The Last Champion: Book 4 of The Last War Series

by Peter Bostrom

  Roadie approached her, eyes wide like saucers. He had his neck craned forward, skin pale as though he were looking at a ghost. “Is it… really you?”

  “Who the fuck else would it be?” Guano laughed, reaching out and plucking another cigar from Roadie’s chest pocket and planting it between her teeth. “Light me up, boss.”

  He didn’t. He just stared at her. “But you’re dead,” he said, plaintively.

  She chewed on the cigar, grinning like a wild cat. “Do I look dead to you, jackass?”

  Roadie didn’t look amused. Nor angry. Merely confused. “The battle of Chrysalis,” he said, with an ethereal edge. “We looked all over for your pod. Couldn’t find it. We put a one hundred thousand dollar bounty out to the locals for any word… nobody answered it ‘cept a bunch of local scammers trying to cash in with a salvaged pod from God knows where.” Roadie’s voice cracked. “We had a wake. We … gave up on finding your body. And here you are, just waltzing in on us like there’s nothing wrong.” He stared at her in utter bewilderment. “Where have you been?’

  She almost told the truth. The full and complete truth, right there in the bar, with everyone listening. But the words snagged in her throat.

  There had been multiple copies of Brooks. Multiple people in those tanks she’d seen. Guano didn’t believe for a second that Brooks—or whoever he was—had laid everything on the table for her. There were bound to be other secrets. Other lies. Things she hadn’t known and could be dangerous to voice. If she told them about Spectre, that might raise suspicions about her. And she wanted to fly, to get back into the saddle as soon as she could.

  She wanted her life back.

  So, she lied as well.

  “In some guy’s basement,” she said, piecing together a series of what she hoped would be believable lies as quickly as she could. “I hit my head pretty hard when my pod landed. Some local drifters picked me up, brought me back to their ship. They, uhh … wanted to hold me for ransom, to try and extort the US government for a bounty or reward, but because I was unconscious, they didn’t know my name. When I came to, I wouldn’t tell ‘em anything, either. Eventually I escaped, and I … made my way here.”

  Flatline stood up, his face a mask of wonder. “That’s amazing,” he said, awe painting every word. “We had huge issues with getting cooperation from the locals at Chrysalis; I totally get why those bastards would have wanted confirmation you were who we were looking for before they turned you over.” He spat onto the ground. “What pieces of shit.”

  “Yeah,” said Guano, grinning still. “They were arseholes.”

  “That explains what you’re wearing,” said Roadie, gesturing to her bloody prison garment. “We’ll get you changed out of that when we take you back to the Stennis.”

  “Sounds good,” said Guano. “Stennis? New ship, huh? They kept the whole Midway flight crew together? And what are you guys doing here?”

  Roadie rolled his eyes as groans sprung up around the bar. “They merged our whole group with the Stennis’s flight group, which was new and tiny to begin with since the Stennis is new. And some kids here on New Kentucky got stolen,” he said, acid dripping from his tongue. “And apparently the local police are staggeringly incompetent, so here we are.”

  Fair enough. She would have hated it too. “I’m itching to fly again.” Suddenly some vague recollection of a conversation she’d overheard—some snippet—some brief side comment made somewhere recently—came back to her mind. Who’d said it? “Is it true that the Stennis got the same Chinese engines as the Midway had when she blew? I’d … heard that was … a thing.”

  Roadie laughed, obviously glad to no longer be talking about their work assignment. “Who the fuck cares about engines?”

  She could sense that they had a lot of questions and, especially from Roadie, some suspicions that she wasn’t telling the whole truth, but all of that was buried under a deep, profound joy that she had returned. All of the pilots and crew rushed forward, surging toward her, all yammering at once. They grabbed at her, asking her a torrent of questions she couldn’t possibly answer in the time they gave her. They even hoisted her up and carried her like some kind of rock star.

  “Guano! Guano! Guano!”

  Finally, the crowd set her down. Flatline and Roadie grabbed her and she hugged them both with one arm each. “Hey, you motherfuckers know I wouldn’t leave you. I wouldn’t leave you.”

  “You better not,” said Flatline, his voice wavering. “You better fucking not.”

  And then they were all crying. All three of them. Standing in a bar on a backwards-ass planet, holding each other like family, crying like babies, surrounded by their coworkers.

  Roadie broke it off first, giving her a firm slap on the back. “You’re going to have one hell of a post-operation debrief paper to write when we’re out of here,” he said, reaching up and wiping his face with the back of his sleeve. “But for now, you useless AWOL piece of shit, let’s get fucked up.”

  That sounded perfect.

  Shots were passed around; small glasses of a translucent liquid that burned like acid as it went down and was, most likely, used to strip the grease off engines. Guano took one after the other after the other, slinging them back like they were water. Beer. More liquor. Ciders. A full spread of shots of a liquid that was as alcoholic as it was sugary. A bunch of stuff she didn’t even recognize.

  And then, eight or nine hours later, most of the flight crew had passed out on top of, or around, the various tables, stools, and furniture of the bar. Someone’s boots protruded from under the rug. Guano slumped down into a booth. She could smell vomit and cigar smoke.

  What a night. She settled onto the couch, stifling a loud, profound yawn. It was good to be back.

  One of the viewscreens in the corner was showing the news. Some kind of breaking event. Guano drunkenly glanced at it. The sound was off, but text rolled across the bottom, holographically floating in front of her vision as she tried to fixate on it.

  DISASTER: InterStat transport on Chrysalis to New Kentucky run explodes in upper atmosphere. Related to child abductions? US marshals report that…

  InterStat Transport? The Chrysalis to New Kentucky run?

  That had been her ship.

  The ship she’d come in had exploded almost the moment she got off it? Something about that nagged at her—almost screamed “trouble!” in the back of her mind—but she dismissed it. Boring. Guano shrugged her shoulders and looked for something else to drink.

  “Hey,” said Roadie, slumping onto the couch beside her, comfortably draping his arm around her shoulder. “You did good, Guano. I honestly didn’t think you’d come back. Thought you were fucked.”

  “Proper fucked?” laughed Guano, leaning against him a little.

  Roadie snorted. “Not for a long time,” he said, letting out a loud, long burp. “You know why.”

  She did, but it didn’t do to dwell on the past. Guano nestled up against Roadie. “You know, losing the ship… it was nothing like what I thought it would be.”

  “Things are rarely how you imagine them.” Roadie paused. “Back when I was in high school, I smashed up my first car driving on a road that was all iced up. I thought a car crash would be a long, roaring fire and screaming. The thing that stuck out about it to me was the noise; a sharp crunch, nothing more. Deafeningly loud as the metal bent and twisted, but brief, followed by the most eerie noiseless aftermath. Just a big ole’ nothing as I sat there, car upside down in a snowy Michigan ditch.

  “I don’t really remember the crash itself. Just how utterly quiet and peaceful it was. All I could hear was the gusts of wind through the shattered glass, and the gentle thump-thump of the windscreen wipers trying to clean nothing. If I wasn’t bleeding so much and had been upside-down, I would’ve almost liked it.”

  Guano shuffled on the bench. “You grew up in Michigan?”

  “I did.” Roadie tilted his head back, looking up at the roof. “I loved the lakes. Sailing, boating
, kayaking…”

  “Those are all the same things.” She grunted. “And I mean… I mean, the ocean is just a really big lake. I’ve been in the ocean. It’s fine. It’s okay, I guess.”

  Roadie looked at her oddly, went to say something, but his communicator chirped. Buzz buzz. He fished it out, reading it. Then his eyed widened.

  “What?” asked Guano, sitting up. She felt vaguely sick as she did so. Don’t puke, shithead.

  “We’re being recalled,” said Roadie, his tone picking up as he fought his obvious drunkenness. “The USS Stennis is recalling all leave, effective immediately. All hands are to return to the ship post-haste.”

  Huh. “What about me?” asked Guano, staring.

  “Well, the order was for all former Midway pilots to report to the Stennis. We’ll see what Captain Flint says about that when we drag you on board.” He stood up, clapping his hands. “Come on pilots, move out!”

  Groaning, the pilots around them resisted.

  Guano, however, couldn’t wait to get spaceborne again.

  Chapter Twenty

  Main Street

  Fermion City

  Los Alamos v2.0

  Tiberius Sector

  Chuck drew his pistol and sprinted down the road, chambering a round with a soft click-click. Above the landing pad, a pair of sleek black fighters dove toward the Aerostar, strafing it with their guns. Sparks flew in all directions as rounds struck the hull, ricocheting off and flying all around. One whizzed past his ear.

  Well, his little pea shooter wouldn’t do anything against aircraft. And standing out in the open with all the stray rounds flying everywhere was a dangerous idea. The black fighters tore into the orange sky, engines roaring as they banked around for another pass at the pink ship.

  Bratta, one hand on his massive cowboy hat and the other clutching his bag close to his chest, seemed somewhat more oblivious to the danger. “Is that the Aerostar over there?” he asked, squinting and leaning forward. “It looks kind of… more bullet-y than I recall.”

  Great. This was the scientist who was going to save his son. “That’s right.” Every father’s instinct in him screamed abuse into his mind, saying that this was wrong. He’d been wrong.

  A turret popped out of the top of the ship, spinning and facing one of the oncoming ships. It let loose a stream of bullets, the crack-crack-crack of automatic fire rippling through the air. The ship burst into flame, banking away from the city, leaving a long, thick black trail of smoke behind it, obviously out of the fight.

  “Reardon,” said Chuck, touching his ear. “Why didn’t you tell me you were being shot at?”

  “We … forgot,” he answered, and Chuck could almost hear the sheepish grin in his voice. “Hey, this is stressful, ok?”

  “It’s going to be a lot more stressful for you if Jack gets hurt over there,” Chuck promised. He did his best—his absolute, genuine best—to avoid blowing his top. To avoid blaming himself. To be angry at Sammy for talking him out of bringing Jack with him. The more he thought about it the more he would get angry, so he decided not to think about it.

  Tried very, very hard.

  The remaining black ship strafed the Aerostar again and then flipped over, dodging a stream of return fire.

  “Okay Bratta,” said Chuck, taking in a deep breath. “When that bastard takes another pass, we’re going to run to the ship, right?” He glanced to the suitcase. “Ditch the case.”

  Bratta snorted indignantly, clutching the suitcase closer. “I’m afraid I can’t, Mister Mattis. This is my most recent project. I don’t let it out of my sight. Plus, all my equipment is here.”

  He knew better than to argue at a time like this. “Okay. When we get a chance…”

  The black fighter came in low, wings sharp and angled like a knife. It let off a stream of fire, then roared high into the sky.

  “Now!”

  Chuck sprinted across the open ground of the landing pad. It had been churned up by the strikes of the exploding cannon shells. He stumbled. Catching his balance, Chuck powered toward the open loading ramp.

  Twenty meters. Ten meters. He could hear the howl of the black fighters’ engines, coming back around to make another pass. Five meters. His feet thumped up the loading ramp. He turned back to Bratta.

  The guy had fallen behind, waddling as he walked, carrying that big, heavy case. His hat fell off, tumbling as it rolled away. Bratta stopped and looked for it.

  “Forget the fucking hat!” roared Chuck. “Get onto the ship! Now!”

  His anger seemed to encourage him. Bratta waddled up the loading ramp just as the howling of the engines reached a crescendo; explosive rounds burst on the ground all around the ship, shrapnel screaming as it tore up the paintwork, and pieces whizzed around him, striking the inside of the cargo hold with a plink.

  Fury boiled up within Chuck. “Hey—hey! Baby on board here!” he shouted out the loading ramp, as though the near-supersonic fighter kilometers away could hear him.

  Bratta threw the suitcase onto the deck, panting and wheezing in exhaustion. “The adults want to live too,” he gasped.

  Fair call. “This is Chuck,” he said, touching his ear. “Sammy, we’re aboard. Raise the loading ramp and let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “Working on it,” said Sammy over the line. The ramp began to raise and the ship finally lifted off.

  There was a tense moment when Chuck felt a pronounced sense of helplessness. If the ships came back, there was nothing he could do. He needed to hold Jack Jack, just do something to protect his son.

  Then Sammy sighed with relief into his ear. “Looks like the other fighter is breaking off too,” he said, giving a halting, nervous laugh. “Guess we showed them.”

  Chuck wasn’t so sure about that. “Who the hell were those guys?” He glared at Bratta. “Tell me what you know.”

  “Okay,” said Bratta, standing up and dusting himself off. “Um. Well? Just this. They’re terribly creepy guys. This is the second time they’ve tried to kill me. Jeannie would be quite proud of me, I must say.” Chuck had no idea who this ‘Jeannie’ was. “But she’s wrong. It turns out hiding in civilian areas is a good way to stay safe.”

  “Second time for us too,” said Sammy over the line. “Someone out there must really hate us.”

  Wait. Chuck stared into nothing. “You guys have… encountered these things before? Fighters like that?”

  “Yup. It’s okay, they tend to just kind of shoot a bit then break off. Dunno why.”

  The only conclusion he could come to was that they didn’t want either the Aerostar crew or Bratta dead, and were just sending some kind of warning. Possibly. It didn’t make much sense.

  “So,” said Bratta, smiling nervously. “We’ve escaped, life and limb intact. Uhh, what was it you needed me to do again?”

  “Save my son,” said Chuck, firmly. He wasn’t sure exactly how much to tell him. “He’s got a strange illness nobody can even diagnose, let alone treat. And you’re smart. So … fix him.”

  Bratta stared a moment. “There are plenty of doctors in the galaxy,” he protested, blinking rapidly. “Specialists in childhood diseases which, let me remind you, I am not.” His posture became slightly defensive. “Are you a crazy person? Oh God, please tell me you’re not a crazy person.”

  “It’s more than a simple runny nose,” said Chuck, anger rising again. “And I’m not a crazy person. It’s…” He couldn’t decide how much to say, so said everything. “It’s something related to all this nonsense. Mutant research. MaxGainz. The kidnapped babies on New Kentucky too.” He wasn’t being paranoid either, no, definitely not. It was all—must be—connected. “Something … different … is wrong with him, and I think it’s not something a regular old doc can handle. I can’t rely on normal medical science. I’m out on a limb here. I need you.”

  Bratta squinted. “Do you have money? I could really use money. Not much. Just enough for food. And whatever supplies I need.”

  The
one thing he didn’t have. But feeding Bratta would be possible. Probably. Supplies… well, maybe. It would depend on what he needed. Elroy still had a credit card or two that weren’t totally maxed out. “Sure,” said Chuck, grinding his teeth a bit. “Why not.”

  Seemingly convinced, Bratta nodded firmly. “Okay. I have my other research projects to pour time into—my automatic homing dart launcher is still too heavy and unwieldy—but I can dedicate some time to that.”

  “Good,” said Chuck. “Make sure it happens.” He considered a moment. “Also, don’t talk to the mutant.”

  Bratta stammered a moment. “Wait, the—the what?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Cockpit

  The Aerostar

  Upper Atmosphere of Los Alamos v2.0

  Tiberius Sector

  Chuck fetched Jack from Sammy in the cockpit. Sammy had set out a small, baby-sized collapsible bed in the rear of the cockpit—did he just carry that thing around with him at all times?—and Jack didn’t seem upset at all. His kid gurgled happily as he picked him up, seemingly oblivious to the chaos which, mere minutes before, had reigned around their ship.

  In the quiet, the only noise the gentle hum of the engines, he spent just a minute rocking Jack back and forth, admiring his playful little squeals and gurgles, while Sammy pretended not to be there. Fortunately, true to his word, the mutant had been kept in the cargo bay.

  Eventually, Bratta called him down. With visceral reluctance, Chuck left Jack with Sammy and went down to the ship’s open space. Lily stood in the corner, industrial shackles around her wrists. Seemed safe enough.

  But Chuck felt a twinge of guilt at seeing her shackled. Despite her horrid appearance and mutations, Lily was still … human. Wasn’t she?

  “I’ve finished setting up my equipment,” called Bratta as Chuck entered, no small amount of pride in his voice. It was obvious he was itching to do more science stuff.