Gears of War: Anvil Gate by Karen Traviss Page B

going to do. Prescott seemed more keen to make sure the jumped-up little shit felt he’d won rather than get any useful intelligence. “He’s not been harmed.”
    “No, you’re the good guys, aren’t you? You don’t beat up kids.” Enador indicated Loris with his thumb. “You’ve got rules about how you treat enemy wounded, right?”
    Hoffman wanted to punch the crap out of him. “You’re a waste of medical supplies,” he said. “I’ll leave you to our guest.”
    Loris turned his head with difficulty. It was hard to tell that he was in worse shape than his buddy. There wasn’t so much as a scratch on his face. “Ah, nice to see we’ve brought you two together at last.”
    Trescu walked across the small room and lifted a tubular metal chair by its frame, then set it down by the side of Loris’s bed. If it hadn’t been for the faded black uniform, he might have passed for a concerned relative.
    “Gentlemen,” he said. “I am Commander Miran Trescu. I am Gorasnayan, which should mean something to you. There arevery few of us left, so every citizen I lose grieves me very deeply. I thought I would mention that so you understand why I must be
insistent
in asking you questions.”
    Enador watched him with mild interest. “Yeah, we know what Gorasni are like.”
    “Good.” Trescu folded his arms and leaned on the edge of the bed. “So this would be a sensible time to tell me where you get your arms and ordnance, and where your camps are.”
    “I’ll bet,” Loris said. “Ram it up your ass, Commander.”
    “And how are your friends sinking our ships?”
    Enador paused for a beat, as if he really didn’t understand the question. “We haven’t touched a boat since the last imulsion shipment. We don’t sink them, Indie. We
commandeer
them.”
    “Two trawlers and a frigate.”
    “I told you—we’d keep them, not sink them.”
    Trescu didn’t bat an eyelid. “I
had
hoped we could work together.”
    “Now what? You going to beat the crap out of me? Break a few teeth?” Loris strained to look past Trescu at Hoffman. He probably hadn’t worked out who was in charge here. Maybe he thought they were pulling some nice-and-nasty double act. “Does he do your dirty work for you, Colonel? We thought you liked to do your own.”
    The asshole couldn’t have known how near the mark that comment was.
    “Very well.” Trescu glanced at his watch. “My father gave me this. It still keeps good time.
Very
fine workmanship. I shall count five minutes on it, by which time I would like an answer to my question.”
    Hoffman wasn’t sure what effect this was having on the two Stranded, but it was certainly unsettling him. The longer Trescu sat there doing nothing, the less Hoffman knew what was coming next. And that was the idea, of course. Uncertainty—fear—softened up a prisoner more than actual pain. He got the feeling that Trescu would suddenly punch Loris in the guts to make the most of that shattered pelvis.
    Is that what I’d do? Why did it even cross my mind?
    The fact that he could even imagine it shamed him. He wanted to walk out and not have to watch this, but he stood there, complicit and conflicted. The worst thing was that he believed Enador about the ships. He really did. It wasn’t the gangs’ style not to brag about their kills.
    Trescu’s fine gold watch ticked away audibly in the silence. He studied it, distracted, then ran his thumb across the glass as if to clean it.
    “I am waiting,” he said.
    Hoffman waited, too, expecting that blow to land at any moment. Eventually, Trescu sat back in the chair and sighed theatrically.
    “Very well. You had your five minutes.” He took a radio earpiece much like the old COG issue from his breast pocket and pressed it into place. “Burkan? Please come to the isolation ward now.”
    Hoffman hadn’t interrogated anyone for more than fifteen years. Nobody took grubs alive, so the COG had a serious case of skills-fade when it came to questioning