Gears of War: Jacinto's Remnant

  Prescott got up and shunted papers and maps around a meeting table that looked like a canteen trestle. It probably was. “And Sergeant Mataki’s issue is resolved, I take it.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to speak to her yet, but I believe so.”

  “Don’t you think it’s time she retired? I’m very uncomfortable about a woman of that age doing such a physically grueling job.”

  “Islanders are hardy people, Chairman, and I can’t afford to lose specialist skills like hers.” No, this is my turf, Prescott. You stay away from my Gears, and most of all you stay away from her. “And it’s not a job. It’s a way of life, a tribe. Nobody wants to rob her of that comfort after all she’s been through.”

  “Just trying to be a gentleman,” Prescott said.

  For God’s sake, hurry up, Quentin.

  It took ten long, silent minutes for Michaelson to arrive. Trescu was about forty, with a close-trimmed beard and buzz-cut hair. Michaelson took Hoffman to one side while Prescott showed Trescu the naval base panorama from the loft.

  “Don’t mention the war,” Michaelson whispered, winking. “He’s got some rather useful assets.”

  “So you’ve gone through his pockets and stolen his wallet already.”

  “Wait and see.”

  If Trescu recalled Hoffman’s name, then he showed no sign of it. Most Gears over thirty-five were Pendulum Wars veterans anyway, so there was nothing remarkable about any COG officer that Trescu might meet. They’d all been enemies, and neither side had much to boast about.

  But Hoffman had to remind himself that it was Anvil Gate that Trescu might link to his name, not the fact that he was one of the commanders responsible for the Hammer of Dawn assault. Nobody outside the COG military knew or cared about Hoffman and Salaman, anyway. It had always been Prescott’s baby in public. Trescu seemed to be managing not to punch Prescott in the face, so perhaps it was an issue that time and a lot more deaths had closed for the time being.

  If Trescu did finally swing for the Chairman, at least Prescott had a great comeback. He’d incinerated a large area of Tyrus, too.

  “So you finally used the Hammer of Dawn against Jacinto,” Trescu said, glancing into the cup that Prescott offered him. Now there was a man used to a contaminated water supply. “We got word from the Stranded network that the Locust have been very few and far between lately.”

  Well, at least the Hammer raised its head early in the conversation. Boil lanced, then.

  “So where has Zephyr been all these years?” Hoffman asked. “Not that we could keep track of all our own damn ships, of course.”

  “We’ve moved her from place to place, Colonel. Gorasnaya’s ports were overrun several times, but the grubs couldn’t sweep the whole continent every day.”

  “Are you going to tell us where you’re based now?”

  “Not on the mainland,” Trescu said. “But that’s all I’m saying until we work something out.”

  “What do you want from us?” Prescott asked. “We’re always relieved to find more human beings alive, of course, but you made it clear you had an offer for us. And why now?”

  Trescu reached for the large-scale map on the table. He ran one fingertip down a meridian and intercepted with his other forefinger along a latitude line. The point was in the sea, around seventy kilometers north of the Lesser Islands chain.

  “We still have an offshore imulsion rig near a Gorasnayan protectorate,” Trescu said. The UIR had never admitted to having colonies or invading poorer countries that had something they wanted. They always protected the lesser nations they walked into. All the old arguments came flooding back to Hoffman. “It’s still producing. More than our small community can make use of.”

  No wonder Michaelson had pounced on Trescu like a mugger. He couldn’t run a working fleet without a lot of fuel, and even the windfall from Merrenat would run out. Yet again, Hoffman felt the future change on a single throwaway line in a meeting.

  “How small?” Prescott asked.

  “Four thousand people, maximum.” Trescu smiled. “You see my point already.”

  “Your fuel in exchange for sanctuary here.”

  “I really do think of it as the strength of pooled assets, Chairman Prescott. You get fuel without having to drill for it on the mainland, plus our modest fleet, troops, and population. We get the protection of being part of a larger community. I’m sorry for ruining your operation with Jacques, but what he sees as vigilantism is what we see as hijacking our fuel supplies and food.”

  Prescott persisted. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why now? You’ve had years to contact us.”

  “We wouldn’t have been much better off in Jacinto, but out here, things can be very different. When you put to sea … a submarine can hear a lot, Chairman Prescott. Especially when targets don’t even try to be stealthy. How do you think we knew where you were? Your fleet made a lot of noise shuttling back and forth to the mainland. And we keep good tabs on piracy.”

  Hoffman avoided meeting Michaelson’s eye. He seemed desperate to make this deal work, but Hoffman wanted to be sure it was what it seemed to be. If Trescu wanted in, then he was going to have to answer a lot more questions.

  “You have people and assets that you can’t move, in places you can’t reach easily and defend, is that it?” Prescott said.

  “Yes. There’s a limit to how long a small group can survive on its own.” Trescu took out a pencil and held it over the map. “I’ll show you where when I know your intentions.”

  Prescott sat staring at the map, stroking his upper lip with the knuckle of his forefinger. Hoffman could guess what was coming next. No enclaves. It was the bedrock of his policy.

  “If you come here,” Prescott said, “then you join the Coalition. And then you get full protection and benefits. I have to insist on unity.”

  Trescu chewed his lip for a moment, eyebrows raised, which looked more like amusement than indecision. His pencil hovered over Gorasnaya on the map. Hoffman wondered how the good folks of Pelruan would take another influx of strangers.

  “Ah, my father’s no longer alive to call me a traitor,” Trescu said. “He wouldn’t have understood Sera as it is now, anyway.”

  Prescott extended his hand for shaking. Trescu took it. One war had ended, at least.

  ARMADILLO PA-207, EN ROUTE FOR PELRUAN, TWO DAYS LATER.

  “I thought they had two squads permanently billeted at Pelruan already,” Cole said. “Sending us in too is a bit overkill for a little town of nice fisherfolk an’ that. Not that I don’t like the place.”

  The ’Dill rumbled along with its hatches open, another sign that Cole’s world had changed a lot. Back on the mainland, open hatches would have earned a faceful of Hammerburst fire, not a fresh breeze that smelled of trees and green stuff. Baird even seemed to be driving more carefully, not tearing the ass out of the ’Dill’s clutch for a change, so maybe the relaxing feel of the place was settling him down, too.

  “Prescott’s worried about the natives getting restless over the Indies,” Marcus said. “They know us. If anyone’s a safe bet on the ground today, it’s us.”

  “You mean we’re the friendly face of the COG?” Dom laughed. Cole hadn’t heard him laugh in weeks, so maybe the guy was on the mend. “Shit, things are worse than we thought.”

  Cole felt sorry for Lewis Gavriel. The poor guy had done his bit for the COG—done his bit for Pelruan, too—and now he was getting shit from the locals because he was the COG official in town and they didn’t like what was happening. That was just unfair. Pelruan had to suck it up like everyone else, not that there was anything to suck up other than knowing that a load of strangers had moved in at the far end of the damn island. It wasn’t like having the water supply cut or rations being halved. It was just that dumb scared panic that human beings were good at, and that turned to something nasty if it wasn’t smacked down and dealt with.

  “It would be funny,” Dom said, “if the Indies turned into the loyal
COG citizens and Pelruan went rogue.”

  Marcus grunted, scanning the fields around them like he was expecting trouble from the cows. “No, it’d be a pain in the ass.”

  “I told you there’d be some Indies around who still didn’t know the war was over,” Baird said.

  “They know it’s over, baby.” Cole could see the sea now, which meant they’d be in Pelruan in ten minutes. “They just didn’t want the fun to stop.”

  “Imagine keeping one submarine going.”

  “They got a tanker, a frigate, and some patrol boats, too, Muller says.”

  “So when are their people arriving?” Dom asked. “In other words, how long have we got before some civvies start spitting on us for being the bastards who launched the Hammer strike on them?”

  “Aren’t they all technically Stranded?” Baird asked.

  Dom shrugged. “I suppose so.”

  “You saw active service in the Pendulum Wars. I didn’t. Does that make you feel weird about having Indies around?”

  “Not half as weird as knowing what the former Indie states looked like after we fried them.”

  “We fried COG states too,” Baird said. “Hey, Marcus, did Gorasnaya take a direct Hammer strike?”

  Marcus turned his head and gave Baird the real acid blue stare this time, even though Baird’s line of sight was blocked by the ’Dill’s periscope. “You think I was given the complete fucking list?”

  Sometimes Cole could work out what was really on Marcus’s mind. The guy didn’t get mad often, but occasionally he got snappy, and it was always over stuff that went deep and personal. This was all about his dad. Baird was just asking, Cole knew, but the Hammer was old man Fenix’s baby, and that twanged a raw nerve in Marcus. Cole tried to imagine how he’d feel now if he’d found all kinds of shit recorded by his dead dad in the Locust computers, but with no damn explanation. And in front of his squad. Shit, Marcus knew everyone was asking the same questions as him, too scared to talk about it because they knew he didn’t know either. That had to be driving him crazy.

  “Baird, you just want to play with another submarine.” Cole went for a diversion. “Admit it. Too many old movies. You’re all up scope and crash dive.”

  “Just saying that if human beings run out of enemies, they have to invent new ones. Or get the old ones out of the attic.”

  “Hey, if our Indie sailor boy brings a load of fuel with him, I think folks will settle down real fast.”

  “Hilarious irony. We all got along when the grubs were around. If we’ve really wiped out those assholes, we’ll need to breed some more so we don’t have to kill each other.”

  “Welcome to Dr. Baird’s school of social psychology,” Dom said. “But he’s right. And I hate it when that happens.”

  Pelruan looked pretty normal when they rolled in. Folks were going about their business, and there was no mumbling discontent going on that Cole could detect. Gears had a sixth sense for trouble brewing. Rossi’s squad was rostered to do the day patrol, and there was Rossi himself, standing around talking with a bunch of locals outside the town hall, helmet under one arm. Baird stopped the ’Dill a few meters away. Civvies around here tended to get nervous when APCs rolled right up behind them in narrow streets.

  Rossi broke off from the chat and walked over to the ’Dill. “Oh, look—they’ve sent Hoffman’s big boys to check up on us.”

  “We’re just here to make the place look prettier, baby,” Cole said.

  “Well, we might not be pretty, but at least none of the houses burned down on our watch.”

  Marcus looked around. “Nobody rioting, I see.”

  “Only because they’re confused,” Rossi said. “They don’t know what to riot about first—the fact that we’ve moved in, or that we’ve invited complete strangers to join us for cocktails in our new resort.”

  “Prescott should have told them in person,” Dom said.

  “Yeah, that would have made all the difference. What are you here for, anyway?”

  “Reassurance,” said Marcus.

  “Ours or theirs?”

  Marcus dismounted. “Baird—park up on the shore where they can see you. Everyone else—it’s walkabout time.”

  Cole was okay with that. He had a choice of being the Cole Train or a Gear for these folks, and if he played up his thrashball star side for them—shit, he was still a name in Pelruan—then maybe he’d get through to them a little better than just being a big guy with a rifle. The squad split up and ambled through the streets, working on being nice. When Cole passed the town’s main store, a couple of guys in trawlermen’s overalls came out, and Cole recognized the older one from the boat that had put in at Vectes when the Harvest was lost.

  “So is it true?” the man asked. “The Indies are back?”

  “Only a few. They sink pirates, though. That’s got to be worth something.”

  “Are we going to be safe to fish now? We’ve been stuck in harbor for days.”

  They had a point. “Maybe we need to talk to Captain Michaelson about getting you some protection, and then you can fish again.”

  “That would help a lot.”

  Cole decided to tread on the thin ice. “You mind answerin’ a question for me?”

  “Go ahead, Mr. Cole.”

  “Do folks think we’re bringing nothing but trouble here?”

  The older guy looked embarrassed. “Well, some people are saying that you’re provoking the pirates. But there’s nothing to say they wouldn’t have come here anyway, sooner or later. Tell us the truth—should we be afraid?”

  “The folks from Gorasnaya won’t be a problem, if that’s worry-in’ you.” Cole meant it. The COG needed extra help, and a few more boats and extra fuel made a lot of difference. “Hell, they might even look after your trawlers. But they need somewhere, sir. They really do. My family had to leave their own country—it ain’t fun, I’m tellin’ you. And we tend to be real grateful for the chance to earn our keep when we get to somewhere that lets us stay.”

  Cole could have reminded them that they didn’t have a say in this at all, but he still believed most human beings had a decent streak that he could find if he pressed the right button. These fishermen offered to share that butt-ugly eel thing with him; they were basically nice people, just scared shitless. And he couldn’t blame them. There was so much happening to them after years of relative quiet. Stranded pirates were a known quantity, but Indie submarines were right out of nowhere, and they hadn’t even got used to the idea of having Jacinto folk move in next door.

  “Your family still alive, Mr. Cole?”

  “No, they got killed. All of ’em.” Forgive me, Momma—I ain’t using you to persuade ’em to be nice to refugees. Just happens to be true. But you’d want ’em to welcome folks in need, wouldn’t you?

  “Makes you see the world different.” Cole began walking away. “I’m gonna ask the Captain about some protection for your boats. I promise.”

  Fishery protection. That was what they called it. Cole remembered the phrase just as he got to the waterfront and saw the ’Dill. Baird and Gavriel were standing alongside it. Baird had his finger pressed to his ear, talking on the radio, while Gavriel stood with arms folded, occasionally turning to look out to sea. Baird waved Cole over.

  “There’s a pall of smoke.” Baird seemed to be talking to CIC or Marcus. “You don’t say … You think they burned their toast? I said pall… No, I’m not looking at it, one of the farmers called it in. I thought there was a Raven patrol checking that shit daily.”

  Cole listened in on his earpiece.

  “Control to Delta, KR-Eight-Zero is going to check it out. Stand by to hear from Gettner.”

  “Roger that, Control.”

  “Baird, it’s Marcus. I’m on my way to you. Vigilante action?”

  “I’ll check. Wait one.” Baird turned to Gavriel. “You’re sure nobody decided to settle a few scores now most of the Stranded have moved in with the COG?”

  “It’s not our
doing,” Gavriel said. “We let the dogs run loose in case the Stranded tried to disappear inland, but Dilland Jonty is the only one might torch their camp, and he’s the farmer who called this in.”

  Now that Cole had seen Stranded waging their own civil war at sea, his first thought was that it was gang-on-gang violence. It would be damned hard to keep an eye on everyone who came and went on Vectes. The coastline here had to be at least 250 kilometers, and that was an impossible border for anyone to patrol.

  Serves me right for telling ’em they had nothing to worry about. Temptin fate.

  Dom showed up, walking fast but definitely not running. That always made civvies nervous. Townspeople still paused to look, though.

  “Gettner will be pissed off she didn’t get to set the place on fire herself,” Dom said. They all clustered around the ’Dill, listening for comms traffic. “She took that damage to her bird personally.”

  Marcus caught up with them and all they could do now was wait for Gettner to take a look at the place.

  “Have we got any Stranded still pending on amnesty while the locals check them out?” Baird asked. “If any fail the vetting, we’ll have nowhere left to dump them.”

  “No. But if we did, we’d find somewhere.” Marcus spread out a map on the ’Dill’s front scoop and squatted down to look at it. “Michaelson’s talking about a radar picket to pick up inbound vessels, but that’s not going to be airtight.”

  Cole leaned over Marcus’s shoulder. Yeah, if some gang had slipped through for some retribution, then that really was a lot of coastline to patrol.

  Gettner was back on the radio in less than ten minutes. “Control, Delta—this is KR-Eight-Zero. I’m over the site and I’m just seeing burning huts and a few junkers on fire. There’s nothing else down there. Going in for a closer look.”

  “Gettner, we’ll follow up and do a search,” Marcus said.