The Last Hero: Book 2 of The Last War Series

by Peter Bostrom

  Now it was his turn to get snippy. “Fleet Command ordered us to intervene,” he protested. “It’s not like I just decided to take a walk down there and sort it out.”

  “Great,” said President Schuyler. “It means I gotta fire someone in that department instead.”

  At least he’d keep his job. That was something. “Madam,” said Mattis, “This embassy thing has me thinking.” It was difficult to express. He needed to be delicate. “In all their gun-toting craziness, I think the extremists might have a point.”

  “Mm hm,” said President Schuyler. “That Chinese embassy security needs to be beefed up?”

  “Not that. The alien creature in the newsfeed,” he paused, needing confirmation, “it was one of them, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said President Schuyler, slightly defensively. “You know it was.”

  “I thought it looked kind of … Asian,” he probed further.

  Her voice turned sour. “Admiral, I thought you were over your Chinese paranoia.”

  He clicked his tongue. Her phrasing conjured to mind something Senator Pitt had said to him once. “Madam President, with respect, paranoia is a delusional fear that someone’s out to get you. If it’s justified, it’s—”

  “It’s merely justified caution,” said President Schuyler, bitterly. “You sound like Pitt. You two idiots are peas in a pod, you know that?”

  Mattis chewed on the inside of his cheek. “I was kind of hoping you hadn’t heard that particular little phrase of his.”

  “Well, when I heard it, he was talking about you.” President Schuyler’s voice turned sarcastic. “According to him, you’ve apparently been putting listening devices in his office, the navy has been hiring away his interns, and don’t get me started on your son. The way he tells it, that boy is basically running the Illuminati now.”

  “Chuck has nothing to do with this.” He folded his hands. “And I most definitely have not been bugging his office. Good God. Look, Madam President, I’m just saying the extremists, these … Forgotten. They’re crazy, they’re violent, but maybe what they’re saying is true. Maybe there’s more to this than is in the public eye.”

  “If there was,” said President Schuyler, “you know I couldn’t tell you. And you shouldn’t be asking about these matters. Whatever point the Forgotten have, believe me, we have top people working on it.”

  That much he was sure of. “I know. Sorry. I’ll let you get back to your meeting now.”

  “Thank you, Admiral.” Without any further ado she hung up.

  Mattis made sure the call was disconnected, then glanced up to Lynch. “What do you think?”

  “Pretty sure there’s more going on here than we were made privy to,” said Lynch, nodding firmly for emphasis. “We should definitely do something, sir.”

  Mattis raised an eyebrow. “We can’t do anything. We weren’t ordered to look into this.”

  “But we weren’t ordered not to.” said Lynch, smirking slightly.

  Mattis waggled his finger at Lynch. “I like the way you think, XO.”

  His communicator chirped. Internal ship’s message. He put it on loudspeaker. “Go.”

  “Sir, this is the bridge. The Chinese ship just arrived in orbit. The Commanding Officer, Admiral Yim, is asking to speak to you.”

  The announcement caught Admiral Mattis completely off-guard.

  Impossible.

  “No,” said Mattis, sitting back in his chair. “No. It can’t be.”

  It took Lynch a moment, but eventually he understood too. “Isn’t he dead?”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Senator Pitt’s Office

  Washington D.C.

  Earth

  Senator Pitt knew he was bargaining without a full understanding of the consequences of his actions, but he didn’t care.

  It was that important.

  “So that’s the deal,” he said. He hoped it was enough for her. “I give you what you need, and you let me talk to the Deep State.”

  Spectre laughed down the line. The noise was odd, distorted through her voice changer, and although her tone was breathy and feminine, the fact that she was showing mirth terrified him. “You want to talk to the Deep State? What do you think you know about it, little man?”

  “Enough,” said Pitt, “and believe me—you don’t get to be in politics as long as I have without hearing things. There’s another level to our government. Another layer. Beyond President Schuyler and the cabinet and the senate and the house. Above the opposition parties. Outside the control of the political appointees. They control the shit—the whole game. Doesn’t matter who’s in power, really, because they always end up serving the Deep State’s interests. That’s who I want to talk to.”

  “You’re walking on dangerous territory,” said Spectre, calmly. “The kind of people you’re talking about—if they even truly exist—are not the kind of people who make fair deals. They take what they want and, if it suits them, they give you something back in return … or they might not. If that happens, there’s no higher authority to plead to. No tribunals or appeal boards or due process. This is what the Germans call realpolitik; ruthlessly practical policies executed without consideration for ideology.”

  “I know what realpolitik is.” Pitt ran his tongue over his teeth. “And I also know the risks.”

  Spectre was silent for a moment, the only noise a faint hissing on the line. “Allow me to ask you a question,” she said.

  “Shoot.”

  “How does this all end?”

  Interesting question. Pitt tilted his head. “How do you mean?”

  “All this. This crusade of yours against Admiral Mattis. Do you think they’ll have a parade in your honor once you’ve taken him down? Erect a monument to your greatness, right next to Washington’s? Will Miss Ramirez host a panel on her show entitled ‘Senator Pitt was right all along’? What’s your end game?”

  “I don’t have one,” he said honestly. “I haven’t thought that far ahead, nor do I care to.”

  “I see,” said Spectre, slowly. “Revenge won’t fix your problems, Senator. It won’t fix the hole in your soul. It can’t bring your son back.”

  “I know,” said Pitt, a smile creeping across his face. “And yet, there is something that can, isn’t there?”

  More silence from Spectre.

  “Tell me,” said Pitt, “do you have any children?”

  “No,” she said. “I thank the good Lord for creating condoms and Darwin for giving me the good sense to use them.”

  “Then you couldn’t possibly understand.”

  Spectre clicked her tongue, a strange noise coming through her voice changer. “Perhaps.”

  Pitt knew there was more going on with Spectre than she was prepared to let on, and knew that she was a modern-day genie; a mysterious creature able to grant wishes that some might consider impossible. It was worth asking. “Here’s what I’m offering,” he said, leaning forward. “I know you have the biotech to give me what I want. And I have the resources to give you what you want.”

  “And what is it,” asked Spectre, “that you think I want?”

  “You want to creep in the shadows. You want grunts to do your dirty work. Soldiers. Not enough to be an army, but untraceable. They have to be good at their jobs, but expendable enough that, if they just disappeared, nobody’s going to be asking too many questions about them. No families crying in the street. No letter writing campaigns. The Earth would keep spinning and life would go on.”

  “Go on,” said Spectre.

  “I’m affiliated to a lot of causes. As a politician I have to be. I support various blocs and they support me. Some of these blocs are, shall we say, potentially useful to you and your causes.”

  “Why do you think we’ve helped you all this time?” asked Spectre, acridly. “Out of charity?”

  “Of course not.” Pitt took in a breath. “The thing on the news. That was you, wasn’t it?”

  Spectre said nothing.

&n
bsp; “Right. Well, I’m guessing that after all the shooting’s done, the Chinese aren’t going to leave many survivors. You’re going to want more people. Expendable, skilled people who are hard to come by. I can provide you with some. So here’s the deal. I’ll talk to some of the people at the VA. I’ll get you twenty veterans—skilled people, experienced. Nobody’ll miss them when they’re gone.”

  “And what do you want in exchange for this resource?”

  It sounded crazy even in his own head, but Pitt knew exactly what he wanted.

  “I’ll tell you when I get there.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Bridge

  USS Midway

  High orbit above Sanctuary

  Omid Sector

  Drifting out of his ready room, Mattis refused to believe it. Yim was a common name amongst the Chinese people—surely there would be more than one admiral amongst them. Maybe it was just all a massive coincidence. Maybe the junior officer, whose voice he didn’t recognize and so must be new to the crew, had made a mistake. Maybe he’d misheard.

  Admiral Yim. Formerly Captain Yim. Killer of Mattis’s brother.

  Phillip had died during the Sino-American war. During a deep space engagement twenty years ago, a volley of Chinese torpedoes from Yim’s ship had broken the Saragossa’s back, killing everyone aboard.

  But Yim was dead too. Killed during the attack on Friendship Station.

  As he opened the door to the bridge, revealing the corridor beyond full of Chinese marines, Mattis’s eyes found Yim’s eyes, and he knew there was no mistake.

  There he was. In the flesh. Admiral Yim, with his baby face and his broad shoulders, completely unchanged from the last time Mattis had seen him, save a pronounced, jagged scar running down from the left side of his face and a black eye patch covering the same eye.

  It was him.

  “You,” said Mattis, unable to form any other kind of sentence, anger bubbling within him. “How did you…”

  “Reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated,” said Yim, half-smirking.

  “No,” said Mattis, firmly, “they haven’t. You were on board Friendship Station when it blew. I saw you there, I saw the damn thing go up like an Independence Day fireworks show. We scanned for survivors, and there were none. There couldn’t have been.”

  “You underestimate Chinese technology.” Yim smiled, using only his mouth and not his eyes. “Our escape pods are decades more advanced than yours.”

  Mattis squinted at him. “Why didn’t we detect the escape pod during the battle, then?”

  “The transponder was damaged. Your low-grade American sensors probably couldn’t detect life forms amongst all the debris. It’s an understandable mistake.”

  Low grade American sensors? The best intelligence available suggested that American sensor capabilities far outstripped Chinese ones. “I don’t believe you,” said Mattis, flatly.

  Yim gestured to his chest. “Is the fact that I am here not proof enough?”

  “He’s got a good point,” grumbled Lynch behind him. “He stinks, but he ain’t stinking enough to be a zombie, Admiral. And we ain’t hallucinating.”

  It was a difficult point to accept, but try as he might, Mattis simply didn’t—simply couldn’t—believe that Yim had somehow survived. Yet the evidence was, quite literally staring him in the face.

  “Okay,” said Mattis, his tone absolutely painted with skepticism. “Sure. Why are you here?”

  “Admiral Mattis,” said Yim, “I need to speak to you in private.”

  Mattis practically laughed in his face. “After that fucking stunt you pulled out there? Absolutely not. You’re lucky I don’t have you arrested.”

  “Mattis,” said Yim, his tone even, “there’s more going on here than a simple misunderstanding.”

  “Misunderstanding?” His fists clenched by his side. “Is that what you call trying to kill me?”

  Yim shook his head firmly. “I had no such intentions, and I can explain it in private. I promise.”

  Trust was a valuable commodity in Mattis’s mind, and this … this was a lot to ask. “This better be damn good,” said Mattis, gesturing over his shoulder to his ready room. “Lynch, you’ve got the bridge.”

  “If we hear yelling,” asked Lynch, “should we break down the door?”

  Mattis just grimaced.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” said Lynch, glaring Yim’s way.

  Together, Mattis and Yim moved back into his ready room.

  “So,” said Mattis when they were alone, folding his hands in front of him. “Why’d you try to kill me? Make it quick.”

  Yim narrowed his eyes. “We were at war.”

  “No, not then you idiot. I meant ten minutes ago.”

  “Oh.” Yim considered that. “Sorry. I was just thinking—that made no sense, we were never at arms against each other, it was your—”

  Brother. Phillip Mattis, XO of the Saragossa, who died at the business end of Yim’s guns.

  Mattis scowled. “I still haven’t forgiven you for that, you know that, right?”

  “Of course,” said Yim, plainly. “I don’t expect you to. If our positions were the same, I doubt I could hold myself back.” He pointed to Mattis’s side. To his pistol. “You going to do something with that?”

  “What?” Mattis shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your ready room,” said Yim, indicating the small office. “We’re alone here. You could say I attacked you, tried to grab your gun but you were quicker. Nobody would question you.”

  Mattis’s hand twitched by his side but he kept it still. “I won’t do that. My brother deserves better.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Yim, casually reaching for his own gun. Slowly. Way, way too slowly. “This is your opportunity to get revenge for your brother. Think of Phillip Mattis, Jack. Think of how he died. Think of how I killed him. Think of the medal that destroying the USS Saratoga earned me.”

  Mattis grabbed the stock of his pistol. “Don’t,” he hissed. “What the hell are you thinking? Are you trying to get yourself shot? What are you doing?”

  Yim met his gaze, evenly and stoically. His hand touched the hilt of his own pistol. “I am testing you.”

  Testing him how? Mattis squeezed the grip of his gun. “Don’t do it,” he said. “Don’t.”

  A tense moment, silent, with both men’s hands on their weapons.

  Finally Mattis tore his hand away. “Dammit, Yim.”

  Yim folded his arms. The tension flowed out of the room. “My apologies. I needed to see if you would do it.”

  “Why?” demanded Mattis, baring his teeth. “Why would you do that? Why would you try and destroy my shuttle then come in here, into this room, and do something so fucking reckless?”

  “Because if I’m going to trust you with what I know, I need to know that, even if you had an opportunity to turn on me, and an emotional state which would support it, and every justification in the world—you still wouldn’t. Even if you wanted to, and even if you didn’t believe me when I told you what I know.” Yim inhaled, reaching up and touching his scar. “Because the information I have is … very unbelievable. But as unlikely as it is, it’s true.”

  Whatever it was, it was so serious he would put his life in jeopardy. Mattis forced himself to calm down. To put thoughts of his brother out of his mind. “Why did you attack my shuttle?”

  “We thought you were the extremists. Your ship was detected taking off from the embassy. That’s why we tried to capture it. We never expected it to be carrying US personnel, especially not you.”

  “Our pilot sent out transmissions—”

  “We jammed those transmissions. It is our protocol.”

  “Okay,” said Mattis, slowly. “I’ll choose to believe that. For now.”

  “Thank you,” said Yim, dipping his head. “Please accept my sincerest apologies in this matter.”

  Mattis didn’t like it at all, and definitely did not want to a
ccept that a simple apology could by their way out of what had happened, but he needed more information. “So with that out of the way, why are you here?”

  Yim turned his back on Mattis, walking toward the desk in the corner of his room, arms still folded over his chest. “After I rode the escape pod from Friendship Station,” he said, “I got picked up by my people. But they didn’t return me to duty, take me back to Earth, or anything like what you’d expect. They threw me in a—” he looked over his shoulder, face twisted. “I wouldn’t call it a prison. More like a hotel I wasn’t allowed to leave. It looked nice, but it was rotten on the inside. Everyone was … foul. My captors were human beings, but they weren’t people. Something about them was soulless. Empty. As though there was some chemical in the air that made them seem nice on the surface but underneath that, they were pure evil.”

  “Sounds like Canada,” said Mattis.

  “This isn’t a joke. They kept me there for six months, being interrogated and debriefed over, and over, and over again by a group of people who were not the People’s Liberation Army Navy. They weren’t even Chinese intelligence. Or party officials. They seemed to be above them.”

  “Above the Chinese navy?” asked Mattis, confused. “As in, government officials?”

  “As in, above the government. Above the party. And nothing is above the party. Something else. Something much more powerful.”

  That didn’t make any sense. “You mean some other country?”

  “This transcends countries,” said Yim, his tone dark. “I think countries are a construct to them; something they use to create friction, something they use to pit us against each other, to let the people have something to identify with, cling to, while they pull the strings. They called themselves the Deep State.”

  A shadow government. Mattis had heard whispers of things like this—everyone had, at some point—but to hear Yim speak about it with such conviction, such genuine respect and fear in his voice, was sobering. “Go on.”

  “While I was at this … place … they asked me questions. Questions that didn’t really relate to Friendship Station at all. Things about spies and genetic secrets and a lot of things I didn’t understand. I told them I was a naval officer, not a scientist, but they didn’t seem to care. They just kept asking over and over and over.”