Thanks

"Hey, Mr. Gear?"

I assume the boy's talking to Cole. People on Vectes still thought he was The Cole Train, the greatest thing to ever happen to Thrashball. They can't believe he joined the army despite watching him in action during the Stranded raids.

Cole's walking a few paces ahead of me. It was a routine patrol; showmanship for Pelruan until the brass decides what to do with the Stranded presence. But Cole doesn't stop. That's when I feel the soft tug on my belt.

"Mr. Gear?"

I stop and look down at the gap-toothed kid. Anyone else and I would've slapped their hands, but this kid couldn't have been more than six or seven. Was he a local's kid or a refugee's? What do you even say to a child? I spent eleven years of my life being one yet I have no idea how to interact with him.

"What do you need?" I ask. There, that didn't sound too intimidating.

"Um." He shuffles his feet and I can tell he has something behind his back. Don't tell me he wants something autographed-that was Cole's territory, not mine.

Cole circles back around to watch. It's not every day Damon Baird is cornered by a kid. He stops by my shoulder, places his rifle in the sling on his back, and crouches with a smile. Yeah, Cole's way better with kids. I would never bring myself to a child's level.

"What's up, little man?"

The kid's shell shocked. "Y-you're Cole Train, right?"

Cole chuckles. "That's right. You ever get to see me play?"

"No, but Dad is your biggest fan. He says if you could beat the Sharks, you can beat anything."

"Well tell your daddy that Cole Train thanks him for his confidence. We're doing everything we can to protect you but sometimes you gotta listen to us better, okay?"

I shift my Lancer to rest against my shoulder. This whole exchange's too uncomfortable for me. "Can we hurry up? The perimeter won't protect itself."

Cole turns to grimace at me but he knows I don't have the patience for kids. Not to mention we're on duty and I didn't want Hoffman breathing down my neck for an attack I could've prevented.

"Sorry, Mr. Gear," the boy says. He pulls a lumpy parcel from behind his back and thrusts it at me. Cole was on his level, so why is the kid offering it to me?

I stare down at him, unsure what he's trying to do. "What?"

He shakes the parcel. "Momma says you guys work too hard not to have sweets. She made these for you."

Cole nods as he stands and I grab the parcel. The kid grins and takes off before I have a chance to thank him. He probably just left me with a bundle of ugly cloth or rock candy. Cole rubs his hands together with excitement.

"What did the nice boy give you, baby?"

Against my better judgment-I should shove the parcel into my belt and ignore it, get back to the job at hand-I undo the knot on top and the fabric falls to reveal gold.

"Holy shit! Are those real?" Cole gaps. "No way, I gotta be dreaming!"

Six chocolate chip cookies are nestled in the palm of my hand. Suddenly I feel like frigging Prescott with the world in my hands and maybe I sorta believe some of that "Have hope" bullshit he'd been dishing out. Of course the locals could make this stuff-they're farmers, they've been doing it for years-but staring at the partially melted chips, I can't remember the last time I saw a real cookie. It's been gruel and ration bars for years. Adjusting to a real diet of meat and vegetables on Vectes was enough of a shock to my body.

This was too much.

"I feel like they should be under sealed glass," I say. Shit, I'm actually numb from shock. "Can we frame them? Hang them in the mess?"

"I wish we could share them with everyone . . . but maybe that lady makes cookies for everyone patrolling over here?"

"We would've heard about it by now."

He grabs his Lancer with a frown. Yeah, I understand what he's saying. Maybe not all of the Gears knew the locals could make something real, something delicious, other than stew. It's selfish of me to keep the cookies but what am I supposed to do? Cut them into enough pieces for a full regiment of Gears? As if that's really possible.

I offer a cookie to Cole before retying the parcel as we walk. He takes one, bites into it, and immediately groans with delight.

"Just like Mama's baking," he says and stuffs the cookie into his mouth.

I stash the parcel in my belt. Later, I would find the woman who made these and ask her why, out of all the great Gears on the island, she chose to give me something so precious. Hell, maybe cookies aren't a big deal to them, but to Gears it's the promise of something new, something normal. Something that deserved a real thank you.