Five minutes later, they were knocking on an office door. Bratta swallowed.
“Come in.”
It was the first voice Bratta had heard since arriving in Glasgow without some form of Scottish accent. Oddly, that was comforting—he supposed the reaction was a byproduct of working for some time in an international field. That, or Jeannie had ruined the accent for him forever. That hypothesis seemed plausible.
The subject of said hypothesis fixed him with a steely eye. “Keep it together, Steve,” she muttered before opening the door.
They were faced with the sight of a blond man in a suit, seated behind a desk piled high with papers and several coffee mugs. Bratta found the sight quite relatable, although part of him was a little disappointed at the lack of any fluffy white cats or slowly rotating chairs, as far as ominous villain lairs went, a well-kept, expensive office suite was remarkably disappointing. Jeannie nodded to the man.
“May we take a seat, Mr. Stepka?”
The suited man nodded. “Of course, officer. I understand you have some questions for me?”
“Indeed we do.” Jeannie didn’t so much as bat an eye at the lie. “There are a few things we’d like to ask regarding potential illegal activities undertaken by your company.”
Bratta’s eyes nearly bugged out. She’d just come right out and said it.
A thousand possibilities flew through his head, and absolutely none of them good. The only one that he could find that would justify why she would come right out and basically accuse the guy of illegal activities … was that their own investigation was a little south of entirely legitimate.
Maybe Jeannie’s superiors hadn’t authorized it, or maybe she hadn’t even asked. She was still a policewoman, right?
He needed something, something to distract him. Chicken farm with illegal additives in the food. Bratta tried to focus on the greater good, despite a growing urge to squeak like a mouse. Fortunately, he remained quiet.
Mr. Stepka reached for his coffee mug. “Alright. I don’t believe I know anything that could be of help, but please, ask away.”
Jeannie folded her hands in her lap. “I assume you have seen the video?”
“I have,” the manager replied. The video. There could only be one people were talking about. The memory of those things sent a brief shiver down his spine.
Keep it together, Bratta….
“And I assume,” said Jeannie, “you further realize that this attack has been linked to a facility of your very own company?”
Stepka raised an eyebrow. “Where did you hear that from, Officer?”
Bratta gripped the armrest on his chair. Please don’t say me….
“I have my sources,” said Jeannie, unblinkingly. “Ones I keep close to my chest until I’ve finished my investigation.”
Stepka locked gazes with her, for just a moment, and then seemed to relent. “I am indeed aware that our facility was targeted by an alien attack.”
“Linked, Mr. Stepka, not targeted.” Jeannie’s voice was hard. “Our expert advice has identified these ‘aliens’ as displaying a disturbingly large number of characteristically human traits. Your company deals in human enhancement, particularly steroids and muscular growth. The creatures appeared to come from your company’s building. Please explain these—coincidences.”
Mr. Stepka set down the mug with an audible clink. “I’m genuinely not sure what there is to explain Officer Tafola. I suppose if you believe our company’s products or research has aided in the—I can only assume, according to your theories—‘creation’ of these entities, perhaps it could then follow that the facility on Zenith was raided for the easy procurement of such resources? We, officer, are the victims here, not the perpetrators.”
No. That was a lie. What the man was saying was reasonable enough, but … raiding parties didn’t usually stop to try and kill one another. At least, he was pretty sure that wasn’t how it was supposed to work. If only he had read that one text about sixteenth-century pirates he had been meaning to pry open for so long.…
Jeannie wasn’t answering. His heartbeat skyrocketed. If it was down to him to save this situation, that would definitely be some form of cosmic mistake. He couldn’t do it. Still, there was one thing that might save his hide: techno-babble. “Ah, excuse me Mr. Stepka,” said Bratta, “but I … well, I don’t think that’s particularly feasible. Firstly, the observed behavior of the creatures was not consistent with the goal of a raid—if you remember, there was infighting reported at the end of the video, and the video never shows the subject carrying or otherwise transporting any sort of goods.
“Secondly, I, um, well…” He paused to gather his thoughts, his breath, and his courage. This was rather a lot of talking he hadn’t meant to do. “I am something of a student of genetics and medicine myself. I’m aiding the good officer with her investigation. By sheer coincidence, I am quite familiar with facilities such as those your company would possess. So, while the kind of modifications we’re talking about are as much in the theoretical stage as they are corporate secrets, so to speak, I believe your laboratories may be capable of producing such results, with the right minds guiding them.”
He actually had no idea whether or not the labs were up to scratch, but it was clearly a great idea to take a leaf out of Jeannie’s book.
The manager shifted his gaze to Bratta for the first time. Oh no, Jeannie start talking, save me please.
“Interesting points, Mr…?”
“Bratta. Ah, my name is Steve Bratta.”
He probably shouldn’t have told them his actual name. Especially since he was a former employee. Actually, had he even been fired yet? The last few weeks were a haze. He wanted to load a saved game and repeat this whole conversation, but it was done now, so there were only consequences and probably regret.
“Well, Mr. Bratta, you raise some valid but, as far as I can tell, unfounded concerns, wild speculation, and guesswork.” Stepka gave a shark’s smile. “Please, if you possess evidence of a more concrete nature, tell me now and I may actually be able to assist you. Otherwise, I would direct you to our legal department. They are far better equipped to have their time wasted with conspiracy theories than this office. Now, if there’s nothing else…?”
Jeannie stood. “We’ve clearly helped each other as much as we can. Good afternoon, Mr Stepka.”
They saw themselves out.
There was still a light drizzle in the carpark when they got there, which matched his mood pretty well. Jeannie’s expression, on the other hand, would have matched thunderclaps. She was muttering under her breath as she walked toward the car.
“Sorry,” said Bratta.
“Mmm?” Jeannie barely looked at him.
She sometimes got this way. “Sorry we didn’t find anything,” said Bratta, fiddling nervously with his keys. “I know that annoys you.”
“Oh, no,” said Jeannie, her expression unchanging. “I was just playing through things in my head. Shh, just let me think.”
“Uhh, okay.”
Jeannie unlocked the car, and as they drove out of the carpark, her knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
In his side mirror, Steve could see a long stream of lights behind him, refracted every which way in the rain droplets. More and more orbs were added to it as work traffic started to filter out of buildings. The car behind them had one light noticeably dimmer than the other, like a one-eyed pirate.
About ten minutes later, the car behind them still had one light noticeably dimmer than the other.
“Um…”
Jeannie glowered at the road. “What is it, Steve?”
“I think we have a tail.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Infirmary
USS Midway
High orbit above Sanctuary
Omid Sector
With Yim returned to his ship, and the Midway in Lynch’s perfectly capable hands, Mattis jogged down to the infirmary, his mind racing with a thousand possibilities. What had h
appened to Modi?
To his surprise, the guy was there waiting for him, sitting up on one of the benches in the waiting area, a nurse bandaging his shoulder. He had a sour expression on his face.
“Admiral Mattis,” said Modi, his tone even and composed. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
“Surprised I’d come and visit you?” Mattis’s eyebrows shot up. “They said they needed me down here urgently.”
“Indeed.” Modi glared at the nurse beside him. The nurse glared back. “There was some disagreement about the nature of my treatment. Voices were raised. The staff thought I could best be calmed with your presence, but the issue is now resolved. For now.”
That man and his perfectionist nature. “Don’t antagonize the medical staff, they know what they’re doing.”
“This isn’t about me,” said Modi, his expression souring just a tad. “This is about the butchers you call medical technicians—”
“I’m standing right here,” said the nurse.
“And the various sharp pieces of metal that said medical technicians want to thrust into my veins and skin.”
Mattis narrowed his eyes slightly. “They wanted to give you an injection?”
“We wanted to give him an injection,” said the nurse.
“I,” proclaimed Modi proudly, “do not like needles.”
Mattis considered, walking up to the nurse and the thin syringe she still had in her hand. It was the smallest, thinnest needle he’d ever seen. “That’s the thing?”
Modi grimaced. “Yes.”
Slowly, Mattis let all the tension flow out of him. “Modi, take your medicine.”
The nurse jabbed Modi in the upper arm.
“Hey!” protested Modi.
Mattis rolled his eyes.
“Anyway,” said Modi, rubbing his shoulder ruefully. “Admiral, you have a whole ship to run, full of people who need your attention as well, and you are not a qualified trauma surgeon so your presence here doesn’t seem to assist in any way.”
Mattis managed a small smile, despite the almost-certainly-unintentional insult. “I know what you mean, but I just had to see if you were okay with my own eyes.”
“Well,” said Modi, his tone flat and emotionless as usual, “I do appreciate it. As it turns out, I’m much less badly injured than I initially appeared. The round went in and out, barely hit anything. Shock, however, played a significant role in my loss of consciousness.”
The nurse nodded mutely as though agreeing, but also as though the act could, somehow, quicken the pace of time and get Modi out of the infirmary and out of her hair. “His arm will be in a sling for some time, but he’ll be fine.” She tapped his freshly bandaged shoulder. “There you go, sir. You can get going whenever you’re comfortable.”
Modi stood. Mattis helped him up.
“I’m fine, sir,” said Modi, but Mattis noted how he took his arm anyway. “What happened after I, uh, had a little nap?”
“Well,” said Mattis, “Yim’s alive again.”
“Oh,” said Modi.
Mattis blinked. “You don’t seem too surprised to hear that.”
“I assume,” said Modi, “that there’s a perfectly good reason why he’s alive when we thought he wasn’t—not that he ever stopped being alive, mind, but more that we perceived him to be dead.”
Mattis tried to keep up with his logic. “Right.”
“So,” continued Modi, without skipping a beat, “I remain confident that there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for the events which have transpired, and in due time, I am confident I shall learn it. In the mean time, Admiral, how can I assist you?”
“With your brain,” said Mattis. “We’re en route to New London. I’m going to take the lead on this one. I want you and Lynch with me. Take some painkillers, apply some bandages, and make sure you’re ready to come down with us when we arrive.”
Modi’s eyes became saucers. “New London, sir? Are you sure there isn’t an active war zone you’d rather visit instead?”
Mattis almost did a double take. Was that sarcasm? Modi? Perhaps he wasn’t the robot Lynch was making him out to be. “Come on,” said Mattis, smiling widely. “How bad can it possibly be?”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Cab 2094
Highway 11
New London
Omid Sector
The taxi driver swerved violently, a split second before nearly slamming into the rear of a frozen goods truck. The maneuver only exacerbated their problems; the car wobbled as it sped toward the thick steel railing that lined the edge of the road. Somehow, just before it hit, the car swung back into a lane, a cacophony of horns and angry shouts all around them.
“For God’s sake,” yelled Mattis, gripping the Jesus Handle with white knuckles, “slow down!”
“Can’t slow down,” said their driver, as calmly as if she were discussing the weather. “This area is gang territory.” She swung the vehicle back into their original lane. To Mattis she seemed a ghostly, pale rider, with fading ginger hair and a cheap leather jacket. Strapped to her hip was a high caliber pistol with an extra five magazines. Inside her jacket was another pistol. A third one lay in the open glove compartment. Underneath her clothes, the woman was wearing body armor.
Body armor with two dents in it, and matching 10mm bullet holes in the jacket above.
Their taxi sped between two other cars, the white dividing lines of the highway running straight down the middle of their vehicle. They ducked and weaved around the traffic, sometimes dodging cars coming the other way.
“Admiral Mattis,” shouted Modi from the back seat, “I must enquire; what is the purpose of attempting to get information if we are not alive to report it?”
“You’re an Admiral?” said their driver, cracking a smile like a drug-addled jackal. “Yeah, friend, you definitely don’t want me to slow down! If any of the local gangs find you they’ll definitely want that ransom, and let’s just say the going rate costs an arm and a leg, eh! Or maybe just a kidney!”
The taxi passed a flatbed truck full of cattle going the other way, so close that Lynch cowered away from the window, fearing a cow’s head would smash through the side of the car. Lynch yelped something so quintessentially Texan, so incomprehensibly Southern, that Mattis genuinely couldn’t understand it.
“Too right!” said their drive with a laugh, seemingly fluent in terrified-Lynch-isms.
He and Yim exchanged a look. The Chinese Admiral had lost all the color in his face, becoming almost as pale as their driver.
This wasn’t how Mattis anticipated going out.
As the car careened through the streets he knew, deep down, that they should have come down with a marine escort. They should have come armed, with a strong military presence. He’d decided not to. Going under-cover, he’d thought, would be better. Safer. Less conspicuous.
Next time he would bring his own transport, an armored vehicle. Next time he’d bring a detachment of marines. Next time—
Thump. The car struck some kind of dark colored bird, the body exploding on the glass, smearing it with red juices and feathers. Their driver turned on the windscreen wipers. “Fucking ravens,” she muttered. “Rats with wings.”
The vehicle swerved and jerked, weaving in and out of the constant traffic, and then with the low screech of tires and a loud clatter, the car pulled up to a crooked stop in a filthy alleyway across the road from the Blessed Humanity coffee shop, the rear half of the car jutting out onto the road. The driver turned to Mattis, smiling widely and exposing her yellow, crooked teeth. “Ten euros, plus tip, mate.”
In all his years of combat, Mattis had never felt anywhere near as unsafe as he did in that cab. Never had anyone he’d ever met been so undeserving of a tip. Yet, his eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to the multiple firearms openly displayed on the woman’s person.
With shaking hands Mattis gave her fifteen euros, and then he, Lynch, Modi, and Yim staggered out of the cramped, stinking cab and stepped out
of the alley, blinking in the half-light of the smog-covered city. Grey buildings thrust to the skyline in all directions, lit up by bright neon signs and yellow-tinged floodlights, as though the bright colors could somehow bring some semblance of life and happiness to this smog-filled, intrusively brown world. The neon sign from the Blessed Humanity flickered briefly.
Tires screeched as their ride tore off, leaving them by the side of the road, all around them quiet save for the rumble of nearby traffic punctuated by the sound of what sounded like distant gunfire.
“You okay?” asked Yim.
Mattis stared daggers at him. “The taxi was your idea. Were you trying to get me killed?”
“What?” Yim’s eyes widened. “No! I was in there, too, you know!”
“Well now,” said Modi, even his voice displaying an uncharacteristic tremor, seemingly ignoring the argument between the two men. “How about a celebration, mmm?”
A celebration of their journey coming to an end with no deaths. “I could go for a coffee,” said Mattis, straining to smile.
The four of them walked across the road. Mattis felt distinctly out of place in his muted, unobtrusive civilian clothes and single, small caliber pistol. Most people wore body armor of some description, many carried rifles slung across their backs—civilian models, although some were obviously heavily modified—and the style of clothing ranged from the punk to the obscene. In the short walk across the road to the coffee house Mattis saw more flamboyant and erratic outfits than he’d ever seen in his whole life. That mixed with the doomsday-level gear everyone was wearing made it all very disorienting. He wasn’t entirely unconvinced he hadn’t wandered into some kind of pride parade for doomsday-prepper bondage aficionados.
“Are all your worlds like this?” asked Yim, his voice drenched in amazement. “This is very strange.”
The Last Hero: Book 2 of The Last War Series Page 11
