The Last Dawn: Book 3 of The Last War Series

by Peter Bostrom

  Mattis glared at him angrily. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you.”

  Both of Spectre’s eyebrows shot up in surprise as he looked back toward Mattis. “That’s a mighty fine way to talk to the person who just saved your ship and your life, Admiral, eh?”

  “Mmm,” said Mattis. “Yes. How thoughtful of you to save us from the fight that we were only in because you were being hunted.”

  “Me?” asked Spectre, innocently. “Whatever do you mean?”

  He had no mood for games. “I mean,” said Mattis, “that we’ve figured out the truth. That the future-humans that we’ve been fighting this whole time … were after you.”

  Spectre just shrugged absently, like it was no big deal.

  Lynch glowered beside him. “As my good old Pa used to say, some people would look good with bullet wounds on them.”

  “All those lives spent,” hissed Mattis. “Those ships destroyed. You came to us ostensibly with information, but that wasn’t it at all. You were just using the US Navy, using me and my ship, to protect yourself. You coward!”

  “It’s not cowardice to want to live,” said Spectre.

  “Your actions,” said Mattis. “Have left many US citizens—people under my command—injured or dead.”

  “They would have died anyway,” said Spectre evenly. “Nobody lives forever. All I did is move the temporal location of their demise.”

  What kind of a justification was that? Spectre was baiting him. “Do not play with me.” said Mattis, evenly. “As someone who wants to live so badly, you won’t like what I’m going to do to you. It’s a popular misconception that humans explode when thrown out an airlock. They don’t. Nor do they boil. They say we just kind of … pass out from lack of oxygen and die. It’s well established scientific fact, but you know what?” He smiled grimly. “I’ve always wanted to see for myself.”

  Spectre just smiled despite it all. “You can be better than that, Admiral. Marcus Aurelius once said, The best revenge is to be unlike him who performed the injury.”

  “Fuck that shit,” spat Mattis. “Marcus Aurelius didn’t have nukes. Or firing squads. And believe me: you won’t like them either. The shooters in the firing squad aboard this ship are so accurate they ejaculate exactly one sperm.”

  Spectre rolled his eyes. “Make up your mind, my dear Admiral. Are you going to shoot me, or throw me out an airlock?”

  “I haven’t decided, to be honest,” said Mattis, “although I did like that you didn’t bring up option three: turning you over to your own people.”

  Spectre squinted, tilting his head. “The … British government?”

  “No,” said Mattis. “The growing future-human fleet on the other side of that gas giant.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” said Spectre, shaking his head. “You’re the kind of man who doesn’t go back on his word. We had a deal.”

  “Deals are made to be broken.”

  “So are necks,” said Spectre, all pretense of British jovialness about him instantly evaporating. For a moment—for just a brief moment—Mattis could see the real Spectre. A dark, manipulative, sociopathic maniac with no concern for anyone but himself.

  Mattis stood by his initial assessment. A nasty piece of work. “Do you know what happens to a body when it dies?” he asked. “Sometimes, under the right circumstances, it shits itself. The same thing is happening to your little web of lies, Spectre. But your shit is your lies, your schemes, your manipulations … all spilling out everywhere, stinking the place up. Luckily it all ends soon.”

  “All an asshole can talk about is shit,” said Spectre, playfully.

  Mattis wasn’t amused. “Triple the guard here,” he said, “and instruct the marines that if this piece of space garbage so much as opens his mouth, fill his body full of lead.”

  “Don’t threaten me,” said Spectre, ominously. “You won’t like me when I’m feeling threatened.”

  “I don’t threaten. I act. Don’t make me act.” said Mattis, and then turned and left.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Pinegar System

  Gas Giant Lyx

  USS Midway

  Bridge

  On the way back to the bridge, Mattis gave his report to Fleet Command. It was brief, detailing the losses they had suffered, and that the USS Hamilton was the only ship to survive beyond their own. He advised them to send whatever resources they had in the area as quickly as they could, but he knew it wouldn’t be much.

  And wouldn’t be enough.

  Lynch opened the door to the the armored casement onto the bridge, and as Mattis stepped through, Lynch spoke up.

  “Sir, we’ve dispatched a probe to the other side of the gas giant. We now have eyes on the vortex.”

  “Good,” said Mattis, moving over to his command console. With a tap of a key he bought it up. The image was somewhat grainy and pixellated—the probes didn’t have a great resolution—but it was there. There were now fourteen enemy future-human ships, including the damaged ones.

  And it was just the Midway and the Hamilton to oppose them.

  “Admiral,” said Lynch, “I have Captain Abramova of the USS Hamilton on the line for you.”

  Speak of the devil. The only surviving ship to get out of that cluster-fuck with them. Mattis clipped on his earpiece. “Hamilton, this is Midway actual. Send it.”

  “Sir,” said Abramova, jumping straight into business. “I’ve been talking to your XO about the ammunition situation, as well as the damage to our respective ships … nothing we can do about the latter, without a dry dock, but I think we might have a solution to the former.”

  That conjured a faint smile. “If you have the means to conjure ammunition out of nowhere, I’m all ears, Captain.”

  “That,” said Abramova, “is exactly what I plan to do. Do you know of a small, little, entirely reputable, libertarian outpost called Chrysalis?”

  He’d been there. Hadn’t exactly been a great memory. “Lots of space mines that automatically destroy any ship that approaches unless their transponder code is on an approved list, lots of assholes who hate the government, and a lot of actually quite nice coffee now that I think about it. Why? Do you need a java hit?”

  “Actually I wouldn’t mind,” she said. “But there is more there than just coffee. My XO … well, she used to be a bit of a wild child, you might say, and she’s got a contact there who’s prepared to sell us some shells for the standard Mark 22’s we both carry, and might even be able to acquire us a new barrel for one we had damaged in the battle.”

  That surprised Mattis greatly. “Criminal elements at Chrysalis are able to get hold of ammunition for state-of-the-art navy guns? And replacement parts too?”

  “You’d be surprised what people can buy on the black market,” she said. “Or, more correctly, trade for. And Admiral—while we’re there, I suggest, diplomatically speaking, not referring to it as a criminal element. Riley tells me it’s an, and I quote, ‘entrepreneurial free-enterprise unburdened by heavy-handed government regulation, and supplied by creative logistical solutions aimed at undermining the capitalist hegemony of multinational corporations.’”

  “Of course it is,” said Mattis, flatly. “So they’re tax-dodgers who steal weapons from the US taxpayer and sell them.”

  “It’s all in the interpretation.”

  Naturally. “Fine,” said Mattis. “Give me a moment to decide.”

  He didn’t want to go back to Chrysalis, but as he sat there, trying to think of a better option, Lynch spoke up, his voice charged with energy.

  “Sir,” he said, “the probe is detecting another massive energy surge.”

  “A second vortex?” Mattis asked, grimacing. How many of them could there be…?

  “No sir,” said Lynch, his tone curious, “I … I think they overextended themselves. The vortex is collapsing.”

  The future-human ships sped away from the vortex, leaving their damaged, still burning companions behind. They were obviously af
raid, and it was tempting to order the Midway to reengage, but it would take hours for them to round the gas giant—they simply couldn’t.

  So he watched as the vortex shimmered, shook, and then winked out of existence—replaced, ever so briefly, by a strange sight. The burned-out, partially consumed husk of the moon which had been there previously—it looked like a crescent moon on a cool Montana night, missing a big chunk of itself, glowing red hot as though the process used to open the vortex had consumed some great piece of it, converting it to energy.

  The broken husk of the moon exploded, and from it came a massive turbulent blast front of energy and mass, traveling outward in an ever-expanding sphere.

  Lynch stared at his console, wide eyed. “Sir,” he said, “that blast front—the gas giant isn’t going to stop it. We need to get into Z-space.”

  “Modi,” said Mattis, touching his radio, “get us the fuck out of here. Emergency Z-space translation. Now.”

  “Sir, the engines will take an hour to charge at their current capacity—”

  An hour. “Time until that energy pulse passes through the gas giant and gets to us?” asked Mattis.

  “Thirty seconds,” said Lynch. “Possibly less. That damn front’s moving almost as fast as light.”

  Which meant if they were observing it using optical cameras, it was substantially further ahead than they were seeing. That didn’t leave them much time at all. “I need a Z-space translation in twenty seconds, Modi,” he said.

  “But the engines—”

  “Can you do it?” asked Mattis.

  A brief, agonizing pause, and then … “Yes.”

  “Do it!”

  All around them, the ship began to prepare for Z-space translation. Normally the process was gentle and quiet, but this time, the whole ship vibrated angrily, like an old man protesting being hustled out of bed. The Midway groaned again, just like it had before, and on his monitors, the glowing, writhing surge of energy got closer and closer.

  “Hurry, Modi!” hissed Mattis.

  The energy front touched the outer atmosphere of the gas giant. It was like a wall—it pushed the gasses along with them, as though it were some kind of impenetrable field, completely unlike anything he’d ever seen before. It smashed into the gas giant at what must have been a ludicrous speed, splattering its atmosphere out wide. Wide. Wide.

  Then the roiling gasses engulfed the probe, and the video feed winked out.

  “Now, Modi,” said Lynch, gripping his communicator tightly.

  “Standby,” said Modi. “Charging.”

  “No!” Mattis almost shouted. “Now, now, now!”

  The roiling wall of gas leapt towards them as the gas giant behind them disintegrated, squashed into nothing, the sheer amount of energy involved turning the gasses to a white hot stream of plasma that licked hungrily as it advanced toward them, the white light of it blocking out their cameras.

  “Now, now, now, now, now, now, now—”

  Then all was replaced by the bright, multi-hued pattern of Z-space, and the ship leapt away from the area towards Chrysalis.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chrysalis, Low Orbit

  USS Midway

  Bridge

  Mattis slumped back in his seat. “Midway actual to USS Hamilton,” he said, his heart pounding in his chest. “Report.”

  “Do you think they made it?” asked Lynch, quietly.

  There was a brief pause, and then Captain Abramova’s voice came on the line. “This is Hamilton actual, we made it.”

  Mattis smiled widely as a cheer went up on the bridge. “Good to hear your voice.”

  “Same,” said Abramova. “Listen, we’re heading to Chrysalis … figured that blast made up your mind for you.”

  “Sure did,” said Mattis. “There’s no way that fleet all got vaporized; most of them probably slipped away into Z-space like we did. Let’s make for Chrysalis, rearm, do whatever repairs we can, and get going.” He paused, considering. “Um, how are we going to pay for the shells?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” said Abramova, “I got a plan.”

  “Fill me in on the way,” said Mattis. “Hold please.” Then he changed frequencies. “Modi, status on engines?”

  “Well,” said Modi, “They’re holding. Thanks to some wizardry from me. I had considered simply letting them blow up, but then I wouldn’t be able to spend those leave days you owe me … and I want to see the look on Lynch’s face when he finds out I am going to spend them attending the rodeo he wants to go to. After, of course, I’ve finished disassembling Spectre’s ship. Especially since I have just so many leave days available that I can, easily, do both!”

  Lynch’s dark scowl made it all worthwhile. “Good to hear,” said Mattis. “Now, we’re going to be pulling into Chrysalis soon, to rearm. The good Captain Abramova has a plan to get us some currency—or the local equivalent—to spend while we’re there, so make sure that you have a shopping list ready.”

  “Will do,” said Modi, and cut the link.

  Mattis’s communicator chirped. An incoming signal from the Hamilton.

  “Admiral Mattis,” said Abramova, her tone betraying a tiredness that he knew was from a lack of adrenaline. “How are you doing?”

  It was strange to hear such a request from one so obviously drained. “I’m fine,” said Mattis. “Combat keeps me up.”

  “I wish I could say the same,” she said, stifling a yawn. “I’m going to switch out for a few hours sleep. You’d be wise to do the same, sir, if you don’t mind my recommendation.”

  It would be wise, but he had so much to do and so much nervous energy he doubted very much he would be able to anything more than simply lay there waiting for time to pass. “Maybe,” he said. “Call me when you get there. We’ll talk shop.”

  “Of course,” said Abramova, a slight edge of humor dripping through her thick Russian accent. “You promised me coffee, sir. Do not forget.”

  The notion of something so refreshingly genuine made him smile. “I won’t.”

  There was a slight pause, where the only noise down the line was a faint hissing. “Maybe something stronger,” she said, her tone softening. “We lost a lot of good people today, Admiral.”

  “We did,” said Mattis, soberly. “But we’re going to avenge them. Our job isn’t done yet. We have a lot to do; I’ve been to Chrysalis before, they aren’t exactly the most friendly type, especially to the military. They have a pretty nasty minefield which we’ll have to talk our way past. If we piss them off, they’ll crunch us. Gravity bombs. Nasty little pieces of work. And they’re hard-coded to lock onto military ships that get too close.”

  “I know, sir. I’m hoping Riley can charm them until the bad guys show up.” Something came into Abramova’s voice. A kind of casual whimsy that made him smile. “You know they’re right behind us, yeah? The hostiles. Even though we can’t see them on sensors … they’re there.”

  “Bound to be,” he said, as certain of it as he’d ever been of anything. “They won’t let us go. Not after that. They may be humans from the future, but if they’re anything like us, they’re going to want revenge.“

  “Let’s give them some revenge first. Let’s give them … pre-venge.”

  Amused, Mattis shook his head. “Go get some sleep, I’ll talk with you when we arrive.”

  “Hamilton actual out,” said Abramova and closed the link.

  The Z-space journey to Chrysalis was a short one, even on reduced power, and Abramova was right. There was no sign of pursuit but he could feel them out there, watching his ship. Watching him.

  When they arrived, all seemed quiet.

  As they had planned, Abramova’s XO—one Commander Jessica Riley—negotiated with the Chrysalians. She seemed to be almost a local, even sharing their accent.

  When Mattis found out what they were expecting to trade, however, he was less than impressed. Due to the losses incurred during the battle, many of the strike craft no longer had frigates to return t
o. While they had escaped in the Hamilton’s hangar bay, they had no way of repairing, refueling, or rearming them, so their plan was to trade top-of-the-line US military space supremacy for what they needed.

  This, Mattis reasoned, was one of those things that the history books would never record and that the US taxpayer would never find out about. Those craft would be classified as ‘lost.’

  He just had to hope that they didn’t find their way into the wrong hands.

  The notion put him in a slightly foul mood as the Midway and the Hamilton sailed through Chrysalis’s gravity-weapon minefield, a relic of the last war with the Chinese, but as it had been before, the Midway was permitted passage without a fight. Or being blown up by the devilish things. Even so, it was disconcerting to have his ship orbit Chrysalis, drifting alongside the repurposed mines. Any moment they could light up, attach themselves to the hull, and crush the ship into tiny pieces.

  Best not to think about it.

  The trades were done. Spacecraft for ammo, armor plating, and even a new forward gun for the Hamilton. Modi’s ‘shopping list’ came to much less stuff—mostly just circuits and electronics, a large amount of reinforced titanium plating, along with some raw materials and things that seemed inconsequential to him—and all for the low, low price of a single Warbird worth hundreds of millions of dollars.

  He knew they were being ripped-off, but there was nothing they could do. For hours, engineers on the Midway and Hamilton worked to patch things up as best they could; even to the point of simply bolting armor plates over any battle-damaged areas. It was crude and ugly but it worked.

  Tons of ammunition were bought aboard in what were clearly stolen, converted cargo freighters, and unceremoniously dumped in the hangar bay in a massive, entirely unsafe, pile. Modi would have pitched a fit if he had seen it, but at least it was aboard. Bringing it to the guns would be the next job.