Georgetown, Maryland
Presbyterian Hospital
Chuck just couldn’t quite look at his phone as it rang. He told Smith never to call him. And yet he had, twice in two days.
He was tempted—sorely, sorely tempted—to just ignore it. To be a man of his word and make a stand, here and now, about this issue.
Being in a hospital with his sick kid was bad enough. Especially when the triage nurse gave a shrug when he asked her what could be wrong with pale little Jack.
But try as he might, he just couldn’t let the phone ring out. He answered it with a click.
“What?” he snapped into the line.
“I’m sorry.”
Anger got the better of him. “Yeah, well, you better be sorry,” said Chuck. “I told you not to call me at home; you called me twice now. I tell you leave me alone, you won’t leave me alone. You ask me to break the law. Even when I told you that I’m already in deep trouble, and you know it, and you ask anyway. I have half a mind to just hang up right now!”
“I know, and I’m sorry.”
Chuck took a long, deep breath and slowly, slowly let it out. A trick he’d learnt from his dad. “Okay,” he said finally. “Lay it on me.”
“Okay.” Smith, similarly, took a long breath. “Here’s the thing. There’s this guy. A British guy. His name is Spectre. He’s got his hands on everything; in corporations and governments and probably even smaller businesses and organizations all around the galaxy. Powerful guy, always hiding in the shadows. And he has it in for your dad. The problem is … we think—and we think this with pretty good reason—that the … things … from the future are actually trying to kill him. Him, Spectre, personally. Not all of us. Him. And that’s why they’re here.”
“That’s why they’re here?” Chuck stared out the window of the hospital waiting room in bewilderment. “To … kill some Brit?”
“It’s … difficult to overstate how powerful this guy is.”
“Clearly.” Chuck grimaced and fidgeted with the lint in his pocket. “Right, so, what you want from me?”
“Nothing illegal, and nothing even challenging. We just need you to call your dad and let him know. Let him know not to trust Spectre. Let him know that it’s him they’re after … and, you know, maybe to do with that what he will.”
He paused, waiting for the but or the and which he knew would have to follow, but it didn’t. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Chuck smiled despite it all. “Sure. I can do that.”
“Okay,” said Smith. “Let me know me when you’re done.”
Chuck hung up, then selected his dad’s number in his phone and dialed.
It rang for almost a minute and then stopped.
Huh. Well, an Admiral was a busy guy. And probably hundreds of lightyears away. Chuck tried again. And again, it rang out.
And again.
And again.
And again.
Chuck stared down at his phone in bewilderment. Normally the device would have alerted him that someone was trying to get through, and his dad would have picked up, even if he was in a meeting or asleep or something.
What in the devil was the old man doing?
The door opened. The doctor walked in.
His face was grave.
“Mr. Mattis? Please come with me. We need to talk about your son.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Pinegar System
Gas Giant Lyx
USS Midway
Brig
Spectre casually hummed a tune. The ship rocked all around him, and muted explosions found his way to his ears. The marines on guard stood impassively, resolute in their duty, although he could sense their unease. How they felt powerless standing guard during a time of war.
So, instead, he hummed. Not for any particular reason but because he wanted to. Something quintessentially British. Stout and brave.
It was all about painting a picture. He added a few words to the humming.
“It's a long way to Tipperary,
It's a long way to go.
It's a long way to little Mary
To the sweetest girl I know!
Goodbye, Piccadilly,
Farewell, Leicester Square!
It's a long long way—”
“No singing,” said one of the marines. The Midway shook again to accent his point.
“That’s a bit unsporting,” said Spectre. “Especially since we’re all going to die and all.”
“No talking,” said the marine, a little more forcefully.
Oh, fine. Spectre just sat there on the cell’s cot, swinging his legs idly. Any minute now his people would be contacting him—being in the brig was, ironically, the best place for him to be at that very instant.
And there it came. A faint chime in his ear, as though from far away bells. It was the implant signaling him.
Casually, as though scratching an itch, Spectre rubbed his arm, tapping out a quick signal.
You’ve finally had some success.
“Hey,” said the marine, looking directly at him. “What are you doing?”
“Itchy.” Spectre gestured to his seemingly bare arm, confident that the prosthetic skin wouldn’t be visible to even a trained eye, let alone a grunt on a ship.
The marine glared.
“I have a question,” said Spectre. “If I tried to escape, would you shoot me in the leg?”
“No,” said the marine, his eyes narrowing in frustration. “Centre of mass only.”
“That’s not very sporting,” said Spectre, just trying to get a rise out of him. “Sounds like excessive use of force to me.”
The marine’s obvious frustration grew. “There’s a reason why aiming for the arms, legs, etc isn’t taught in any military, police academy, self defense class, or paramilitary school … ever. Because it is essentially impossible to reliably hit the extremities of a human in such a way as to disable them, and that's at a gun range against a static target. Not in a volatile, real-world situation where if you fuck up, you will be turned into chunks of meat and given a state funeral. So I’ll be putting my sights on your centre of mass.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” said Spectre.
The guard shouldered his weapon. “You want to die?” he hissed, jabbing the weapon at him. Obvious stress reaction to the combat raging around them.
For a moment, Spectre thought he might actually do it, and so accordingly shut up, but then the marine seemed to receive some kind of transmission. “The Admiral wants to see you on the bridge,” he said. “Now. C’mon! Move!”
The door swung open.
Spectre casually stood, brushed off his suit, and extended his palm to the two marines. A hum filled the air and then the implant in his hand discharged, shocking the two of them and throwing them back against the bulkhead. Their crumpled bodies twitched as they lay there.
“I told you not to count on it,” he said, reaching up and brushing back his hair.
Now he had a few minutes quiet before people started to ask questions as to where he was.
Perfect.
He wandered over to the small locker that held his personal belongings and withdrew his tablet, tapping on it furiously. Only a few minutes.
That would be time enough for what he needed.
When he was done, he sauntered up to the bridge, finding it engulfed in endless, bothersome shouting back and forth, back and forth, as people gave reports about various things.
Rather than waste time with anything, Spectre just walked right up to the one called Commander Lynch, and handed him his tablet.
“Here,” he said, smiling a polite smile. “You’re going to want to see this.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Pinegar System
Gas Giant Lyx
USS Midway
Bridge
Mattis stared intently at the radar display monitor, steeping his fingers. Every ship was a chess piece … every decision a move which would bring either deliverance or
ruin.
The door to the bridge opened and Spectre walked right in like he owned the place, handing over a device to Lynch. Where the hell were the marines?
Mattis blocked out the transaction. Spectre had taken his time getting here and he obviously had something for Lynch, something so important he didn’t even ask for permission to enter.
His command console flashed with another piece of flash traffic. “Admiral Mattis,” said an unfamiliar, panicked voice. “This is Captain Fiona Bassi of the USS Lafayette. We’re losing atmospheric integrity, and our reactor is heavily damaged. Torpedoes offline, most of our guns are dead and what we have, we’ll slave to your firing computers so they can be operated by remote. I’m giving the order to abandon ship. Don’t forget to pick up our escape pods when you win.”
If we win, he wanted to say, but kept such remarks to himself. “We won’t forget about you, Lafayette. Godspeed.”
The link closed. Mattis hoped to meet Captain Bassi after all of this. He flicked his monitor to show her ship, battered and broken from too many weapon hits, its hull lit up from within, obviously on fire. Escape pods drifted away from the vessel, their computers guiding them into an orbit around the gas giant.
“Lynch?” he asked, glancing his way. The guy was busy reading Spectre’s tablet.
“It’ll have to wait,” said Lynch to Spectre. Then he turned his attention back to Mattis. “Sir, another ship is emerging. Designating Skunk India.”
The future-humans had continued to increase in number, and now were up to the letter I. And while they had blown two of the enemy ships to atoms, with two more ships floated awkwardly in space, listing aimlessly with fires on multiple decks, they themselves were down three ships, four including the Lafayette, and the Midway’s hull armor was starting to wear away in places. Most of the remaining frigates had some kind of damage to them, some of them critical.
The Lafayette wouldn’t be the only ship whose crew would be recovered from escape pods.
“Fire torpedoes,” Mattis said. “Full spread, target that new ship—Skunk India. I don’t want them joining the fight fresh. They don’t seem to be able to maneuver or redirect our attacks with their gravity weapon when they’re emerging, so let’s use that to our advantage.”
“Yes sir,” said Lynch, tapping in the commands. “Torpedoes away.”
Skunk India, a fortunately immobile target, just sat there as the torpedoes plowed into its topside, bursting it like an overripe fruit.
“Nice call, sir,” said Lynch, grinning like a wild jackal. “I think we should get all of them like that.”
“First,” said Mattis, cautious and not too eager to celebrate a victory too early, “we have to make sure to get rid of the ones we already have. My space is a little crowded right now, Mister Lynch. Reload those torpedoes as quickly as you can. Secondly—” he pointed to Spectre. “You. We need a weakness. Something we can exploit.”
“You could give me my ship,” said Spectre. “It’s still in your hangar bay after all. I might be able to—”
“No. Not going to happen.”
Spectre smiled friendly-like. “Then I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“Great. Then stay out of the way.”
“Certainly,” he said. “Please don’t get the ship blown up while I’m on it.”
As if to accentuate his point, another ripple of fire ran up the length of the ship. “We’re taking too much damage,” said Lynch, “and the frigates are starting to lose damn combat effectiveness. The Lafayette is evacuating, the Dawes isn’t responding to hails and isn’t shooting anything … I don’t know how much longer we can hold out.”
“Tell me some good news,” said Mattis, glaring at Spectre for just a moment, infuriated by the man’s playful smile.
“I think the vortex is shrinking,” said Lynch. “And it looks like ships are coming out at a slower pace. Maybe they’re running out … or maybe they can’t keep the vortex open indefinitely.”
Well, now, that was good news. “Okay. Now we just have to figure out how to get out of here before there isn’t a ship left to do it.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
Pinegar System
Gas Giant Lyx
Patricia “Guano” Corrick’s Warbird
The missile alarm tone screamed in her ears. Stunned, and with the fugue disrupted, she didn’t know what to do. A yellow light flashed on her HUD, urgently informing her:
MASTER CAUTION
“F-flares!” Guano stammered, her training kicking in suddenly. “Flatline, pop flares, chaff, activate broad spectrum ECM!” She flung open the throttle and jerked the control stick back against her gut, the force crushing her back into her seat. She had to outmaneuver the missile. It was a bright yellow dot on her scope, flashing angrily. Her craft vibrated angrily, almost humming with energy as she flung it around.
“No joy,” said Flatline. “Flares ineffective! Chaff deployed—Guano, punch it right now!”
She risked a glance in the rear view screen. Her ship accelerated away from a sea of bright red flares, and twinkling puffs of chaff, but there, streaking directly toward her ship, was the missile, a thin red exhaust plume behind it.
The thing seemed to ignore their flares, their chaff, and the ECM suite in turn. Worse, it seemed almost supernaturally maneuverable, twisting and turning to keep up with her, its engine flaring whenever it needed more power, and cutting out when it needed to turn, preserving fuel.
Shit. Shit shit shit.
“Flatline, shoot it. Shoot it!”
His guns chattered behind her, but the shots went wide. “It’s not exactly that easy!”
The missile closed the distance with frightening speed, seeming to almost feed upon her fear. She fishtailed, swerving her ship from left to right, but the evil thing’s tracking seemed perfect. All around her the battle raged—a piece of debris the size of her fist slammed through one of her ship’s stubby wings, tearing a jagged hole in her ship. A shot from an enemy fighter—red and angry—slammed into the underside of her ship, doing who-knew-what damage.
Distractions. Too many distractions. She felt panic rise up in her, threatening to freeze her limbs solid. All she could do was kick out wildly, jerking the ship from side to side, hoping to shake it.
“Guano, it’s gaining, Guano—”
“I know, I know!”
“Slice left, hard left, go!”
She already was, the stick hard over. The Warbird spun as she fought to shake the thing.
“If you kill us, Patricia, I’m going to be fucking pissed!” Flatline let off another burst. “Scoop it. Get the nose away from the flight path!”
Options. She needed options. Her head swung around as though on a swivel, trying to find something—anything—that might help.
Then she saw one of the future-human cap-ships, closing into the melee, probably to provide fire support for their fighters.
“I have a crazy idea,” she said, and banked the fighter toward the cap-ship.
“No,” said Flatline, and she could see him shaking his head at the edge of her vision. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no!”
“Yes, yes, yes.” She zig-zagged toward the cap ship, then powered directly toward it, the missile in hot pursuit. Around her, alarms screamed out their warnings.
Flatline pounded on the back of her seat. “Vector away from the cap-ship, Guano! They’re going to blow the hell out of us!”
No way that was going to happen. Guano felt cold all over. She knew her little fighter was more maneuverable than any missile. It would suck—suck a lot—but … it was the only option.
She waited until the very last split-second, when the missile was almost on top of them, and she disabled the grav-safety and jammed the stick back into her leg.
The crushing weight of inertia mushed her into her seat. The human body could only sustain 9g sustained turns, but it could survive much more than that for brief periods. 15g … 17g.
Guano was gambli
ng on the turn being brief.
Her vision swam, and a black curtain rapidly descended over her face. BLACKOUT WARNING flashed in bold red letters in front of her HUD, but she didn’t relent. If she passed out, she would die. Her flight suit squeezed her legs, forcing blood into her upper body, an uncomfortable, painful sensation designed to keep her awake.
“Unnnggghh…” Flatline moaned behind her, similarly incapacitated.
The wall of metal that was the enemy cap-ship raced close to her, her vision fading…
Then the fighter crested the bow of the ship, and the missile behind her smashed into the future-human ship, as Guano almost passed out.
“-ey,” said Flatline, his voice groggy. “Gu- … Guano … wake up.”
She struggled through the fog. “I don’t wanna go to school today,” she murmured, then snapped back to her senses.
They were drifting in space, well away from the dogfight, their momentum having carried them away from the battle.
“Report,” she said, checking her instruments. They were okay … everything was okay.
“We’re good,” said Flatline, laughing with relief. “We shook the missile, and we even gave it a little return to sender, if you know what I mean.” He thumped the back of her chair with his fist, cackling like a moron. “This battle fugue is great.”
“Hah,” said Guano, her hands shaking just a little from the effects of oxygen deprivation to the brain. “That one was all me.”
“Okay,” said Flatline. “We’re getting an order to recall. We gotta get back to the Midway, stat.”
“Righteo,” said Guano, turning her nose back to their mothership and, with a flick of her wrist, turned on the autopilot, letting the fighter’s computers take her home.
“You okay?” asked Flatline.
“Yeah,” said Guano, “but I don’t think we’re done yet.”
The Last Dawn: Book 3 of The Last War Series Page 22
