Gears of War: Jacinto’s Remnant (42 page)

But there were all kinds of freaky things in the water down in the Locust tunnels, and flooding the Hollow could have flushed out a lot of them. That thing on the deck did
not
look natural. It was two meters long, like a big length of scaly pipe, with a mouth where its chin should have been. Did fish even
have
chins?

Shit…

Cole didn’t like the look of it, and he’d seen enough weird shit to know when to worry. The trawler crew didn’t seem bothered. But then they’d never seen grubs or the variety of shapes the things came in.

“Man, that looks like it came out of the grubs’ tunnels,” Cole said. “Don’t touch it. Hang on—I’ll get Baird to take a look at it, ’cause he knows more about Locust than anyone.”

An old guy—who’d probably seen everything in the sea by now—hooked his fingers under the creature’s gills and hauled it up. He needed both hands and help from two buddies to lift it. “You never seen anything like this before, then?”

“I’m not jokin’, man. You ain’t seen the freak show the grubs had.” Where the hell could he even start with explaining about things like Reavers and Brumaks? You couldn’t make that shit up. Maybe the folks here hadn’t even seen the grub menagerie on TV before they lost the link on Hammer day. The COG didn’t hand over many ops recordings to the media guys. “Don’t touch it. Some of that shit even explodes. They got these other things called Lambent, and they glow, and—”

The fishermen started laughing. They thought it was hilarious. Cole didn’t mind a good joke, but he just couldn’t get across to them that monsters were
real
. He’d seen them, killed them, seen his buddies killed by them. He’d lived next door to monsters for fifteen years. He’d
ridden
one. He’d even met the monsters’ queen face-toface.
Shit. They don’t get it. They never saw it. Any of it. I just can’t explain it to them. How they ever gonna
understand us?

“Son, this is a shale eel,” the old guy said kindly. He seemed pretty pleased with it. “We rarely catch them. Real delicacy. You’d love it. Want a fillet piece when we cut it up?”

A goddamn eel. Was that all? Shit, he’d be crapping himself about every animal he didn’t recognize now. He felt stupid, but also worried. The nightmare had been real on the mainland, but folks here couldn’t begin to imagine what the grubs had been like, so they’d never understand why Gears reacted badly to the simplest, dumbest things. Everything was dangerous until proven safe. Every rumble and vibration was grubs, nothing harmless. It was going to take years to change that.

“Thanks,” Cole said, “but I think I’ll pass.”

The crew laid the monster eel back down on the deck and debated how to divide it up fairly so that everyone got a decent portion. Cole hoped he hadn’t offended them by turning down their offer. Baird came back and watched the operation, frowning.

“Looks like a frigging grub,” he muttered.

“Glad it’s not just me, baby.”

The wheelhouse door swung open and a guy leaned out, a radio headset in one hand.
“Fairhaven’s
found debris from the
Harvest
. Fenders, floats, no actual wreckage. So we’ve got a position.”

That killed the interest in the monster eel right away.

“We might not need the submarine, then,” said the old guy.

Baird looked seriously disappointed. “Ah, shit.”

“If they’re out there, we’ll find ’em, son.” He’d totally misunderstood why Baird was pissed off. “Don’t you worry.”

“You’re gonna need some armed backup if that’s Stranded misbehavin’ out there,” Cole said. “We do that stuff. Want a hand?”

“If you’re willing.”

Baird paced up the quay, hand to his ear, talking to Control, and seemed satisfied. “Control decided to test the sonar anyway,” he said. He’d got his boat ride, then. “Plus a patrol boat.”

“Which one makes you more seasick?” Cole asked.

“Depends how deep you dive.”

It was turning out to be an interesting day. Man, the Stranded out here were a lot wilder than the land-based variety.

Vectes had its own real-life monsters to worry about.

VNB MAIN PARADE GROUND, 0930 HOURS.

About six hundred Stranded from the coastal settlement showed up at VNB’s main gate that morning. Hoffman looked them over, comforting himself with the thought that most of the Operation Lifeboat men had turned into decent Gears, so maybe there was some hope for this rabble once they were separated from their criminal element. Apart from some nervous glances over their shoulders when the inner gates were locked behind them—Hoffman had no intention of anyone signing up, getting their clothing issue, and then slipping away—they looked pretty docile. They’d all been searched for weapons anyway. The worst they could do was bite. He opened his radio link. “Lieutenant Stroud, I need a bot. And get Fenix and Mataki down here.”

“Sergeant Fenix is still out with the patrol boat looking for the missing trawler, sir. Ready for the ID parade?”

More damn trouble from the Stranded; it made it hard to think of any of them as model citizens. “As ready as we’ll ever be. Get the bot images back to Pelruan and see what shakes out.”

“Yes, sir. By the way, remember that the councilmen from Pelruan are visiting at the moment. You said you’d meet with them.”

“Damn, did I?”

“They’re wandering around with one of the Jacinto representatives. You’ll be able to spot them by their dismay when they see the line of Stranded.”

“That’s not a joke, is it, Lieutenant?”

“No sir, it is not. I’ve had … comments.”

The Stranded line was mostly made up of women, children, teenage boys, and elderly men. At least Prescott would be happy to see more women of childbearing age joining the remnant, but Hoffman wasn’t convinced they’d take kindly to the do-your-duty-and-get-knocked-up philosophy of the COG. Plenty of women were happy to keep popping out babies, even women he’d have thought would have objected to being treated like broodmares, but some kind of reproductive instinct kicked in that said the species was in trouble. On the other hand, lots of women objected to the baby farms. The Stranded females were probably the independent kind who’d tell Prescott where he could shove his repopulation program.

And not enough adult males here. I need to replace the Gears we lost
. Stranded men were probably the wrong material anyway. Humankind had lost a generation of its best, and that was going to take a long time to put right.

VNB was filling up. Another accommodation block would be ready by the end of the week. People were gradually coming off the ships, which made Michaelson happier, but he was going to have to put up with them in the Raven’s Nests for months while extra housing was built.

And that took some organizing. Royston Sharle had his shopping list of urgent tasks, and he expected Hoffman to make them possible. Hoffman delegated it to the civilians playing at councilmen and gave them three companies of Gears to make a start on it.

Okay, we need housing built. We need land cleared for farming. We need sources of raw materials identified
and secured. Need, need, need …

Michaelson ambled across the parade ground to look over the Stranded. He’d shaved off his beard; the trawler skipper disguise from his piracy interdiction duties had been replaced by his old NCOG officer persona, crisp and

… Hoffman settled on
raffish
. He seemed to be relishing his new task.

“You’ll be lucky if you find a pretty one in
that
line, you old predator,” Hoffman said. “Admit you’re past it.”

“I’m not on the prowl, Victor.” Michaelson straightened his collar. “But the navy has
standards
. Just checking out the potential recruits.”

“Are we competing for manpower now?”

“Oh, we don’t need anyone
that
big and strong in the navy.”

“We noticed.”

“Seriously, are you recruiting from Stranded again?”

“Not unless I’m desperate.”

“The land battle’s over, Victor. It’s going to be a maritime world now.”

Hoffman managed to laugh. It was true, but that didn’t make him feel any less redundant. “Pirates. Transport.
Cruises.”

“Resource investigation—we’re going to have to mount missions back to the mainland to find imulsion and other raw materials. Projection of power—because, eventually, we’ll need to recolonize the continent. Defense—

because this is still a tiny population compared to what might be lurking out there in holes across Sera.”

He obviously had his sales pitch ready for Prescott. “And you don’t mean grubs,” Hoffman said.

“There’ll still be a few grubs, but we have no idea how many of our free-range Stranded friends are out there. Nor do they, I suspect. Looks like we’ve lost a civilian vessel today. It won’t be the last.”

“So you sail the high seas, and we provide the muscle when you go ashore.”
I know you’re right, Quentin, but
damn it, it still hurts
. “Prescott will have to appoint you admiral.”

“We’ll always need marines.”

“My Gears will be greatly comforted by that. Especially as the navy hasn’t
projected power
in recent history.”

“We’re fast learners.” Michaelson turned to look past Hoffman. “Ah, here come your charming enforcers.”

Anya and Bernie walked down the ragged four -deep line of Stranded, followed by one of the bots that was going to be used to send mug shots to Pelruan for checking. Halfway down the queue, Bernie must have spotted something that worried her; she walked back a few paces, grabbed a man out of the crowd by his collar, and marched him across to a nearby wall to search him. He was a big guy, so she might have been making the point that she wasn’t going to be intimidated by that. Anya watched intently as if she was making mental notes on how to scare and demoralize a man correctly.

Michaelson suppressed a smile. “You always did go for the leonine type, Victor.”

“Female Gears need to be able to handle themselves,” Hoffman said, avoiding the issue. “Stranded don’t make concessions to ladies.”

You should have told me what they did to you, Bernie. Why didn’t you? Damn it, we’ve known each other long
enough
.

Anya handed Hoffman a piece of paper, signed by Milon Audley, Attorney General. For a moment, Hoffman thought the old shark had come back from the dead, but it was just an archive document she’d pulled from the files. Hoffman was still being surprised on a daily basis by what had been saved and not saved when Jacinto was abandoned.

“Prescott’s still set on trial or amnesty, applied across the board, sir.”

“Trials? We’re not going to get convictions if he plays by peacetime legal rules.” Hoffman decided it was simply a PR gesture on Prescott’s part that nobody was intended to take seriously. “Where’s the evidence? Who’s going to represent the parties ? I’m not letting dangerous scum into this city because we can’t convict and deal with them.” Yes, he thought of this as a city. Until there was a civilian town out there for the remnant to go to, then VNB
was
New Jacinto. “Martial law’s there for a reason—when peacetime rules don’t work.”

Anya looked awkward for a moment. “You’ll have to argue that with him, sir.”

“Apologies, Anya. It just cramps my guts something fierce to have to do this.”

“I’ll make sure the registration team is ready to start,” she said, escaping. Bernie went to follow. Hoffman stopped her with a well-timed bark. “Sergeant, wait up. I’d like you to do some personal checking.” He didn’t plan to spell it out in front of Michaelson, friend or not. Bernie deserved some privacy. “Certain elements of the Stranded are of particular interest to me.”

“Understood, sir.” She looked uneasy. “But I doubt if anyone would walk in and risk a good kicking.”

“Free food makes any wild animal take chances, Mataki. You should know that.”

“Indeed I should, sir.”

Bernie doubled back and began walking down the line of Stranded again. The crowd waiting to be processed at the security post was three or four deep, and past the metal scrollwork gates where they’d come in. The gates were two meters high, an ornate remnant of the pre-COG era with a wheel-like emblem in each center panel.

“Anything I can do, Victor?” Michaelson asked.

“All under control.”

“I’ve known you a long time, my friend, and it’s not—”

Bernie was in the press of bodies now, looking into every face. A movement caught Hoffman’s eye. In the section of crowd queuing in front of the gates, people were stepping aside and looking over their shoulders, as if a scuffle had broken out. Hoffman saw a head rise above the others, and realized a man was trying to climb the gates. Bernie turned to look at the same time. It was an odd moment to decide that he didn’t want the COG’s protection.

Oh, shit…

The guy could have been any criminal scumbag, but Hoffman guessed that he wasn’t. He knew that he couldn’t sprint that distance and get to the man before Bernie did. He started to jog across the parade ground, trying to look casual, but Gears and civvies paused to stare, and he saw the top of Bernie’s head as she pushed through the crowd. People in front of the gate suddenly scattered and ducked. In that split-second’s clear view, Hoffman saw Bernie swing her Lancer hard into the man’s legs like an axe. He fell. Hoffman didn’t see anything else for a few seconds—there was yelling, plenty of yelling—until he pushed through the crowd and found Bernie kneeling on the man’s back, pushing his arm up between his shoulder blades. Hoffman wasn’t the only one on the spot. Every Gear within fifty meters piled in too.

“There,” Bernie said. She reached for her rifle one-handed and slid the chainsaw against the man’s face. For a moment Hoffman thought she was going to switch it on. “Take a look around. How do you like the odds now, tosser?”