The Last Dawn: Book 3 of The Last War Series

by Peter Bostrom

  That made some sense. “I’ll be sure to thank Yim for his kindness when next I speak to him.”

  “Right,” said Modi. He frowned ever so slightly, the furrows on his brow tightening. “I don’t like this, sir. Any of it.”

  Mattis wished he could disagree. “We’ll just have to do what we always do, Mister Modi. Wing it. And please feel free to research what else our new engines can do in your spare time.” He flashed a small grin. “Just think of it as extended leave.” He watched Modi’s face for a reaction, but the joke seemed to fall flat. “You should probably head back to work.”

  “Aye aye sir,” said Modi, and departed as awkwardly as he had arrived.

  Mattis clipped on his earpiece, took a deep breath, and pulled out his communicator. “Connect me to Chuck.”

  The device chirped. Call failure: target unable to be located. Device powered off.

  Dammit. Mattis tried again and again, but nothing came through. He logged this incident in the back of his mind, resolving to chase it up later, and then switched mental tracks to another order of business. This time he selected another number. Admiral Fischer.

  This time, the woman answered instantly. “Fischer here. What can I do for you, Admiral?”

  He had kind of hoped for a few seconds to gather his thoughts but pressed on anyway. “I wanted to talk to you for a moment.”

  She paused. “Regarding?”

  Mattis took a shallow breath. “Frankly, your man’s presence on my ship, Admiral. I’ve already spoken to Doctor Brooks about this supplement issue, but you could have mentioned that he was coming along too when we met—I would have approved him being here directly. As it stands I’m a little put out that you didn’t ask. And frankly, I’m not entirely convinced he’s only here to investigate our … supplements.”

  “I know,” she said. “Do you want the diplomatic lie, or the blunt truth?”

  Mattis couldn’t resist a little snort. “You’re asking me that because you know I’m going to ask for the latter.”

  “Right you are. Well, Admiral Mattis, the problem is, you’re old enough to be a literal grandfather and yet you still need a babysitter. You’re the commanding officer of the USS Midway; your job is to command the ship, not to go out on adventures yourself and put yourself directly in harm’s way like some swashbuckling starship captain from old-fashioned campy science fiction shows. You’re not a Mal Reynolds. You’re not a Kirk. You’re definitely no Han Solo. Marching down to that embassy like you owned the place, going to that hellhole New London with your senior staff, taking little side trips to Chrysalis—granted that last one was more justified than the others—are way out of line, especially given your fondness for taking your XO with you. Now, I want to be clear about this: the US Navy grants a high amount of authority and autonomy to its COs, but ultimately, even the captain is simply a link in the chain of command. No more adventures. Period. This one is by the book. More Adama, less Kirk. Understood?”

  He said nothing. Half because he was far less versed in old science fiction shows that she was, but in spite of that her meaning was clear. And he didn’t like the implication for Doctor Brooks’s true mission.

  “Admiral,” said Fischer, “you asked me for the blunt truth.”

  True. “I suppose I just wasn’t expecting it to be so … blunt.”

  He could sense her smile down the line. “Look. I understand. Doctor Brooks is here to oversee Lieutenant Corrick, but also to keep an eye on you, Jack. Medically speaking that is. If you try to pull any bullshit, he can keep you on the ship and doing your job, and not out on your … swashbuckling trips. He has the authority of the Admiralty’s office—I’ve given him a special dispensation just for this, so I would suggest buttering him up with platitudes and trying to stay on his good side.”

  He ran his hand through his hair. “Mmm. Well, I already screwed that up. He didn’t like me asking too many questions about the nature of him being here.”

  “Well, unscrew it.” A tiny playful edge crept into her tone. “Apparently you’re quite good at that. It worked on Miss Ramirez, didn’t it?”

  That was not where he was expecting this conversation to go. “Uhh.…”

  “Yeah. Anyway,” said Fischer. “Anyway. Talk to Doctor Brooks again when you have a moment, and this time make good. And Admiral, I’ve given him direct authority to countermand any of your decisions that jeopardize your own personal bodily safety.” Her tone softened. “Jack, listen to me. This is your last mission on the Midway. It’s past your time. It’s past hers. Hell, I had to fight for you to keep her for the six months after Friendship Station. An Admiral! Commanding a starship! Heresy! That’s all I’ve heard from the top brass. I can’t tell you how annoying it’s getting. Anyway. That’s all. Just … be safe, and enjoy it while it lasts.” She stood up from her desk. “Anything else?”

  “No,” said Mattis, and closed the link.

  He sat there in the quiet, considering everything he had learned, which was at once a lot to take in and, ironically, just too little.

  What was going on aboard his ship, and why did he feel like he wasn’t being told the whole story?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Four Lightyears from Earth

  USS Midway

  Bridge

  With suspicious thoughts churning through his head, Mattis sat back in his CO’s chair, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. They had seen a strange ship, blown it up, but he couldn’t put the puzzle pieces together yet. There was something missing. Something…

  Something external to the ship, or within it?

  You’re being paranoid, old man.

  Admiral Fischer was just doing her job, putting her man onboard. Doctor Brooks was just doing his job. He should focus on his own.

  “Sir,” asked Lynch, a little hesitantly, perhaps sensing Mattis was deep in his thoughts again, “a report about the new engines.”

  Finally. Something simple at least. Easy to understand. “Sure. Let’s hear it.”

  “Well sir, Commander Modi reports that the integration is going smoothly. He’s on his way up from Engineering to report his findings on Z-space translation.”

  Welcome news. Mattis nodded appreciatively. “Good.”

  “It is good, Admiral,” said Modi from the entrance to the bridge.

  Mattis beckoned him on. “Good to see you, Commander. How’s my ship’s legs?”

  “Its landing struts are entirely functional, Admiral.”

  Lynch glared at Modi. “You spinning me, Commander? He was talking about the engines!”

  “Then why did he ask about the landing struts?”

  Mattis bit his lower lip. “Commander Modi. Please present your findings about the integration between the Chinese and American engine systems, and disregard any information about the ship’s landing struts.”

  Modi considered. “Well, so far, as anticipated, the engines have been able to get thirty-six percent more power while consuming eleven percent less energy. Couple that with smoother operations and I’m quite happy. There remains a slight issue with the way the graviton emitters function. Still trying to understand the significance of it all.”

  “Graviton emitters?”

  “Yes sir,” said Modi. “The new engines employ a new form of gravitational lensing. They emit gravitons, which shape Z-space around the ship as it moves, like a giant snow plough in front of a train.”

  Lynch snorted out a dismissive laugh, accent drawling. “And here I thought you were utterly incapable of using metaphors, Modi. You shock the life out of me.”

  “I concur,” said Modi. “Do you need medical attention?”

  Lynch groaned loudly and looked away.

  “Modi,” asked Mattis, “I need you to stay focused. So it’s a graviton engine. Yes?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And it’s not dangerous in any way? It’s functioning fine? No issues?”

  “Only that I simply have not figured out the precise method by which the
graviton emitters form the necessary conical shape yet, but I will. The science in the new files your son passed to me is well documented but … extensive. Exhaustively so. I am only one man, Admiral.”

  He didn’t want to push his chief of engineering too hard. That would be asking for trouble. “At your own pace, Commander Modi. I trust you’ll have the system’s mysteries well understood in no time.”

  Modi raised an eyebrow. “I think it will require more than no time. Theoretically, that would be less than a planck-second, which less than the amount of time it takes light to travel a planck-length, which itself is quadrillions of times smaller than an atom’s nucleus, though I suppose it—”

  Lynch snorted. “Good God, you socially-dysfunctional robot ferret, just take the damn compliment and run.”

  Modi glanced Lynch’s way. “You don’t give me enough credit, Commander. The culmination of my … joke, was that it would take at least five plank-seconds to complete my research. But as the saying goes, if you have to explain the joke, it simply was not humorous to begin with.”

  Lynch folded his arms. “Clearly.”

  Mattis held up a finger to silence the inevitable squabbling. “Is that all?”

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  Mattis straightened his back. “Very well. Get on it. I have a feeling we’re going to need that extra power sooner rather than later.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sol System

  Ganymede

  The Aerostar

  The inside of the Aerostar had proved itself to be everything Smith expected, and less. Although, that wasn’t entirely fair—there were a few places where the decor actually approached sensible, and some of the equipment at least looked like it was in working order, despite some of the outlandish paper labels taped on most of them. Pew Pew! Or, Do not press unless the shitter is full. For the fluid exchange coupler—the ductwork that channeled in clean water and pumped out waste water when they were docked, he’d labeled, Sexy Fluid Exchange Bow Chicka Bow Wow. And for the locking clamps used for docking with a port, Hanky-Panky clanky thang.

  And for the Z-space controls, Vroom!. He chose to credit the younger brother for that one. He’d always been less … blatantly obnoxious than his sibling.

  “Exiting Z-space in five!” Sammy called from the co-pilot’s space, tapping buttons on the Vroom! panel.

  “Thank you, Sammy,” Smith replied as he unfolded himself from the comfortable, but embarrassingly leopard-printed armchair Reardon had insisted on manhandling into the cockpit and moved to stand behind the pilot’s chair.

  “Hey! That’s my job,” Reardon complained. “I acknowledge status reports from my minions, because I am the captain. That, my friend, is how the chain of command works.”

  “Because ships that follow actual command structures use phrases like ‘in five’ to refer to—minutes? Seconds?—Of course,” Smith said evenly as Sammy muttered a few choice words about ‘minions’ and what he thought of Reardon’s ability to survive alone.

  “Wow, rude,” said Reardon, turning to glare at him. “I’ll have you know this ship is a professional commercial enterprise, and—”

  “Sure, sure, whatever you say,” Smith said. “Now, are you ready to go dirtside? Sammy, I’ll need you to stay with the ship—this shouldn’t be dangerous, but if it is, we’ll need a quick getaway, and if I find anything urgent, I might need to send it on to you. Be ready for my transmission. And Reardon—you have a couple of spacesuits? The station is working on a fairly tight budget, so it’s faster to get docking permission if we don’t need them to wheel out an air bridge.”

  “Wheel out?” Sammy whistled, tapping his wheelchair. “Oh, I guess I didn’t tell you I retro-fitted this baby with zero-g thrusters.”

  Smith smiled to himself. “No kidding?”

  “Low tech is best tech, you know,” said Sammy. “A lot can go wrong with high tech stuff … but older models? They built them to last. It’s simple. Rugged. Easier to attach things like, for example, thrusters.”

  That made sense to him. Kind of. “Right you are. Anyway. Stay here and track our progress—I’m sure we’ll need some backup. Preferably with big guns. Right up your alley, kid. Reardon. Suits?”

  “Yeah, I got some spacesuits,” Reardon said. “I modded them myself, too. Won’t find a more stylish kit this side of space, baby. You’ll love them.”

  He doubted that. “As long as they work.”

  “They always do,” the smuggler continued, making for the ladder. “All my things do. And while I’m on the subject … no touchy, Smith. Stay away from my lady.” He twisted around and jabbed a finger at the console.

  Smith looked at the control panel, dizzyingly arrayed with bizarrely colored buttons, dials, levers and knobs marked things like Bad Idea and Super-Speedy and Pew Pew Two: Electric Boogaloo, and shuddered. “No, thanks. I don’t think I’ll take my chances on scattering us across Z-space today.”

  “That’s the spirit!” Reardon’s voice was muffled as he disappeared to a lower deck. Smith noticed Sammy looking confusedly after his brother.

  “Everything OK?”

  “Huh? Uh, sure,” Sammy shook himself. Maybe he was cold. “He’s just being weird.”

  “Your brother is usually weird.”

  “Mmm.”

  A brief, vaguely uncomfortable silence. “It wasn’t because of the thing I said?” asked Smith. “The thing about … wheeling out stuff?”

  Sammy reached down and turned his chair, his face a half-grin, half-grimace. “Nah.” He paused. “I mean, yeah. Sort of. But it’s not your fault.” Sammy leaned forward slightly. Smith’s eyes were drawn down to Sammy’s legs—impossibly thin twigs, basically bones with no muscles on them at all.

  “After I got hurt, after the accident, you know, everyone was so supportive … they were all like, ‘don’t worry, the docs will fix it.’ And when they couldn’t, that changed to, ‘this isn’t going to affect anything at all, your life is basically going to be exactly as it was before, and this doesn’t change anything.’ That’s the kind of thing people who aren’t disabled say. Because they don’t know that it really does change everything. Some people try to hide it, get all offended when it’s brought up. Other people go overboard the other direction and own it. Call themselves a crip or whatever. Regardless of their position, it changes them. Can’t avoid that. Getting offended about things won’t change it. Getting annoyed that I can’t go on a mission with my brother and have to stay with the ship won’t change the fact that it’s … the best decision anyone could make given my capabilities. Still….”

  Smith waited a moment. “It’s still hard?”

  Sammy looked at him as if he’d said the understatement of the year. “It sucks dick.”

  Ahh, so that was the issue. “I would say I don’t understand, but you know that already.” Smith tapped the side of his head, right beside his cybernetic eye. “Although technically, this is a prosthesis. And I didn’t choose it; it was put in after…” he smiled. “A complicated series of events.”

  “Sure,” said Sammy. “And you didn’t choose it, but does it change how you identify. Are you a cyber-person, or just John Smith?”

  “Just John Smith,” he said. “But still. An eye ain’t a pair of legs. I still get to go on missions.”

  “Hah, true,” the kid conceded, half-grin becoming a full smirk. “You get to go out and get shot at. Lucky you. Me, I have a bunch of guns and inches of hull armor protecting me.”

  True, although a ship was big, valuable target. “So he gets all weird when he’s being protective of you?”

  “Nailed it.”

  A new feeling of respect for Harry Reardon surged through Smith. It couldn’t be easy basically raising his younger brother after their mother died, and then, when the younger brother was finally old enough to technically live on his own, keep the kid with him not as a burdensome tag-along, but recognizing him for the brave little genius he was. Beyond capable, where another person would have o
nly seen a wheelchair holding a warm body. And even recognizing all that, Harry still was as protective of the kid as a mother black bear and her cub.

  “If it helps,” said Smith, nodding to the ladder. “It’s more than just being weird. He’s still drunk.”

  “You can tell?” Sammy asked, his face a mixture of skepticism and genuine impression.

  It didn’t take a highly sensitive prosthetic eye to see it. “Yes.”

  “Wow. Remind me never to play poker with you.”

  “You say that every time I see you.”

  Sammy shot him a dirty look and turned back to his console. “Only because it’s true.” He leaned over to a mic. “Coming out now, bro!”

  Brilliant veils of rainbow light washed over the viewport as they reverted to normal space. Over the space of a few seconds they faded into a spectacular view of Jupiter’s titanic marbled storms and Ganymede’s crater-dappled surface.

  “Civilian craft Aerostar, what is your business on Ganymede?” a voice crackled through the a speaker among the pilot’s controls mere moments after reversion.

  Sammy glanced at Smith, and replied. “Ganymede Station, we are here on classified US government business. Requesting permission to dock, no air bridge required.”

  Just as they’d rehearsed. Good.

  “Aerostar, you are aware this is a restricted area?”

  The boy seemed suspiciously untroubled by the line of conversation. “We are, Ganymede Station. Sending through permission codes now.”

  He’d learned to lie well. Not that anything different could have been expected of Harry Reardon’s brother.

  “Sorry sir,” the voice said. Smith could practically hear their eyes widening. “There’s a bay clear for you right now. Transmitting a flight path.”

  “Received.” Sammy grinned. “Thank you, Ganymede Station.” He cut off the mic. “Must be nice, having people call you sir all the time.”