Gears of War: Anvil Gate

by Karen Traviss

  “What’s in the center of the island?” Sam asked. “Looks interesting from a distance.”

  “The dead volcano,” Baird said. “Forest. Caves. Probably full of undiscovered species that Mataki will shoot and eat before anyone knows they exist. She’s a one-woman extinction machine.”

  The patrol was almost at the perimeter gate now and Baird was bored shitless already. It was like doing a square search without anything to look for. When they reached the fence, they’d turn ninety degrees and work back again. When he spotted an old man trying to start a portable generator, Baird leapt on the chance with relief. He didn’t even need to look. He could hear what was wrong with it.

  “Hey, here’s how you do it,” he said, whipping a screwdriver out of his belt. He couldn’t bear to see people fumbling around with stuff they obviously didn’t understand. “Look. Take this plate off, and you’ve got this fuel injector. It’s just a car engine. Look.”

  The guy was Stranded. Baird didn’t notice or care right then. He caught Dom giving him a you’re-okay-really look, and he squirmed. He wasn’t being noble. He just had to stop and fix shit in the same way that other people couldn’t walk by a crying child or a wounded animal.

  Because I can do this. That’s all.

  He started dismantling the generator. “This needs a workshop, Granddad,” he said. “See, this is what happens when you let these things idle too much. Cylinder pressure’s too low, the piston seals leak, and then—ah, forget it. Just remember that it leads to smoke and shitty starting.”

  “Baird, nobody here’s got a clue what you’re talkin’ about,” Cole said. “But it sure sounds convincin’.” He watched Baird for a while and then jerked his head around to stare back up the trackway to the gates. “We got visitors.”

  Baird stopped and looked. It was one of the Gorasni utility vehicles, a cross between a Packhorse and a flatbed truck. Baird could see a Gorasni militia guy in his faded black battledress standing in the back, holding on to the slatted sides of the vehicle as it rumbled slowly down the trackway toward the squad.

  “Shit, what are they doing in here?” Dom whispered.

  Sam slid her Lancer forward on its sling very slowly as if she was getting ready to aim. “If they start throwing candy to the crowd, I’ll know to lay off Dizzy’s brew.”

  But it didn’t look like a goodwill operation. Baird watched the reactions of people who were behind the truck. As it passed, they took a step back as if they’d seen something they weren’t ready for. One or two shook their heads and went back into the tents.

  It wasn’t until the truck reached the row of huts that marked the boundary of the Stranded zone that Baird realized why. He worked it out a few seconds after the Stranded women started yelling to one another and pouring out of their homes.

  The militia guy on the flatbed unbolted the side slats and let the panel drop. It was Yanik. Baird hadn’t recognized him with his cap on. And he was standing in a pile of bodies. They were laid out neatly, stacked like logs, but there were eight or nine of them, and they weren’t taking a nap.

  “Oh, fuck,” said Dom.

  One of the Stranded women started screaming. Yanik—a nice guy, a funny guy—touched his cap to Baird.

  “Never let it be said that we are savages,” he said, giving one of his buddies a hand up to the truck. “We let them bury their dead. Which is more than they ever did for us.”

  Then the driver got out. The three Gorasni started tipping the bodies off the truck and dumping them—still neat and lined up—onto the grass border on the Stranded side of the trackway. Women were sobbing; the old man with the crapped-out generator stumbled across to the pile and sank to his knees next to one of the bodies. They were all youngish men, and when Baird made himself look, most of them had a single shot to the head.

  “Should we be doin’ somethin’ about this?” Cole asked. “This ain’t right.”

  Nobody knew what the rules were now. Prescott had let the Gorasni clean up the problem, and this was what it looked like up close; rebel Stranded, shot and shipped back to the camp where their families had taken amnesty.

  But it was a war, whichever way Baird looked at it. The Stranded wanted to fight the COG. The Gorasni just didn’t fuck around with rules like the COG did.

  The Stranded crowd was right on that edge between silent, shocked disbelief, and an eruption into grief and outrage. The old guy was slumped on all fours over the body, like a dog standing guard over its dead master. He looked as if he didn’t have the strength to stand up.

  “This is my son,” he said. His voice shook. “This is my son.”

  Baird was the corporal here. A riot was a couple of seconds away. All he could think of was to get the Gorasni out of the camp, to remove the focus for a flashpoint.

  “Yanik, you better run, man,” Baird said. “Get out of here before this goes to total rat shit.”

  Sam and Cole moved instantly to block the Gorasni from the Stranded. Dom went over to the growing crowd and started calming them down.

  “Folks, let’s stay cool,” he kept saying. “Stay cool.”

  Baird watched for a moment. What did you say to the families and friends of men who’d turned Andresen—and DeMars, and Lester—into frigging ground chuck? Did you say sorry?

  No. You fucking didn’t. Because you weren’t.

  Baird could hear a weird chorus of disjointed sobs and shouts that was starting to merge into one voice and getting louder, a curse and a scream and a threat at the same time. Yanik slammed the truck door behind his buddy and put one boot on the flatbed to jump on board.

  “You look at me like I am a grub,” he said to Baird. “Like I kill for no reason. One day, Blondie-Baird, I will tell you what the garayaz did to us at Chalitz, and you will see things another way. We are the last Gorasni. The last.”

  The truck revved up and shot off in reverse—very nearly in a dead-straight line—to swing around and head out through the gates again. Baird looked over his shoulder for the first time since the truck had stopped. That told him how much he trusted Jacinto folk not to mess with Gears. There was a crowd watching, all right, silent and apparently unshocked.

  “We oughta at least help the ladies,” Cole said. “They didn’t blow anything up, did they? Shit, there’s kids lookin’ at all this. Let’s get some tarpaulin or somethin’.”

  “Yeah, comforting the widows is really going to go down great with most of the people standing right behind us.”

  But Baird went to do it anyway, because it upset Cole. He didn’t get far. A Stranded woman—thirty, maybe, all hate and tight lips—blocked his path.

  “And you can fuck off, too,” she snapped. “We don’t want your help.”

  Sam herded the Jacinto locals back from the trackway. “I think it’d be a good idea to go inside,” she said. “Help us out here. Move along.”

  All Baird could do was call it in and wait with the squad to make sure nothing kicked off while the bodies were carried away. Where were they going to bury them? Maybe it was a cremation. He didn’t ask—he wasn’t designed for this kind of touchy-feely shit, and he knew it. Dom, Mr. Sensitive, didn’t seem to be handling it any better, though. He stepped back to stand with Baird.

  “I never heard of Chalitz,” he said quietly. “Must have been bad.”

  “Dead’s dead.” Baird put it out of his mind right away. He could do that a lot more easily now. “And we’re not. I’m going to do whatever it takes to stay that way.”

  SERGEANTS’ MESS, VECTES NAVAL BASE.

  Bernie’s debrief hadn’t taken long. There wasn’t much she could tell Hoffman about the Lambent life-form, and she felt ashamed. She saw the enemy and she didn’t evaluate it. That was sloppy.

  “Didn’t see much myself,” Marcus said, arms folded on the bar. “Don’t beat yourself up.”

  Bernie couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a drink with Marcus. He wasn’t social. It was more of a brief, disjointed conversation that just happened to be in
a place where alcohol was served.

  “At least they’re getting smaller. Not Brumak-sized this time.” She checked her watch. There was condensation inside the glass after the morning’s dunking. “Maybe they’ll be a unifying influence and stop the Stranded cutting our throats.”

  “Yeah, Trescu’s boys get to the point.”

  “Prescott should have shipped the Stranded out right from the start.”

  “But he didn’t. So we make it work.”

  “You’re a kinder soul than me, Marcus.”

  Marcus snorted. It was as near as he ever got to laughing. “I take people on an asshole-by-asshole basis.”

  Bernie drained her glass. “Got to go.”

  “You on watch?”

  “Hoffman.”

  “Ah,” Marcus said, not looking away from the Locust cleaver hanging on the wall behind the bar. Andresen had built this bar with Rossi. Baird had taken the cleaver from a grub the hard way, and given it to Bernie. Everything in this mess had cost blood. “Ah.”

  “When you’re my age, waiting looks bloody stupid,” she said. “Grab some life, Marcus. You’ll never get those years back.”

  He just grunted. He knew what—and who—she meant. “Uh-huh.”

  Bernie wasn’t sure who she felt worse for, him or Anya. She headed over to the HQ building, wondering if things would have worked out differently if Helena Stroud or Adam Fenix had still been alive to nag their offspring into common sense. From outside the building, she counted the floors up and windows along, and saw that the light was still on in Hoffman’s office. She’d haul him out.

  The back stairs creaked a lot, but it was still more discreet than going via the main staircase. She got to the landing and went to push the door open, but the raised voices stopped her in her tracks.

  Shit. He’s got someone with him.

  Bernie dithered, wondering whether to come back later. But she hung on. There was a row in progress. The longer she stood there, the less she felt she could leave. She waited, not even sure why, and stepped into one of the alcoves next to the door.

  Prescott was in there, letting rip.

  “What in the name of God were you thinking?” he snapped. “You can’t just shut down their comms system. You have no authority.”

  “I have every damn authority.” Hoffman’s voice had sunk to that strangled growl that said he was close to losing it. “I’m the chief of staff. We have one army and one navy. We do not franchise the defense of this state to a bunch of animals settling their own private vendettas. I don’t care if they’ve got fuel rigs coming out their asses. Either I command all our assets, or I command none. Your call, Chairman.”

  “Are you threatening to resign?”

  “I can’t do this job if you keep cutting me out of the loop. Stick to policy and objectives. Leave the operational shit to me.”

  There was a long silence, about five seconds. Bernie wondered if the next sound she was going to hear was the crunch of bone.

  “I hate to be dissident, Chairman, but I’m with my red-faced colleague on this.” It was Michaelson’s voice. Bernie hadn’t even realized he was in there. “It’s simply unacceptable to allow the Gorasni to operate an army within an army. Or a navy, come to that. The deal was refuge in exchange for fuel, and our condition was that they join the COG. This isn’t even about their behavior with the Stranded.”

  “They’ve destroyed three explosives caches and killed fifteen gang members in the last twenty-six hours,” Prescott said. “I don’t recall you making that much progress.”

  “I don’t torture kids,” Hoffman snarled. “And I don’t dump bodies back on the widows. That slows things down a little, Chairman.”

  Michaelson cut in. “We have to bring them into line. If we don’t do it now, it’ll just escalate. You’ll lose control.”

  Bernie had to hand it to Michaelson. He knew how to grab Prescott’s attention. He was a much more political animal than Hoffman, more inclined to play that game and enjoy it. Hoffman just lost patience. He wanted to storm the beach and take it.

  Too honest, Vic. Prescott’s going to chew you up and spit you out.

  “Very well,” Prescott said at last. “And what if Trescu denies us fuel?”

  Michaelson actually laughed. “Chairman, he has an isolated rig, no air assets, and the whole Gorasni population is living within our borders. Am I missing something?”

  “Goddamn it, can’t we concentrate on the urgent issues?” Hoffman interrupted. “Lambent. We have Lambent in the middle of the ocean. Not back on the mainland, on our doorstep. I can put Stranded bombs on hold for a while, and even Trescu, but we have to pay attention to what we’ve found.”

  “I’m more interested in what sank Trescu’s frigate,” Michaelson said. “Because exploding luminous eels don’t quite answer the question.”

  “You get the intel,” said Prescott, “and come to me with a threat evaluation. By the way, I want a personal security detail—I need to be able to walk around New Jacinto without dodging stones from malcontents. I refuse to give in to hooliganism.”

  The floorboards creaked as someone walked toward the door. Bernie pressed herself flat in the alcove and held her breath, feeling a complete fool and wishing she’d just knocked, embarrassed herself for two seconds, and walked away. But she hadn’t.

  The door swung open and Prescott breezed past, heading for the stairs. He didn’t see her. Now she had to wait for Michaelson to leave, and he could stay chewing the fat with Hoffman for hours. The door was slightly ajar and the voices clearer.

  “Asshole,” Hoffman muttered.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll handle him. Give him his personal protection Gears and let him play statesman with Trescu. Keep him busy.”

  “Why the hell isn’t he more focused on the Lambent?”

  “Politicians. Short-term thinking and feuding tribes—that’s his stuff. Once he smells intrigue and horse-trading, he’s hard and blind. Can’t see anything else.”

  “I’m going to waste a shitload of energy butting heads with him. I plan to do as I see fit until he shoots me.”

  “Get some sleep.”

  “Don’t tell me it’ll all look better in the morning.”

  “In the morning,” Michaelson said, “I’ll get Garcia to take Clement out to mooch around. That’s what submarines are for.”

  Bernie thought Michaelson would never go, but he swung the door open and trotted down the stairs, whistling. She gave it a few moments before knocking on the open door and walking in.

  “Good timing,” Hoffman said. He locked his papers in the ancient safe set in the wall before switching off the desk lamp. Then he reached into the desk drawer and took out an unlabeled bottle of clear, straw-colored liquid. “Wallin’s special vintage. I don’t know who needs a drink more, you or me.”

  “I was eavesdropping,” Bernie said. “I thought you ought to know.”

  Hoffman steered her back toward the door. “That saves some time.”

  “I saw the bloody thing, Vic. Remember the horror movie where the shape-shifting fungus took over Ephyra? Well, it was like that.”

  “Think I’m overreacting?”

  “No, you’re reacting like Marcus.”

  “Being an uncommunicative asshole and neglecting my woman?”

  “Very funny.” Now she knew Hoffman was shitting bricks. He never joked. “Look, I don’t know how many billion cubic meters of ocean there are out there, but it’s a lot, and the last place we saw Lambent was under Jacinto, so even I can do the sums. Either they’re on the move and they know where they’re going, or they’ve always been around here. Neither answer cheers me up much.”

  “Me too,” he said. “That’s my conclusion. But what’s really keeping me awake is that frigate. And knowing Trescu is a secretive bastard with an agenda just makes me wonder what he’s not telling me.”

  They climbed the brick steps to the sentry post on the top of the naval base walls, a sheltered spot built into the stone when
the base was constructed centuries before, and settled down for a quiet drink. The post had a great panoramic view of the ocean. It was also impossible to walk past by accident.

  Hoffman handed her the bottle for the first swig. “You’re confined to base, by the way. Sorry, Bernie.”

  Her gut churned. She took a mouthful of the moonshine and gulped it down. It had a faint hint of aniseed. “How long?”

  “Until Doc Hayman passes you combat fit.” He took the bottle back. “Two close calls in a week. They say it comes in threes.”

  “Okay.”

  “You’re taking it better than I expected.”

  “I did a few years in support before they let me serve frontline. I didn’t enjoy it much.” She was on her second gulp of Dizzy’s moonshine now. No, she wasn’t taking it well. She just hadn’t started arguing yet. “I won’t enjoy this, either. But I can always go walkabout again if I get bored.”

  “The hell you will.” Hoffman grabbed her arm a little too hard. That wasn’t like him. “You’ll stay put. Shit, woman, you know what happened with Margaret. I can’t go through that again. You’ll damn well stay where I can keep an eye on you.”

  “You could have said something like that forty years ago.”

  “Okay, I didn’t.” He lowered his head for a second, as if it hurt to be reminded that he’d run out on her. It was water so far under the bridge that she’d all but forgotten it herself. “But I’m saying it now.”

  Bernie suddenly found it all very funny, and it wasn’t down to Dizzy’s moonshine. She went to wipe the neck of the bottle on her sleeve before taking her turn with it, and then decided no bacteria could survive that stuff. She’d probably caught every bug that Hoffman had by now.

  She wiped the bottle anyway. “As Baird would say, this is so classy.”

  “I misplaced the mess crystal.” Hoffman folded his arms and stared out to sea. Like Marcus, he had two accents—his natural one, and the one he’d learned in uniform. Marcus switched from posh kid to grunt. Hoffman went from NCO to officer. “You want to see the wine list?”