“They’ve split,” he said. “One’s heading back to the river and two are making for the woods.”
The rest of the noise in Bernie’s earpiece was ragged breathing and disjointed words. “Cole, Dom—take north.” That was Marcus. “Baird—you take the guy in the brown coat.”
Now the ground dipped away a little, and Bernie caught sight of the dog pelting through knee-high grass on an intercept line with the other two Stranded. Then they parted in opposite directions. If they thought splitting up would confuse Mac, it didn’t work. The dog was set on his prey—the guy in brown—and he jinked left like he was closing in on a rabbit. Baird was about fifty meters behind him. Then Mac put on a sudden spurt. Bernie found her second wind and started running again.
It was almost impossible for Bernie to take in the sequence, and not just because she felt her eyes were being shaken out of their sockets with every stride. The Stranded guy slowed, turned, and tried to level his rifle to aim. But the dog was racing at fifty kilometers an hour and simply launched himself into the air about four meters out. It was like watching a missile hit a ship broadside. Mac smashed into the man at chest height and knocked him flat. The rifle didn’t matter a damn to a dog.
Bernie couldn’t tell where Mac had sunk his teeth, but now that he’d pinned his prey down he was getting stuck in. The man was screaming, curled up in a ball. This wasn’t a police dog carefully trained to seize a specific limb and hang on. Mac didn’t know what an arrest meant.
The other Stranded guy stopped, took a few paces backward—he had a handgun—and seemed to realize he couldn’t get a clear shot at the dog. Was he going to abandon his buddy? He lost crucial seconds. He hesitated, then aimed as Marcus ran at him yelling at him to drop the weapon. Marcus really was going to try to take the guy alive, the crazy bastard. He was going to get killed. No Stranded was worth that.
“Drop him!” Bernie yelled. “For fuck’s sake—”
She stopped to aim her Lancer but in the second it took, she saw a blur of blackened metal shoot out of the trees behind the guy and cannon into him so hard that he lifted bodily into the air. The thud was sickening. The noise of the bike seemed to follow later. Sam Byrne skidded out of control, tearing up grass and soil, but righted herself and circled the bike to a halt by the man’s body. She was on him in a second with her chainsaw to his throat.
“Shit,” Marcus said. “Did you have to?”
“Yes, I did. He had a clear shot at you, and you were going to tackle him like some thrashball game.” Sam felt for a pulse, then looked up, indignant. “See? He’s not dead.”
Marcus checked for himself. “Let’s get him on the Raven.”
But the screaming went on. For a moment Bernie thought it was the man Sam had run down. But it was the one Mac was still busy savaging. Baird hovered uncertainly, trying to break it up.
“Shit, Bernie, how do I call off this thing?” Baird panted. It surprised her that he wasn’t just standing there applauding the dog’s technique. “He’s killing this asshole.”
“Say out.” She tried to yell a command that Mac would hear, but her lungs could only handle so much at once. “Out. It’s out.”
This is how I’m going to die. Trying to keep up with men half my frigging age. And a bloody dog.
By the time she reached Mac, she could see the blood. Baird was yelling “Out!” and the dog had stopped shaking and tearing, but his jaws were now clamped tight on the man’s shoulder. That was nearly me. Wasn’t it? She’d once been exactly where this man was. Only armor and fellow Gears with chainsaw bayonets had saved her.
“Mac, out! Leave! Drop him!” Bernie went through every command she’d used with her cattle dogs in the hope that something would trigger him to stand down. “Leave it! Down! Off!”
Mac lifted his head and backed away, clearly reluctant. But he did it. He even came to heel. The Stranded bomber was moaning and trying to curl up in a ball.
Marcus moved in to check him over. He let out a long breath. “Sorotki? Mitchell? We’ve got two casevacs now.”
“That’s … the … idea.” Bernie gasped for breath, bent over with her hands braced on her hips. Her legs were shaking with the effort. “Deterrent.”
Mac looked as if he was deciding between going back in to finish the job and waiting for praise. He even wagged his tail and looked up into her face: Am I a good boy? This is what you wanted, right? It was sobering to see that wonderful, adoring, anything-to-please-you expression with blood around the muzzle.
“Yeah, good boy.” She managed to suck in some more air. Tomorrow was going to hurt. “You got him.”
Sporadic fire rattled in the near distance. Dom and Cole must have pinned down the third man. Mitchell jogged toward Marcus clutching a small red plastic case and knelt down to examine the Stranded. The guy who’d been run down was unconscious. The one Mac had caught was awake and making that thin, animal wailing sound of someone in shock.
“Shit. What’s your name, buddy? Can you hear me?” Mitchell didn’t get an answer. “That thing nearly ripped his scalp off.”
“You bastards,” the man said suddenly. “You bastards. You’re worse than the fucking grubs.”
That seemed to hit a nerve with Marcus. Bernie could feel his distaste again—the gradual turn of the head like a slow-motion shake, the long blink as he shut his eyes for a moment. It never felt like it was aimed directly at her. It seemed more like his general disgust at human excess seeped out of him some days.
“Our doctor’s going to treat you right alongside the Gears you blew up,” Marcus said. “So shut it.”
He turned his back and stood with his eyes closed, talking quietly to Control. He didn’t seem happy with the answers he was getting, and looked over his shoulder at Bernie.
“What?” she said.
“These guys are a special delivery for Trescu. I don’t think he’s planning to bake them a cake.”
“Ah.” Bernie had a pretty good idea of Gorasnaya’s old reputation. “Whose idea was that?”
“Not Hoffman’s, if that’s what’s worrying you.”
“Come on, Sam.” Mitchell straightened up, first aid finished. “Give me a hand. Let’s get this chew toy back to Doc Hayman and make her day.”
Dom and Cole reappeared, dragging the third man between them. Actually, he wasn’t a man. Up close, he looked about fifteen, if that. Bernie had stopped seeing kids as noncombatants a long time ago, but it still brought her up short.
“Get your fucking hands off me,” he spat, all terrified bravado. “Where’s my dad? I want my dad. What have you done to him?”
Everyone has a dad. Even monsters. It doesn’t change a thing. His dad is blowing up my mates. And so is he.
It still wasn’t easy to ignore. But seeing the enemy’s point of view didn’t end a war any faster than reducing them to monsters. It just made it harder for her to get the job done.
Bernie hung back with Marcus while the others loaded to the Raven. Only the dog would hear what she said to him now. And Mac was too busy licking himself.
“Look,” she said. “A dog tearing you apart isn’t any more immoral than a land mine shredding you. It’s all dirty either way. They didn’t stop to worry if Andresen had a family.”
Marcus was expressionless. “You think it’s okay to hand them over to Trescu?”
“These bastards have moral choices too.” Bernie didn’t know. She didn’t even want to think about it right then. “It’s not our sole responsibility.”
“But you’d feel better if it was an honest firefight.”
“I feel better if I’m not frigging dead,” Bernie said. “And so would Jonty, if they hadn’t cut his throat. One-sided rules of engagement are for lawyers.”
Marcus gave her that here-we-go-again look. Yes, they’d had this argument before, about what actually survived if you were prepared to do anything to stay alive. It had to be a constant and painful dilemma for a man whose father helped incinerate most of Sera to save it.
“Got to envy that dog,” Marcus said, walking away.
Mac trotted after them, a nice friendly dog again. Bernie tapped her leg to bring him to heel. “Yes. He lives in the moment.”
“I meant that he sees everything in black and white,” Marcus said, and jogged off.
CHAPTER 4
You’re going to be an officer, Hoffman. No fraternization with the ranks. It’s time to stop seeing that Islander woman.
(MAJOR ROSS HOLLEND OF EAST BARRICADE ACADEMY, TO STAFF SERGEANT VICTOR HOFFMAN, ON HIS ACCEPTANCE FOR LATE-ENTRY OFFICER TRAINING)
FORMER UIR PATROL VESSEL AMIRALE ENKA, VECTES NAVAL BASE, NEW JACINTO: 0600 HOURS, THREE DAYS LATER.
Sam looked up at the heavily patched Gorasni patrol boat from the jetty. “You a good swimmer, Baird? ’Cos I’m not.”
“Hey, they’ve only lost one warship under completely inexplicable conditions,” Baird said. “It’s just a day trip. Enjoy the bracing air. Learn the strange ways of the sea from these colorful old salts.”
The old salts—a bunch of Gorasni seamen—were leaning on the ship’s gunwale, staring down, surly and silent. One of them was munching something with slow deliberation like a cow chewing the cud. He paused and spat over the side into the water.
Byrne strode up the brow. “What’s the Gorasni for up yours?”
“Just smile. These guys haven’t seen a woman in years. They’ll never know the difference.”
“I just want you to know that Bernie gave me orders to punch you out if you asked me to go find the golden rivet.”
Baird wondered if Sam just mouthed off out of embarrassment. It bothered him more than it should have, because sometimes he caught himself doing the same thing.
“Just maternal affection,” he said. “I’m the wayward, maladjusted son she always wanted to nag to death.”
Baird followed Sam up the brow. He had to admit the bike stunt was a pretty good move, and he didn’t blame her for using the first weapon that came to hand, even if it did have two wheels. But if he told her so, he’d never hear the end of it. And it sounded a bit too close to approving of female Gears. He kept his praise to himself.
Dom came up behind him. “Don’t start any fights you can’t finish,” he said. “Cole Train’s not here to rescue you.”
Baird did feel lost without Cole, and he didn’t need to admit it. But he felt more disoriented by being teamed with Dom. Things worked certain unspoken ways in four-man squads, and it was always Marcus and Dom, or Cole and Baird, or even Cole and Marcus, but rarely Baird and Dom. Baird couldn’t make small talk with Dom even before all the shit with his wife, so he had no idea how the hell he was going to manage now.
Dom wouldn’t expect him to, of course. Baird could retreat into the socially inept smart-ass role he’d built for himself. It solved a lot of problems.
“Dom, just tell me why we get all the job-shadow kids,” he said.
“Because we’re the number-one pirate-slaying team.” Dom was all weary patience. He seemed to have withered into middle age in a matter of months. Life had finally kicked all that perky optimism out of him. “Look, Sam’s been a Gear as long as you have. You went through all this crap with Bernie, too, and now you kiss her ass. Just grow out of it before Sam does some special Kashkuri needlework on you.”
“She’s not going to put any of her frigging tattoos on me.”
“Not talking about ink, Baird …”
“What?”
“Ask Hoffman. A chat we had once, about some of the things he saw in Kashkur during the war. Nasty.”
Baird was instantly consumed by morbid curiosity. “You’re just trying to freak me.”
Dom shrugged and said nothing. One of the Gorasni crewmen diverted the conversation by greeting them with an outstretched grimy hand. Baird hesitated before taking it, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder at Sam.
“And this is Private Byrne,” he said. “She’s here to cook and swab the decks.”
Sam clenched her jaw. It wasn’t for effect; it was too brief. Baird could see that she didn’t want him to know he could get to her, but it was too late for that. Now he knew the trigger. He’d use it when he had to.
It was just self-defense, nothing more. He wasn’t bullying her.
“Corporal Baird likes hospital food,” she said. The Gorasni looked her over and didn’t make it to eye level. “And you’ll learn to like it if you check me out one more time, Indie boy.”
The guy bowed with a flourish and indicated the foredeck. “Our humble ship is yours, duchashka. I shall keep my unworthy eyes to myself.”
Baird reminded himself to stop assuming the Indies didn’t understand what was being said to them just because they gabbled away in their own language most of the time. Despite himself, he almost liked their attitude. And the trawlers weren’t going to spend weeks away like factory ships. Baird decided it wouldn’t be so bad being stuck in this tub for a couple of days if the Gorasni provided some amusement. It was a run-down boat. There’d be plenty of interesting new Indie stuff to dismantle and fix, and he could lose himself in that for hours. CPO Muller was in charge. He’d let Baird nose around even if the Gorasni crewmen didn’t like it.
Yeah, a bit of diversion. But I’d rather be capping assholes back on the island.
The boat vibrated as it picked up speed and made its way out of the basin into open water. The sun was coming up, the overnight rain had stopped, and the thinning clouds showed all the makings of a nice day. In a couple of hours, they’d be on station in the fishing grounds to keep a watch on the small trawler fleet in case of another pirate attack. All in all, it was a routine day.
Baird leaned on the control panel in the wheelhouse and scanned the horizon through binoculars. The Gorasni helmsman just looked at him, nodded silently, and went back to staring dead ahead at the bow with one hand on the wheel. Sam had taken up position on the gun mounted on the foredeck without being asked. Dom wandered up to chat with her for a while and then came back inside to check the radar.
He leaned on the console next to Baird. “Don’t you think it’s kind of sick that we’re taking care of those Stranded guys until they’re fit enough for Trescu to beat the shit out of them? Because that’s what’s going to happen.”
Baird shrugged. “Yeah. Total waste of medical resources. And are those assholes in the same ward as our guys? Now that is sick.”
“I meant—ah, forget it.”
“What? What did I say?”
The Gorasni helmsman grunted. “Waste, all right. Better to ask them questions while they still hurt.”
If Dom wanted a discussion on rules of engagement, he’d picked the wrong time. “Okay, I’ll leave you and your new buddy to discuss morality,” he said. “I just think it’s wrong.”
“Don’t mind him,” Baird said to the helmsman. “He’s the nice guy. I’m the realist.”
Some things had been a lot easier when the grubs were around. Baird hadn’t had the time—or the option—to think about anything beyond making it through the day alive. He’d been scared shitless. Now he was finding he missed that clarity. What else did he expect? Fighting Locust had taken up nearly half his life. Things were still pretty rough even though the grubs were gone, but in a different, less urgent way.
All I wanted to do was engineering. Join the army or kiss your inheritance good-bye, Dad said. So I gave in. And what did I get? A shitload of grubs while the family fortune went up in smoke.
And now Baird had come full circle. He got what he’d wished for—everyone thought he was God’s gift to engineering. And what did he feel was missing? Pissing himself with fear. He didn’t want to go through all that again. He was just conscious of its absence in a way that made him feel restless. His father would have given him that I-told-you-so smile. His mother would have told him he was congenitally ungrateful.
So what the fuck do I want? And why?
Frank Muller came into the wheelhouse. “Oilfish,” he said flatly. “The trawlers have f
ound shitloads of oilfish. All this fuss for a sandwich filling.” Muller’s buzz-cut hair revealed an old white scar running from his left ear to the crown of his head. “Come on, do the magic shit with the radar, will you? Every time we use the comms, it scrambles. Can’t isolate the fault.”
“Shielding, crappy wiring, corrosion.” This was simple stuff for Baird. He loved it when the dim kids watched him slack-jawed like he was performing a miracle. He took a screwdriver from his belt and began removing the inspection panel. “Okay, switch it off. Might need to cannibalize something else when we get back to replace bits, though.”
The helmsman squatted down to stare Baird in the eye. “Blondie,” he said. “They call you Blondie because you are blond, yes? Well, I am Yanik, Blondie, and they call me that because I will yanik your intestines if you mess with my ship.”
Baird thought an unblinking response would get on Yanik’s best side. “Thanks for the language lesson.” He carried on unscrewing the plate. “I’m improving this wreck. And only Mataki gets to call me Blondie.”
They really didn’t like anyone poking around in their stuff. Muller leaned over and pointed at Baird. “Give him a paper clip and a ball of string and he can turn this wreck into a fucking racing yacht. Let him do his stuff.”
Yeah. Right. That’s me. I can do anything.
Baird was satisfied by that. And it was always good to know who was smart enough to understand what he could do. He poked his way into the tangle of cables and began tracing the wiring harness, working out which cables he could swap over to test where the interference was happening. It wasn’t cutting-edge tech. The hardest part was getting into spaces and rummaging through tool lockers to find parts he could adapt to make new connections. He had to take off his upper body armor to squeeze into gaps, and he realized how naked that made him feel.
When he ran the diagnostics, the radar fired up exactly as he expected. He watched the display as Muller made a test transmission.
Gears of War: Anvil Gate Page 7
