Hopefully he wouldn’t be dragged into it. Or dad…
A shuttle descended into view on his video feed. Probably American special services. Maybe U.S. Army Rangers, or Navy SEALS, or Air Force SSTs, or—
Or his fucking Dad, stepping out of the shuttle like he was going to storm the place himself. And, of course, he immediately starts shouting at the building. Fortunately the vidstream didn’t have audio.
Chuck put his face in his hands. Why. Why was his Dad always getting involved in these things … right at the forefront of it all, too. The guy was a dinosaur. What was his ship even doing there after all…?
Angry, confused thoughts played in his head, but they were banished the moment he saw a squad of five Chinese marines slip out of the back of a recently-arrived APC, disappearing into the open sewer grate like sneaky communist weasels.
Well, now, this was just great. His father the crazy grandpa was going to get himself machine-gunned by crazier grandpas on live, intergalactic TV.
Chuck picked up the communicator and flicked through his numbers. He considered trying to call his father directly, but no doubt the old man wouldn’t have taken his communicator with him to an embassy. Surely not. Maybe he could try the ship directly. Diplomatic channels had their perks. Maybe he could do this, or maybe…
As his thumb hovered over the dial button, one of his junior staffers, Ashley Fair, her face ashen, shoved a tablet in his face.
“Get that away,” he said, scowling.
“Look,” said Fair, insistently. “Martha Ramirez is on with a breaking story.”
Reluctantly, Chuck took his eyes away from his Dad. “What can be more important than the embassy siege?”
Chapter Thirteen
Inside the Chinese Embassy
Sanctuary
Omid Sector
Ryan looked over Castro’s shoulder at her tablet.
“You see,” said Castro, pointing at the screen which showed a ghostly schematic of the sewer network with a handful of red dots moving through it, “the thermal sensors track the heat of those bastards pretty easily. The sewer lines are colder than the surface, so now we know they’re in there their body heat is easy to track.” She grinned at him. “Nice work, sir.”
He didn’t return her mirth. This was a problem. A big one. They had turned their thermal cameras downward which allowed them to see their enemies, but seeing them was only half the battle. “What kind of weapons do they have?”
“Not sure,” said Castro. “The resolution on these systems isn’t that great. The modern ones are better.” She hesitated, sensing that wasn’t a good answer. “But, you know, probably rifles. Breaching charges. Grenades, probably.”
Lots of probably. Lots of guesswork. “Can you increase the resolution?”
Castro shook her head. “Not with this equipment. The fidelity isn’t there.”
Damn. “A‘right. Well, any idea where they’ll come up?”
“I’m guessing,” said Castro, “the embassy has some kind of emergency escape tunnel that leads into the sewers. Also useful if the place is stormed and needs to be recovered.”
Well unfortunately for the Chinese, Ryan knew they were coming. “Keep an eye on them,” he said. “When they get below the building, we’ll prepare an ambush.” A lightbulb flashed in his mind. “Wait … they’re in the sewers, right?”
“Yeah,” said Castro, raising an eyebrow curiously.
“Will a grenade fit down a toilet?”
Her whole face lit up. “You know, there’s only one way to know.”
He nodded energetically. “Flush a little surprise for our Chinese friends. Don’t blow yourself up. I’ll distract Mattis.”
“Oorah,” said Castro, standing and moving over to the bathroom, unbuttoning her grenade pouch.
Ryan crouched and shuffled over to the window. “Mattis!” he yelled. “You still out there?”
“Yes. Ryan, come on, there’s no need to do this.”
No need to do this. You can come peacefully. Words, words, words. “I know your men are underground,” said Ryan. “Believe me, I got no desire to see bloodshed, but our message has to get out. Call them off.”
“They’re not my men,” said Mattis, angrily. “They came out of a Chinese vehicle; I can’t call them off, even if I wanted to.” A slight pause. “You don’t really believe that, do you? If so, I’m afraid I’ve gravely overestimated your mental capabilities.”
You have misjudged me, Admiral Mattis, but not in the way you imagine. Ryan beckoned for one of his men, Sergeant Michael Carter, then pointed to a hostage. A young kid, no older than eighteen, with a shock of red hair. “Get that one,” he said. “Bring him to me.”
Carter grabbed the boy’s hair and dragged him to Ryan.
“Stand up,” said Ryan, pulling the kid up by his collar, up above the windowsill. “Let them see you.”
“Ryan,” called Mattis, urgency in his voice. “What are you doing?”
“Showing you I mean what I say.” Ryan drew his sidearm and raised it above the lip of the window, pointing at the side of the kid’s head. “I swear to God, Mattis, if you don’t find some way of calling them off, I’m going to turn this kid’s head into chunky salsa.”
The kid started crying. Ryan smelt piss from the boy’s shorts.
“Don’t do it,” shouted Mattis, his voice sounding so small from so far away. “Believe me, I’m no fans of the Chinese either, but this isn’t the way! If you start killing the hostages they’ll be forced to go in!”
“Wait,” shouted Castro, scurrying over to his position, crouched low. “Sir, you should see this.”
“You’re supposed to be flushing grenades down the toilet,” Ryan hissed.
“I know, but I saw this, and you need to see it too.”
“What is it?” snapped Ryan. “I’m a little busy right now!”
She showed him the screen, playing a live news broadcast. “Captain, this just came across the news wire. Take a look.”
Chapter Fourteen
Recording Studio One
GBC News Headquarters
New York City, New York
Earth
Moments before
Martha Ramirez adjusted her hair pin, using the screen ahead of her—a reflection of the live broadcast—as a mirror. The hair and makeup people never got her pins right. “Mic test, six one, six one.”
“Sounding good,” said Jerry, her audio guy. He gave a dopey thumbs up. “You’re good to go, Martha.”
Then her producers spoke up. “We’re live in five, four, three…”
Okay. Time to do this story. She took a deep breath, steadied her nerves, and when her cue came, spoke up with as much courage as she could muster. Her cue light flashed.
“This just in: terror on the outer colonies,” said Ramirez. A still frame from a video—a blurred image of a horrible creature, skin green and mottled, barely recognizable as human—flashed behind her. “This is Martha Ramirez with GBC News, joining you tonight with a very special report. A warning: this report contains footage which may be distressing.”
The image of her dissolved, replaced by the video they had received. Where exactly it had come from her producers didn’t say, but what it showed was compelling.
An image of a beast, its outline barely perceptible, the small camera's image washed out by direct light. The hand holding the camera was shaking so much the automatic image stabilization couldn't keep up; the beast was grainy, barely visible, but it was there.
The camera focused on it for barely a second. Then, screaming, and the camera jerked wildly. The bearer turned and ran, buffeted by a crowd of people running alongside them. Footsteps on the pavement and a man, presumably the cameraman, panting. The view was solely of asphalt, frantic sprinting, and then the view emerged into a car park, cameraman clearly panicking, searching for a vehicle. For an escape.
Then the beast leapt down onto a car, and for the first time, the viewers could see it clearly. A towering mon
ster, a zombie-human, rotting and tattered, yet alive. Intelligent. Evil.
It was the fifth or sixth time she had seen it, and each time it had gotten harder, not easier, to sit through.
The recording paused.
“What happens next,” she said, “is too graphic for us to show you. Shots fire, and soldiers wearing the uniforms of the US military destroy this … monster.” Just as they’d rehearsed, the producer resumed play, but audio-only.
Gunfire. Screaming. And then: “Tangos eliminated.” The sound of a reloading rifle. “Sir, give me that.”
Ramirez took a deep breath as the live feed came back. “This GBC News exclusive video was shot on a classified military base at the edge of colonized space.” She paused for effect, perfectly timed. “The recording shows combined American-accented speakers and Chinese speakers. GBC News inquiries into the location in this video have been met with resistance, even for the most basic information. It is the opinion of this news studio that there must be an examination into the truth. As you can no doubt imagine, we, like you, have so many questions.”
The screen rewound to the first image of the creature, silhouetted in floodlight. “What is this creature? How did this creature escape? Is it related to the alien invasion from six months ago?” She paused for a beat. “Troublingly, the time-date stamp on the file we received was over a month old, raising the obvious question: why haven’t we heard about this before?”
She looked down at the blank piece of paper in front of her—it was a prop, naturally—and then back up at the camera. “Obviously, something devastating has happened on this world. Even though our attempts to find out exactly what have been met with silence, further investigations have revealed that the whole of the Tonatiuh Sector is on full lockdown, with all ships appearing from Z-space being impounded and all transmissions out of that world being jammed. Is the world in question in that system, or another system altogether?
“It is clear our combined governments—the United States of America and the People’s Republic of China, and possibly others—are keeping the truth from us. And not just in relation to this particularly incident on this particular planet. GBC News is laying down the gauntlet for all the civilized, rational governments in all the colonized worlds: tell us the truth. What is happening here?”
Bombshell, dropped. She gave the viewers several seconds to sink in. The next thing was the true wham moment of the whole broadcast, and she knew that once she said the words on her TelePrompter, she wouldn’t be able to take them back. But it was time to let the galaxy start asking questions.
“There is more going on with this than we can possibly imagine,” said Ramirez, “I’m sure of it.”
Chapter Fifteen
Bob’s Bar
Glasgow
Earth
Bratta shuffled his small suitcase closer to his feet and sniffled. Even though it was, unsurprisingly, cold and overcast in this particular corner of Earth, he didn’t want to open his suitcase for a warmer jumper. Jeannie wasn’t so much late as he was early, but the chill wasn’t doing much to sweeten the thought. Nor was the neighborhood, for that matter. Bob’s Bar had always been a bit seedy; in his day it had been a hole-in-the-wall where uni students could score a few cheap drinks—not that he’d actually studied in Glasgow, that was Jeannie—but now it was flanked by dark storefronts and a palpable air of neglect. As he was watching, a potato chip wrapper blew down the pavement—though he supposed here they’d be called crisps.
Through the slightly dingy glass behind him, the bar’s infamous mechanical bull was visible, looking like nothing so much as an extraordinarily large rat with mismatching legs and a regrettable haircut. Other bars at least had the decency to sport terrifying riding bulls, eyes lit with a red glow. Bob’s had just had to go for an unusually sized rodent, Scotland’s national—and now, his ex-wife’s personal—joke. Bratta glowered at the contraption. You may have bested me in my youth, but—
An engine cut through his thoughts, and a silver car rounded the corner. Through the windscreen, he could make out a woman’s sensible brown hair and equally sensible coat.
The car purred to a stop in front of him.
“Steve Bratta, in the flesh. Didn’t think I’d ever be seeing you again.”
He tried to think up a clever reply.
“Well, you know, I have been working on an invisibility device.” That was funny, right? Confident? Suave? He was pretty sure his colleagues would have laughed, at least.
“… Of course you have.” Jeannie Tafola stepped out of the car. “Now get that suitcase in the back, we’re going for a walk.”
“I actually haven’t,” he said as he trundled the case towards the boot. “That was a joke.”
Jeannie didn’t answer.
“It was funny.”
Still no response.
“Because I’m a geneticist, not a physicist?”
Nothing.
“And … it would be hilariously ridiculous for me to work on such an advanced project untrained?”
The wind moaned between buildings.
Bratta gave up—her stoney face said she was in no mood.
Soon, the suitcase was tucked away, he had a much more appropriate jacket, and the car was parked in a side street.
“You’re really leaving it here?” he ventured.
Jeannie raised her eyebrows. “Of course. I have a friend who patrols here; this place only gets nasty after dark.”
“Alright, sure. Why do we have to be here, anyway?” His voiced pitched up a little at the end, but honestly, he felt some indignation was justified.
“It’s secluded, it’s fairly safe, and it’s one of the last places anyone would run to. Also, it’s funny. But, we have more important matters to discuss.”
“Funny? I sprained my ankle falling off that thing!” he pointed through the bar’s window. “It hurt!”
“And I still have the picture,” Jeannie muttered just loud enough for him to hear. “Now, video.”
He let memory be, for now. “Yes. Well, I saw when it was released; the shuttle I was on had a full Z-space communication suite.”
“Really?” Jeannie’s eyes widened. “You’re still just a poorly paid scientist, right?”
“It was the first ship out from Zenith, and it wasn’t cheap.”
She whistled. “I’ll bet.”
“Was that reporter, Martha … Ramirez? Was she your contact?” he asked.
“Yes. She’s a good journalist, with a lot more integrity than most of the media. Did you see how the passengers on your shuttle reacted, Steve?”
He nodded. “I did at breakfast, in fact. There, uh … there were a lot of unhappy rich people making calls. Honestly, I thought they were just putting on a show at first, but I looked up our route, and I think it must have turned nine o’clock in America about then. Which means the news was on. Which means the news was interesting.”
“Makes sense. No-one approached you in particular?”
He pulled a pen out of his jacket pocket and started fiddling with it. “I don’t think so, no. And I was working on the assumption that sticking around to find out if someone would was a terrible idea.”
“That was a surprisingly astute decision.”
“Um, thanks?”
Jeannie ignored him, her gaze turned to the grey buildings as they walked by. “It’s been like the start of a zombie apocalypse here on Earth. Minus the zombies. People are panicked—the planet’s going to be out of canned goods and whatever looks like it could be used as a weapon, soon they’ll all be in personal stockpiles—and the governments are denying anything’s going on at all.”
“The governments? Plural?”
“Yes. None of them are speaking up; even the US and China aren’t blaming each other’s spies for this.”
“Wait, that’s—”
“Terrifying?” She faced him. “Yes.”
Bratta clicked his pen. He’d never really been that interested in politics, but even he
knew how big that was. The thought was taking a little while to process. “Jeannie, what’s going on here?”
Her expression went wry. “I was hoping you’d tell me.”
“Well, I do have one rudimentary hypothesis as to the aliens’ origin,” he began, hesitantly.
Jeannie stopped in her tracks. “You do?”
“Er, just a paper I read when I was doing my undergrad. About genomics and the next steps of evolving the human race, being ready to deal with disaster, et cetera. It was very, very sci-fi. And the journal it was published in, Genomics Yearly, got shut down about two years after the article was published, actually. Accused of academic misconduct, letting people pay to publish then saying it was peer-reviewed. Not a good look. But, their theories have some merit, and—I know it sounds crazy—but I think it might be possible to … make those things.”
“Make them? Unbelievable.” She shook her head. “Steve, you do realize this is possibly the best lead anyone who isn’t trying to cover this up has?”
“Wow. No.”
Jeannie spun on her heel and marched back towards her car. “Come on. I have a few choice questions for your employers, and you’re going to help me ask them.”
He hesitated. “Uh, can you just … do that?”
She rolled her eyes, and pulled out her police officer’s badge. “Pay is shit, but at least people answer me when I ask them questions.”
“You mean, unless they invoke Miranda?”
“That only tells me they’re guilty—makes my job easier. Get in the car, Bratta.”
Chapter Sixteen
Senator Pitt’s Office
Washington D.C.
Earth
The Last Hero: Book 2 of The Last War Series Page 5
