The Last Strike: Book 5 of The Last War Series

by Peter Bostrom

  “Better be,” he said.

  “My compatriot here is Commander Blackwood, the XO of that ship.”

  “Commander who Blackwood?”

  “Pardon?”

  The guy jabbed his finger at Blackwood. “Her. The unconscious gal. If you work with her, what’s her first name?”

  Mattis searched his memory, trying to recall. There was something there, right on the tip of his tongue, but he wasn’t sure whether he was remembering it or imagining it. And the man sounded so familiar, it was distracting. “I don’t know. The military doesn’t exactly operate on a first name basis.”

  “So you don’t really know her at all,” said the guy, drawing his gun again. “Guess you wouldn’t mind if I shot her, then—”

  “No,” said a voice from farther up the cargo bay. “Piss off, Harry. Nobody’s shooting anyone.” A younger kid in a wheelchair rolled through the doorway, glaring angrily at his shipmate. “Sorry. He watches too many movies.”

  “Great,” said the bomber jacket kid, grinding his teeth. “Just handle the small talk, won’t you?”

  “Yes,” said the wheelchair kid, “I will.” He rolled over to Mattis. “Sorry. My name is Sammy Reardon—” he swatted away the other’s attempts to gag him. “And this is my brother, Harry Reardon. And this ship is the Aerostar.”

  The Aerostar. Mattis stared in bewilderment. The man who had found him was Reardon. Harry Reardon; the very man Spears was out here to find, the man who had carried a Maxgainz mutant in a box. The man who had returned Chuck to him.

  He was a cocky little bastard.

  “Fine,” groaned Reardon. “So I guess it really is you, isn’t it? You’re not a weird clone or something?”

  Suddenly it all made sense. The guy was suspicious of him because he knew of the clones. “My name is Captain Jack Mattis of the United States Navy. And I’m not a clone.”

  “Wow,” said Sammy. “That’s…” he stopped. “Wait, I didn’t recognize you because of the foam, but… aren’t you Chuck Mattis’s dad?”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Inside Guano’s Head

  Surgical Bay

  HMS Caernarvon

  Low Earth Orbit

  Guano stared at Brooks—Spectre-Brooks, or hallucination-Brooks, or whatever he was—trying to process what he was saying. “Bring them…back?”

  “Of course,” said Brooks, as though he were discussing the idea of playing back a recording of their voices. “It’s very much possible. I do it all the time.”

  She narrowed her eyes, simply unable to believe it. “That’s something you do? You randomly bring back the dead?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” said Brooks, chewing thoughtfully on his marshmallow.

  In a manner of speaking. Guano didn’t believe in the human soul, or in any kind of spiritual force beyond a few nagging superstitions. “I’m guessing,” she said, carefully, “that you mean that you can recover their DNA and copy their bodies, so that there’s a kind of… you know, a copy of them that maybe has most or all of their memories, and looks like them, but isn’t actually them. Just a copy of a person.”

  Brooks laughed and shook his head. “Oh goodness, no. No, no, no. The ethical implications of that have been long since discovered and solved. No, this is definitely a process by which the electro-biochemical reaction in the brain can be preserved, restarted, and restored into a new body. It’s the same process I used to create my various copies of myself—but that, my dear, was definitely copying.” He waggled a finger. “It’s like a computer. It can copy and paste, or it can move. Just a little switch. Click!”

  Guano waved a hand. “Okay, fine. Whatever. That is better, I’ll give you that, but the point is, I don’t care.” She scowled. “And I’ve got questions for you.”

  “Shoot,” he said, delicately fixing another marshmallow onto the end of his stick.

  “How are we even talking right now? Is this all just some kind of demented hallucination?”

  Brooks smiled. “Oh, no, that would be telling.” As he spoke, the tip of his stick drooped, seeming to melt and disappear into the floor, his hand following it.

  “Gross!”

  He shrugged, smiling. “They’re pulling out the nanobots, obviously. That much is clear. So I’m afraid I’m going to be leaving you for good soon, my dear.”

  Great. That suited her just fine. As she watched, his skin started to slough off his body, revealing a glowing blue, digital skeleton below it. Of course he wasn’t real… of course it was all fake… but it was still disturbing to watch. She racked her brain for questions.

  “The President’s dead,” said Guano. “What do you know about that?”

  Brooks smiled, the corner of his mouth sagging to the ground, leaving a gaping hole. “Might as well tell you: We had planned on replacing her with a clone under our control, like we controlled you, but she was stubborn, so… we had her removed instead. Admiral Yim knows more. Ask him when you find him.”

  That didn’t make any sense. “Admiral Yim is one of your agents?”

  “Oh, no,” said Brooks merrily, as his scalp fell off. All around Guano, the trees began sinking into the ground, the mountains disappearing and the stars winking out one by one. “But his clone was.”

  Well, now. Just peachy. “How can I tell if someone’s a clone or not?”

  He chortled as his mouth disintegrated entirely. “I would think you would know,” Brooks said as his body disappeared into goop. “Given you are one.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Cargo bay

  Aerostar

  Unknown Location

  Wasn’t he Chuck’s dad?

  Mattis found the answer to Sammy Reardon’s question stuck in his throat.

  “Yes,” said Blackwood, beside him. “He is.” She looked pretty awful, her face pale and caked in biofoam, but she was at least alive. And, apparently, she was talking now. “Surprised you didn’t recognize him earlier.”

  “Of course I did,” protested Reardon. “I just had to be sure, you know what I mean? I wasn’t exactly expecting the guy to just be floating around in space. Could’ve been a clone. Or anyone.”

  Sammy glared at his brother. “Idiot,” he said, then turned back to Mattis. “Hey… I’m really sorry.”

  Mattis sighed and put his head in his hands. “It’s fine, and… yeah. I should have figured out who you two were earlier as well. Sorry. These last few months have just been a blur, and to be honest, it’s still pretty fresh to me.”

  “Doesn’t feel like he’s really gone,” said Sammy, folding his hands into his lap.

  That was true. It really just felt like a vacation—like Chuck was waiting for him at home, with Elroy and the baby. “Mmm.”

  There was an awkward moment of silence.

  “So,” said Reardon, his tone business-like. “Does this affect the rescue fee, or—”

  “Shut the hell up,” hissed Sammy.

  “Okay, okay.” Reardon groaned out loud and threw up his hands. “I guess I won’t bother trying to make us any money. It’s not like we need it or anything, I guess the damn ship can fix itself!” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Don’t need money, don’t need parts, all we need is good intentions and a desire to help out whatever piece of space trash just decides to float along into our hull. Because, you know—”

  “Hey.” Blackwood cut in. “Look. Mister… Reardon, is it?” She pushed herself up into a sitting position, something Mattis thought was probably a terrible idea given her state, but she did it anyway. “Hail the Caernarvon. Tell them you found us and that we’re okay, more or less. Tell them that you’re going to return us in exchange for compensation and the use of the Royal Engineer Corps who, I’m sure, will gratefully and helpfully take the time to inspect whatever problems your ship might be having.”

  Mattis narrowed his eyes slightly. Reardon was mercenary, but Chuck had trusted him, and Chuck was always a good judge of character. Was he joking? Holding out for money? Surely he woul
d not be so stupid as to kidnap a US Navy Captain?

  Reardon mulled that over in his head. “Mmm, yeah, okay. Sure.”

  Sammy’s chair chirped. He tapped the side of it, pulling a screen out of the armrest. “Hey, bro,” he said, “we’re getting a transmission from the Caernarvon. It’s broadcasted openly…” he read, eyes widening. “Dude, they’re promising ten thousand US dollars each for Mattis and Blackwood, fifteen if they’re alive.”

  “Time to do the right thing, Sammy!” Reardon said brightly, clapping Mattis on the shoulder—sending a spike of pain leaping up his body. “Congrats, you’re going home!” He stopped. “Wait, I still get the reward, right?”

  “Glad you’re doing the right thing,” Blackwood said, in a commendable imitation of sincerity. “And… of course.”

  “Open the channel,” Mattis said. “I wanna talk to Spears myself.”

  Reardon tsk-tsked and waggled a finger at him. “That might not be possible,” he said, grinning like a cat. “We’ll just have to see.”

  “Well, hurry up,” Mattis said, grumbling. “My face hurts and I wouldn’t mind actually getting real medical care.”

  “Jeez,” Reardon said. “And I thought we were friends.” He stood up, presumably to go talk to Spears, but Sammy’s chair chirped again.

  “Um,” said Sammy, peering at the screen curiously. “Hey, Reardon?”

  “Yeah?”

  Sammy turned the screen around to show his brother. Exactly what, Mattis couldn’t see. “We’ve got a big problem, bro.”

  “Oh shit,” said Reardon, completely dropping his swagger. “Make the call. Get hold of the Caernarvon. Now!”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Bridge

  HMS Caernarvon

  Space, near Earth

  Options. Spears needed options. She glared at the screen, at all the ships buzzing around. “Maybe we could perform random search-and-seizures,” she said. “That might work.”

  “Communications are flooding in,” said Locke, scrolling across his console. “Look at this. Civilian after civilian saying they have our people, but none of them transmitting the proof-of-life I requested, and none of them seeming to know even basic information, like their first names.”

  Spears scowled darkly. “This is the problem with illegal salvagers,” she said, trying to keep her tone in check. “Damn bastards are just out for a quick quid.”

  Locke smiled his agreement. “We’ll find them, Ma’am. I’m sure of it.”

  “As am I, but certainly not like this.” Anger flared up inside her. Why must everything go wrong? She needed Mattis’s help to find the Aerostar, and she didn’t have him. She needed Blackwood to find Mattis now, and she didn’t have her either.

  She needed that blasted backup computer from the Stennis, not only to figure out why it had mysteriously turned on, but it most likely contained all the logs and security camera footage. She had trusted Captain Flint, but… something had brought him to a meeting room where the clone of Jeremy Pitt had shot Flint, blaming the actions on Chuck Mattis.

  She needed to know if there were nanobots in Flint’s head. If something outside of his control had brought him to that room, had taken the man she trusted and led him to his death. The only thing it could be was the same something that had stolen Lieutenant Corrick’s will too. She needed to know, because the alternative was that Chuck had really shot him, or that Flint really had betrayed them.

  And why the hell had the computer jerked to life when they had scanned it? What was on that thing? What had Spectre done to it in the short period of time he was in control of the Stennis?

  Too many questions that needed answers.

  “Thoughts, Mister Locke. What if we move the ship into the debris field? Scatter the scavs like roaches?”

  “If we do that, we might risk colliding with the debris. Plus, it will affect our ability to scan if we’re always moving around.”

  She knew that. Spears resisted the urge to thump her fist against the arm rest of her chair. A captain must always appear in control, calm, collected—

  “—Ma’am, we’re receiving another message. One that may be credible.”

  Spears grimaced. “I guess may be credible is what we’ve got to work with. Put them through.”

  The line crackled faintly as the connection was made. A smooth, confident voice in an Indian accent came over the radio. “Hello, Caernarvon? This is Harry Reardon of the Aerostar, and I heard you’ve been looking for me.”

  Spears felt her eyes nearly pop out. “I most certainly have,” she said, trying not to betray too much of her enthusiasm. “For quite some time, actually. I don’t suppose you could tell me which one of these…” she almost said criminal scum, but fortunately caught the words in her mouth before they spilled out. “Enterprising crews you’re part of, would you? So we can come over and chat?”

  Reardon’s skepticism was clear. “So you can dispatch a shuttle full of Marines to come cut a hole in the hull and arrest us all?”

  She kept her tone level. “Arrest you for what, my good chap? Surely, if you have recovered our missing crewmen, then you’d be eager to turn them over to us out of the goodness of your hearts—and as we said, we’re more than happy to compensate you for your time, and for the potential for lost salvage.”

  “Not sure fifteen-thousand each will cover that,” said Reardon. In the background, a voice berated him in Hindi, but Spears barely understood more than a few words. “Might need a bit more.”

  How tiresome. Spears touched her forehead. “I want proof of life,” she said, flatly. “Put one of them on the line.”

  There was a brief pause, and then Blackwood’s voice came down the line. “Evening, Captain.”

  The sound of her XO’s voice bought a genuine smile to Spears’s face that simply could not be suppressed. “Evening, Blackwood. Bloody good to hear your voice once more.”

  “The same for you, Captain.”

  Satisfied, Spears muted the call. “Mister Locke, have a boarding party standing by, but don’t open the hangar bay doors yet or give any indications we’re doing anything untoward.”

  He nodded his acknowledgement.

  “You there?” asked Reardon, an edge of affable cheekiness creeping into his voice. “I can tell when I’m put on hold, you know.”

  She touched the mute button. “It’s quite all right, Mister Reardon. I’m merely running a warship here, which requires a certain amount of multitasking. As you are probably aware, there’s a lot of civilian traffic in the area.”

  “Yeah, about that,” said Reardon. In the background of the call, spears heard a faint rumble and the wailing of various alarms. What the devil was going on? “We kind of have a situation here. Could use your help, Captain.”

  Spears met Locke’s eyes. He shrugged. She shrugged too. “Okay,” she said, cautiously. “How can we help you, Mister Reardon?”

  “Well…” Reardon sighed. “There’s another scavver—pardon, enterprising gentleman here—who saw us pick up your crew, and he’s moving in to claim—I mean steal—what he feels is yours, which is to say, my ship and my cargo, which is your crew.”

  Typical scavs. Spears ground her teeth. “Very well, identify your ship, provide targeting information, and we’ll provide fire support. Just enough to chase them off.”

  Suddenly, Reardon perked right up. “Here you go, love! Sammy—Sammy! Send through the data! Now! Yes, right now!”

  Locke’s console lit up. “Fire support information received,” he said.

  “Very good, Mister Locke. Fire a warning shot across the bow of the hostile ship, see if we can scare them off.”

  “Confirmed,” said Locke, tapping some keys, his fingers striking triumphantly. “Single shot, tracer, vectoring for one kilometer in front of their cockpit. Should be clear as day.”

  “Fire,” said Spears.

  A single round leapt from their forward gun, a pyrotechnic charge igniting as it left the barrel, leaving an extremely visible bri
ght streak across space. It disappeared like the finger of a giant poking at a distant spot in the black, and the ship’s cameras moved to track it.

  The round flew directly towards a tiny ship, one unpainted and cobbled together from old shipping crates, a truly DIY job wildly maneuvering in the depths of space, spouting streams of gunfire toward a target off-camera.

  Locke’s shot seemed perfectly aimed, angled to fly right by the cockpit, but right at the last moment, the ship surged forward, its engines flaring a bright blue against the black backdrop.

  The tracer round smacked into the cockpit, ricocheting and bouncing off into the darkness.

  “Sorry, Ma’am,” said Locke, grimacing.

  “No worries,” said Spears, watching as the ship banked and burned their engine, accelerating away from the battle. “Looks like they’re rabbiting. So, perfectly aimed, I will say.”

  “Thank you, Ma’am.”

  Spears sighed and touched her wrist-computer. “There you go, Reardon,” she said. “Now return my people.”

  “Of course,” said Reardon, with relief. “But um, hey… you promise you won’t arrest me?”

  No promises, she thought, but didn’t say. “If you promise you don’t give me cause to arrest you, you’ll find me a perfectly amicable host.” She shifted in her seat, pursing her lips. “But just some food for thought while you make your way here: I need to ask you something important.”

  “Shoot?” asked Reardon. “Don’t literally shoot, but… ask away.”

  Spears took a breath. “I know you recovered a piece of salvage from the Stennis,” she said, choosing her words very carefully. “I—I need to ask you some questions about it, and about what happened to it.”

  “Right,” said Reardon, his tone suddenly shifting. “Well, that’s mine, so I think we’ll just deliver your dudes and go.”