Gears of war, p.18
Gears of War, page 18
“Our residents primarily, but we trade with outsiders.”
The younger man nodded. “And your residents are?”
“Family. Board members and their families. Other acceptable guests.” She smiled. “You, Sergeant Fenix, for example. My family has always supported the Gears and the sacrifice you made to defend us. Now you, Mr. Turrall, I don’t know, so you are being judged by the company you keep. Favorably, I might add. Were you to desire to stay, we would find a suitable place for you.”
“Thank you, I think.”
“Honesty and forethought. How welcome.” Karima clapped politely. “But gentlemen, we are truly happy to have you here. Toward this end, we invite you to join us for our weekly residents’ dinner in the Clubhouse. Six this evening. You’ll find suitable attire in Birches East Two.”
“I’m honored,” Marcus said, “but I’m still trying to wrap my brain around what you have here.”
Karima smiled politely. “How can I ease your mind?”
“Well, so many things…” His eyes narrowed. “You’ve more here than we’ve seen in any other community we’ve visited. You appear to be self-sufficient.”
“We are, thank you.”
“Then what is it you trade for?”
“The most precious resource of all, Sergeant Fenix.” Karima Razek spread her arms. “People.”
10: MANUFACTURING CENTER
HARKNESS GLEN, SERA
27 BOUNTY 18 A.E.
“You trade in people?” Marcus stared at Karima as they exited the building. “Did you mean to say that?”
Karima’s hands came up. “Please, Sergeant, I did not mean what you clearly believe I meant. I shall explain as we walk to the Birches.”
Marcus and Brandon unhitched their horses and led them along. The trio traveled across the long lawn that bordered the main building, bearing toward a small knot of cabins near a birch grove. The two men exchanged wary glances. Marcus didn’t like that their journey took them closer to where people had been shooting.
“Let me assure you both, Harkness Glen has nothing to do with human trafficking,” she said. “My comment was… aspirational. As nearly as we can tell, we have here one of the very few industrial plants that still works. Yes, it is tiny, but we are able to turn out a number of items which other settlements find very useful. Primary among them are bandages, other medical supplies, blankets, and clothing. What we have a severe shortage of is labor.
“Thus we hire people from other settlements to come here and work for us, on a seasonal basis or longer-term contracts. Isadora, for example, is from Westbrook and has been part of my staff for three years now. In addition to room and board for her, Westbrook—where her mother, brother, and his family still live—gets clothing and medical supplies as per the details of her service contract. Isadora is free to terminate her contract with a month’s notice, and gets an annual review with an increase in wages.”
Brandon frowned. “She contributes to the community, so is she part of Harkness Glen?”
“You mean to ask if she earns an equity stake.”
“I mean there’s a difference between being fired from your job and exiled from your home community.”
Karima’s smile faded. “What do you know of Razek Fiber—the company’s history?”
Marcus shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Less than that in my case.” Brandon shrugged.
“My great-grandfather, the first Karim Razek, came here, created and built the company from the ground up, but he always gave the employees an opportunity to invest. This is a tradition we continue, though it is difficult without currency. We keep track of contributions to our success, so Isadora and others are earning equity. After five years of service they become vested and earn the right to live here permanently. If they choose to leave, their equity stake is converted into real assets which we pay out in bulk or over time.” Weariness crept into Karima’s voice. “We have really tried to continue the traditions from before.”
“How many people do you have here?” Marcus looked around, taking in at a glance a group of older individuals playing some sort of lawn bowling game, and a number of younger people serving them drinks. “Does everyone work, or—?”
“Again, we’re trying for an equitable solution.” Karima waved a hand toward the lawn bowlers. “We have families here who have invested substantial amounts of money in Razek Fiber.”
“But that was before, yes?” Brandon frowned. “Do they get a couple weeks a year to be pampered, then join the workforce like everyone else, or are they getting a free ride?”
“It’s not a free ride, Mr. Turrall. These people worked very hard for most of their lives. They helped build this place. Can a society that denies people credit for their past contributions truly provide fairly for everyone else? If not for these people, none of this would be here. Ultimately, everyone who is a part of this community will have an opportunity to enjoy the fruits of their labors in the same manner, once they earn it.”
Marcus held a hand up. “We’re not here to pass judgment. We’ve traveled a lot. Not every settlement is doing as well as this one is. I’ve seen a refugee camp that is overcrowded, with a medical system that is overtaxed and a marginal harvest that will lead to a lot of hardship. A bad flu would devastate them, and I’m pretty sure I’m understating how close to the edge they are.”
Karima chewed her lower lip for a moment. “I was here with our board and their families for a retreat on E-Day. Why and how the Locust never found us I don’t know. We do have some people who think our being spared suggests some moral superiority or divine favor, or both. Some of the children who have grown up here have no idea how bad it was. Perhaps you’ll see this evening.”
“You’re afraid that their unrealistic view will spell disaster, if the bubble is ever burst.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” She hugged her arms around herself. “It’s my duty to hold everyone together and keep everyone safe, but when people don’t think they need to be kept safe… It makes the job more difficult.”
Karima scratched at her forehead. “The main building is the Haven Club. We will be expecting you in two hours—six o’clock, to be exact. Punctuality is appreciated. I’ve assigned Otto from my staff to attend you, and we’ll have staff from the stables take care of your horses.”
Brandon smiled. “That’s much appreciated.”
She led them to their modest cabin. It featured wood-shingled walls, rough-hewn pillars and railings for a porch which wrapped two sides of the building. The handmade chairs and table on the porch matched the cabin’s esthetic.
They hitched their horses to the porch railings, climbed the steps and entered. The door opened into a small sitting room to the left, a set of stairs leading up in the center, and a small kitchenette to the right. At the upstairs landing two doors opened to the right and left.
Karima smiled. “Please accept our hospitality. Though we are isolated here, we’ve learned through outsiders what you and your Delta Squad did, Sergeant Fenix, to keep us all safe.”
“Thank you, Ms. Razek.” Marcus walked her out and pulled his saddlebags and Lancer from his horse before attendants led it off. Brandon did the same, resting his rifle on a pair of pegs over the mantel in the sitting room.
“Does this make it feel homey?”
Marcus shrugged. “Back when the world made a bit more sense, when I heard people use words like ‘retreat,’ I thought they were out of touch with reality. To think there’s a whole settlement that escaped dealing with grubs…”
Brandon waggled a finger. “No, Marcus, they’re ‘grubbies’ here…”
“…‘grubbies,’ whatever, because they were on a retreat. It’s just… it makes it even more surreal.” He stretched his arms out and pulled them back until his spine popped. “You think Razek has her head screwed on straight?”
Marcus’ companion sighed. “You know, I heard a lot in her voice that I hear in my sister’s. I just…” Brandon fell silent for a moment. “I just don’t like the idea that some of the people aren’t working as hard as everyone else. I mean, look, sure, it’s great that Isadora can earn her way in here, but for others to be living out a perpetual vacation, just because of things they did in a previous life, that doesn’t seem right. That world simply doesn’t exist anymore.”
“But the fact is, it did exist. Look, your sister has medical knowledge from that time, right? So she brings it forward. Maybe some of these people are bringing their previous experience to bear. That’s got to count for something.” Marcus groaned. “I don’t know. This sort of thing is why Anya is rebuilding society, and I’m out here hunting grubs… grubbies.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Brandon shook his head. “The best solution is where folks do what they’re good at, and hopefully that covers for others who aren’t able to do so. A society based on altruism has to be a good thing, right?”
“Beats the alternative by a mile or three.”
A man in the cabin’s doorway cleared his throat. Middle-aged, with a shaved head and hint of paunch, he entered bearing armloads of towels and bedding.
“Gentlemen, I am Otto. Back behind the stairs you’ll find the bathroom and shared shower. I’ll put the towels in there. Soap in the drawers. You should have enough hot water to shower and shave.”
Brandon arched an eyebrow. “Shave?”
Marcus ran a hand over his jaw. “I’m kinda getting used to this beard.”
“You’re guests at the Haven Club this evening, gentlemen. You’ll want to be presentable. A trim, sir, might be in order.” Otto looked them up and down. “Those clothes we can launder or burn, your choice. I will return with suitable clothing in the correct sizes.”
Marcus half smiled. “How long have your worked here, Otto?”
“I have been on Ms. Razek’s staff for twenty years, sir.”
“So you’ve earned your own place here. You could be at the Haven Club, yes? Lawn bowling?”
“Yes, sir.”
Marcus’ eyes narrowed. “Then why still work?”
“Because I don’t like lawn bowling, sir, and I enjoy working.” Otto grinned easily. “What some find entertaining, others find burdensome. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me.”
“By all means, Otto.” Marcus nodded. “Last thing I want is to be a burden.”
* * *
If you can’t remember when you last had a hot shower, it’s really been too long.
When he’d been serving as a Gear, showers had been a luxury; and a long hot one an extreme privilege. Marcus took the opportunity to scrub every inch of himself, rinse off, and start all over again. Water dripped from his beard to his chest and down his back as he stepped out. He wrapped himself up in a towel and it felt almost as good as a lover’s embrace. Harkness Glen might have been a tiny oasis in a nihilistic, entropic nightmare, but that towel was a monster of pure pleasure. He started plotting on how he could steal two—one for himself and one for Anya, and how he could keep the secret from her in the event he could only get away with one.
No, this is too good. I’d share.
Slipping from the bathroom, he noticed his clothes had vanished. Upstairs, in the bedroom on the left, he found underwear, socks, a black, knit, short-sleeved shirt and tan slacks. The shirt had the Harkness Glen logo over the left breast, and the word “Fenix” embroidered in gold above the logo. The moment he saw it he smiled, then thought it was incredibly cheesy—the sort of thing public relations folks did for VIPs.
Then it struck him that in this place, at this time, expending their resources to embroider and personalize a shirt probably marked a high honor.
He emerged from his room fully dressed, save for his boots. He spotted them, and saw that Otto or some subordinate had done his best to knock off all of the mud and wipe away the grime. Brandon stood in the sitting room, where Otto assisted him in hanging a thin sweater around his neck and knotting the arms at his throat.
Brandon caught his eye. “I’m told that this is the fashion, and my shoulder holsters are not.”
“It is the fashion for this season, Mr. Turrall.” Otto nodded solemnly. “The Fashion committee voted. We have darker colors for the fall, hence you are in a burgundy and this is for Sergeant Fenix.” He picked up a black sweater and approached Marcus.
The Gear took the sweater from him. “I think I can handle it myself, Otto. Not my first time.”
Brandon looked at him. “You’ve worn a sweater this way before?”
“Yeah.” Marcus twirled it on like a cape. “Once. I was twelve.”
“Oh, an expert, then.”
Marcus tied it and turned toward Otto. “Pass muster?”
“Perfectly, sir.” The… manservant?… clapped his hands. “I’ll have your beds made up before you return, and your cleaned clothes returned by morning.”
“That’s great. Thank you.” Marcus headed out onto the porch, and Brandon followed. They walked through the birches to the Haven Club. Evening had fallen and strings of lights decorated the building’s broad, wraparound porch. Men and women of various ages chatted with one another, the men all similarly attired with the sweaters over their shoulders, despite the chill evening air. The women wore long, ankle-length sweater dresses with broad stripes of autumnal color and big wooden buttons holding them closed.
“Any of this scare you, Marcus?”
“Scare?” Marcus shook his head. Given what I’ve seen… “Unsettle, maybe. What’s setting you off?”
“I guess I expect to be judged, and that shouldn’t bother me, but…”
Marcus laughed. “Look, I’ve been judged and often hated by everyone up to and including the chairman. Fact is, we all breathe the same air and bleed the same blood. Anyone who thinks they’re better for ‘reasons’ is a fool. Ignore them.”
“That actually work?”
“Sometimes. Pisses ’em off, though.” Marcus looked at his companion. “You know what you’ve done. The good, the bad. The things you take pride in. They don’t. Just take comfort in knowing that people you respect will respect you back. Can’t really ask much more out of life.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Brandon laughed. “It’s still weird, though. I’d feel more comfortable walking into an E-hole than this place.”
“We got through the museum reception. This’ll be nothing compared to that.”
They reached the Haven Club and conversation stopped among those nearest the broad stairs. The two of them ascended and the double doors opened. Karima Razek swept forth, her red sweater flaring out as she strode forward. “Sergeant Fenix, Mr. Turrall, welcome to the Haven Club. Please, let me show you around.”
The bystanders’ expressions changed from wary or curious to smug or politely pleased—and did so often. Their hostess shepherded them into the foyer. Two stairways went up, one on each side of the entryway. Beneath them hallways opened into the wings, while another passage ran back to what appeared to be a large dining room. Everywhere the eye could see, more people circulated, accepting drinks and tidbits from silver trays held by young men and women.
Karima steered them to the left. “The club began as the main building for the Glen, where guests would meet to share meals. It was a hunting lodge and, as you can see, our members did enjoy their hunting.”
The room she guided them into had furnishings gathered into various conversation nooks, and featured large portraits on each wall of people Marcus took to be Karima’s forebears, each dressed for hunting or fishing. The rest of the decoration consisted of mounted animal heads and fish taken, presumably, locally. Mountain sheep, moose, a variety of deer, a couple of wolves, and three big cats all greeted them with glassy stares amid a plethora of mounted trout and salmon.
Then one head sent ice through Marcus’ belly.
“That can’t be.”
He threaded his way through the guests, across the room to where a grub’s head, mouth agape, hung on a shield-shaped plaque. It wasn’t until he got within a couple of yards that he realized there were things off about it. The skin looked right, but the texture wasn’t.
The nose, too flat… and the head too small. He reached out and brushed his fingers over the brow. “This isn’t real.”
“No, not at all. The rest of these trophies are the work of a taxidermist from Char. He and his son—his apprentice—were up here on E-Day. Karim Senior created this based on a few photographs he took when he ventured home to see what had happened to his family.” Karima crossed her arms. “He always claimed he’d done it to exorcise demons, and I had it put up to remind everyone how lucky we are that we don’t have Locust here.”
Brandon shook his head. “That’s just inviting trouble.”
“Or would have been, but Sergeant Fenix eliminated the problem. We were, however, mindful of the risks.” Karima gestured for them to follow her through a doorway leading deeper into the building. They passed into a small hallway with dark glass walls. Lights slowly brightened, revealing a variety of guns mounted on the walls, ranging from hunting rifles on up through a half-dozen Lancers, complete with chainsaw bayonets. “This is half our armory. Our perimeter guards have the rest at their disposal.”
Marcus nodded. “And the cabinets below have ammunition?”
“Of course.”
“Looks like a matched pair of Snub pistols. Nice.” Brandon smiled. “Razek Industrials interested in doing some trading?”
Karima’s eyebrow rose, but Marcus couldn’t tell if that was from the audacity of Brandon’s question, or if she was considering a counter-offer. Before she could say anything, however, a scream ripped through the night.
Marcus whirled and started toward the trophy room. A heartbeat before he cleared the corridor, a grub burst through a window. It tore an older man in half, crushed the widow’s skull with her husband’s arm, then leaped for Marcus, clawed hands outstretched.
ACT 3
1: HAVEN CLUB
HARKNESS GLEN, SERA
27 BOUNTY 18 A.E.
