“Of course.” Doctor Brooks shook his head. “And for that, Admiral, you’re entirely justified in being slightly miffed. Your ship is your home, and unexpected guests are always a problem. The chaotic nature of recent developments has … necessitated these actions; believe me, my recommendation was to conduct my business aboard the Alexander Hamilton, but both your timely arrival and Lieutenant Corrick’s potential reaction presented an opportunity too great to ignore.”
He mulled over Doctor Brooks’s explanation but was unable to find anything directly objectionable.
Silence reigned for a time.
“Admiral,” asked Doctor Brooks, “with respect, I’m uncertain as to the source of your obvious discomfort. Is it the implication that your crew might be receiving potentially harmful food, or … is it something else?”
Whenever anyone said with respect, Mattis couldn’t help but feel that there was very little respect intended at all. “The Midway is my ship,” he said, but then firmly nodded his head. “You’ve made your case, and I accept. Welcome aboard, Doctor Brooks.”
“Thank you, Admiral Mattis.” They both stood, shook hands with palpable forced politeness, and then left back to the bridge. “Oh, one more thing, before I forget. Something that Admiral Fischer said. She made a joke to me about your … how did she put it? Your Kirk-like tendencies? I’m not quite sure what she meant by that.”
Mattis wanted to groan. “Admiral Fischer has a thing for old science fiction movies. We’ll just leave it at that. Welcome aboard, Mr. Brooks.” He indicated to the elevator, and Brooks climbed aboard, leaving Mattis to enter the bridge down the hall, saluting to the marines at the entrance.
After the door closed and Mattis was alone with his bridge crew, he turned to Lynch. “Mister Lynch?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Have security occasionally check in with Mister…” he caught himself. “Doctor Brooks. I want to make sure that he’s … comfortable as he conducts his business here.”
“Aye aye,” said Lynch, and went to work making it happen.
Mattis watched him work, and wondered when Lynch himself would be sitting in the CO’s chair.
“Sir?” asked Lynch. “We are ready to launch.”
Chapter Nine
Earth, Low Orbit
USS Midway
Bridge
The Midway slipped its berthings and soared out into space. To Mattis, the ship seemed entirely … normal. Smoother, even, as though the quiet hum of her engines and the beeping of the machines on the bridge were somehow more muted, softer, gentler.
“How’s she sailing, Modi?” he asked. He’d specifically asked for the engineer to be on the bridge for this.
“The Midway’s engines are performing above expectations,” he said, an edge of pride in his voice. “Beyond what even I anticipated.”
Mattis had been waiting for the modifications to explode, or redirect them into the sun, or in some other way screw them all over, but nothing happened. No big explosion. No massive betrayal. The ship didn’t immediately turn and sail toward a star, or implode, or blast them all to atoms. Nothing.
“Very well,” said Mattis. “Initiate Z-space translation.”
With barely a whisper, the Midway was engulfed in a wave of flashing lights and vibrant hues, slipping effortlessly into Z-space; the strange un-reality that allowed ships to move between the stars at much faster rates than traditional space travel.
An anti-climactic launch, but Mattis was honestly relieved, and for the first time since he had returned to duty, actually allowed himself to relax. Anti-climactic wasn’t something to be mourned.
“Just a short test,” said Lynch. “We’re meeting Reardon at an … undisclosed location.”
“Is it a bar?” asked Mattis, rhetorically.
Lynch’s face showed him it might be more than rhetorical. “He just said, an undisclosed location. Gave us coordinates. It’s not far. About fifteen minutes travel. Looks like it’s in the middle of empty space, out towards Sirius.”
Fifteen minutes—couldn’t be farther than a few light years out of the solar system. “Thoughts?”
“Surveys show just an empty point in space,” said Lynch. “To be perfectly honest, that’d be where I’d want to meet the military, if I was a paranoid criminal. You can see whoever’s coming for lightyears around, and if you need to make a quick getaway, you can head out in basically any direction, turn off your power, and no one will find you in a million years. Like a needle in a … galactic needle stack.”
That did make sense. “Very well. Get ready to drop out of Z-space when we’re close, and have the ship come to general quarters. Hails on open frequencies. Be here, loud and proud. I don’t want to spook him.”
“Aye aye sir,” said Lynch.
Minutes later, the Midway slid out of Z-space, quiet and smooth, like a ghost. The real world reappeared in a flash of color, revealing a dark, inky black void full of un-twinkling stars.
“Z-space translation complete,” said Modi, his tone a mixture of relief and excitement. “Extremely smooth translation, sir.”
Good. “Any sign of our contact?” asked Mattis.
“Yes sir,” said Lynch, after a moment’s consideration of their instruments. “We have a PJ-95 mark II transport showing up on long range radar.”
Mattis had not even heard of that type of craft. “What the hell is that?”
Modi spoke up. “It’s a rare ship these days. One of the early fourth-generation transports. Strong and tough, fast, and easily modified. They are a favorite of disreputable types, ironically because many of the first production run were modified into being personal ships for wealthy travelers. After all, if one doesn’t want to be seen as a smuggler, one shouldn’t look like a smuggler, right?”
“Okay,” said Mattis. “Get ready to hail him. If that’s Reardon, I want to speak to him. While I’m on the subject—are there any other ships around?”
Lynch’s eyes flicked to one side. “There’s also the USS Alexander Hamilton standing by, ready to execute an emergency Z-space translation if we need them. They can be here in two minutes.”
“Okay,” said Mattis. “Patch me into Captain Katarina Abramova. Let her hear what we’re doing. Then open the hail.”
The connection went through almost immediately. On the main monitor the image of a dark skinned, aviator-glasses clad man wearing a thick jacket appeared. His copilot was a skinny-looking guy with longer hair who looked a lot younger—boyish, almost—who seemed to be sitting in a wheelchair rather than an actual seat. The kid looked like a surfer with shoulder-length hair and thick eyebrows that scrunched up into a shape that suggested he thought he was far too important to have to deal with a United States Space Navy admiral.
“Harry Reardon, I presume,” said Mattis, keeping his tone polite.
“You Admiral Mattis?” asked the guy, reaching up and fiddling with his dark glasses. “The guy from the news?”
“I am.” He took a breath and leaned forward slightly. “I’ve heard you’ve seen some extraordinary things, Mister Reardon, and that you might be able to assist us with our investigations.”
“Maybe,” said Reardon, dragging out the syllables of his words. “M-ay-be. A’right? It all depends. It all … depends.”
There was something in the man’s voice which belied his tough, suspicious exterior. Something that actually made Mattis believe he really had seen something.
Fear.
“Okay,” said Mattis, putting on his best diplomatic voice. “Let’s work this out. What kind of conditions are you talking about?”
“Well,” said Reardon, but then glanced off camera for a moment. His eyes widened slightly. “You came alone, right?”
“As we agreed,” said Mattis, patiently. “Just me and the Midway.”
Reardon shook his head. “Nope. Nope, you aren’t alone. I got a contact coming in fast. Someone followed you here.”
Lynch spoke up. “Sir, it’s true. Contact on long ra
nge sensors, coming in very fast. They’ll be at us in two minutes.”
“Two minutes?” asked Mattis, incredulously. Some kind of civilian craft? It was too fast for that. Too stealthy. He made a mute signal with his hand. “Hamilton, stop that craft from interfering. Intercept. Hail them. Do every damn thing you can do to stop them from messing this up for us.”
He let Lynch deal with it and unmuted the connection. “We’re doing what we can to keep that ship away from us,” said Mattis. “We can protect us.”
“They destroyed Zenith,” said Reardon, plainly. “What hope do you have of defeating them?”
That was a very good question that he didn’t have an immediate answer to. Mattis made the mute gesture again. “Why didn’t we see them before?”
“Must be small,” said Lynch, hands flying over his console. “Fast, too. Strike craft possibly, equipped with Z-space engines. Or … a long range boarding crew.” His tone shifted. “No transponders. No identifying signals of any kind.”
Was it the future-humans? No way to know. “USS Midway to USS Alexander Hamilton, this is Midway actual. Report status on intercept.”
“We’re coming in hot,” said Abramova, her thick Russian accent charged with energy. “Frigates are fast, Admiral. We can get to them in moments, but we’re detecting a surge of energy from Reardon’s vessel.”
He motioned for the comm officer to unmute the smuggler. “Reardon,” said Mattis, standing up out of his command chair. “Listen to me very carefully. I need you to—”
With a bright white flash, Reardon’s ship vanished into Z-space.
Shit.
The contact came out of Z-space. At the range it was at, all Mattis could see was a dot. With a similar flash, the Hamilton appeared behind it. “Mister Lynch,” he said, his tone dark. “Identify that ship.”
“No joy,” said Lynch, voice charged with energy. “But they’re not ours. And they’re not Chinese. Or … anything that I can recognize. No response to hails, and it looks like they’re charging weapons and moving into engagement range with the Hamilton.”
That made the decision easy. “Engage that ship,” he ordered. “Forward guns only. Let’s see if they have any fight in them. Abramova, you are free to engage at will.”
The Midway, already on a combat footing, shook slightly as a barrage of fire flew out toward the hostile ship. Even for a craft of its size, the opening barrage would likely only rattle them, even if it hit at all.
The shots flew true, white dots on the radar merging with the hostile signal. Then it abruptly vanished, replaced by an explosion as it blew itself to pieces.
“What?” asked Mattis, stunned.
“I think it self-destructed,” said Lynch, glancing at the spectrometer. “I’m not seeing any escaping gasses—just debris. It might have been a drone craft. No crew.”
It could have dodged and jumped away after Reardon. But it didn’t. It blew itself up … why? Was it there just to delay them? Didn’t make any sense. They would have tried to drag out the engagement as long as possible. Then…
The truth drifted into his mind. Because remaining undiscovered was more important to its owners than being successful.
“Initiate salvage operations,” said Lynch to Modi. “See what we can discover out there.”
He knew there would be nothing. “Belay that. They self-destructed—there’s not going to be anything worth recovering.” Mattis settled back into his chair. “That … was damned peculiar. Get us to Zenith. We’ll have to find our answers there.”
“Good hunting, Admiral,” said Abramova, her tone sincerely regretful. “I wish we could come with you, but we have our own mission. And we’ve got to stop for a resupply at the Jovian Logistics depot. Farewell.”
“Good hunting, Hamilton,” said Mattis, as the ship began to charge its Z-space engine for its trip to Zenith. And yet he still could not shake the strange feeling, the strange episode from his head. What the hell was with that ship? Out of nowhere, no identification, and yet somehow it knew exactly where he’d be, and yet … it did nothing.
Except scare off Harry Reardon.
Chapter Ten
Z-Space
The Aerostar
Mattis was still talking. “Listen to me very carefully. I need you to—”
Nope. Reardon hit the switch that jumped the Aerostar into Z-space, and the inky void of space was replaced by a kalliadesaope of colors.
Slowly, gradually, he lowered his guard. He cracked a smile and then, snorting, a little nervous laugh.
“You okay?” asked Sammy, his voice high pitched and stressed. Not entirely unsurprising really. He hadn’t exactly been keen on seeing Mattis.
Reardon slumped back into his seat as the adrenaline faded. “Yeah. You?”
“Yeah.”
Seconds ticked away. The ship sailed on, slipping through Z-space smoothly and evenly. “Where you taking us?” asked Reardon, adjusting his glasses.
“Uhh … I just picked a random direction,” said Sammy, glancing out the window to the multicolored spectacle outside. “I wasn’t really thinking. Sorry bro.”
It was understandable. Anywhere was better than where they had been; with the alien thingies in pursuit. That was what the little ship must have been, for Mattis to have taken it so seriously. But what in the world could those aliens want with him? He was just a no-good smuggler. Well, a pretty-good smuggler. Emphasis on pretty.
The seconds turned into minutes.
“Where should we go?” asked Sammy, his voice edged with just a little plaintiveness. “We can’t just keep sailing in Z-space forever.”
Well … they kind of could. Kind of. They would have to stop off occasionally for supplies and things—just food and things, nothing too important—but suddenly the idea of just sailing on forever and pretending like they hadn’t seen a thing was quite appealing.
There were plenty of places in the galaxy a guy like him could go and disappear. Some of them were even comfortable, with amenities and resources he could draw upon. His Indian citizenship would grant him a unique advantage. India had plenty of small colonies all throughout the galaxy. Nothing as big as the Americans or Chinese, of course, but still there.
Heaps of places a handsome guy like him could just disappear into a crowd.
But Sammy…
Sammy would never fit in. The colonies were remote and not exactly wheelchair accessible. A floating model would be too expensive, and would still attract far too much attention. They’d be recognized. No matter what they did, no matter where they ran, the eyes of passers-by would notice his brother. And where passers-by noticed, the government soon noticed as well.
No. It wasn’t even an option. Not even for one second did Harry Reardon ever consider leaving his brother.
Besides. Nobody in sexy aviator glasses ever looked cool constantly running away.
“We’re going,” said Reardon, with what he hoped was suitable dramatic flourish. “To see the only other person in the galaxy who will listen.”
Chapter Eleven
Earth
United States
Baltimore, Maryland
John Smith’s Apartment
John Smith flicked through the intel dispatches with something approaching boredom mixed with mild disgust.
Everything these days was so sterilized and boring. Drones and technology did most of his work for him, and most of what was left over was sorted through by neural networks and advanced data gathering algorithms.
The rest was just scraps. Why did they even keep humans around in this line of work anymore, anyway?
In the background, the news was playing something about a catastrophe on some far away world. Zenith. Same world where that oaf of a scientist, Steve Bratta, had shot his video of the mutant humans. Same world that was one of the premier genetic research facilities of the now-defunct MaxGainz corporation. Definitely his circus, definitely his monkeys.
But what was the connection?
He opene
d the next dispatch. Something about someone posting hate crime advocacy on the ’net. He forwarded it to local law enforcement who, no doubt, would ignore it. Next.
Something about a woman being arrested with bomb making supplies on the tiny colony of New Nebraska, known to the locals as “Newbraska.” Domestic issue, one outside of the CIA’s jurisdiction. Forwarded to the FBI. Next.
Ahh, now, this one was interesting. An analysis of yet another video taken by one Steve X. Bratta on Chrysalis; a shaky recording of the guy practically running through a genetic experimentation lab disguised as a steroid factory. What was it with this guy and bombshell videos?
One of the still images taken from the footage was flagged important.
A blurry, tilted, out-of-focus image of a man labeled SPECTRE.
Oh, hello, my old friend. Fancy seeing you here.
Smith leaned forward, tapping a few keys on his tablet. The computing resources of the CIA were significant; somewhere, far far away, a datacenter sprung to life, passing every imaginable algorithm over the image, trying to clean it up.
After a few minutes, the result came back. Smoother but not too much different from before.
Ah well, couldn’t get something from nothing. Garbage in garbage out. There simply wasn’t enough data to get a good, clean, crisp image … but it was a lead. A clue. A piece of a much bigger, much more complicated puzzle that, if solved, would be worth the effort.
And definitely Spectre. He knew that face anywhere.
“What are you doing at Chrysalis, my busy little friend?”
Something caught his ear on the news. Zenith … his eyes followed, finding an image of the rescue effort on that far away world. Flashing sirens and excavator equipment. A quick glance told him it was hopeless. Those people were looking for bodies, not survivors.
But this was the second incident involving Zenith in just a few months. First the MazGainz ‘alien’ attack, and now this….
The Last Dawn: Book 3 of The Last War Series Page 5