by Nick Webb
A man who’d never held a gun until fifteen years ago.
For a moment, she felt a stab of pity. But not everyone was made to be a soldier. And dreaming of glory in battle was not worth more than victory.
“Any other questions?” Walker swept her eyes over the group.
There was a hasty murmur, some heads shaking, and for a moment—just one—she felt a wave of regret. She understood why so few questioned her, after all: her rise to power had been as careful as it was ruthless. She started with the cargo haulers, against General Essa’s express wishes. Walker knew what too much knowledge could do to a person, and the transports that carried goods between the stations and the colonies had seen it all, from the palatial estates above Venus down to the worst of the stations surrounding Jupiter. They were the ones stopped for the petty indignities of ship inspections by both human and Telestine bureaucrats alike. They passed Earth time and again, a forbidden home, and they looked down at the blues and greens and knew it was forever lost to them.
It hadn’t taken much for them to start turning over their data on the obstacles within the asteroid belt, or the patrol schedules of the Telestine ships around Earth, or the questions that betrayed just where the Telestines were watching for threats. When missions were suggested, it was Walker who knew which systems to avoid and which to target. It was Walker who could predict the defensive capabilities of the satellites in orbit around Earth. Her power within the Rebellion grew as she anticipated Essa’s mistakes.
When Essa fell, at last, it was Walker who courted the youngest among the cargo fleet. Their parents, long since accustomed to passing the Rebellion intelligence, accepted the trade: send their children to the Rebellion and they received the promise of Earth in return. The new recruits brought with them contacts within the manufacturing sector—linked, however distantly, to the mines and shipyards on Mercury. When the Rebellion’s ranks swelled and its fortunes rose, the officers knew who had brought them so far.
It was Walker who stepped into Essa’s shoes, and Walker who now commanded the Exile Fleet. King and Delaney questioned her, but rarely—and the others never did.
“Good. King, keep us apprised of the scouting information. The rest of you ... it’s time to make a ruckus. We want the Telestines distracted so they aren’t watching our ships come in.” She hit a button, and three separate systems came up. “The first diversion: we have maintenance problems on these stations necessitating food aid and some parts.” She tapped at several dots, stations tentatively aligned with the Rebellion but without any Fleet resources aboard. “These issues fall within the parameters of the Technological Easement, and with any luck, Tel’rabim will handle the food side of things.”
As much as she hated watching humanity bow and scrape for food aid, the fact was that they couldn’t feed themselves. They needed the aid the Telestines gave them, and that was all on the discretion of what seemed to be the richest members of their society.
Yet another reason for this Rebellion: who could say when that charitable streak would end? Tel’rabim had been sending aid to humanity out of his own coffers for decades. Surely he—she was fairly sure it was a he—would tire of it someday.
“Communications about these issues should obscure any signals coming from our ships,” Walker continued. “Please note that we are allowing these stations to handle all communications themselves, for the purposes of seeking UN aid to ensure Technological Easement.” Her gaze swept around the table, meeting each pair of eyes. She did not have to remind them how important this was. If the UN found out about this mission, they were in for a world of trouble. The General Secretary would almost certainly do something, whether intentional or not, that would expose the scope of the operation.
“On that note, ma’am, we have arranged for Secretary Sokoloff to be occupied with a great number of requests from the outermost stations so that he doesn’t get too suspicious about these.” Larsen looked up to meet her eyes and nodded.
“Thank you. Meanwhile, a diversion ship will send a transport for the parts they’re requesting, which will break down near—” she tapped the screen, “this sensor.”
“That will mobilize their fleet into the asteroid belt, won’t it?” Commander King frowned.
“They’ll tell the Telestines they’re doing the repairs themselves. The trick is, the sensor arrays become backup communications grids. If the ship signals for help, that hijacks the sensor’s primary array. As long as our ship can keep it busy with transmissions about parts and repairs, we can get through the belt with minimal interference.”
Or so their source on Venus said.
She wished she knew who that was. Whoever they were, they commanded a network larger than her own, and better connected—and if the cargo haulers knew who it was, they weren’t saying.
Right about now, however, Walker was willing to take any ally she could get. She stared down at the maps and tried to keep her expression blank.
“Ma’am?” Commander King looked worried at her pause.
At her side, Commander Delaney watched Walker, his eyes narrowing.
“Right.” Walker turned back to the screens with cold determination. “Now, the other diversions....”
I will free humanity from this hell if it is the last thing I do. Don’t fail me, Pike.
Did you enjoy this excerpt? Continue reading here
David Adams is a good friend of mine, and back in 2016 we started talking about maybe one day writing a series together. Well those talks and early ideas quickly turned into actions, since we started writing The Last War right away, and it’s been a very fun series to create. This series is interesting. While still being deadly serious with lots of tragedy and action and space ships defending Earth, there’s a lot more levity in this series, mainly because Dave and I like to make each other laugh when we’re reading each other’s sections. As such, there are a ton of pop cultural references in this series, lots of Star Trek and Star Wars easter eggs, and in general it was a very fun book to write, and to read! Jump right in. You’ll love it.
Here’s the link to purchase should you want to continue the story after reading the sample.
The Last War
Book One of
The Last War Series
By
Nick Webb & David Adams,
writing together under the name Peter Bostrom
Prologue
Operations room
Station 43
Capella System, 42 light years from Earth
“I can’t believe you’ve done this.” Petty Officer Third Class Leonard Alexander Jacobs jabbed a finger at the game tile on his duty monitor, as though the computer would change its mind. The tile stayed red. “Admin is a word.”
“No, it’s a contraction,” said Petty Officer Third Class Suhina Iyer beside him, her thick Indian accent almost smothering her words, tapping on the key that denied him his precious points. “It’s not a word. Doesn’t count. Only administrator counts and you, my friend, are missing a T.”
Every day was like this. Even among distant systems, Capella System was considered the back-end of nowhere. The frontier’s frontier, the only human presence a tiny space station orbiting the gas giant Euphrates. A giant coffin where the thirty-odd staff had nothing to do all day but perform the meaningless drudgery that counted as work, play stupid games they were bored of, and consider the chain of bad life decisions that had led to them being posted out this far.
And arguing. Oh boy. Nothing kept the mind occupied like a good argument. All around him, the other station operations crew chatted away, also trying to stave off boredom.
“Admin is a shortening,” said Jacobs. “A contraction is like…something else. Like how do not becomes don’t.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s not,” he said patiently. “Admin’s like radar. It counts because it’s a word in common usage.”
“Radar is an acronym,” said Iyer. “Totally different.”
Oh, this was good. Jacobs readied the next chain in the argument he’d prepared, but then something flashed on the edges of his screen.
The radar program was trying to tell him something, almost as though it had been summoned by the use of its name. He switched between programs, bringing up his actual work.
A faint reflection, out near Euphrates’s third moon, right on the horizon of the gas giant. The size of a small ship or large fighter. A gunship?
He almost ignored it, but even this tiny blip was more excitement than he’d had in a long time. “Radar contact,” Jacobs called out, trying to sound less bored than he felt. “494,400 kilometers distant, bearing 96.229 mark 11.812. RCS suggests gunship class.”
The general hubbub of the operations room ceased. Everyone cast aside whatever tool they had been using to keep themselves from going mad and focused on work.
“Confirm that,” said Lieutenant Ellis, stepping up behind him. Ellis was their short, nasty CO with the face only a mother could love, like it had been run over a couple of times with a cheese grater. “Iyer, send another pulse, maximum power.”
The radar pulsed again, and this time, nothing came back, even with the higher power. That area of space was empty.
“Again,” said Ellis. Another pulse. Another nothing.
Iyer was staring at him. In fact, everyone was. But he was sure the ship had been there.
“No transports or shuttles are due today,” Iyer said. “And they wouldn’t come that close to the gas giant if they were. Not picking up any distress signals, no transponder codes. Nothing.”
“Petty Officer,” said Ellis, gently patting the headrest of his seat, “I think you’ve been out here on the edge too long.”
Haven’t we all? Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. Maybe it was the damn rats chewing on the network cables again. Who needed the Chinese when they had rodents sabotaging every system on the station?
“It was faint, ma’am,” said Jacobs, banishing the doubts in his mind. He’d definitely seen it. “If it was a recon gunship, we might have been seeing a refraction through the gas planet’s atmosphere. There could be something behind the horizon, observing our radar pulses without reflecting them. The Chinese used to do the same thing, back in the day.”
“This isn’t back in the day, Petty Officer, and the Chinese are our friends now.” The tiniest hint of sarcasm slipped through Ellis’s carefully chosen words. “Stand down. It’s probably just a bounce from a pocket of gas in the upper atmosphere.”
“Aye, ma’am.” Well, that was the most exciting thing he’d seen in weeks. A month, probably. Ellis’s boots retreated behind him. Jacobs waited until the coast was clear.
Iyer glanced at him, corkscrewing her finger near her temple. Yeah, yeah… He put his fingers to the tab key, but right before he changed applications, another pulse went out.
And his whole display lit up.
It looked like a shotgun blast. A dozen bright, hot contacts simultaneously dropped out of Z-space in attack formation.
Oh shit.
“Radar contact!” Jacobs practically shouted, fingers frantically tapping at his keys. A whole damn fleet had just appeared. “Multiple skunks, fresh from Z-space, coming in from Euphrates’s horizon!”
“Confirmed,” said Iyer, her voice charged. “Designating skunks Alpha through November. They’re squawking IFF. Firing interrogation…” She practically spat the words. “Nothing, dammit. I’m detecting IFF transponders, but they’re not any configuration I’ve ever seen. It could be a new Chinese system.”
Could very well be. The United States and the Chinese had been at peace for nearly twenty years…plenty of time to adopt a new system of transponders.
“Action stations, action stations,” said Ellis, the station-wide address radio in her hand. “This is not a drill.” She turned to Jacobs. “Give me a firing solution on the nearest skunk. Sparkle them with infrared lasers. Make sure they know we’re giving them the stink-eye.”
“Aye, ma’am,” he said, flicking the plastic cover off the master-arm button and thumping it with his fist. The faint hum of energy grew around him as the station’s weapons systems, too long inert, came to full power. Time to blast those red bastards into the cold vacuum of space. He fed the coordinates for the closest contact, Skunk Alpha, into the computer. “Targets highlighted, ready to engage.”
“Hold steady,” said Ellis, leaning forward behind his chair. “Iyer, establish inter-system communications. Get Fleet Command on the horn. Tell them we are”—the slightest hesitation—“under attack. Updates to follow.”
“Aye aye,” said Iyer. “Transmitting.”
Silence, save Iyer’s frantic typing. The hostile ships closed in on them.
“Sent.” Iyer twisted around in her chair. “Lieutenant, are we sure—”
A deafening blast stole the rest of her words, joined with the roaring of splintering metal. A pressure wave blew Jacobs forward, onto his console, smashing his nose into the screen.
Air howled all around him. Dazed, confused, his nose a smashed wreck, Jacobs instinctively reached up to pinch it, to staunch the flow of blood.
His hand was covered in the stuff before he even touched his face.
“Iyer,” he said, his voice strangely muffled, having to shout over the sound of air rushing past, the wind throwing debris all around. “Hey, I think I’m bleeding.”
Her headless body drifted upward, past his chair, into a massive hole in the hull and out into space.
How had a single shot penetrated so far into the armored core of the ship?
“Evacuate!” roared Ellis over the rushing air and wailing klaxons. “Operations is breached! Get to the escape pods!”
Jacobs clambered over his chair, frantically trying to get to the rear of the room, to the armored door that led to the eight escape pods.
Another round blew through Operations, crumpling a bulkhead and blasting debris everywhere. The screaming fragments of metal whizzed past his ears like a swarm of hornets. Ellis collapsed, dozens of red flowers blooming on her body, and then she too was sucked out.
Jacobs felt the howling air tear at his legs, yanking him off his feet. He climbed forward with his hands, pulling himself from chair to chair. Three meters. Two. One.
The door hissed open. He hauled himself into an escape pod the size and shape of a coffin, gasping with lungs that barely had any air to fill them. He pulled a safety belt around his body, clipped it securely, and then tugged the pod’s lid closed, sealing himself in the armored sarcophagus with only a tiny window the size of his fist in front of his eyes.
“Wait!” shouted one of the other operations crewmen, his voice muffled. The ensign moved into view, bashing his fist on the lid. “Let me in!”
There were seven other pods. “Take another one!” yelled Jacobs, right as a third round blew through the room. The crewman’s blood splattered against the pod’s window, painting it crimson.
Nothing he could do. Jacobs drove his bloody fist into the launch button.
The pod shook as it blasted free of the doomed station, the porthole instantly replaced with empty space. The howling disappeared, replaced with ominous silence.
With its minimal fuel exhausted, the pod drifted through space, maneuvering for an orbit around Euphrates. Finally, he saw Station 43, atmosphere pouring from multiple breaches, the sparkle of debris drifting away.
From Euphrates’s horizon, a massive ball of ice and rock, leaving a trail like a comet, swung around toward the station. Helpless, Jacobs could only watch as the object, almost moving quicker than he could comprehend, barreled into the side of Station 43 and blasted it into a billion pieces. The debris scattered into the void.
Jacobs’s pod would be transmitting a distress signal in the open. His enemies would certainly pick him up. Being a Chinese prisoner couldn’t be too bad though. Hopefully they would acknowledge admin was a real word.
Jacobs sat curled up in the pod, waiting for one of the enemy ships to ma
ke an approach to capture him. But as he watched the distant ships, they suddenly disappeared with a flash, one by one, until the whole fleet had departed as quickly as it had arrived.
Then he was alone.
Shuttlecraft “Hestia”
Cor Caroli System, 27 light years from Earth
Meanwhile
Admiral Jack Mattis had seen a lot in his day, but laying eyes on the massive steel space station through the window of the forward section of the shuttle left a taste in his mouth more sour than the cigar still perched between his teeth.
Friendship Station. A massive ring perched in the asteroid belt of the Cor Caroli system, bristling with docking clamps, passenger umbilicals and radio antennas, it resembled a colossal crown floating in space; jutting out above it all was the American flag, flying beside the Chinese one, two massive cloth banners on twin flagpoles, motionless in space. A red floodlight illuminated the Chinese flag and a white one the Americans, while the light of Cor Caroli’s twin blue stars cast the remainder of the whole station in a pale cyan light that seemed cold. Foreboding.
Red, white, and blue hues. Interesting patriotic statement for a station that stood for the biggest betrayal of the American people since the war.
Mattis inhaled, sucking smoke into his lungs. The cigar tip flared. Now they were all friends, of course. The Americans and the Chinese. Oh, sure, they had shot at each other for almost a year, killed and died in equal measure…but now they were friends.
He’d thought the nicotine might help. It didn’t. Never did.
“You shouldn’t smoke in here,” said a voice from across the shuttle, its tone like sandpaper to his sanity. It moved, swaggered like the person who owned it, dripping with self-righteous smugness. Senator Peter Pitt.
