Grubs. Dizzy hadn’t heard the name before. So that was what they were calling these locust things. “How do I find out? How do I find out if they’re there?”
“Come on, get in.”
“No, I gotta go look for my family!”
“Dizzy—is it okay if I call you Dizzy? Look, Dizzy, even if you make it into Mattino without getting your head blown off, what are you going to do?” The Gear took his arm. “Find the house? What if they’re not there? What if the house isn’t there? The hospital’s been burned out, so they’re not going to be there, either. You might as well come back to Andius and sign in at the refugee center. If there’s any information, they’ll be the first to have it.”
There was a man inside that full-face helmet, a guy probably a lot like Richie, but it was hard to listen to someone when you couldn’t look him in the eye. Dizzy went to shrug him off but the Gear still had hold of his arm. His grip said he wasn’t joking.
“Sir, you’ve got to come with us.”
Dizzy must have been in worse shape than he thought. Not only did he do as he was told, but when he managed to climb into the back of the Packhorse—which was a lot harder than he expected—someone handed him a bottle of Record Breaker soda. There was a picture of that thrashball guy Cole on the label. A couple of young Gears were sitting on the bench seats, helmets on their laps, and from the expressions on their faces Dizzy guessed that he looked pretty bad.
He was dehydrated, starving, and he hadn’t slept in days. He knew that. But he wasn’t hurt or dead, so it was no excuse, and that made him feel guilty.
“They’ll find them,” one of the lads said. “But it’s pretty fucking chaotic right now, sir.”
Dizzy had to admit that the sugary soda tasted better than any hooch. He could actually feel it flooding his body, a kind of slow warm relief spreading through him from the stomach out. One of the Gears passed him a candy bar. They were good boys, just like Richie. He could hear the buzz and crackle of their radios as the Gear who’d stopped him chatted to Control.
Eventually the guy turned around and leaned over the back of the passenger seat. It took him a few seconds to speak. Dizzy knew what he was going to say and he felt his face go numb, like someone had opened a door and let in a freezing wind.
“I’m sorry,” said the Gear. “Richie Wallin. They’ve logged his COG tag.”
It was real hard to lose a COG tag when it was under your armor.
Someone had taken it off Richie’s body. The world was falling apart, and Dizzy was starting to crumble with it. He couldn’t manage a reply, not yet. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.
“Shit,” said one of the guys in the back. “How are we ever going to stop these things?”
Dizzy sat in silence as they drove to the refugee reception center in Andius. It was a big modern sports center packed to bursting with confused, scared people just like him, and staff who couldn’t tell him anything. The place smelled of sweat and vomit. Kids were crying. He waited four hours to be recorded and tagged, then fell asleep on the tiled floor with his kit bag for a pillow long before they could find him somewhere to bed down.
Someone shook him awake. For those first blissful, blank seconds, none of this had ever happened, and he wasn’t sure if he was back on board Betancourt Star. Then his memory kicked in and he remembered where he was and why he was here. A uniformed police auxiliary who looked like she hadn’t slept for a month turned over the tag on his jacket and checked his name.
“Mr. Wallin?” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid we’ve found your wife.”
COUGARS STADIUM, HANOVER: FIVE DAYS AFTER E-DAY.
Cole had never had much trouble making up his mind about anything. Today wasn’t going to be any different.
He sat in the directors’ box high in the stands, watching the seats below. They were already starting to fill up. He should have gone down to the dressing room to make his peace with the rest of the team first, but he couldn’t face that yet. He’d see them later.
Five years. That’s all. Didn’t know where I’d be today. Don’t know where I’m gonna be five years from now.
He had no idea why anyone wanted to come and watch a thrashball game when the world was going to rat-shit, but maybe that was the whole point. You carried on as normal for as long as you could, living life as fully as you could, or else the assholes trying to kill you had already won without lifting a finger because you’d already done the dying for them.
I shoulda gone out and played one last time.
Hell, I’ll be back one day. When I’ve settled some scores.
Suddenly he could smell that wonderful match-day stadium smell, all fried onions and smoky meat and cinnamon. Someone had opened the doors. He turned around.
“Mr. Cole?” It was Gaynor, the boss’s assistant. He always sent her to do the awkward personal stuff. “We didn’t expect to see you back yet.” She took a little breath. “I’m really sorry about your parents.”
Cole tried to find something to say that wouldn’t make her feel any worse or start him off again. “There’s a lot of people grievin’ now,” he said. “Gonna be a lot more before this is over. Is the boss man here yet?”
“Yes, Mr. Mortensen’s on his way up.”
“Did he say if my agent called him?”
Gaynor frowned a little. “He didn’t mention it.”
“Okay.” Cole hoped Mortensen had been given some warning, but if he hadn’t, it was too bad. It wasn’t going to change a thing. “Thanks, Gaynor. You’ve been real kind. You always have.”
She gave him a puzzled look, half smiled, and shut the glass door behind her. He turned back to the stadium and tried to take in as much detail as he could so he’d always remember it. There were the snack vendors loading their trays, the groundsmen doing last-minute stuff to the pitch, and fans already in the touchline seats chatting or reading newspapers. Life went on.
But the atmosphere had changed. He could feel it.
Better make sure I keep my shit together. Gotta give ’em the full Cole Train act today, baby.
Eventually he heard Mortensen coming up the steps two at a time. The manager’s playing days were long over, but he liked to prove to himself that he hadn’t gone to seed yet. Cole looked him in the eye as he walked in.
“Hey, good to see you back, son.” Mortensen dragged up a chair and sat down next to him. “Don’t feel you’ve got to rush back to playing, though. Give yourself time. How are you feeling?”
Cole decided to cut to the chase. He couldn’t bear dragging this out any longer than he had to, and there was no easy way to work up to the bad news. Better out than in…
“Boss, I ain’t coming back,” Cole said. “I’ve enlisted.”
Mortensen just stared at him for a while and didn’t say anything. He didn’t seem angry. He just looked like he didn’t understand and was waiting for Cole to go on and explain.
“Did you hear me, Boss?” Cole tapped his knee. “I’m joinin’ the army. I’m gonna be a Gear. Passed my medical and everything. I’m waiting for my papers.”
Mortensen was still staring into his face, blinking. Cole decided to wait for it all to sink in. Maybe he shouldn’t have just dumped it on the guy like that. But he couldn’t explain the situation any better if he took all day doing it.
“No, no, you can’t,” Mortensen said at last. He wasn’t so much shaking his head as moving it slowly from side to side. “Are you crazy? Cole, do you know what you’re doing?”
“Yeah. I can’t sit on my ass while those things are killin’ us. It’s real simple. I love playin’ ball, but it’s a game, and what’s out there ain’t.”
He almost expected an argument about letting the side down and breaching his contract and all that shit that didn’t actually matter when there were already millions of dead in cities all over Sera. Hanover hadn’t been hit yet. It hadn’t even seen refugees pouring into town, like the cities to the north had.
But Mortensen’s eyes filled with te
ars instead. It was a hell of a shock. Cole felt terrible for upsetting him. A smack in the mouth would have been easier to take.
“Cole… you understand what you are?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“No, you don’t. You’re a phenomenon. You’ve only been playing pro for five years and you’ve broken all the records. There’s a statue of you out front. There’s maybe half a dozen players in the league who ever got that recognition—and that was after they retired.”
“Yeah, I’ve already had it all and I’ve still got a whole career in front of me.” For a moment, Cole felt a pang of something awful that he didn’t even have a name for. It almost stopped him breathing. If he looked at it for one more second, he’d see what it was and start to regret things that hadn’t even happened yet. So he just shut it out. “I’m lucky. I know I am. But there’s a war on.”
“Yeah, but the government’s letting us carry on. They could have shut all the stadiums on safety grounds, and God knows they need the space for refugees, but they’re letting us carry on as long we can—for morale. To keep people going. To help ’em stick together.”
“Look, it’s done, Boss. It’s gonna happen. I’m sorry.”
“Fuck it, Cole,” Mortensen snapped. “It’s not about being a great player. You’re someone people believe in. Yeah, thrashball’s only a game, but it makes people feel good. We need that right now.”
Cole could have done all this shit by phone, talked to the media, and just slipped out the back door to boot camp. It wouldn’t have hurt half as much. But he knew the influence he had on folks. And the fans who paid his wages deserved an explanation.
“Yeah, Boss,” he said at last. “That’s why I want to go out there and tell them myself. Will you let me do that? Before the game starts?”
Mortensen got to his feet and wandered around the box. It took him a few minutes to settle himself, but then he finally picked up the phone. Cole didn’t want to listen. He was focused on the stadium now, on the crowd that was filling the seats and waiting for the whistle. They knew he wasn’t in the lineup today and they knew why. Walking out there was still going to be hard.
Am I gonna be any use as a Gear?
Well, at least nobody’s left to fret about me. Momma would have gone nuts. Dad would have had the news on all day.
Mortensen put the phone down. “The chairman’s gone ape-shit. He’s going to have the press office all over us.” He gestured to the door. “I’ll deal with him. You get out there ten minutes before the whistle and do what you need to do.”
“Thanks, Boss. I’m sorry it had to be like this.”
Mortensen pinched the tip of his nose for a moment, blinking. “You’re going to come back when it’s over. Yeah? Because you are going to come back.”
“You know it. My agent and my lawyer are gonna be on my ass until I do.” I can do this. I can get out there and face ’em. And I can pick up a rifle and fight, once someone tells me how the hell to use it. Cole forced a big grin. “Shit, I’m more afraid of the sponsors than the grubs, baby.”
Getting onto the pitch meant a long walk down the back stairs and cutting through one of the fire exits. Mortensen walked down to the touchline with him, still shaking his head as if he was arguing with himself.
“Go on,” he said. Cole could hear the stadium announcer introducing him. “They’re listening.”
The crowd always started the Cole Train chant when they saw him, but when he stepped onto the pitch this time there was just polite applause. Everyone knew his folks had been killed. Maybe they weren’t going to be shocked to hear what he had to say.
Whatever that’s gonna be.
Cole didn’t know what he was going to say until he took the public address mike in one hand and the applause stopped. For once, it wasn’t a capacity crowd. He wondered if the missing fans were just staying away or if they were among the dead. It put him off his stride for a moment. He tried to focus again.
“I’m gonna keep this short, people. I came to say goodbye. See, I just enlisted. I’m a Gear now.” He paused for the reaction. He didn’t know what he expected them to do, but he didn’t expect what he got, which was a murmur that went around the stadium like one big gasp. His Cole Train act kicked in automatically whether he wanted it to or not. “We’re in big trouble and the Cole Train’s gotta go kick some grub ass. Yeah, that’s right! We all gotta do our bit and fight these things, ’cos they ain’t gonna listen to reason! Are you gonna enlist? Are ya? Are ya gonna help me put ’em back down the hole they came from?”
Nobody said a word for a couple of seconds.
“I ain’t hearin’ you, folks! I said, are you gonna help me?”
Finally some guys in the front row seats to his right started yelling. “Yeah, Cole Train! We’re with you!”
“Are ya? And are we gonna win?”
“Yeah!”
“I said, are we gonna win?”
“Yeaaahhh!”
The yelling and cheering picked up, one section at a time. It was weird. It wasn’t a bunch of beer-fueled crazies making a noise for the hell of it. The only way he could describe it was that they meant it.
Then it began. The crowd started chanting the way they did at every game—“Cole Train! Cole Train! Cole Train!”— and getting faster and faster until it sounded like a speeding locomotive. He couldn’t make himself heard now. It felt like the right point to walk away. If he stayed a second longer, he’d burst out crying, and that wasn’t going to inspire anybody.
His folks had been real proud the first time they saw a game. They didn’t care if he scored or not. They were just proud.
I ain’t even started missin’ ’em yet. Hurts so much I can’t feel things right.
It felt like a damn long walk back to the exit. He saw the news cameramen heading his way from the touchline and decided to duck out until he got his shit together again. Hell, the press people could fend that off for a while. It’d keep ’em busy. He had nothing more to say anyway.
Mortensen covered him as he broke into a jog and vanished into the tunnel behind the security barrier.
“Are you staying for the game, Cole?” he asked. “I’ve got the car out front for you. It’ll wait.”
“Tell the guys I’ll stop by in the morning when it’s all calmed down some.”
“You make sure you do.”
“Promise.”
Cole just wanted to get out as fast as he could, even though he knew he couldn’t—wouldn’t—change his mind. There was no way he could carry on playing as long as those grub motherfuckers were still out there.
The lobby was almost deserted except for the folks at the concession counters. They smiled at him and he waved back, but they probably hadn’t heard what he’d just done, so he didn’t need to get involved in any depressing conversations and goodbyes.
He swung open the main doors and paused by the statue outside. He always joked about it, but it made him squirm to see himself up there larger than life, and he was pretty large to start with. No, it wasn’t him. It was something else with the same name, something people wanted to believe in, but it wasn’t the Augustus Cole that was him.
There was no point looking back.
“Take care of the place for me, hear?” he said to the statue, and got into the waiting car.
GALANGI, SOUTH ISLANDS: ONE WEEK AFTER E-DAY.
“What are you doing?” Neal asked. The house smelled of bacon and burned toast. “Your breakfast’s getting cold.”
Bernie straightened up and tested the rucksack for weight. “Getting ready for recall. They’ll be mobilizing everyone.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. Are you serious?”
She pointed to the rifles laid out on the bench in the back room. She had her own Longshot—perfectly legal, COG army surplus—and the Indie sniper rifle that Major Stroud had looted for her personally. If the COG wanted that back, they could come and try taking it. Yes, she was serious.
Neal’s shoulders sagged. “The go
vernor told us to stay put and conserve supplies. Don’t be so bloody stupid, woman.”
“Just watch the news,” she said. The TV transmitter was working again, and now even the most remote South Islands could see what was happening to the rest of Sera. “They’re going to need every Gear who can hold a rifle.”
“Bern, get real. You’re forty-eight.”
“Forty-seven. I could have served frontline until fifty-five. And I’m fit enough to work a farm, but not fight?”
“So you’re just going to hop on the bus and head for the front.”
“Don’t take the piss.” Bernie knew how the row would go. “It’s about duty.”
“You already did that. It’s time to worry about us, Bern.”
“Yeah, but you’re going to want some other Gear to put his duty first and save our arses when those grubs show up down here, aren’t you?”
“Grubs tunnel. How are they going to tunnel to the islands? They’d have to dig under the seabed. And there’s an abyssal trench between us and Noroa that’s deeper than the height of Mount Chen.” Neal grabbed his drover’s coat off the hook in the hallway. “But maybe they’ve got bloody yachts, eh?”
From what she’d seen of the Locust on the news, they were smart enough to operate a ship. “If they have, then I’m not waiting for them to get here.”
“You know what? I’ve got to give the weaners their lung-worm shots.” Neal gestured with a big veterinary hypodermic that looked like a caulk gun. The gadget made injecting cattle a one-man job, another reminder of how long he’d run the farm single-handed while she was away. “They still need looking after and they don’t stop for grubs.”
He slammed the door behind him. Moss started barking as the utility’s engine coughed into life and roared away. Neal would come back in a couple of hours as if nothing had happened, like he always did, so Bernie went to see what he’d left for breakfast and assembled it into a bacon sandwich.
There were no garrisons anywhere near Galangi. Who was going to pull troops back from the mainland cities to defend a speck on the map with fifteen hundred inhabitants on the opposite side of the world? Galangi was going to have to look after itself.