with ordinary Gears. The troops loved that and would do anything for him. Prescott had once thought that it was astute leadership, but he’d discovered very quickly that Hoffman simply wanted to fight, get his wars over with, and keep the maximum number of his men alive, and he thought little beyond that. He was also willing to do whatever it took to win. His service record wasn’t pretty, but by God it was effective, and one of Prescott’s first moves when Dalyell’s death had thrust him into office was to make sure that Victor Hoffman was lined up to become his senior commander on the ground.
And I did pick the right man. I wish we could be more cordial, but that’s not going to stop either of us from getting the job done.
“Did you want to see me, Chairman?” Hoffman asked.
“It can wait,” Prescott said. “Just wanted to let you know that the Lightmass bomb will be ready to deploy within a few months. They’ve fixed their imaging problem. It’s a manufacturing issue now.”
Hoffman actually looked happier for a moment. “I won’t open the champagne yet, but that’s a welcome development.”
He went out after Rossi, one of his pet NCOs from his old regiment, 26 RTI, which was more tribal than any other. Prescott got the feeling that if the COG ever collapsed, the Royal Tyran Infantry would just carry on and become its own little military state without a backward glance.
“Sir?” Anya Stroud hovered uncertainly at his elbow. “May I ask you a question?”
“Of course, Lieutenant.”
Prescott had known her for years. She was reliable, uncomplaining, and shiningly loyal to Hoffman, not that Prescott didn’t respect that. And he knew roughly what was on her mind now and had been every day since that court-martial. Perhaps this was an opportunity to consolidate an ally, given the tactical power that CIC staff could wield on his behalf.
“The prison, sir,” Anya said. “It’s very difficult to get information. They’ve been cut off for weeks.”
“It’s all right, I know why you’re worried. You don’t have to skate around the topic.”
“Oh.” Poor woman: she looked crushed. “I know I’ve broken Sov’s Regs, sir, and I’ll take whatever disciplinary action might be coming. But Sergeant Fenix doesn’t deserve … sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. Forget I mentioned it.”
“No, speak your mind. It’s an awful situation and it gives me no pleasure, believe me.”
“He’s never written back to me and he won’t take calls. I’m concerned for his mental state, let alone his health.”
“Does he get your letters?”
“I think so. I write every week. Sometimes I save them up for a month, but I send them in the internal mail. Some of them must have got through, surely.”
Prescott knew Marcus’s determination to make everyone forget him. This wasn’t the time to tell Anya that they’d discussed it. “I can’t treat him differently from any other Gear, and he’s already had his sentence commuted,” he said quietly. “But would it help if I took a letter there personally? I’m going to take a look at the whole western sector when the Locust have been pushed back. It’d be no trouble.”
Prescott had planned to drop in anyway, to be able to update Adam with some sincerity. He hadn’t lied to her. He really hadn’t. Anya’s eyes brimmed.
“You have no idea how much that means to me, sir.”
Oh, I do. “Give the envelope to my secretary and I’ll personally hand it to Marcus. I promise you that.” He lowered his voice even further. “Standing by someone in these circumstances is admirable, Lieutenant. I don’t think anyone will discipline you for an inappropriate relationship now.”
He stopped short of patting her arm. She looked as if that might tip her over the edge into tears, and he wanted to leave her with some dignity so that she could appreciate he’d done her a favor rather than embarrassed her.
One day, he’d need her to do something for him. And he’d need Marcus Fenix, too. People at the lower end of the pecking order could often make or break plans far more effectively than those with the most apparent power.
This was no time to make new enemies, least of all among those who handled information.
THE SLAB: TWO DAYS LATER.
“Fenix? Get up here and tell me what’s going on.”
Niko had nothing to lose now. There was nowhere to go, and his chances of enforcing order on the Slab were close to zero. He settled into what he hoped was an inconspicuous position on the roof and adjusted the binoculars. Marcus climbed out of the roof hatch and squatted beside him, hand held out.
“Binos,” he said impatiently. “Come on.”
A long, slow whistling sound made Niko look up, but he couldn’t see where it was coming from. Then the world shook like he was being rattled around in a glass jar. Something dropped past him, fizzing, and he dodged it, but when he looked around there was nothing on the flat section of roof. It was still raining down on him. He couldn’t even see it. It was just that hissing noise. Marcus ignored it. He wasn’t even wearing his working shirt today, just a singlet, but he didn’t appear to feel at risk. Niko was certain he’d feel naked without armor. Perhaps he was inviting a bullet.
“It’s only tiny pieces of shrapnel,” Marcus said. “There’s nothing left when it lands. It just heats up the air.”
“What’s happening out there? I still can’t get any answers out of the JD.”
“You can’t expect them to know what’s going on.”
“Just tell me who’s winning.”
Marcus spent a few moments watching the sporadic fire across the heathland. Niko could see plenty of grubs hunkered down behind rubble and logs they’d dragged into position over the last week, firing over the top of the barrier and getting plenty returned from the other side. They were clustered under the elevated section of the highway, shielded from the Ravens overflying the area. It seemed to be going on forever.
“Nobody can tell until it’s over,” Marcus said at last.
“Shit.”
“You never did say what your emergency plan was.”
“Evacuation.”
“Yeah, without transport. I heard. But how do you ship out forty guys into a war zone anyway?”
“I have no idea.”
“Exactly.” Marcus seemed to have fixed on something to the southeast. “Lot of ’Dills out there.”
Niko could now identify artillery down to the type of gun, and he could hear the slow, steady pom-pom-pom of an old Brader that sent palls of smoke rising into the air on the east side of the highway. The road obscured most of the fighting in the neighborhood. All he could do was guess what was happening. Suddenly he could see a lot of activity on the grub-occupied section of the highway as a couple of Troika guns swung 90 degrees and pointed south. The grubs under the elevated section looked up, straining for a sight of what was going on above them but trying to avoid stepping out into the open. Then Niko spotted what ha
d grabbed their attention.
The biggest bulldozer Niko had ever seen was trundling up the center of the road with an arrow formation of ’Dills tight behind it like a skein of heavily armored, pissed-off geese. It was straddling the center divide with its blade mowing down the barrier. Grub rounds began pinging off the vehicle. Marcus grunted approvingly, but he was looking in the opposite direction. He’d really perked up. He looked like he was gagging to get down there and join in.
“Now that’s going to hurt,” he said.
Niko looked north. No wonder the grubs were going crazy. Another huge bulldozer was heading south, crushing the central barrier under its tracks, dozer blade held up like a shield. He guessed there were more APCs in formation behind it. The two bulldozers were converging at a fair old lick and anything between them on that bridge was going to be history pretty soon. Makeshift barriers and gun positions were swept aside. The collisions sounded like explosions. The bulldozers just kept coming.
“What the hell are those?” Niko asked.
“Mammoths,” Marcus said. “They lay bridges and trackway on the battlefield. I didn’t know we still had any running.”
They seemed to come as a surprise to the grubs, too. The drones and Boomers held their ground until the Mammoths got within fifty meters, then the drones parted and tried to slip around to the sides of the dozer blades. Either they couldn’t see what was bringing up the rear or they had nowhere left to run, but whatever their reason, the wedge of ’Dills opened up as soon as the grubs got past the Mammoths. The only escape was a sixty-meter drop over the side of the highway. Some took it. The Mammoths kept trundling on, finally slowing down as the Boomers refused to give way and went under the tracks.
Niko had never seen anything like it. He was transfixed. He looked at Marcus, expecting some reaction, but the guy was just shifting from foot to foot, visibly frustrated. The Mammoths backed up and gave each other room to maneuver. By now the grubs on the highway had simply been swept off it or mown down, and Gears had dismounted from the ’Dills and were hosing the grubs below.