Down, down, down… The bar kissed her chest, and it stayed there, her arms shaking with the effort of just keeping it from crushing her.
Roadie didn’t help her lift. “How’s it feel, Corrick?” he said, tone humorless. “That bar’s a hundred and forty kilos. It’s enough weight to crush your sternum and wreck your heart if you drop it. This is a do-or-die situation for you, Lieutenant.”
Her arms trembled, fingers white. The grip on the bar dug into her flesh, burning. Her arms ached. “Help,” she gasped.
“Hm, no. You bit off more than you could chew, took on too much, and look where it’s landed you.”
Frost’s voice pitched up. “It’s going to crush her. Help her, Yousuf!”
Roadie crouched down, his head right next to hers. “You see, I was a lot like you when I was younger, Corrick. You’re reckless. Got a point to prove. But I want you to understand this: it’s not just your life you’re playing with when you roll the dice out there. If you don’t figure this shit out, you are going to burn out, and when that happens, I want you to remember: a Warbird seats two. If you go down in flames, I have to write two letters of condolence, and believe me, I hate it. Hate. It. And I will not let that happen. Figure it out.”
“W-Wait,” gasped Guano, her grip weakening.
“Yousuf!” shouted Frost. “What are you doing?”
Roadie stood up. “Teaching her a lesson,” he said, a hard look on his face. “One that I learned a little too late.” He turned his attention back to Guano. “I’m not telling you this again. No more chances. Unfuck yourself at FTL speed, Lieutenant Corrick, because one more slip-up and you are done.”
Her breath came in panted gasps. Frost frantically grabbed one of the disks, pulling it off right before her strength gave out. The bar became lopsided, awkward, but it was easier to hold. Frost pulled off another, and then finally the whole thing tipped to one side in a loud clatter.
Roadie walked to the door and closed it, leaving Guano aching, sore, and covered in sweat.
“Are you okay?” asked Frost, her face streaked with panic.
“Yeah,” gasped Guano, rubbing her aching arms, staring intently at the closed door. The pain grew worse as the adrenaline, the fear of being crushed to death in a gym, wore off. Numbness spread along her fingers, like a million tiny pins, and thick bruises developed along them.
They might be broken. She couldn’t fly.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Captain’s Ready Room
USS Midway
The hours passed. The alien fleet showed no sign of slowing down on its course toward New Guangzhou, and he authorized a shift change. Which included himself. He retired to the captain’s ready room, which was still decorated with Malmsteen’s possessions. Pictures. A mug that was probably his favorite. A spent shell casing mounted to a wooden base. It felt invasive to be surrounded with such marks of personhood, but these were no ordinary times. He’d have some junior enlisted crewman remove it all and store it for shipment to his family, but that was a task for the future. They didn’t have the manpower to spare right now. Malmsteen wouldn’t have begrudged him the use of his facilities.
It’d been so long since he’d seen any action, he’d forgotten how it affected the body. Mattis felt weak all over, as though he’d just run a marathon. Being thrown around on the bridge didn’t help, probably, and he knew he had bruises that he couldn’t feel—but sleep would bring pain and healing in equal measure.
He stripped out of his uniform, but the moment his head hit the pillow and his eyes closed, he heard a knock on the door.
No rest for the wicked, but even the Devil got some time off. Mattis sat back up with a groan. “Come in.”
To his surprise, it wasn’t any of his staff but Martha who opened the door.
“Well,” she said, stepping through the threshold, “you’ve made yourself at home.”
Mattis grimaced. “I was thinking the same thing. Honestly, I didn’t want this, Martha. Not like this.”
“I don’t know,” she said, her eyes gentle and non-accusing, “I feel like, on some level, you kind of did.” She could always see right through him. Those reporter instincts. “A bit more orderly in the transfer of power, perhaps, but I think, in the general sense, you got what you wanted today, Jack.”
He couldn’t refute what she was saying, so he just sat there on the edge of his borrowed bed in silence.
“How bad was it?” asked Ramirez. “The battle? Did we lose many people?”
“Some,” said Mattis, biting his lower lip. “We don’t have a full picture of our losses yet, but when all the department heads give their full report, we’ll know.”
She seemed to take that well. “One thing that I was curious about…you and that Shao woman.” She smiled. “Should I be worried?”
The teasing caught him off guard. It was the second time she’d used that line—the first in reference to the ship, and now to his opposite number on the Fuqing. “I…I don’t know what you mean. You know she tried to kill me back in the day—”
“That’s right,” said Ramirez. “And now you two are basically flirting like schoolkids.”
“We practically argued the whole time!” Mattis squinted at her in confusion. “She shot at me, and it sounded like she was the happiest person in the galaxy. You call that flirting?”
Her smile only grew wider. “I think I know you flirting when I see it.”
Women. Mattis folded his arms in a way he knew was vaguely petulant. “Well, it’s not your business who I flirt with, is it?”
“No, it’s not,” she said, her tone softening. “Just like we agreed.”
“Just like we agreed,” said Mattis, a little regret creeping in. Just a little. It was so long ago, and they were younger then. Busier. Trying to make a career out of their jobs. She, on the lowest rung of the ladder at a trashy celebrity gossip channel, and he, a junior officer in the US Navy.
They exchanged a look, a long look, one that was only broken by the chirping of his private communicator. Typical. He’d been allocated some personal, private, necessary rest and relaxation time, and everyone in a thousand suns thought it was the perfect opportunity to get ahold of him.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
“Not going to answer that?” asked Ramirez, raising an eyebrow.
Ring. Ring. Reluctantly, Mattis checked the readout. It was Chuck. He clicked the answer button. “Hello?”
“Dad?” asked Chuck, concern in his tone. “Hey, I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”
If his communicator had been ringing during the battle, there was no way he’d even noticed it over the noise. “We were a little busy,” he said. There was no telling who was listening in on the line—it was, after all, a private phone call to an active conflict zone. “I wasn’t able to pick up.”
“Right. Well, as busy as you are, I thought you should know: Senator Pitt is calling all over. Everyone he can think of. All about you. A lot of calls, and those people are calling people. This is big, Dad.”
“Senator Pitt is an asshole,” he said, not even bothering to disguise his anger. “I don’t care about what he thinks or what he does. If I had my way, I’d jam his ass into an escape pod and let the Coast Guard pick him up.”
“I understand that,” said Chuck. “But I mean, Dad, I wouldn’t underestimate him. I’m saying this as someone who works with him. I may only be low-level senate staff, but even I know Senator Pitt has his fingers in a lot of pies, and a lot of people owe him favors. He’s not the kind of person you should cross trivially.”
Mattis could barely stifle a chuckle, giving Ramirez a playful look. “What’s he going to do, whine me to death?”
She didn’t seem amused, but out of respect—or possibly something else—she didn’t comment.
“Anyway,” said Chuck. “Javier says hi. Again.”
Again with this Javier. It wasn’t his boyfriend, apparently—the notion still disturbed Mattis slightly—but it was someone else. A h
ousemate? Friend? Second boyfriend? His mind played with the possibilities.
“Tell him hi,” said Mattis, sucking up his pride, forcing himself to be polite. “And tell him I don’t care what role he has in your life. I don’t care. If he’s okay with you, he’s okay with me. Just make sure he pays his taxes and we’ll be fine.” Chuck had a habit of letting people couch surf at his place, often for months at a time. “And make sure he gets a job. You know how I feel about freeloaders.”
“A…job?” Chuck made a weird noise on the other end of the line, half laugh, half confused groan. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, son.” Mattis felt vaguely silly having this conversation with a grown man. “Everyone has to get one, you know. I know it might seem like, over the years, I haven’t always been supportive of your…lifestyle, but you know I love you, yes? Whatever you and your friends and your…boyfriends…do, I’ll always be there for you, and them.” He mustered a smile. “But they have to have a job.”
“Dad,” said Chuck, his tone saturated with bewilderment. “Javier is a baby.”
The revelation hit him like a ton of bricks. “Wait,” he said, speaking before even thinking, his brain still in worst-case-scenario mode from the battle, “you stole a baby?”
“Stole?” Chuck shouted down the line. “I didn’t steal anything! What the hell are you even saying?”
“What are you even saying?” Mattis scowled. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“Dad, we used a surrogate.” Dead silence. “We…we used a surrogate. She’s going to give birth any day now. Javier will be your grandson.”
The idea of having a grandchild, given Chuck’s…preferences…was one he had not ever anticipated. “Oh,” he said. It was really all he could say. Anything else would have come out as a stammering mess. “I didn’t realize.”
“I know you didn’t,” said Chuck. “But now you know.”
This was okay. Good, even. He just needed a minute to process it, a task made more difficult by Ramirez standing awkwardly off to one side, pretending she couldn’t hear every word that was being said.
He had some words for Chuck, he had some words for Ramirez, but before he could say anything to either of them, the connection to Chuck dropped. A work transmission was coming through from the bridge. They always overrode personal communications.
“What?” he snapped.
“Sir,” said Commander Pitt, “we’ve located an enemy ship.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Bridge
USS Midway
Mattis dragged himself out of his borrowed captain’s ready room. Ramirez beat a hasty, polite retreat, for which he was eternally grateful.
When he arrived on the bridge, the room was a busy hive of activity.
“Admiral,” said Lynch, who looked like he desperately needed a nap, but had been surviving on caffeine and adrenaline, “one of the hostile ships has dropped out of Z-space and broken formation with the others.”
Mattis slid into the captain’s chair, considering that. “Just one?”
“Yes, sir.”
He drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair. “Based on our logs of the initial contact, what was the status of that vessel?”
“It was one of the most damaged, sir. Early reports indicate that one of our strike craft lead an assault on that ship, working in coordination with strike craft from the Fuqing.” Lynch scrolled through the report. “Apparently, at close range, Lieutenant Corrick’s scans were able to find a weakness. The ship’s engine exhaust ports were only protected by a cone of armor, so if approached directly from behind, the armor would not protect them. The strike craft dumped their heat-seeking missiles into them, and emptied their guns, right before the ship jumped away.”
Mattis turned the information over in his head. It made sense, after all. An exhaust port had to exhaust things, and therefore, had to lead to some other system. And the ship that had been damaged in the engines having engine trouble was too much of a coincidence to ignore. “Evaluation of that ship’s capabilities, Mister Lynch?”
“Uh, unknown,” he said, although sensing that this was not an entirely acceptable answer, he revised it. “The strike craft do not report that they struck any of their weapons systems, only their engines. We can assume that the alien ship is fully functional, both in terms of defensive and offensive systems, but it may lack maneuvering and Z-space capabilities.”
There was that word again. Alien. Mattis let it slide. Lynch’s conjecture was reasonable. “Good,” he said. “Signal the Fuqing. Tell them we are to engage and destroy that ship.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Bright lights once again enveloped the outside of the ship, and in a cascade of color, the Z-space reality disappeared and the real universe reappeared. “Z-space translation complete, Admiral.”
The Fuqing reappeared moments afterward, and ahead, Mattis could see the enemy ship. A small cruiser, it appeared almost undamaged on all sides, except for its rear exhaust ports, which belched a mixture of white steam and black smoke, large puffs of the stuff dissipating across space. A minor debris field showed up in radar near the ship, probably the ejected remains of their engines.
Lynch had brought them in close, which was good.
“All guns, target that skunk and fire at will. Launch strike craft. Load torpedoes and fire for effect.”
The ship’s guns spoke, and at such a close distance, the shells barely had time to be seen before they smashed into the hostile ship.
Or, at least, they almost smashed into the hostile ship. Mattis squinted to see. The rounds had exploded about a meter in front of the ship. The areas they had targeted had no scorch marks on them, no damaged armor, no signs of impact at all. Instead, as he watched, another volley streaked in, splashing against some kind of blue energy shield that shimmered faintly as it absorbed the impact.
Damn cheating bastards had shields. Their advanced tech wasn’t just limited to weapons. “Lynch, are you seeing this?”
“I was about to ask you the same question, Admiral,” he said.
“Dammit,” said Commander Pitt. He’d been awfully quiet so far. “That’s why we could barely scratch them back at Cor Caroli.”
It would certainly explain things. “But how was Lieutenant Corrick able to damage their rear, if they had this technology?”
“Any number of reasons,” said Pitt. “It’s possible their technology is directional; maybe it can only cover a small area. Maybe it can’t cover their engines because of some technical limitation.”
Lots of theories, not a lot of concrete evidence. No time to think about it. The hostile ship seemed to awaken, beginning a slow turn toward them, its hull lighting up as those red beams—hyper-accelerated particles—leapt out for them, raking across the Midway’s armored front.
Close range was a double-edged sword. The ship shook as the hostile weapons fire struck them, and alarms rang out across the bridge.
“We’re hit,” said Lynch. “Absorbed by armor, but their weapons seem a lot more effective at close range.”
Well damn. Time to bring their allies into this fight. He touched his earpiece. “Anytime now, Shao.”
“We’re computing a firing solution,” said Shao.
“How hard is it? They’re right in front of you!”
She didn’t answer, which was probably a good thing. On his monitors, he could see the Fuqing firing, her guns blasting against the hostile ship’s shields. He stared intently, trying to find some weakness.
One of the Fuqing’s shells had slipped through, blasting a chunk out of their shared enemy. It had happened so quickly that he almost missed it. It was almost as though…
“Mister Lynch,” he said, energy filling his tone. “Speculation. Do you think that their shields can stand up to repeated, rapid-fire blows?”
Lynch twisted in his chair, turning around to look at him. “Maybe, maybe not,” he said. “If the matter field has any similarities to actual armor, it will be subject to physical prope
rties. However, if it’s more like their cloaking device, a tool that requires huge amounts of power to activate and is therefore used sparingly, flickering on and off when needed—” Another barrage of enemy fire slashed across their armored front, rocking the bridge. “It’s possible we could overload it,” Lynch conceded. “Maybe.”
Maybe would have to be enough. He touched his earpiece again, reopening the connection to Shao. “Captain, I’m sure you’ve seen those shields.”
“Sure have,” she said. “I’m hoping you have a solution for me, because they’re really ruining my day.”
“You know I always like to make you happy,” he said, Ramirez’s words flashing back into his head. You’re flirting… That was a distraction. He put it aside. No time now. “But, uh, yes. Plan is to coordinate fire on one particular spot and overload their systems.”
“Sounds good to me—”
A voice cut over her. “Admiral,” said Commander Pitt, his tone urgent. “We’re detecting a power buildup on the hostile ship.”
His chest tightened. “Like the mass driver?”
“Yes, sir,” said Lynch. “It’s smaller. Lighter. Maybe an emergency system, but sir, it’s charging fast.”
Shit. They were right in the enemy’s face. There was no way to dodge. And their Z-drive systems wouldn’t charge anywhere near fast enough. “Can we avoid it?” he asked, dreading the answer.
“It’s not us we need to be worried about,” said Commander Pitt, his face ashen. “They’re targeting the Fuqing.”
“Shao,” he roared, touching his earpiece. “Shao, listen to me, you need to engage your Z-drive system. Get out of there right now!”
“We’re working on it,” said Shao, desperation clear in her voice. Fear. “Standby.”
It was too late. On his screen, the whole underside of the enemy ship opened up, revealing a mass no more than a hundred meters long, strapped to two long rails. It swung to one side, and with a flash, it fired.
The Fuqing absorbed the blow straight on the nose, the front of the ship crumpling in, hull plates buckling and breaking away. The ship lurched backward and downward, like a sick whale, the edges of the entry point glowing red hot.
The Last War: Book 1 of The Last War Series Page 13
