The Last Hero: Book 2 of The Last War Series

by Peter Bostrom

  Mao squeezed her fists so hard the motors in her prosthetic whined in protest. “I’ll give you full of holes,” she said through clenched teeth. “Admiral Yim, now hear this: you have ten minutes to initiate Z-space translation out of this system and never return, or we will turn these orbital stations around, aim towards the surface, and we will glass the whole fucking planet and all its moons.”

  Yim was quiet for a few seconds. Stunned into silence, possibly. “You would destroy your own world?” he asked, his tone befuddled. “For what end?”

  “Chinese overran the city,” said Mao, simply. “There are so many of them that, to be perfectly honest with you Admiral, it is no longer our world. They arrived, they bred, they outnumbered us. They voted to become independent, and then to ally with China politically, economically, and socially. Now whatever claim we hold to that planet is essentially just a title.” She sneered, scrunching up her face in anger, meaning every single word of it. “And I’ll see it burn before I let the likes of you plant your flag there and turn the de facto takeover into a legitimate one.”

  “We have no such plans—”

  “Lies!” shouted Mao, fighting to keep her composure.

  “It’s your own planet,” said Yim. “Your homeworld. It’s yours, it’s under U.S. jurisdiction, I can’t make it any more clear to you that—”

  Lies, all lies. “You’re as bad as the politicians,” said Mao. “You’re all the same. Corrupt, arrogant, conquering. Lemme tell you something: corruption spreads like a systemic infection. Ancient humans used to use hot pokers to seal their wounds, burn out the puss and the blood and, by inflicting pain and harm, ultimately promote healing from the ashes.”

  Yim snorted across their connection, half dismissively, half amused. “Such drama. You realize that’s a myth, right? I mean, they absolutely did do that, but the process of cauterization actually increased the vector for infection by causing further tissue damage and creating a more hospitable environment for bacterial growth. You couldn’t possibly have picked a worse metaphor if you tried.”

  Mao glared at the camera. “Nine minutes, fifty seconds, Admiral.”

  “I’m aware,” said Yim.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Jacobs waving his hand. “Enemy fighters incoming,” he hissed, quietly. “Chinese!”

  She squinted at the camera. “Call off your attack, or New London burns. Call me back when you make up your mind.” She terminated the link.

  “Are you really going to do it?” asked Jacobs.

  “Yep,” said Mao. “He was pissing me off.”

  The two sat in silence for a brief moment. Finally, Mao spoke.

  “Load and arm all missile tubes and prepare for orbital bombardment,” she said, taking in a low, steady breath. “And prep a pair of missiles for the good Chinese Admiral. Maybe he’ll be more sympathetic if he’s feeling the pain firsthand.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Bridge

  USS Midway

  High Orbit Above New London

  Omid Sector

  A fierce orange glow burned in the center of the armored casemate like a slowly spreading flower, dull red at the edges and bright yellow in the middle. The core of it was white hot. It must have been at least a thousand degrees or more. That laser was doing impressive work—good thing he had assumed they had the best equipment available. Because they did.

  “Modi,” he asked into his helmet’s radio, “how’s that gun battle going down in engineering?”

  “The gunfire seems to be abating,” said Modi, his tone carrying the faintest traces of relief. “I am no longer concerned.”

  Mattis stared at the growing glow on the casement. “I’m glad that makes one of us.”

  “Although,” said Modi, on reflection, “it is possible that the attackers have defeated the defenders and are preparing to breach engineering. My demise may be imminent, for all I know.”

  “Barring that, what do you think has happened?”

  “Unsure,” said Modi. “No sign of the Rhinos, then?”

  That was a good question, well asked. “Hold on, I’ll find out.” Mattis changed frequency. “USS Midway actual to Rhinos. Report status.”

  “Uh,” said a confused voice, “sorry, Admiral, we’re on our way. One of our suits experienced a malfunction. ETA has been increased by four minutes.”

  Four minutes. Almost anything could happen in four minutes, including the casement giving way. “Better double time it,” he said, “the bridge casemate is getting mighty hot.”

  “We’re on it sir,” said the Rhino. “We just need a little more time.”

  “That’s exactly what we don’t have,” said Mattis.

  He wanted to say more, to encourage the Rhino along a bit further, but his helmet chirped. An incoming transmission. His helmet projected the caller’s ID on the side: Unknown Chinese Vessel. The call was being routed directly to him.

  “Admiral Yim, I presume?”

  “You are correct,” said Yim, his tone dour. “But I have bad news. The satellites the Forgotten have commandeered—they do not intend to use them on us. They are, instead, determined to use them on the civilian population below, on New London.”

  Mattis’s blood ran cold. “But almost a million people live there,” he said. “The whole planet’s population lives in one big settlement. If they fire those weapons—”

  “It’ll be a bloodbath.” Yim’s tone was resolute. “Admiral, I’m calling you to ask you in plain terms, do you think we can destroy all three stations before they open fire?”

  That would be extremely difficult. Each of the platforms was heavily armored and heavily armed. It was no Goalkeeper, but it was close. “That will not be possible,” said Mattis.

  “Sir,” said Lynch, pointing to the casemate. “They’re almost through.”

  Modi called him again. “Admiral, my second supposition was right. They are setting breaching charges at the doors.”

  Too many things happening at once. Mattis focused and shut out the distractions, patching Modi, Lynch, and Yim into the same channel with a touch of his wrist. “Playtime is over, gentlemen. It’s time we finished this. I’d hoped to spare the platforms—I’m sure Fleet Command would have loved me for it—but unfortunately sometimes, these things just simply can’t be done.”

  “Ready to engage the platforms directly,” said Yim, “when you give the word.”

  He took a deep breath. The shimmering heat of a laser shone through a pinpoint crack in the casemate, drawing a dangerous line of death across the bridge. Fortunately, they had all prepared for this.

  “No time for that,” said Lynch, “and it’s too great a risk to fire on them directly. You know what you have to do, sir.”

  He did, but it was difficult. His intellect was begging him to trust Yim, but his emotions—that part of him that remembered his brother, remembered his face and his laugh and his smile—simply couldn’t.

  Fortunately, in the titanic battle that was as brief as it was painful, his intellect won out.

  “Admiral Yim,” said Mattis, dragging the words out of himself as though he were pulling a drowning man from a tar pit, “I have something that may allow us to disable all those platforms at once. The command override codes for the station.” The laser began to drift across the bridge as the Forgotten cut into the casemate, slowly drawing an invisible beam of doom through the room. “But I’m afraid I’m going to have to give them to you to upload. We’re a little busy here.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Bridge

  CNS Luyang III

  High Orbit Above New London

  Omid Sector

  Admiral Yim watched with satisfaction as the codes came through. A 2048-bit key. Exactly what he expected, given standard encryption algorithms. The maths was a bit beyond him, but he knew it represented two enormously large prime numbers. It seemed, at first glance, that a number 2048 digits long comprising only 1s and 0s should be easy for a computer to guess given e
nough time, but his military training had taught him better. It was deceptively simple. There were only 2^2048 potential key pairs it could be. How hard would it be to guess the right one?

  Most people couldn’t even comprehend how large 2^2048 even was. He certainly struggled. As the ship’s computers worked through processing the keys and getting them ready for transmission, he indulged a little of his curiosity.

  He bought up the calculator and tapped the numbers into his console.

  >function.convert(sciNote, decimal)

  Input=2^2048

  Result=32317006071311007300714876688669951960444102669715484032130345427524655138867890893197201411522913463688717960921898019494119559150490921095088152386448283120630877367300996091750197750389652106796057638384067568276792218642619756161838094338476170470581645852036305042887575891541065808607552399123930385521914333389668342420684974786564569494856176035326322058077805659331026192708460314150258592864177116725943603718461857357598351152301645904403697613233287231227125684710820209725157101726931323469678542580656697935045997268352998638215525166389437335543602135433229604645318478604952148193555853611059596230656

  Six hundred seventeen decimal digits, said his computer. A very large number indeed. Substantially more than even the largest estimation of the number of atoms in the universe, which capped out a meager eighty-three decimal digits. Chinese Intelligence could put every computer in the galaxy to work on this problem—could turn every atom of every single thing into a computer working on this problem—and still never solve it in a single human’s lifetime.

  He was bought out of his musings by a vibration on his sub-dermal implant. Another communication from General Lok Tsai. He tapped his throat to answer it, dropping his voice back to a whisper. “Luyang III here.”

  “Well, Admiral Yim,” the man said, practically smiling down the line. “I don’t believe it. Access codes to a genuine American military installation. You truly are one of a kind.”

  He knew? And so soon? That caused Yim’s eyebrows to shoot up toward the ceiling. “General, with the greatest respect, you’re learning about this about one minute after I did. How is that even possible?”

  “Oh, Admiral,” said Tsai, enigmatically, “we have our ways of knowing things.”

  Yim glowered. “Is the Luyang III not my ship, General?”

  “It’s the people’s ship,” General Tsai reminded him gently. “You are merely placed in command of it by the grace of their appointed protectors.” His tone hardened ever so slightly. “A grace which can be rescinded at any time.”

  “Well, when you threaten me so lovingly, how can I possibly complain?” Yim grimaced to himself and reached up to touch his neck again, to end the call.

  “Wait,” said Tsai. Could he physically see Yim? That was an unsettling thought. “Send through the codes. I want to see that station shut down for myself.”

  Tsai had no right to that, but Yim didn’t want to argue the point. “Send through the codes, now,” he said to Xiao, barely able to hide his disgust. “Let’s end this thing once and for all.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Bridge

  USS Midway

  High Orbit Above New London

  Omid Sector

  The laser cut a one-foot hole in the casemate. A hunk of metal, almost square, fell out with a loud clang.

  Mattis expected the air to rush out of the hole, and shooting to start. He had his gun in hand. The marines had their guns in hand. Lynch, crouched behind his console, had his gun in hand.

  Instead of explosive decompression or gunfire, a sign came through the hole, hand written, the edges singed as they brushed the sides of the hot metal.

  On it, only one thing written: 194 mhz.

  Obliging them, Mattis adjusted his radio. “194 mhz,” he echoed.

  The voice of an unseen man came through, thickly accented. British, maybe? “Admiral Mattis. This is Flight Lieutenant Khawlah Bagram. Your casemate is down. It’s time for you to turn your ship over to us.”

  Flight Lieutenant? What kind of a rank was that? “You’re British?” he asked. Maybe he could use the memory of Captain Salt to get some leverage.

  “Australian,” said the man.

  The Australians had played a role in the Sino-American war, a fact that had totally slipped his mind. Ironic then that Bagram’s contribution had been forgotten. His group had been well named.

  “Regretfully,” said Mattis, trying to push the uncomfortable moment of truth out of his mind, “I cannot and will not be surrendering the Midway to you.”

  “Your bargaining posture leaves something to be desired,” said Bagram. “You’re trapped in there. I’ll repeat: we have breached the casemate.”

  Mattis regarded the still-glowing metal with a skeptical eye. “That much metal is going to take a long time to cool, and unless you can squeeze through a one-foot gap without touching the sides, you’re going to cook yourselves trying to get in. Our consoles and the inner door will protect us from grenades, our suits protect us from gasses and decompression, and if you can shoot us, we can shoot you. The only difference between us is: we have a whole ship full of crew who are working their way toward defeating you and your other boarding parties. Pretty soon you’ll be fighting on two fronts.” He smirked to himself. “We’re not trapped in here because of you. You’re trapped out there because of us.”

  “So full of confidence,” said Bagram, and a deafening roar blasted the weakened, still yellow-hot metal of the casemate into the bridge.

  Fragments and globs of half-molten metal sprayed inside, splashing off almost every surface. Globs and shards struck his suit, the internal computers activating various alarms. The ringing in his ears returned, worse than before. If he didn’t have some form of hearing damage before, he did now. That, however, was a matter for later. Nothing he could do about it now.

  With a forced casualness, Mattis brushed the semi-molten metal off his suit. Lynch had fared better behind cover, but one of their marines wasn’t moving, laying face down, wisps of smoke rising from the edges of his armor. He had been so much closer….

  The Forgotten walked in through the bent, warped ruin of the casemate, their boots hissing as they stepped on red and yellow fragments. They had automatic weapons held comfortably in their hands.

  “One last chance,” shouted the middle guy—Bagram—his face concealed behind the reflective visor he wore. “Mattis, you don’t have to die here today.”

  If that massive explosion had done nothing to them—granted, they were on the other side of it, but still—Mattis’s pea shooter wouldn’t get past their suits. Lynch was similarly armed. They’d lost a marine already, making it six versus two. And the way the Forgotten walked, the way their carried themselves, suggested that they knew how to use their weapons.

  Mattis stood up from behind cover. “So,” he said, doing absolutely nothing more than stalling for time until the Rhinos got there, “let’s talk.”

  Bagram nodded to him, his expression unreadable behind the reflective visor. “A wise choice, Mattis. There’s no need for more of your men to die.”

  “Yes, well, I’d prefer to avoid further bloodshed if possible—but I won’t surrender my ship.”

  “So you won’t surrender,” said Bagram, shrugging, “but you won’t fight either. I think that’s a de facto surrender, you know, like it or not.”

  Definitely more not than like. Mattis tried to stall for more time. “I’m suggesting a truce. There’s no need for anyone more to die here, on either side.” He pointed to Bagram’s wrist, to the glowing, lit-up communicator there. “Go on. Call your satellites. You’ll find them shut down.”

  “Mmm, are you trying to play us, Admiral? Stringing us out while the cavalry comes?”

  Mattis pointed again. “Ask them,” he insisted.

  Bagram touched the small device, cutting the commlink to Mattis and the others, speaking quietly to his fellows. The rest of them, on both sides, stood around awkwardly, guns pointed at each other.


  It was good. Regardless of how the communications went, every second the intruders waited was another second the Rhinos got closer. Unless they’d gotten lost or something. Where the hell were they?

  “They’re shut down,” asked Mattis, “aren’t they?”

  Bagram said nothing. Which said everything.

  “Look,” he said, “I’m not exactly known for my love of the People’s Republic. And I have questions too, questions about Friendship Station, questions about a lot of things, but you gotta believe me when I tell you: attacking US vessels, and pissing off the Chinese at the same time—this isn’t how either of us are going to find answers.”

  “And what do you suggest we do, Admiral?” They still called him that, despite everything. Military to the end.

  Mattis slowly sheathed his pistol. It was useless anyway. “A few things,” he said. “First of all, lemme talk to your leaders. Officers who are in charge. I know you mean well, but I don’t want to make any promises I can’t keep, and I don’t want you to promise me anything you can’t deliver. Especially something that I later come to rely upon or assume is true. I’ll talk to them, hear what they have to say, and see what I can do.”

  “Really?” Bagram leaned forward slightly. “You’d listen to us about all the back pay we’re owed, and the useless Veterans Affairs people who won’t cover our medical costs? Or even our funeral allowances when we finally kick the bucket?”

  For some reason, the denial of a funerary allowance struck home to him. He’d only just months prior laid Commander Pitt to rest, and the notion that his funeral might not have been covered because of some bean counters trying to wiggle their way out of their responsibilities made him more angry than he should have been at that moment.