“I’d certainly listen,” said Mattis. “I know the VA’s office isn’t exactly popular with vets, but … I’m one of you. I fought in the same war. I know what you’re feeling. But it should come from someone with authority, someone who speaks for all of you.”
That really seemed to grab him. “You’d talk to our CO? Hear his grievances?”
“I would.”
Bagram considered. “How do I know you aren’t just trying to get a leg up so you can kill us?”
Mattis pointed over their shoulders. “Because,” he said, “I could just have my highly sociopathic anti-boarder marines standing behind you kill you and not have to worry about any of this.”
Bagram and the intruders all shuffled around. Two Rhinos stood at the end of the hallway, flanking the Forgotten, heavy weapons trained on the intruders.
“Say the word, sir,” said the lead Rhino, sweeping the bridge with the gleaming barrels of her weapon. “I’m real cranky after all that walking.”
Mattis knew that if she fired that thing in the enclosed space of the bridge there would likely be casualties on both sides, but there was no sense in letting Bagram know that. “Not yet,” he said. “We’re just having a friendly chat right now, is all, but if we could lower the amount of firearms present that would be real neat. And all of you need to keep your hands where we can see them.”
The Forgotten slowly put their weapons on the deck and put their hands on their heads.
“Despite the fortuitous arrival of my reinforcements, I want you to know this doesn’t change my position at all. I still want to talk to your leader, whoever he is, and hear out what he has to say. Without preconditions.” Mattis rested his hand on his hip. “It’s a good deal for you. Worst case, you get a lift back to wherever your boss is hiding out. Hell—your men on the satellites can come too, assuming they didn’t kill anyone in the taking of them and they didn’t do anything that’ll make the Chinese want to detain them, either. Which they shouldn’t because, legally speaking, as long as Yim can convince his superiors that this is an internal US matter, that’s how I’m going to treat it.”
With the metaphorical shoe on the other foot, Bagram was clearly more reluctant to trust him. “How do I know you aren’t trying to find his location so you can kill him?”
Mattis shrugged. “Honestly, you don’t.”
“Honesty counts for a lot,” said Bagram, “but something more concrete would be better.”
“Your bargaining posture,” said Mattis, grinning slightly to himself, “leaves a lot to be desired.”
Bagram hesitated. “I understand. Just … promise me you’ll go see him.”
Mattis straightened his back. “I’m a man of my word. Now hear this: I can promise you I’ll do my best to get to your CO and talk to him, genuinely hear his grievance,s and then do what I can to address them. But I can’t promise results, and I can’t promise he’ll talk to me in the first place. Only that I’ll listen.”
Bagram nodded. “Right. Then I’ll tell you.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Money Tree Lotto Office
Georgetown, Maryland
United States
Earth
Kyle O’Connor was having a really good day. Winning the lottery will do that. He’d played most of his life, now and then, but this was the first time he’d won anything. He smirked. So much for luck of the Irish.
He hadn’t scored division 1, not by a long shot, but it was enough that he would have a real nice year this year. Maybe pay off the car. Or a chunk of the house. His mind raced with the possibilities.
$888,416.94. The cents both confused and amused him; somewhere, someone had decided that the payout would include exactly ninety-four cents. Why ninety-four? Why not ninety-five or ninety-six? Couldn’t they afford the six cents it would take to round to a dollar?
Whatever. The main thing was collecting his earnings. That was why he had come to the Money Tree Lotto building downtown—a squat, gaudy building perched on a corner in the bustling business district. The double doors were narrow glass sheets, strangely uninviting. Maybe they didn’t really want people to collect their winnings after all.
That made sense.
Kyle stepped up to the doors and waited for them to open. They didn’t. He tapped his foot on the ground impatiently. Maybe the storefront wasn’t open today … maybe he was too early. Nine in the morning couldn’t possibly be too early, though, could it?
The first inklings that, perhaps, there wasn’t any money waiting for him at all began to seep in. He did usually buy a ticket, most weeks, but he sometimes didn’t. But this winning ticket was, apparently, from over a year ago, and this was the first he’d heard of it. How sure were they that the winner was definitely him? It might be some other Kyle O’Conner. There were bound to be dozens of them in Georgetown alone, probably more….
As he stood there, pondering the mathematical chance that this was all just a mistake on behalf of the lotto company, he felt a hand gently touch his shoulder.
Some guy had appeared beside him. An older man, probably in his late forties, with a one-week shadow on his face, black growth speckled with white. His whole left ear was mostly gone, just a lump of scar tissue that couldn’t possibly pick up any sound, gnawed and damaged like some kind of beast had chewed it off. His clothes were nondescript and plain, and even though he had a kind face—despite the ear—there was something odd about him; something off. Something false, as though the whole thing were a carefully crafted act.
“Mister O’Conner?” asked the stranger.
“That’s me,” said Kyle, a little more guarded than he intended to. “Are you here to give me my money?”
The stranger just smiled. “No,” he confessed. “I’m just here to talk to you.” The man held out his hand. “I’m John Smith.”
John Smith? Really? That seemed suspicious to him; such a generic, empty name—he may as well have called himself John Doe.
Kyle took the offered hand, giving it a firm shake. “I’m Kyle O’Conner,” he said.
“I know.”
Of course. The man had greeted him by name. “Uhh … yes. So, what can I do for you, Mister Smith?”
Smith reached into his pocket. For a split-second Kyle thought he might be drawing a gun—the streets were unusually quiet here, lacking their normal bustle—but instead, the man withdrew a communicator. A slightly older model with an anime sticker on it. “Do you recognize this device?”
“I don’t,” said Kyle, shrugging. A faint amount of relief managed to sneak into his mind. Maybe this wasn’t about him after all. “What about it?”
A slight pause. “Walk with me, will you?” asked Smith, and something in his tone—just something about the way he phrased it—compelled Kyle to do so.
So he did. The two men fell into step, walking away from the Money Tree Lotto Office which, Kyle began to suspect, was deliberately closed.
“I wanted to talk to you for a little while,” said Smith, folding his hands behind his back. “About a certain matter.”
A certain matter … Kyle’s heart clenched. “To what are you referring?” he asked, forcing his voice to be as calm, collected, and nerve-free as he could.
“I’m aware you spoke to Chuck Pitt,” said Smith, his tone light as if discussing a change in weather. “I don’t mind that—it’s a free country, people are allowed to talk to one another—I just want to know what you talked about.”
“Just … things,” Kyle said, evasively. “How did you know about that?”
“It’s my job to know,” said Smith, plainly.
Well. This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all. “So,” asked Kyle. “What about that communicator? I don’t want to buy it.”
“And I don’t want to sell it. I liberated it from a Doctor Steve Bratta some time ago,” said Smith. “Steve Bratta. Do you know that name?”
“Nope.”
“What about Admiral Jack Mattis?”
Kyle squinted. “Chu
ck’s father? I’ve never met him.”
“Mmm.” Smith returned the communicator to his pocket. “I feel, Mister O’Conner, that you didn’t adequately answer my question from earlier. You and Chuck Mattis: what did you discuss?”
Kyle frowned darkly. “I’m not telling you that,” he said, a wellspring of anger surging up in him. “I don’t know who you are. I don’t owe you the time of day, let alone anything more. Now piss off.”
Smith seemed unaffected by the shift in tone. “This is a national security matter,” he said, continuing to walk as though nothing were wrong. “There are very curious, very driven people asking questions about you and Chuck and what your involvement in all of their affairs may be. They have charged me with finding the answers.” Smith smiled at him, a strange, empty smile. “I am firmly of the opinion that the best answers are those given freely. I do not wish to resort to unpleasantness, Mister O’Conner, and I would prefer that you answer my question without any further attempts at delay or misdirection.”
It was tempting—so tempting!—to just tell this guy to fuck off and leave him alone. He was weird, creepy, and John Smith was the worst fake name ever … but there was something about the man’s tone, about the way he phrased things, that was layered with implied threats, and despite the thick coat wrapped around him Kyle felt distinctly cold. Some part of him understood that this man, although seemingly kind and gentle, had a profound darkness to him that was best left unexplored.
“We barely talked about anything,” said Kyle, honestly. “He asked me about the Ark Project. I told him that I couldn’t answer that question because, well, I couldn’t, and I told him to just leave the whole thing alone and get on with his life.”
“Is that all?” asked Smith, softly. “Did you mention anything else?”
“Uhh.” Kyle searched his memory. “I mentioned Senator Pitt still hates him and his dad. He asked about the video, the one that leaked, about the alien attack—”
“Oh, yes,” said Smith. “Tell me about that. What did you say to him?”
“Nothing,” said Kyle. “Neither of us had anything to do with that.”
Smith said nothing for a brief moment. “Did he give you anything? Or you, him? A file, perhaps? A link to something backed up on the net?”
“No,” asked Kyle. “Nothing at all like that.”
Smith regarded him for a moment, and then nodded. “I believe you. I’ll look elsewhere for what I seek, then.” He took a shallow breath, stopped, and then turned and began walking away. “Enjoy your day.” He started to turn away, before adding, “and, needless to say, we never talked. Goodbye, Mister O’Conner.”
It felt strange to be dismissed so readily, but Kyle just wanted the weird, unsettling conversation to be over. There was one other thing though….
“Wait,” Kyle called, “so, I didn’t really win the lotto?”
“Oh Kyle,” said Smith, smiling ever so slightly over his shoulder. “You aren’t that lucky.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Orbital Defense Platform J4
High Orbit Above New London
Omid Sector
Jessica Mao selected the dead center of New London.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” asked Jacobs, for the third or forth time so far. Piece of chicken shit.
“Yes,” she said simply. “Target these coordinates. Fire all the missiles at once; no sense in waiting. The more we send as one big salvo, the less likely they are to get intercepted.”
“Lots of people are going to die,” said Jacobs, whining softly. “I thought this was supposed to be a bluff.”
Jesus Christ. He knew what he was signing on for, didn’t he? “The thing about a bluff, Jacobs, is that it’s meaningless if you aren’t willing to follow through with it.”
He said nothing. He wasn’t happy, obviously, but Mao didn’t care. As long as he did his job, there would be no problems.
“Loading complete,” announced Jacobs. “Target coordinates locked in.”
No time like the present. Time to burn that miserable hellhole to ashes, just like she’d been training for. “Firing,” she said, tapping a key on the console.
A faint hiss reverberated around the orbital defense platform as it powered up, and then—almost too suddenly—the light flickered out, the power draining from every system. Her feet lifted off the ground as the artificial gravity went out.
She and Jacobs were left on a floating hunk of metal, spinning slowly above a world she had tried to destroy.
“Shit,” she said, as she caught sight of the Chinese ship drawing closer to her platform.
“Shit,” said Jacobs, his eyes fixated on the screen. They met hers. “We’re going to be okay, right?” he said, voice cracking. “I didn’t survive Capella for this!”
“We’re going to be fine,” said Mao, watching the Chinese ship draw closer. “We’re going to be fine.”
She spoke with a confidence she didn’t feel.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Bridge
USS Midway
High Orbit Above New London
Omid Sector
“So,” said Mattis, removing his helmet with a faint hiss. “Let’s talk.”
“Okay,” said Bagram, still obviously nervous at the heavily-armed Rhinos guarding him and his men. Their weapons lay in a pile in the corner of the bridge, their hands in binders. Engineering had secured themselves, and all over the ship Forgotten boarding parties had been secured in a similar fashion.
Too bad about the casemate though. It was integrated into the ship; repairing it would be difficult. Modi would have his work cut out for him.
But that was a job for the future. Mattis took a deep breath. “So. Places. Names. If I’m going to meet a guy, I’m going to want his name at the very least.”
“His name?” Bagram’s reluctance was clear. Mattis could understand. If the Forgotten were a nation, this would probably be considered high treason. And revolutionary groups—or at least, armed groups with an agenda—tended to be a little less than perfect sticklers for the rules. “I dunno …”
If Mattis couldn’t convince the leader to lay down arms, and the US Government wouldn’t offer him asylum and amnesty, Bagram’s life would be short and painful. “Look,” he said, “a good lawyer knows the law but a great lawyer knows the judge. The word of a US Admiral, especially one with the media presence I have, counts for a lot.” At least, he hoped it did. “If you give me what I want, I’ll do my utmost to make sure you’re protected.”
“John Armitage,” said Bagram at length. “At least, that’s the name he goes by. I don’t know if it’s his real name—nobody does. There’s even some suggestion that there are multiple people who simply assume the name whenever its convenient—there are more Forgotten than you think. Tens of thousands of them …” Bagram hesitated, shaking his head. “But that doesn’t matter. If you want to speak to the leader of the Forgotten, you want to speak to John Armitage.”
Right. John Armitage, who might or might not be one person or several. Useful intel, if incomplete. “And where can I do that?”
“It’s …” he took a deep breath. “It’s an asteroid. Way out in the belt of a distant star—Kepler-1011. A dead star without any other kind of name. It has a single planet, Kepler-1011b. Unsuitable for settlement. There’s a tiny automated mining colony there. No people. But the star has an asteroid belt… and one of the ‘roids’ name is Chrysalis.” Bagram was warming up now. “There’s basically not much there. A few small industries; a mining facility, a few smelters, a bunch of odds-and-ends type companies. Pegasus Security are out there too, bunch of thugs with badges if you ask me … what else … the rest is mostly black-market shit, some casinos, whore houses, whatever you want, really. Oh, and the HQ of some genetics company is there, too. Probably one of the more legitimate operations around.”
Genetics company. Interesting. “Okay,” said Mattis. “Keep talking.”
Bagram rubbed his know. “You
should know this place ain’t like most other places in the galaxy. Chrysalis is a semi-popular civilian destination. Don’t know why it is when it’s so far out, don’t much care to know. All I know is, they employ a lot of veterans, and they pay pretty well, so our kind tend to gravitate toward there.”
It always rankled him that the veterans of the Sino-American war had fewer job opportunities than even regular civilians. Military personnel sometimes left the service with a trade, but for many, that skill was “shooting people in the head.” The civilian market for that was vanishingly small and the perception of veterans’ mental health wasn’t good. But a genetics lab in the middle of absolute nowhere? Why would any company hire a former soldier when they could hire someone who didn’t have years of advanced training with heavy weapons?
Fortunately Mattis hadn’t ever been in that situation—he’d stayed in the service, and he’d been able to, but there were many who hadn’t. No surprise then, that they would go where they work was.
“Right,” said Mattis. “Anything else we should know about this place?”
Now Bagram truly hesitated, obviously torn between two loyalties.
“C’mon,” said Mattis. “If there’s something I gotta know I gotta know about it.”
“There are … defensive mines,” said Bagram, finally. “A small minefield in the belt. Gravity mines, high yield little bastards. They generate an artificial gravity pulse—1000 g differential over a space of just a few kilometers, lasting less than half a second—which, if you were anywhere nearby, would turn everyone inside this tin can into goo.”
Such technology would not be possible for a smaller ‘roid to manufacture. “How did they get their hands on something like that?”
“The minefield is left over from the Sino-American war. The Chinese laid it, but now the Chrysalis folk control it. And it’s been good to them; the mines are programmed to allow civilian traffic through, and military traffic only if you have the passcode or someone transmits it for you. Since the minefield got laid, that little rock’s become some kind of Libertarian’s paradise; the only law there is what you make, which is kind of why some companies are drawn to the place. I mean, who’s going to sail through a damn active minefield to enforce Occupational Health and Safety regulations?”
The Last Hero: Book 2 of The Last War Series Page 17
