Coalition's End

  “Ancient Pelles had a voting system five thousand years ago,” Prescott said. “Pottery shards. In our case, neighborhood delegates can collate numbers in their areas. Not perfect, and open to rigging and error, but simple. I’m serious about this, ladies and gentlemen. There’s nothing in the reconnaissance and situation reports to hold back. You’ll know as much from them as I do. Do we have a deal?”

  Dom caught Baird’s eye and saw him mouth two words: frigging awesome. Yeah, it was pretty well done. Ingram didn’t look so much defeated as overwhelmed, and the crowd fell into quiet mumbling.

  “Has anyone else got a better idea?” Prescott asked. “And I do mean that. None of you survived the Locust by being fools. You’re all capable of making your own decisions.”

  Someone started clapping, then someone else picked it up, and soon Prescott was getting another one of his ovations. Dom had seen it too many times now. Prescott could take a surly crowd or a defeated army and tell it that the sun shone out of its collective ass, and it would be transformed on the spot.

  Marcus moved up beside Dom and nudged him. “Don’t look into his eyes,” he murmured. “Try to resist.”

  “What?”

  “You’re hanging on his every fucking word.”

  Dom bristled. “But he’s not lying. Is he? He’s laying it on the line. Okay… it’s all PR somehow, but hell, it works.”

  It went quiet again. Prescott spread his arms, almost apologetic. “Thank you for your continuing courage, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “You know that I’ll have to make hard decisions in the weeks to come, just as I’ve made them in the past. I don’t expect to be loved for it. I just want you to know that whatever I do, however unfair it seems, however much you may feel I’ve let you down, I do it to keep as many of you alive as I possibly can. Please remember that when you think harshly of me.”

  Marcus grunted, probably still unimpressed. Dom was almost shocked to hear Prescott drop his warrior-emperor image and get personal. He felt a pang of guilt for being so cynical.

  No, stop it. It’s a line. It’s just a clever politician’s line. Prescott went back into the building and the crowd didn’t break up—it couldn’t—but it did spread out and resemble a bunch of people at a loose end again. Hoffman and the rest of the meeting followed him back up the stairs to finish the meeting. Baird was just ahead of Dom, within conversation distance of Prescott.

  “Nice move, Chairman,” he said. He wasn’t really ass-kissing as far as Dom could tell. “The delegates are going to be so busy debating what color the ballot form should be that they’ll be off our backs for weeks.”

  Prescott didn’t break his stride or look around. “I was serious, Corporal. I want them to vote on it.”

  “I note,” Trescu said, “that you didn’t actually say you’d be bound by the result. Will you?”

  “There was a time when that would have been an astute political observation, Commander.” Prescott reached the top of the stairs and stood back to let everyone take their seats again. “But I do want to know what they want.”

  “Very well, don’t answer the question. So how will you vote?”

  “I think we should go as soon as possible, of course,” Prescott said.

  Hoffman had that look on his face, the tight-lipped, unblinking glare that said he thought he’d been outmaneuvered again. “You realize this might backfire and mean the end of the COG.”

  “That,” Prescott said, “may be a risk we have to take.”

  VECTES NAVAL BASE: TWO DAYS LATER.

  “Shitty old day,” Michaelson said, squinting against the driving rain. A gale was howling through the masts, rippling puddles and slapping the COG ensign at Sovereign’s stern like wet laundry. Out to sea, huge gray waves blurred with the sky. “On the other hand, perhaps a timely reminder to our citizens that sailing off into the unknown can be much worse than staying in harbor.”

  Hoffman ducked under the archway from the dock to the old magazine and shook off his cap. Trescu was already waiting for them, leaning against the brickwork and watching a bedraggled hen scratching around in the dirt.

  “We could have met quite openly in the mess, Colonel,” Trescu said irritably. “So … we prepare the battlefield before we see Prescott?”

  Hoffman didn’t mind a battle as long as he knew who he was fighting and what their objective was, but with Prescott he was guessing all the time. “Sharle just called me with the latest numbers,” he said. “About seventy-five percent want to stay. You think Prescott’s going to accept that, or carry on regardless?”

  Michaelson grimaced. “I wouldn’t like to bet on which way he’ll jump. But he’s set on going soon.”

  “Based on what? Goddamn it, how many times does Sharle have to tell him we’re still not ready to go?”

  “My people are unanimous,” Trescu said. “We stay for the time being and assess the situation.”

  Michaelson winked at him. “No doubt quite a few fingers were broken and bottoms spanked to achieve that degree of harmony.”

  “I’m a most persuasive speaker. Perhaps I should speak to your malcontents too.”

  Hoffman checked his watch. Fifteen minutes. He’d known this day was coming sooner or later, but now it had leaped out at him from the shadows and demanded to know if he had the guts to do it right now, today, no dicking around.

  I’m going to defy the Chairman. Refuse his orders. I hope Marcus Fenix enjoys irony.

  Nobody was left to court martial him, or shoot him, or even block his promotion if he told Prescott to ram his plan up his ass. What scared him was that he was on the brink of refusing a lawful order, and one from the head of state. It was the anarchy he’d always feared, the end of order and decent behavior.

  We’re struggling to survive. And here I am worrying about integrity and the breakdown of command.

  “I refuse to commit resources to it,” Hoffman said. “We wait, and we prepare.”

  Hoffman was hoping for a murmur of support and assurance that they’d be right behind him when he did. Michaelson still seemed to be contemplating the chess game that Prescott might be playing.

  “Perhaps he’s overplayed his hand at last. He seems to have misjudged the mood of the community, although that’s never influenced him before, so he’s hoping we’ll give him a way out of a tight spot.” Michaelson stepped aside to let the chicken pass. “Remember what I told you, Victor. He can do nothing without your Gears, and go nowhere without my fleet… or without Miran’s imulsion expertise. We run the COG, for all intents and purposes.”

  “And what happens when we want to run it differently from him? Is that called a mutiny or a military coup? I forget.”

  “It’s called playing the rather strong hand you were dealt. We’re not talking about lynching him and dancing around his severed head on a pole. Just politics.”

  Trescu applauded slowly. “Welcome to the real world, gentlemen. This is like watching my boy grow up.”

  “You got a better idea?” Hoffman asked. “Do share.”

  “You know what you have to do, as do I. My only concern is the Chairman’s motive. It eludes me. I don’t like that. He’s a very calculating, rational man, and he does not blink when he faces an apocalypse.”

  “Well, the last couple of times we’ve faced one, he’s had the Professor Adam Fenix handbook to back him up,” Hoffman said. “He’s on his own this time.”

  But Trescu was right. Prescott never panicked, and he wasn’t about to start now. Hoffman just wanted to get it over with. For all he knew, Prescott would put a few more jigsaw pieces on the table in a few minutes.

  “Let’s do it,” Hoffman said. “Just fucking do it.”

  The rain had sorted the purposeful from those killing time. The only people around the parade ground today were Gears and support staff in wet-weather gear doing essential work. The place had the air of a fairground hoping for the weather to improve before it could open, all dripping ropes and tarpaulins sagging under the weight of water. H
offman climbed the staircase of Admiralty House and wondered where things would end. He tried not to let Anvil Gate shape everything he did, but he felt he was being made to relive that same decision-making process, being asked the question repeatedly until he got the right answer.

  Isn’t that what we all hate about the other guy? That his ends justify his means? I always do it by the book but it doesn’t always work out. I hold Anvil Gate, but my wife’s burned alive. Nothing tells me what I did right or wrong. The only compass I’ve got now is my gut.

  “Morning, gentlemen.” Prescott sat at the meeting table surrounded by piles of scruffy, much-used paper—the voting records. His jacket looked damp, as if he’d been soaked some time earlier and was slowly drying out. “I imagine you already have a good idea of the results. That’s public ballots for you.”

  Hoffman hung up his cap and sat down. “We might not be up to speed,” he said. “Better tell us.”

  “Only a quarter wish to leave.”

  Hoffman just looked at him. Maybe silence would force something out of him, because Hoffman knew he could never outfence him verbally. Trescu and Michaelson caught on fast and followed Hoffman’s lead, or at least he assumed that was what they were doing. Trescu probably didn’t give a shit and was just watching the show.

  “I’d appreciate your views,” Prescott said at last. “I know I said I would follow the vote, but I think it’s insane.”

  “The majority want to wait it out,” Michaelson said. “And so do we, so the issue’s done and dusted. The only question is how we manage the twenty-five percent who’ve had their expectations of escape raised.”

  Hoffman hadn’t expected the crafty old bugger to open the batting, and from the slight flicker in Prescott’s gaze it looked as if he hadn’t either.

  “What he said.” Hoffman looked at Trescu. “You too?”

  Trescu nodded. “We stay. Mr. Sharle’s made himself clear as well.”

  “I still think we should evacuate the island immediately,” Prescott said. “How soon can we be ready?”

  Hoffman took a breath. For a man who’d already decided to refuse an order, he was still surprised to hear Prescott fulfill his worst expectation.

  “Chairman,” Hoffman said. “We intend to remain here.”

  The first words of his mutiny slipped out, and suddenly it seemed so easy, so done, that the rest followed in a relieved stream as blissful and simple as pissing.

  Prescott blinked a couple of times, but his voice was completely calm. “Have I understood you correctly, Colonel?”

  “The situation’s serious enough without actively seeking more risk,” Hoffman said. “If we go, whether we go as a single community or disperse, we need a lot more preparation time to ensure that we can survive at the other end. And regardless of the changing situation with the stalks, we are not at that crisis level yet.”

  As soon as he said it, Hoffman knew he’d walked into an ambush. He could see it on Prescott’s face. It wasn’t an I-won-you-assholes smirk or anything triumphant like that, just a sense that the Chairman had finally led a difficult conversation where he needed it to go and wanted to let out a sigh of relief. Maybe it was the slight relaxation of the shoulders that gave it away. Whatever it was, it vanished before Hoffman could examine it.

  “Captain Michaelson, Commander Trescu—is this a view you share?” Prescott pushed back a little from the table. “I assume it is.”

  “Yes,” Michaelson said. “That’s about the size of it. Just chalk it up to democracy. I doubt people will think less of you for it.”

  Trescu seemed to be scrutinizing Prescott as hard as Hoffman had. “I surrendered my nation and my assets to the COG after fifteen years of trying to survive on the mainland. It wasn’t because of this island’s bracing sea air.”

  Prescott looked down at his lap and nodded a few times.

  “Very well,” he said. “Then we stay put. I disagree with that, but the last thing we need now is a rift between military and state.”

  Oh, I get it. You want me to pull the trigger. Keep your hands clean. Hoffman bristled. “You haven’t given me an order, Chairman.”

  “No point. You’d win. You three control the assets.”

  “I said—you have not yet given me an order.”

  Prescott’s lips set in a thin line for a moment. Hoffman never knew if those flickers of reaction were real or a brilliant act. “Very well, Colonel, I’m asking you to arrange the evacuation of all citizens.”

  “No, sir.” Well, damn. It was done. Hoffman’s mouth was dry and he had that heart attack feeling, or at least what he thought one might feel like. Even with the COG reduced to a town council, it was still an emotionally shocking moment for him. “I have to refuse that order.”

  He could see Michaelson and Trescu out of the corner of his eye. Now the meeting would move on, but he’d have to keep an eye on Prescott for the revenge that would inevitably come.

  “Thank you for being frank, Victor,” Prescott said. “It’s clear I no longer have the confidence of any of you. So I’m going to do the only thing open to me, and resign my office. I’d have to refer to the constitution for the detail, but I believe that leaves you running the government until a time when elections can be held again, Colonel Hoffman.”

  Bastard. Bastard, bastard, bastard. Prescott had done it again. Hoffman found it hard to draw the next breath, but he found his voice somehow.

  “Is this some frigging game of chicken, Chairman?” How the hell did I walk into that? “Is this to scare us dumb cannon fodder into changing our minds and begging you to carry on?”

  “Oh, it’s definitely not that,” Prescott said. “But I’ve done all I can do, and my hanging around won’t help you gentlemen deal with what we’re facing here. It won’t help anybody, in fact. Without your full support, I’m merely civilian liaison—which Major Reid does somewhat better than me, I might add. If you want to discuss how and when we tell the public, I’ll be in my office.”

  Every word’s there for a reason. Remember it. Remember every goddamn word he says.

  Hoffman knew he needed to memorize every syllable that came out of Prescott’s mouth now to analyze it later, but he was still too shocked. Prescott got up, gathered a few papers, and left with a polite nod.

  It was a few long seconds before anyone spoke.

  Michaelson twirled his pencil between his fingers. “We have, as young Baird might say, just been fucked into the middle of next week.”

  “Shit, he dug that trap and I fell right in.” Hoffman caught himself running both hands over his scalp, a measure of how cornered he felt. “What the hell’s wrong with me? I never damn well learn. So where are we now? Is he serious?”

  “I don’t know what you’ve fallen for,” Trescu said. “Or we have fallen for, to be precise. But I do know it’s not the excuse that came out of his mouth.”

  “Is it brinkmanship?” Michaelson asked.

  “No.” Trescu shook his head and stabbed his finger in the direction of the door. “That is a man looking for a way out. And he likes power too much to surrender it without a very pressing reason. No offense, Colonel, but I doubt that your defiance is enough to break him.”

  Hoffman’s guts were in turmoil. What did he do now? “Okay, I’ll take the asshole at his word, then. Reid can take his meetings, and we’ll run the goddamn government ourselves.”

  “Apart from managing the brief communal shock when news gets out, I think things will run exactly as before,” Michaelson said. “And he knows that, I suspect.”

  Trescu got up and opened the door. “I prefer my coups to end with a single shot to the head, but this has been fascinating. Now I must go and worry about Lambent killing my drilling teams.”

  Hoffman followed Michaelson down the stairs and stood outside on the steps of the building, confused and angry. The wind had dropped. The fine drizzly rain on his face actually felt soothing.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll write you some nice words to read to the masses,
” Michaelson said, patting his back. “Ship’s captains are used to being the lords of all they survey.”

  “You’re in this shit too, Quentin. It’s a joint office. Don’t play the sidekick with me.”

  “Ah, I won’t. And look how well Miran behaves when he’s treated like an adult.” Michaelson nudged him gently. “Good grief, we really are the Triumvirate. What are we going to do now?”

  Hoffman realized he did in fact have a plan. He had his inner circle based on trust and history, not rank—that didn’t count for shit these days—or role.

  “Well, I’m going to cry on Bernie’s shoulder,” he said. “Then I’m going to tell Delta Squad, and then I’m going to tell Parry and Sharle.”

  “All good people to watch your back,” Michaelson said. “And we’re both going to need to have eyes in our asses now that Prescott has time on his hands.”

  And Hoffman still didn’t know what Prescott was up to. Chairman or ordinary citizen, he still had a plan of action he wasn’t sharing with anyone else.

  He always did.

  CHAPTER 19

  If we’d known the Locust were massing underground—if we’d known they even existed—could we have destroyed them before they had a chance to emerge? Perhaps. We could probably have saved many more lives, at very least. But the Lambent—I suspect even a warning would never have prepared us fully to deal with them.

  (Chairman Richard Prescott, from his unpublished memoirs)

  SERGEANT’S MESS, VECTES NAVAL BASE: LUNCHTIME.

  Any minute now, the door would swing open. Bernie tried to look as if she was paying attention to Rossi, but it was bloody hard to act normally after what Hoffman had just told her.

  “… and then I take off the dressing, and I find this frigging thing.” Rossi shoved his arm under Bernie’s nose. “Well, she damn well better tattoo over it. Okay, so I’d had a few, and Muller says I asked her to do it, but I can’t go around with this on my arm, can I?”

  On a regular day it would have been hilarious. Sam had tattooed a comically cross-eyed death’s-head emblem on Rossi’s arm. Actually, no … Bernie looked again. She’d tattooed something else in the eye sockets, but you had to get up close to see what it was.