The Last Hero: Book 2 of The Last War Series

by Peter Bostrom

  “Why?” asked Yim, squinting slightly. “There’s nothing—”

  “Go to the factory,” said Smith. “And you’ll find your answers.”

  The communication ended. Yim took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said to the room. “It’s time for us to make our move. Prepare a shuttle.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  MaxGainz Facility

  Floor 1

  Hidden Genetics Lab

  Chrysalis

  Kepler-1011 system

  Senator Pitt stepped out of the elevator. Floor One was accessible only by a special key; it was an industrial level formed in a naturally occurring fissure in the asteroid. Craggy and broken, with antennas and computers jutting out of the rock walls. Row after row of large oval tanks, each big enough to hold a person, stood vertically. Hundreds of them. They shone with a green, inner glow. A gantry extended above each tank, complete with a thick guard rail.

  The last time he came here, he had been alone. Not this time. General Lok Tsai—tall bastard he was, like a willow tree—stood beside someone he didn’t recognize. A short, European man in a bowling hat, with an enormous gut and a round, childlike, clean-shaven face. He carried a briefcase in his left hand and couldn’t have been more than twenty.

  “Who’s this?” he asked the General, eyeing the rotund man.

  “This is Spectre,” said General Tsai. “One of our most powerful assets.”

  Strange, General Tsai was not usually the kind of man who would fall for such simple deceptions. Senator Pitt immediately shook his head. “That’s not Spectre. Spectre is a woman.”

  “Appearances,” said the man, in a chipper, educated, male English accent. He put a small device to his throat and his voice immediately changed to female. “Can be deceiving. And, have a care, General. You are as much my asset, as I am yours.”

  It seemed absurd. Senator Pitt squinted. “You don’t look like the kind of spy who has access to the secrets of various world governments.”

  Spectre—or at least the person pretending to her—smiled happily. “And what exactly should such a person look like? A black leather clad femme-fatal with a pistol in each hand? A sexy, tall, suited man able to seduce anything with two legs, and sometimes not even that discriminatory? If I looked like a spy, Senator Pitt, I would not be doing my job very well at all, would I?”

  That was a good point he was unable to refute. “I just didn’t imagine you to be,” he paused, giving the man a critical eye. “So … out of shape.”

  “You wound me with your assumptions of my incompetence.” If Spectre was in any way offended he didn’t show it, turning to General Tsai with a smile on his face. “Now that the very good Senator has bought us what we need, shall we proceed?”

  “Of course,” said General Tsai, motioning over his shoulder. From behind and above him, the prisoners Pitt had brought were being led onto the gantries. Each one of them had hoods over their faces, and they shuffled forward, chains on their arms and legs. The guards led them before the tanks, one each, and they were made to stand over them.

  “You did well bringing these to us,” said Spectre, finally turning back to him. “They’re perfect.”

  “As I said,” said Senator Pitt. “Untraceable people, in exchange for my son.”

  “Of course,” said Spectre, tilting his head back slightly. “Commence stage one.”

  As one, the marines pushed the prisoners into the tanks. They fell in with a splash, sinking into the green fluid, and then the top sealed over them. A mesh, keeping them in.

  “What are you doing to them?” demanded Senator Pitt.

  Spectre turned to him, a confused look on his face. “What do you think?”

  Each of the prisoners kicked and struggled inside the tanks, trying to force their way up through the grates that sealed them in; to bend them, break them. The bars were thick metal, holding them under. The liquid churned as they kicked, frothing up bubbles that overflowed and ran down the sides of the tanks.

  Soon their struggles ended, and, one by one, they began floating limply in the water.

  “There,” said Spectre, “much better.”

  “You killed them,” said Senator Pitt, a bitter edge to his voice he was unable to disguise.

  “Come now,” sand General Tsai, simply. “What did you expect to happen?”

  He’d expected a lot of things. Most notably, a clean death for them, but not this.

  Spectre touched something inside his jacket. The tanks churned again as some force agitated them, making them vibrate as though they were experiencing some kind of seismic distress.

  The bodies inside began to hiss and smoke, dissolving as though suddenly exposed to some kind of intensely powerful acid; their flesh was stripped away, followed soon by their muscles and tendons. The corpses broke apart, drifting down to the bottom of the tank, leaving only their skeletons and the occasional implant. One of them had a prosthetic arm that sank to the bottom with a faint clink.

  “Can’t make something from nothing,” replied Spectre, as though he were discussing composting techniques. “Don’t worry. The biomass will be put to very good use.”

  Senator Pitt said nothing, staring wide-eyed at the metal arm floating in the tank as it settled down toward the bottom.

  “Cheer up, Senator,” said Spectre, watching the prosthetic arm as it, too, started to smolder, “soon you’ll have your request fulfilled.”

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Blessed Humanity Coffee House

  Chrysalis

  Kepler-1011 System

  Bratta poked his signal booster with a screwdriver. The dratted thing had been working a minute ago, why had it decided to disconnect from the external hard drive now? The device tended to be finicky, but this was outside its usual range of deviant behavior. Which was a pity, because it meant he’d lost signal, and he wasn’t about to connect to the café’s free wifi. He pocketed his miniature toolkit, and closed down the news websites he’d had open on his third phone this month. So much for background research.

  Jeannie had been gone a long time.

  Bratta looked around, scanning for anyone who looked like a threat—not that there would have been much he could do if he did find anyone, he was still sore from the Glasgow incident. His injuries weren’t medically significant—he’d escaped a concussion by what felt like a hair—but they’d stiffened up in a most inconvenient way. This kind of outcome, he thought indignantly, was why he made a habit of avoiding any physical exertion past the healthy minimum in the first place.

  Surely Jeannie should have been back by now.

  He spun the phone around on the table’s dubiously-clean surface. It had been a mistake to let Jeannie go talk to the home office alone. Certainly, they knew his face better than they knew hers, and she was a trained investigator, but they’d already threatened her with violence once, and she deserved—

  He put that train of thought on hold. Actually, as far as he could tell Jeannie didn’t really deserve anything from him. She was rude, cold, obsessively dedicated to the pursuit of justice, and had always been. That, he knew better than anyone. She’d put his life back in danger without so much as asking, and dragged him into a life of crime with no consideration for what he might have wanted. And she’d mocked him when he’d brought out his favorite toy to go through his files en route from Earth, which was deeply unfair when one considered that he could say with 98.1% certainty that the combination battery and hard drive was no longer a fire hazard. To be perfectly frank, she could go to damnation for all he cared—not that he saw any particular benefit in adhering to a religious creed. It was the metaphor that counted, he assured his disgruntled inner atheist.

  “Penny for your thoughts?”

  “I don’t like you,” he replied before processing that Jeannie’s voice meant that Jeannie was back, and Jeannie’s expression meant that Jeannie was now feeling insulted.

  “Thank you, Steve, you make my day.”

  He glowered and said nothing.


  She pulled out a chair on the other side of the table. “Well, the corporate scumbags didn’t give me anything. “Of course, Ms. Tafola, we will investigate your concerns as appropriate in the shortest possible time frame.” “No, Ms Tafola, we are not manufacturing aliens in an attempt to destroy the human race, that would be against company policy.” “If you will please leave now, Ms Tafola, then there’ll be no trouble.” Just really fascinating stuff, you know? How did it go on your end?”

  Bratta held up the signal booster. “My net connection broke.”

  Jeannie seemed to take that remarkably in-stride, which was worrying. “And did you find anything out? Anything at all?”

  He set his lips as he pocketed the booster. Realistically, resistance was futile. She’d probably find a way to drag him into conversation, anyway. “It depends how you define ‘anything,’ really. I couldn’t find any coverage about the aliens, but there’s been a lot of resistance activity about the US and Chinese peace. Old US marines—um, leader was this old bloke called Ryan or something?—they took over a Chinese embassy and then they got into a space battle over New London. Apparently, they hijacked the planet’s Goalkeeper. Other than that, only your zombie-less zombie apocalypse. Lots of supply shortages, no security or military action taken by governments, but people are forming their own groups.”

  “Huh. Even quieter than I would have thought.”

  “Germany is asking questions. But other than that, yes—I haven’t even seen one expert opinion on the video.”

  “The Chrysalis network might be censored.”

  He nodded. “That seems likely.”

  The conversation dissolved into silence. Jeannie was glaring at something on the back wall, over his head. Bratta got the signal booster out again and started tinkering with the connector. It didn’t really help his mood, especially when a tiny nut rolled off the table and he realized he didn’t have spares. He stopped to retrieve it, looking at the coffee line on his way up. Then froze.

  “Jeannie?”

  “What?”

  He pointed to a woman wearing a thick coat, hair done up in a bun. “Is that … Martha Ramirez? Your reporter? Getting coffee?”

  Jeannie snapped around. “I—you’re right. Yes, it is. Oh my god.”

  “Um. Do we do something?”

  She shook her head like she was trying to clear it.

  “Yes, we do,” she said, and left the table.

  Bratta found himself left to fiddle with the connector for five or so minutes—not that they were particularly productive minutes, he couldn’t help but to glance up every few seconds.

  Eventually, Jeannie started making her way back, reporter in tow. Bratta swallowed. Science Communication had been his worst subject at college, and he’d found it extremely uncomfortable to deal with reporters and journalists since. The art of employing psychological tricks, rather than data and logic, had always been a distant, unknowable, and vaguely disreputable discipline.

  “…And this is Steve Bratta, the man who took the video I gave you.” Jeannie’s voice gave him little time to react.

  The other woman, Martha Ramirez, nodded and treated him to a polished smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bratta.”

  Bratta scrambled to his feet to shake her proffered hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Ms. Ramirez.”

  Jeannie offered Ms. Ramirez a seat. “We were just pooling resources, Steve.”

  Despite himself, a spark of hope started to incubate in his chest. “Do you know anything more about the situation, Ms. Ramirez?”

  “Please, Martha,” she said. “And, well, perhaps. I understand you have some ideas about what might be going on here?”

  “Well, er, I wouldn’t say ‘some ideas,’” he replied, wondering just what insane pile of leapt-to conclusions Jeannie had fed her. “I have a hypothesis but it’s quite unfounded, really. We haven’t actually been able to find out much. MaxGainz, ah, don’t seem to be interested in our own gains, so to speak.”

  Martha smiled tolerantly. Not that he could complain, it was a better reaction than he got from most. “Ms Tafola thinks they might be participating in illegal human experimentation.”

  He adjusted his glasses. “That certainly could be the case. In fact, I rather suspect it is the case, or rather, at least part of it. The creatures’ anatomical structure is remarkably familiar. But, just because they’re human-like, doesn’t necessarily mean that MaxGainz are involved in … manufacturing them. It could be they split off from humanity some time ago and this company is really a government front to keep that a secret. Or … the company could have been targeted for their resources. That’s what they told us at any rate. I could be simply wrong … without an open mind, one cannot expect to learn.”

  Jeannie rolled her eyes. “Thanks, Steve. Look, we know they’re hiding something—they all but sent someone to assault us, the guy tailing us had a stun-stick—and Steve was mugged on his way from Zenith, and we know they got uncomfortable when Steve started telling them their labs could make monsters like that. I tried to drill the home office here—wouldn’t have been safe to send Steve, they know him—and they gave me hours of red tape and some hot air. Martha, we want to help. Is there anything else we can do?”

  Martha nodded. “My other sources have led me to Chrysalis, too. Something’s up with this place, and I can’t for the life of me get a why. Although if even one of Mr. Bratta’s hypotheses are right,” she laughed a little, “I’m not surprised by the security.

  “Still,” she continued, glancing at her phone for a second “if you want to help, I have a … friend, who appears to still be in the system that might help us get the answers we all need. If nothing else, he’s good for barging into places and getting peoples’ attention.

  “Who’s that?” said Jeannie.

  Ramirez smiled uncomfortably. “I hope neither of you have any issues with the US Navy?”

  Chapter Sixty

  Bridge

  USS Midway

  Orbit above Chrysalis

  Kepler-1011 system

  The shuttle back to the Midway had been a short trip that felt much longer than it really was. No ideas presented themselves as he, Modi, and Lynch made their way to the bridge. No solution to their problems.

  “Well,” said Mattis, a dejected edge to his voice as he sank into the Captain’s chair, “that sucked.”

  “I concur,” said Modi, standing beside him. “I certainly anticipated things going differently.”

  “Useless,” said Lynch from his console, his face an angry, frustrated scrunched up ball of Texan anger. “A waste of our dang time. We’re back to square one.”

  It was almost impossible to believe that they had come so far to get nothing. “Great,” said Mattis, more darkly than he intended. “I’m sure that will be a big comfort to the poor dumb bastards who get torn in half the next time these creatures get out. And who knows what the hell else is locked away in those vaults….”

  Whoever was behind this, whoever had managed to capture and control these creatures, it wouldn’t stay contained on some far-away asteroid. Mattis didn’t know why these creatures were being kept here, but like the secrecy around developing a weapon, nobody operated that way unless there was a plan, even theoretically, to use said weapons.

  Where would next be hit? Earth? What would be the result then?

  They couldn’t fail. It was too dangerous. And if they just walked away now, whoever was on that asteroid would burn everything to the ground and they would never know the truth.

  And where had these creatures been captured from? One invading vessel had escaped six months ago, and disappeared into Z-space. Had they been found by some ultra-secret deep state government cabal?

  “At least the ole’ girl’s space legs got a stretch,” said Lynch. “Beats hauling her around the same patrol route every damn day.”

  “And nobody was nearly killed in a car accident,” said Modi. “Or shot.”

  “And,�
�� said Lynch, obviously trying to lighten the mood. “At least the coffee was good.”

  That got a smile from him, although Modi didn’t react at all. Which he anticipated. “It was pretty damn nice,” said Mattis. “Tell you what. When we get back to Earth, we should franchise that company. Start up our own little coffee shop on the edge of nowhere and make our fortunes that way.”

  “Sir,” said Lynch, “you sure your hamster hasn’t fallen of its wheel?”

  “Just kidding,” he said, grinning a tad. “The shop would be aboard the ship of course. Traveling around the galaxy, dispensing delicious drinkables in all flavors and sizes. We’d sail around space, dispensing coffee and freedom, and—”

  Mattis’s communicator chirped, stealing away the joke. His personal one. Curiously, he pulled it open, his chest tightening. A text message.

  MARTHA RAMIREZ: Hi, Jack. It’s Martha. I’m on Chrysalis. I have some people you need to talk to immediately.

  She’s here. She’s actually here.

  The very notion that Martha could be within metaphorical stone-throwing distance blew the air out of his lungs.

  “You okay?” asked Lynch. He and Modi were staring.

  “I’m fine,” said Mattis, managing a little smile. “Looks like for once, it’ll be me pulling information out of Martha.”

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Bridge

  USS Midway

  Orbit above Chrysalis

  Kepler-1011 system

  Mattis watched the shuttle Zulu-1 drift toward Chrysalis, then return almost an hour later. A glance at the readouts on a nearby monitor confirmed it was full of passengers. Martha … Martha Ramirez was aboard that shuttle.