“Just wondering where the next barrel of imulsion’s coming from,” Baird said, feeling the strain of unfamiliar tact.
“The mainland.”
“Well, first there’s getting there, then there’s dodging glowies, and then here’s the Stranded that’ll probably be all over the first rig we find, and then there’s extracting it and shipping it back. But yeah, apart from that, it’ll be a breeze.”
Dom opened his mouth slightly as if he was shaping up to say something, then folded his arms and carried on looking out the door.
Cole folded his letter carefully and slid it into his belt. “Damon, baby, you want a colorin’ book? I know you get antsy on long rides.”
“Hey, you kids in the back,” Gettner said. “Any of you bothering to check the chart as we go? I can’t do every damn thing.”
“You lost, Major?” Baird asked.
“Let’s put it this way,” she said. “I’m continuing on the bearing the stalks took—”
“Yeah, I’m sure they always travel in a straight line …”
“—and I don’t think there should be any landmass up ahead. Not that those two clauses are related in any way.”
Gettner was looking dead ahead. Everyone in the crew bay was looking at roughly a 120-degree arc on either side. Marcus hung on to the grab rail and leaned out of the gun door to get a better view.
“Looks like an island to me,” he said. “Because the chances of it being a bulk container are about zero.”
“Glad I’m not hallucinating. Because that’s definitely not on the charts, and I’m not off course. We’ve still got enough Hammer satellites working to get an accurate fix.”
Dom folded the chart into a manageable size to study it. Baird, impatient, leaned over him.
“Let me take a look.” There was always a simple answer to this kind of thing. “See? This is the edge of a tectonic plate. That’s how new volcanic islands get formed—the plates move and magma squirts up to the surface. All these island chains, right down to the South Islands, were formed the same way. Happens all the time.”
“How come I haven’t seen one before?” Gettner said.
“Okay, maybe not every day. But it’s not a mystery. Eruptions happen.”
“How long do those things emit smoke once they break the surface?” Marcus asked, checking out the horizon with his binoculars.
“No idea. Can you see smoke, then?”
“No.”
“I’m going to take a look anyway,” Gettner said. “Crazy not to.”
There was still no sign of stalks or polyps. Baird gave the chart back to Dom and got up to lean out of the bay door, trying to work out how the things decided where to go if they weren’t attracted by imulsion pollution. If they were, then they should have been partying on the site of the sunken platform. The idea that these glorified vegetables might be following some kind of plan creeped him out more than the grubs ever had.
“So what makes glowies glow?” he said. “We definitely saw glowy Locust in the tunnels. And all that luminous snot moving around. But the stalks and the polyps don’t look like anything I’ve seen before.”
“Least we know why the Locust Queen was getting her panties in a bunch about ’em,” Cole said.
“I hate it when I think of all the things I could have asked her.”
Cole tapped his pencil on his armor again and went back to the paper. “It’s not like she was holding a news conference or anything. We were trying to avoid losing vital organs at the time.”
“You think we could have done a deal with them? You know—ganged up with them on the glowies, and lived happily ever after?”
Dom looked up, and Baird knew he’d somehow said the wrong thing.
“You think you could stop talking shit for five minutes?” Dom asked him quietly. “Just for once?”
Baird couldn’t see Marcus from this side of the Raven, but he could hear him. It was just a gravelly sigh. Baird took the hint.
“Yeah, definitely an island,” Gettner said. “Nat, prep Jack for me. Postcard time in about ten minutes. Get me some good recon images.”
“Can we name it?” Cole asked.
There was a sudden silence. Cole wasn’t joking. Baird felt the atmosphere shift ever so slightly in the Raven, from that mock-aggressive familiarity of guys who’d spent way too long cooped up together, to a kind of … awkwardness. He was going to fill the silence with something smart-ass, as he always did out of habit, but then he realized what had shut them up. What did you call a new island, a new species—a new anything?
You named it after someone.
And everyone had lost someone they probably wanted to commemorate—except him, of course, and he was glad to be spared all that shit. Dom’s wife, Marcus’s dad, Cole’s entire family but probably his mom—yeah, the whole squad was thinking it would have been nice to permanently honor the dead. Gettner and Barber probably had the same thought, too, although Baird didn’t know who each of them pined for.
“Let’s see if it’s a pile of shit and trouble first,” Baird said, trying to be helpful. “Might not want to name it at all.”
See, I can do tact. I can do diplomacy.
“Can’t see any forest,” Barber said. “Jagged outline. A lot of haze.”
“Rock.” Marcus moved off the gun and stood in the crew bay watching the island through binoculars. “Baird’s right. Gray rock.”
“Hey, look at the gray crap on the water, too. Pumice. Yeah, recent volcanic eruption.”
Marcus made another noise in his throat, not his multipurpose grunt but an involuntary reaction as if he’d been caught out by something.
“Ahh shit,” he said at last. “You see that, Barber?”
Barber adjusted the lens on the camera. “Fuck. Yes.”
“Come on, share,” Baird said.
They didn’t have to. In less than a minute, the Raven was close enough to the uncharted island for Baird to see exactly what Marcus meant.
It was a lifeless mass of charcoal-gray rock about eight or nine kilometers wide, its surface rough and jagged. At first Baird thought two twisted shapes that rose above the general mound were just lava outflows that had cooled in freak formations, maybe because pumice had already been washed away from around them. But then the picture fell into place, and he knew he’d seen those organic-looking gnarled shafts before.
“Frigging stalks,” he said. “Wow, they don’t hang about.”
“Another reason to avoid sitting directly over the island,” Gettner said. “Although if those things are on the march, we know they can reach up from the sea anyway.”
“Of course,” Baird said, knowing this wasn’t going to cheer up anybody, “maybe they’re showing up everywhere.”
“Any polyps?”
“Can’t see anything. Just stalks.”
Barber released Jack from its housing. The egg-shaped bot hovered at the open door, mechanical arms unfolded. This was definitely a recon job for a remote.
“Can I add to the general misery?” Barber asked. “Does it look to anyone else like those stalks have come up through the lava, not over it?”
“Yeah,” Marcus said. “It does.” He turned to the bot. “Go on, Jack. Take a look. Be careful.”
The bot moved out of the Raven’s bay and headed for the island. Gettner could see the images that Jack was relaying to her monitor, but everyone else had to sweat it out.
“Just stalks,” she said. “Not doing anything, either. No movement, no polyps, nothing. Oh, wait—no, that’s a seabird.” She took the Raven high above the island, banking slightly. “No obvious vent or smoke, but hey, these outflows can just erupt right under you without warning and it’s endex.”
“I’d be more worried about the killer coral from hell,” Baird said. “If you get a spike of that straight through the fuselage, we won’t be going home anytime soon.”
“I’m just seeing dormant stalks,” Gettner said. “Hey, Marcus, Nat, want to check? Look. They’re just
sitting there.”
“Yeah, but does that mean they’re dormant?” Baird asked.
“They’re not spewing shinies, and that’s dormant enough for me, Corporal. What am I, emeritus professor of fucking botany or something?”
Baird flinched inside. What was it with all these damn women Gears? They were spitting venom the whole time. Even Bernie could strip paint with her stream of abuse when you somehow got on the wrong side of her. The only woman who didn’t rip you a new one for no damn reason was Anya.
“Just saying,” Baird said, determined at least to have the last word and not slink away. “We don’t know what their life cycle is. We don’t even know if they always go around holding hands with the polyps. Maybe the polyps just use the stalks for transport when they get a chance.”
“Does it matter?” Dom asked. “They’re all Lambent.”
“It matters if we want to find the best way to kill them.”
“I’m going to update Control,” Barber said. “Wait one.”
Gettner took the Raven down a little lower to fly along the coastline, and for a moment—a dumbass moment—Baird almost asked her to winch him down to the surface. Nobody had ever set foot on that ground before. It was as new as land ever got. Then he thought better of it. On the north side, steam or white smoke was still venting from a hole on the shoreline. There were no more stalks. Maybe they’d found the place too dauntingly barren as well.
“Keep an eye on the fuel,” Gettner said. “One more trip around the harbor, then we move on.”
Barber cut in. “Hey, Gill, listen around channel fifty. It’s breaking up, but I think we’ve picked up interference from the Stranded long-range net.”
Marcus perked up. “Can we get a fix on their transmitter? Been quiet for a long time.”
“Let’s swing by and pick up Jack. Then we can try getting a bearing.”
“It beats going back empty-handed,” Gettner said. “Fuel permitting, I think we should check out the mainland on the next sortie. Concentrate on where this stuff is making landfall, or else we’ll be chasing our own asses all over the ocean.”
Baird settled down at the comms position in the tail of the Raven and eavesdropped while Barber searched for a clearer signal. Occasionally, he heard broken bursts of crackling conversation that sounded like the skippers of boats confirming their positions.
“So they’re keeping mobile,” Marcus said. “How we doing, Barber?”
Gettner turned the Raven a couple more times until Barber seemed satisfied he had a location.
“It’s only a hundred kilometers or so off our course,” he said. “Got to be worth the fuel. Twenty-, thirty-minute deviation, tops.”
Baird had never thought of the Stranded gangs as much more than scavengers with a few fast patrol boats and—somehow—access to fuel, preying on the regular Stranded living in isolated outposts across the islands and coast of the mainland. They were parasites on the backs of other parasites. How many Stranded were out there?
Maybe there’s more of them than there are of us. But they’re scattered. You can’t live that way. You’ve got to have numbers. You’ve got to organize.
“Imagine living at sea most of the time,” Dom said, like he was talking to himself. He almost sounded wistful.
Cole still looked a bit green around the gills. “Baby, that’s my worst nightmare. Or living in a Raven. The Cole Train’s strictly land-based.”
Baird lost interest in the sea beneath and went back to checking out the maps, trying to imagine where he’d go if he was a stalk and what might lead him there. He was still churning over the imulsion trail theory and wondering if it was just coincidence—it could have easily been discharged effluent that the things were following—when Marcus and Dom both drew in a long breath at the same time. Baird looked up, expecting more evidence of stalks.
Barber sighed. “Holy shit. Holy shit.”
They’d found the Stranded transmitter, all right. The only question was which vessel out of the fleet below it was located in.
The vessels below weren’t warships, but that didn’t matter. They were a mix of freighters, leisure craft, powerboats, small tankers, tugs, and even a car ferry. They were keeping station just like a proper fleet, and there were a hell of a lot of them.
“It’s like the En-COG fleet review,” Gettner said. “In the days when we had a real navy.”
Baird started counting. There were at least a hundred.
“So guess what course they’re on,” Gettner said. “Go on. Guess.”
CHAPTER 13
Civilization is the silk coat on the back of the beast, easily torn away by the first cold wind.
(KASHKURI PROVERB)
ANVIL GATE GARRISON, KASHKUR: 32 YEARS EARLIER.
Anvegad’s doctor specialized in fractures and liver flukes, two things he saw a lot of in this nonindustrial backwater. He would also treat injured goats if asked nicely.
Now he was trying to stop Gunner Arlen Pereira from bleeding to death. Hoffman watched the doctor shaking his head and probing inside Pereira’s open abdominal wound, trying to instruct one of the battery medics where next to try clamping. They didn’t seem to be able to work out where the blood was leaking from.
Hoffman sat astride a wooden chair, tolerating first aid from Private Reaves and trying to hold his radio headset to his ear so he could carry on talking to HQ.
“Lieutenant, we’re not going to be able to get help to you for a while,” said the female major on the radio. “We can’t even get a casevac chopper to you while Shavad’s going down the tubes.”
“I don’t need help, ma’am,” Hoffman said. “This is for your situational awareness. We’ve got adequate supplies and ammo for the time being. We’re not under sustained attack yet. For all I know, it might be a disgruntled local goat-shagger with a grudge against the garrison. But the attack came from the Kashkur side of the border, so this might be Indies inserted behind the lines weeks ago.” Hoffman could take the shit as well as any Gear, but he felt angry now on behalf of others. “Captain Sander’s dead and his pregnant wife needs to be told. Gunners Dufour, Tovey, and Pole are also dead. We’ve got eight men wounded, two seriously. And the fucking road to the north is still completely blocked, so we can’t evacuate the goddamn civvies even if they wanted to leave. Are you clear about the situation now, ma’am? Are you?”
The major paused, but didn’t bawl him out. “I am, Lieutenant. Do you still require a Pesanga squad for recon?”
“What?”
“Captain Sander put in a request for them.”
Everyone knew the Pesangs’ reputation. This was the kind of terrain they lived in. One Pesang could cover the ground of five Gears. And they were feared.
If there were any Indie assholes hiding out there, they’d find them.
“If you can get them here, ma’am, we can make use of them.”
“We’ll think of something. I’ll expect a sitrep from you in ten hours, unless the situation deteriorates.”
Hoffman went to stand up. Sheraya and Reaves pushed him back down.
“Nine,” Sheraya said. “There are nine wounded. That includes you, Lieutenant.”
“I’ve got to go out there.” Hoffman felt he shouldn’t have been sitting on his ass in the first-aid station. “I’ve got a job to do, ma’am. Let me do it.”
“It can wait a little longer.” Sheraya kept looking past him. Hoffman wasn’t sure what state the back of his head was in, but Reaves was using a lot of surgical tape. “You hit your head that hard, then sometimes you collapse and die many hours later.”
“Fine. As long as I get the time to secure this garrison.”
At the makeshift operating table, Dr. Salka’s expression was changing to quiet desperation. Reaves slapped Hoffman on the shoulder. “Just as well you shave your head, sir. Makes this sort of thing a lot quicker.”
Hoffman stood bolt upright and regretted it as giddiness seized him. He could not give in to injury now. He had more than a pl
atoon to run, more than a garrison, even more than a city full of civilians: he had to hold Anvegad. And he didn’t know yet exactly what he might have to hold it against.
He put his headset on properly, with the strap around his forehead and the audio bud in his ear. “Salton, anything out there?”
“Negative, sir.” Pad had gone searching the slopes around the fort with Byrne and a local man who knew a bit about climbing and had some equipment. “No sign of a vehicle on either side of the pass, either. We should set up an obs post to keep an eye out three-sixty degrees. The Indies over the border might be the least of our worries.”
“Do it, Pad. And they’re going to send us some Pesang troops.” Hoffman steeled himself to check on the gun floor again. “Sergeant Evan, are you making progress up there? Do you need more assistance?”
Hoffman couldn’t bring himself to spell it out in front of Sheraya. Have you finished clearing the bodies? Do you want someone else to do it, so you don’t have to see your buddies like that? He felt he should have done it himself. He hadn’t served with them for years, and they weren’t his own. He had more distance. The memories that inevitably came back later wouldn’t be as bad as they’d be for Evan.
“The guns are okay, sir. They don’t dent easy.” Evan’s voice was a bit shaky, but other than that he seemed fully in control. “No movement at the refinery yet.”
“Okay, we continue the lockdown of this city—we are at full defense alert. Ma’am—Mrs. Byrne—I’d like you to get the aldermen together so I can talk to them. There are measures we have to take. I’ll send Private Wakelin with you. I want you to have an escort at all times.”
Sheraya gave him an embarrassed half-smile. “This is my home, Lieutenant. If I’m not safe here, where will I be?”
“You’re safe from your own people, ma’am, but so was Captain Sander until some bastard put an RPG past us when our guard was down.”
She just nodded. In reality, there was little that Wakelin would be able to do for her if a mortar or a sniper round was aimed inside the walls, but Hoffman owed it to Byrne to at least show some willingness.