Worth a look. He thumbed through the very last of his dispatches, and the last one made him smile.
Harry Reardon wanted to meet with him and had just flown in from the remains of Zenith.
Definitely a meeting worth taking. Just a good chat, from one spook to another. Former spook, that is—Harry unceremoniously took an early retirement years ago, and if it wasn’t for Smith, he’d be in jail.
Definitely worth a meeting, and possibly call in some long-overdue favors.
Chapter Twelve
Earth
United States
Baltimore, Maryland
Snapper’s Bar
Mistakes had been made.
No, thought Reardon as he upended his glass and forced the last of his drink down his throat. Mistakes were currently being made. Currently. At this exact moment. His contact, Smith, hadn’t shown up yet. Maybe it was a ruse. Some kind of trick. They might have been friends for years, but … c’mon. John-freaking-Smith. That still sounded like a fake name.
He shouldn’t have come. Zenith was gone, there was just no point in messing about with trying to report what he’d seen. It wasn’t going to bring people back to life. They were dead. Super, super dead and nothing he could say or do could change it.
So why was he even here?
“Long time no see,” said a familiar voice as Smith slid into the seat beside him. “Still drinking those girly drinks you like so much?”
“Excuse me, that is vodka,” said Reardon, swiveling in his seat.
Smith casually leaned in and sniffed his glass. “That is a pink raspberry cosmo.”
“Raspberry cosmos are a manly drink,” said Reardon, a little more defensively than he probably should have.
Smith’s eyebrow shot up to the ceiling. “Please. Please explain that one. I would love to hear it. I would just love to hear how Harry Reardon, space vagabond, gun fighter, smuggler, and all around tough guy thinks pink raspberry cosmos are manly.”
“Because it’s made from vodka. The nectar of Mother Russia. That shit is what fueled the Soviets as they, you know, drunkenly stumbled across the Urals. The kind of drink that puts hairs on the chests of your women. It doesn’t just separate the boys from the men, it converts them.” He swirled his finger. “In that direction. From little boys to big strong men.”
“It’s a cocktail.”
“A cocktail … which is mostly vodka,” protested Reardon.
Smith ran his finger around the edge of the glass, then licked it clean. “Vodka ceases to be manly when you add raspberry liqueur and raspberry juice, pinch of lime juice, and some syrup. It becomes a pink raspberry cosmo, and that, my friend, is not in any way a masculine thing.”
Reardon scratched the stubble on his chin, glaring at his counterpart. First Smith was late, then he insulted his strong, manly choice of drinks. “It’s still vodka.”
“Fair enough,” said Smith. “You want another?”
Reardon glowered into his empty glass. “Yeah, definitely. Kind of feeling the need to get wasted after what happened.”
“I can imagine,” said Smith, tapping on the tablet embedded in the bar to order another round. Reardon got the distinct impression that Smith had been leading him toward that subject and was almost out of patience. “Right. Well, I’m here, we have more drinks on the way, so let’s talk. Tell me what happened out there, Harry.”
Where to begin, where to begin … Reardon tried to get his thoughts in order, tried to arrange the events into temporal sequence but they kind of stuck in his mind like cold honey in a bottle. The smuggler, and the box, and the planet’s crust just lifting right up off….
“Is Sammy okay?” asked Smith, softly.
“Oh yeah.” Reardon exhaled a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. “No, the kid’s fine. He’s fine. A little shook up, a little rattled, but he’s fine.”
Smith waited patiently.
“They … they blew up Zenith.”
“They?” asked Smith. “Who are we talking about, Harry? Be specific.”
“I can’t. Barely caught a glimpse of them,” he said, clenching his fist as tightly as he could. “I … I only saw what I saw.” He took a deep breath. “It was those aliens. The … mutants. Future-humans. Whatever. The ones from the news, from the MaxGainz facility, the ones that old army vet guy was ranting about on GBC News. I didn’t really believe it at first, but … well. You know the liberal media and their lies.”
“You’re sitting there drinking a fruity pink sugar-drink, wearing an outfit that makes you look like a gay space trucker, talking about the liberal media.” Smith casually sipped his drink, then made a disgusted face. Some people just couldn’t handle their sugar. “You really need a new outfit. Between your clothes, your ship, and your questionable choice in alcoholic beverages I am struggling to take you seriously.”
There was nothing wrong with his outfit. Space mercenaries often wore leather. And he rode a motorcycle. Once. “Anyway,” said Reardon, “it was … them. I know it was. I saw their ship.”
Any hint of levity, teasing, evaporated from Smith’s voice. “Zenith was hit by an orbital strike?”
“An orbital something,” said Reardon. “It was just one ship, a big one. Like a giant metal brick. And it had a massive…” he held out his arm. “Like a beam on it. Some kind of energy projector, possibly. I don’t know. It was a big thing and it caused the whole surface of the planet to ripple, to heave, to lift up and drop back down like it was a fat guy at a wave pool. Obviously, though, being thrown up and dropped like that wasn’t good for the people on the surface.”
Smith was quiet for a moment. “No,” he said, slowly putting down his drink, “I imagine it was not. Did you get a positive ID?”
“No,” said Reardon, throwing back the raspberry-sweet contents of his drink and relishing in the faint burning alcoholic aftertaste. “Even the Aerostar’s systems couldn’t ping it. It was as though its transponder was scrambled, or built from some kind of entirely non-standard architecture all together. Familiar, but different.”
“Like it was made by future-humans,” said Smith, “showing us primitives a tablet screen that we think is a moving piece of paper.”
Not an entirely bad way of describing the ship. Sammy had said it looked like nothing he’d ever seen before. That would make sense if it was alien.
“Seems right,” said Reardon. Definitely shouldn’t have come. Definitely. “What do you want from me, then?”
Smith touched the side of his face, pressing a finger to his temple. Reardon knew that the guy had significant cybernetic enhancements—an eye at least, possibly a kidney that also functioned as a hard drive, and maybe other things—but just seeing him interface with them directly was a strange, unsettling sight. He looked away.
“I’ll need your ship’s image records,” said Smith. “Whatever you have.”
Reardon grimaced apologetically. “You know I’m a smuggler, right? Smugglers tend to be involved in stuff which is—” he coughed politely. “Ambiguously legal. Keeping logs of what I see and what I do would really undermine my business model if I ever got arrested. You know what I’m saying?”
“Of course,” said Smith, not missing a beat. “But if you ambiguously legal types didn’t keep records of the deliveries you made, including what was delivered to whom, where, when, and in what condition, then I doubt very much you would be a very profitable…” he stressed the word. “Smuggler at all.”
Damn. He knew. It was true enough; Sammy knew to purge the logs after every job, but because of the chaotic nature of their escape, he probably hadn’t gotten around to doing it. Probably. He often forgot.
“Uhh…” Reardon touched his radio. “Hey Sammy, did you purge the logs after we landed?”
There was the very slightest pause. “Uh … of course, Harry,” came the answer through his earpiece.
Reardon gritted his teeth. “Are you very sure? The answer I want is: no, I forgot, because that way I can prove to
my contact what I’m saying is true.”
The relief through the line was almost palpable. “N-no, I forgot. They’re here. Sorry.” There was the slightest pause. “Wait, if we were going to see you-know-who, why would you want the logs erased anyway?”
In truth, he had forgotten to tell Sammy to do it. So they had both forgotten and it had all turned out okay.
Like usual.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Reardon, in what he hoped was a firm, commanding tone. “Just … don’t erase them. I’ll log in remotely in a moment and transmit them to the contact.” He cut the line.
“Sammy knows who I am, you know,” said Smith.
“I know. But … smuggler protocols. Never say names over an open line.”
Smith smiled a little. “Okay. That’s one thing we can cross off right now. When we’re done here, I’ll come with you to collect whatever you have; my systems can process it faster than whatever’s aboard that pink rust bucket you’re flying around in these days.”
“It’s not pink.” Reardon narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You don’t want me to just transmit the data to you?”
“Of course not.” Smith finished his drink. “I’ll analyze it on the way.”
“On the way,” Reardon echoed, glaring angrily at him. “You mind telling me what this is about?”
Smith smiled enigmatically. “Congratulations, Captain Reardon. I need a ride and your ship is perfect for it.”
“Kind of rude to not tell a ship’s captain that they’re taking on passengers. Or where they’re going, how much they’re going to get paid, or you know, ask permission.”
Smith shrugged. “That’s how things used to work back in the day, wasn’t it? Good ole’ Military Intelligence. We don’t ask, we tell. Might as well have been our motto.”
He wrinkled his nose and, with an annoyed grunt, tapped on the bar and ordered another round of sugary drinks. “I left that life behind for a reason, John.”
“I know. But times change, don’t they.”
Sammy’s voice chirped in his ear. “Hey, bro? Uhh … I went to back up the logs like you said, and the ship’s computer’s saying something weird.”
Reardon touched his radio. “Weird?”
“Yeah. Says there’s a docking clamp on the ship—it’s been there since we arrived, but there’s a law enforcement override preventing it from being actively registered on the ship’s computers. I only saw it because I did a full diagnostic.”
Their new set of drinks arrived. Reardon stared at the twin glasses. “Mind telling me why you grounded my ship, Smith?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Smith’s reaction as genuine surprise. “Wasn’t me,” he said, tapping the skin on his wrist. “Hang on.”
“Hang on,” said Sammy. “Lemme just tap into the network here … jump a few firewalls … dodge a few fireballs … aaaaand … There. We’re outta here, boys.”
Slowly, Reardon swiveled on his stool, turning to face his old friend. “Ominous coincidence,” he said, carefully. “I was just chased away from the USS Midway by what must have been a little alien ship, and before that, a bigger alien ship just blew away the planet I was standing on not two minutes previously. And now someone just tried to ground the Aerostar. Wanna tell me what the hell is going on?”
“Just come with me.”
“If I said no, you would persuade me?”
“I told you. Wasn’t me,” said Smith, again, and pushed himself off his seat. “C’mon. We have to get to Ganymede.”
“Ganymede?” echoed Reardon. Maybe he shouldn’t have had so much to drink. “What the hell’s there that’s worth anything?”
“Nothing anymore,” said Smith, “but there’s a destroyed colony there that might have a few more answers for us. And right now I’ve got a troubling surplus of questions and not enough answers to go around. Starting with one of our old friends back at Intel. Guy by the name of Spectre.”
Harry shrugged. “I don’t remember a Spectre—”
“You wouldn’t. Not his real name. But if my suspicions are correct, you’re going to be hearing a lot more of him. You, and … well, everyone, frankly. But first, to Ganymede. The puzzle starts there.”
“Why there?”
“Because,” he stood, and finished his drink, “that was the very first target of that first future-human fleet. Let’s move.”
Chapter Thirteen
Four Lightyears from Earth
USS Midway
Captain’s Ready Room
Mattis let the warm water wash over his body, and he closed his eyes. Steam rose up all around him, softening his skin and gently washing away his anger. It felt good to be clean, luxurious even, but a nice long shower couldn’t hide the fact that, on what would be his final mission as CO of the Midway, he had already suffered a serious loss.
Reardon had gone.
The wreckage of Zenith was a long way away and it was going to be difficult to find answers there anyway. But he’d have to see. Hopefully they’d find a clue there about where the enemy fleet was heading next.
That fact crept in the background of his mind. Somewhere out there, a devastatingly powerful future-human ship, or ships, was lurking, waiting to strike their next target.
How many more millions would die next? How many more worlds, and lives, shattered?
Mattis turned off the water and stepped out of his shower when the chime sounded at the door.
“Just a moment,” he said, toweling off the last few stubborn damp areas and then, as quickly as he could, pulling on his uniform. When he was satisfied, he called out. “Come in.”
Modi stepped through the threshold, stopping when he saw him. “Is this a bad time, Admiral?” he asked, cautiously, eyes falling on Mattis’s uniform.
“No,” said Mattis. “Not at all. I’ll shave when you’re gone. What’s on your mind, Modi?”
“Well sir, it’s the ship’s engine upgrades.”
Mattis’s teeth ground together. “Sure,” he said, “give me the bad news.”
Modi seemed taken aback, blinking rapidly. “I don’t recall saying there was any.”
Dealing with Modi always seemed to be a frustration. He was a gifted engineer and a master of everything that beeped or whistled, but he had an extraordinary ability to take almost anything and only act upon its most literal interpretation. “It was … implied.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed beneath his eyes in frustration. “Just tell me what the situation with the engines is.”
“Well, sir, we’re expecting them to be completed ahead of time and well under anticipated manpower cost, and with no issues at all, major or minor. In all ways engine performance is expected to be superior to our previous systems with a reduced power cost, heat production, and operating with additional safety measure.”
That was not at all what he was expecting. “You’re saying that the integration of a foreign, untested, modification to our classified military propulsion systems is going perfectly?”
“Not going, sir, gone. The upgrade is complete.”
Well. Would wonders never cease. “Very good, Mister Modi. Is there anything else?”
“Yes, sir. That’s why I’m here in person.” Modi shifted uncomfortably. “The reason the system integration has gone so perfectly was due to us being given the … well, what I can only describe as a complete schematic and installation guide—one much more detailed and complete than the Chinese one we were provided—which dramatically lowered the installation time for the whole system.”
Mattis frowned slightly—they hadn’t been given the full schematic originally? Why would fleet brass have accepted that? “What was missing from the original schematics they gave us?”
“Oh, nothing missing, at least from a mechanical viewpoint. We had the full schematic already. It would be madness to install new engines and not give the chief engineer the full schematics.”
Mattis felt like they were talking in circles, and rubbed the bridge of his n
ose again. To his credit, Modi actually seemed to pick up on his frustration.
“But these new files go far more into quantum and graviton theory than the purely mechanical schematics. And alternate configurations and software setup files and hardware drivers. Apparently, these engines are capable of far more than just propulsion.”
“Oh?”
Modi nodded. “Remember the comet fragment that the original intruder ship was trying to push towards Earth last year? And how we were able to stop it with the experimental anti-gravity emitters on those Chinese ships? Well, it appears that these engines may … have that ability inherently built into them.”
“And they gave that to us willingly?”
Modi’s eyes darted to the side in confusion, then back to him. “Um, sir?”
“What, Modi?” He took a breath. “And speak plainly.”
He seemed unwilling to answer. “I … thought you knew.” A pause. “The plans came from Chuck.”
That made absolutely no sense. “From Chuck Mattis? From my son?”
“That is correct, sir. I just assumed that you were aware of them—perhaps he was relaying them for you, or perhaps his contacts in—”
“Chuck hasn’t got a job, he doesn’t have any contacts, and all the diplomatic cred he had he burned when he broke into Senator Pitt’s office like an absolute idiot.” Mattis took a deep, long breath. “So, before we left Earth, he passed them to you. Probably not to me since I was stuck in that Pentagon meeting at the time. Did he say anything else?”
“Yes sir,” said Modi. “He said … this is why Captain Shao’s ship exploded. They were trying to protect this technology.”
So. Shao had died for this information. To protect it. To prevent the US from obtaining it, or … to prevent someone from obtaining it. That was a sobering thought, but more pressing ones pushed their way to the surface. “How did Chuck know about that?”
“He said he met with Admiral Yim,” said Modi. “I suggest you ask him about it. He also said that Yim referred to your trust in him regarding the Goalkeeper command codes over New London. He said Yim is, in his own words, returning the favor.”
The Last Dawn: Book 3 of The Last War Series Page 6
