He snorted dismissively, waving his hand. “That supposed to scare me, British lady? Lemme tell you something; this ain’t the first time I’ve had someone big-talk me with threats of power and political revenge, okay? You think that—”
“You’re referring to Senator Pitt,” said Spectre, calmly. “Yes. We are aware of him.”
Well, that was … not reassuring. “What do you want me to say to that?” asked Mattis. “That this guy who hates me for—” he bit his tongue, then said it anyway. “Losing his son under my command … he’s still mad at me? Still hasn’t forgiven me? Well, of course he hasn’t. That’s just human nature. And if this is one of his plans, then you can forget about me helping you in any way.”
“Oh, Admiral,” said Spectre. “This isn’t about Senator Pitt and his petty little quest to hurt the person who hurt him. This is so much more than that. Far, far deeper than you can possibly imagine.”
Everyone always did that. Always tried to make themselves more important than they were. “Having realized that we know where your ship is and that it’s dramatically, hilariously outgunned,” said Mattis, dryly, “I figure maybe your plan is to mystify me to death?”
“Stupid people are prone to believe incredibly stupid things when they perceive it to further their own self interests.”
Mattis squinted. “To what incredibly stupid thing do you refer?”
“The idea that my ship is … oh, what did you say, dramatically, hilariously outgunned, or that my purpose being here is to do anything other than to bring illumination and knowledge.”
Knowledge. Knowledge they could probably use. “Very well,” said Mattis. “How do you propose to share this … illumination … with me?”
“Well,” said Spectre, almost tonelessly, “my ship will move to dock with yours, and I will come aboard personally. I will tell you what I know in its full and complete entirety, leaving out nothing. There is, of course, a condition to this otherwise very one-sided exchange.”
Of course there was. “What condition is that?”
“Take me with you.”
Mattis blinked. “Uhh … say again?”
“The answers to the questions I know you’re going to ask, such as what was this weapon, what did it do, and how can we stop it, are not going to be found on Zenith. When you leave Zenith, I wish to come with you.”
“You realize,” said Mattis, cautiously, “that if I agree to this—and right now I’m honestly more inclined just to shoot you down—I cannot permit you unlimited access to my ship. If you are to come aboard, your movements will be curtailed, you will be carefully watched at all times and if you so much as step out of line, my marines will put a bullet in you without so much as breathing—I don’t care which powerful senator you work for. My ship, my rules.”
“I understand,” said Spectre, in such a way that Mattis could not help but feel they were not in any way threatened at all. “Let me know when you’ve made your decision. And just so we’re clear, Mr. Mattis, I work for no-one. No one man, no one woman. I work for humanity.”
He wanted to roll his eyes. “Standby.” Mattis muted the link and, for a moment, put his chin in his hands, trying to work through the play-by-play.
Inviting unknown civilians who claimed to have their fingers in the world’s governments aboard military vessels engaged in active investigations was against so many policy guidelines that it was almost ludicrous. So-called ‘Tiger cruises,’ allowing civilians to sail with the military and get a taste for that life, were relatively commonplace and more frequent in these modern times, but they were designed for friends and family of officers, and required an officer to vouch for them. There were even civilians aboard the Midway right now.
Obviously, as the CO, he would have ultimate say in this matter—and technically, counted as an officer for this purpose—but it was a risk. There was no vetting. He had not even seen this person’s face and they had been quite … nefarious. Unscrupulous even. Mattis could not, in good conscience, accept that risk without some more concrete guarantees, something better than vague promises and hints towards some greater goal. Even if that person had, earlier, given them the access codes to a secret Chinese weapon. He reopened the channel.
“My answer is no.”
Even through Spectre’s voice modulation, there was some genuine surprise coming through. “Admiral, you are making a mistake.”
“Convince me,” said Mattis, firmly. “And quickly. You expect me to trust you yet you haven’t even given me a single indication that you really know anything more than I do, and frankly, you represent a profound risk to this ship and its crew, beyond that which I feel is acceptable. I’m only willing to shoulder that risk if there really is something you have for me, and at this present time you haven’t given me any reason to think that such information even exists.”
“Have a little faith, Admiral,” said Spectre.
“Faith means not wanting to know what is true. I want to know what is true. Give me a good reason to think you know more than you know, or we’re done here.”
“I know about the deep state’s gene project,” said Spectre. “And since your little adventure on Chrysalis, I’m sure you know something of it too, but not all is as it seems. Who you think are good guys and bad guys is upside down, Admiral. The people you were fighting then … they, we, are trying to save humanity.” There was a short, playful snort down the line which came through strangely as whatever program Spectre was using to mask it mangled it. “Besides. I’ve got info that you won’t believe. Full report at eleven: the attacking ships really are from the future, and I can prove it, I can help you prove it to a galaxy who doesn’t quite believe what you’ve been telling them, and more importantly, show you how to stop them. Permanently. Now let me aboard your ship and I’ll give you this, otherwise … squander it. The choice is yours.”
Now they were getting somewhere. Spectre had knowledge, this much he was relatively certain of. Information he needed.
“Very well,” he said. “Permission granted to dock and come aboard.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Sol System
Ganymede Station
Former site of the Ark Project
Spectre had been here before? Well, now, that was definitely something.
“Are you sure?” asked Smith, looking over his shoulder. They were right next to the Aerostar, about to leave. The engines were whining loudly—perhaps that’s why Tracy had not said anything until they’d reached the launchpad. No chance of being overheard. “What can you tell us?”
“Not a lot,” said Tracy, hesitating again. “And yes. I’m sure. But I mean … I don’t know. I could lose my job over this.”
They needed a place to talk that wasn’t so … exposed. It might be impossible for someone to actually hear over the whine of the engines, but a good smart camera could still read her lips. The Aerostar would have to do. “I think,” said Smith, a little louder and clearer than he needed to in case there was something recording him, “I might have an issue with my suit. Gimme a hand with the glove?”
Momentarily confused, Tracy obviously got it after a second. “Sure,” she said, stepping up to him. He held out his hand, dropping his voice to a whisper.
“You’re absolutely sure?” asked Smith.
“Yeah.” Tracy nodded as she pretended to jiggle his wrist. “I’ve definitely seen him here before. Twice. Once just before the attack, and once about … oh, several months later. I don’t know his name—and I’m not even sure that he gave one, really—but I know he was here with some kind of important government official. I could tell because he wore that kind of suit that they all wear. Nice, but not nice nice, like what a businessman would wear.”
The difference between a five grand suit and a fifty grand suit was generally only visible to the trained eye. Or the cybernetic eye. “Got it,” said Smith. He awkwardly pulled out his handheld and brought up a picture. “This is the guy?”
Tracy glanced at the th
ing only for a moment. “Yup.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
Smith closed the tablet. “Thank you, we should get going now.”
The journey back to the Aerostar was brief, but Smith’s mind raced at a million miles a minute. As they stood outside the airlock, Reardon fumbled with the control panel labeled People Hole Opener.
“Something wrong?” asked Smith, staring at him.
“Oh, you know,” said Reardon, grumbling, his fingers stabbing at the control panel, which didn’t seem to be responding. “It’s just … it’s just, you know. This thing is sometimes a bit difficult. You have to treat it nice.”
“If it’s defective, why don’t you replace it?”
“Money,” said Reardon, thumping his fist on the thing. “And money’s in short supply right now, you know.” He groaned. “I read somewhere that the two best days in boat ownership are the day you buy it, and the day you sell it.”
“I was always told,” said Smith, “if you can afford a boat twice then you can afford a boat.”
Sammy’s voice came into his ears. “B - O - A - T - Bust Out Another Thousand.”
“Hey, shut up!” said Reardon, angrily. “That’s our home we’re talking about!” He thumped his fist against the control panel some more, and then, with a brief flash of static, it turned green and the outer airlock door slid open.
“See?” said Reardon, obvious pride painting his voice. “I’m like an Indian Han Solo.”
“Han Solo was a pilot,” said Smith, drifting into the airlock.
“He also fixed things,” protested Reardon.
“You’re thinking of Chewbacca. Which, honestly, is more appropriate. You certainly are hairy enough to be a Wookie.”
Reardon groaned loudly. “Let’s just agree never to discuss my body hair, okay? I’m a hairy man. Hairiness is masculine.”
Smith just shook his head. The airlock sealed and began to pressurize.
“You okay?” asked Reardon, his tone genuine. “You seem … even less humorless than normal.”
“I’m fine,” said Smith, depressurizing his helmet when there was finally air to breathe. “I … I don’t have time to discuss it in committee,” he joked, but the smuggler wasn’t smiling.
“So…” Reardon hesitated, clearly wanting to say something that just wouldn’t come. “We got what we came for, right?”
“Pardon?” Smith tugged at his gloves, working at pulling off the whole suit arm to save time.
“The answers,” said Reardon. “What we came to Ganymede for. You have it, yeah?”
He did. “What are you getting at?”
“Just, you know … well, I’d love to help you on your righteous quest, but I have responsibilities.”
Sammy. Of course. “I know you do.” Smith wiggled out of the spacesuit pants. “I know you want to just fly off to the stars, and I get why. But we’re done done yet. There’s a lot more going on here than I know about, and to be perfectly frank with you, I could hire a ship and do this myself, but it’s just not going to be the same as this one, you know? Quiet. Covert. Under the radar.”
That seemed to pad Reardon’s ego enormously. “Exactly like I designed her.”
“You didn’t design her,” said Smith, patiently. “You bought her. At a junkyard.”
“And then modified her,” protested Reardon.
“Barely.”
For a moment, Smith thought he’d actually offended him. “I do have responsibilities,” Reardon said again. “Sammy’s meds don’t pay for themselves.”
“I know, which is why it sucks that I’m asking you, but I’m asking you. And paying you.”
Whatever anger was there evaporated. Reardon chuckled. “Yeah, well, can’t argue with money.” He paused. “So, how much are we talkin’? Like, new jacket? Or new ship?”
“Lunch at a fast food joint,” said Smith. “I’m a spook, not a pimp. Let’s get going.”
He waited. Then, when Reardon left to go do whatever Reardon-stuff he wanted, and Smith was alone in the airlock, he pulled out the tablet again, and opened the last image he’d shown Tracy.
An image of Senator Pitt.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Zenith, High Orbit
USS Midway
Space Combat Simulator Room
Instead of taking her to the hangar, Doctor Brooks took a left at the Pilot’s Ready Room and led her down a corridor to a large room with a perfect replica of a Warbird cockpit surrounded by screens. Junior Lieutenant Deshawn “Flatline” Wiley, her gunner, was waiting for her by the ladder leading to the cockpit.
“Hey,” said Flatline, smiling like a dumbass.
“The simulator?” whined Guano. “This isn’t first hand. This is…”
“This,” said Doctor Brooks, annoyingly, “is the best and safest way for us to test your abilities and see what we can find out about them in a completely controlled, limited environment with full medical supervision.”
Which was another way of saying extremely boring. “I hate the simulator.”
“Hey, it’s nice to see you too,” said Flatline.
“The simulator’s an educational tool,” said Doctor Brooks, patiently. “And if you want back on the flight roster, you need me to approve your application. In order to approve your application, I need to see if what’s happening to you—your ability—is harmful. In order to see if your ability is harmful … well, I need to see your ability in action.”
That all made sense to her, and she kind of liked him referring to her episodes as “an ability”—it made her feel like a superhero—but it was still annoying. “You really care about this, don’t you?” she asked.
“Of course,” said Doctor Brooks. “That’s what I’m here for.”
Grumbling loudly, Guano put a foot on the base of the ladder and hauled herself up to the cockpit, wiggling into the firm, uncomfortable, entirely unfamiliar seat. This wasn’t her ship … it all felt wrong.
Then again, her ship wasn’t even her ship. The fighter she’d flown for years had smashed onto the deck of the Midway after their first engagement with the future-human ships. She’d barely broken in her new one before she’d ejected from it. Now, she had a whole new ship, which she had flown a grand total of … once. She flicked the ignition button on the simulator, and it put through a fake-sounding recording of the power coming on.
Flatline climbed into his seat behind her, strapping himself in with a click. “You ready to kick ass?” he asked, something weird in his tone. Like he was talking to a friend he hadn’t seen in a while. She’d only been gone like a week.
What bull crap. Guano cycled through the startup sequence grumpily, touching the buttons and switches in completely automatic mode. “Yeah,” she said, sarcastically. “I’m ready to fight some computer programs dressed up like bad guys.”
The simulation began, the dark screens flickering to life. Her ‘ship’ was floating through space on a standard patrol.
“Nice of them to skip all the stupid launch sequence bull,” she said, casually flicking her thumb across the fire button. It felt at once both familiar and different; it was obviously taken from an earlier model of fighter. It felt smoother, too, as though it had been worn down by hundreds of hands and tens of thousands of hours. Smoothed down to a sheen—the ship even smelled wrong, like the body odor of a hundred pilots all layered over each other, then covered with industrial grade cleaner.
The whole thing just felt fake. She couldn’t take it seriously.
“Well, this is the scenario that I picked out for you,” said Doctor Brooks.
With a bright flash of white light, three large ships appeared as though transitioning from Z-space; their blocky, angular design and glowing red engines all too familiar. Recreations of the future-human ships.
“Contact,” said Flatline behind her, and she blinked.
“Wait? Three cap ships?” Guano clicked off the autopilot and jammed the stick into her gut, pulling the nose of h
er ship up and away, opening the throttle. There was no push, no inertial change crushing her into her seat.
“I wanted to test you,” said Brooks, with a coy edge to his voice. “Stress brings out the trance. Can’t do that if you’re comfortable.”
She didn’t feel comfortable at all, but neither did she feel stressed. Just … going through the motions.
The three cap-ships began to launch swarms of fighters. Dozens of them. Guano rolled her eyes. A single Warbird was powerful, but as she counted, any last dangling threads of verisimilitude she had slipped away. There were just too many of them. The solution was to punch it for home and live to fight another day … but that wasn’t what Brooks wanted, so she turned toward them despite the obviously suicidal nature of the action.
“Okay,” said Flatline, encouragingly. “Let’s go do this! Let’s get some!”
Normally he was pissing and shitting himself when they flew into combat, but now he seemed eager to engage these overwhelmingly odds.
More fakeness. More bullshit. Just focus on the fight, try to bring it out … Guano pointed the thin nose of her ship toward the angry red swarm of hostile fighters, and she focused, trying to force herself into the battle trance.
Nothing. She just felt like an idiot sitting in a fake cockpit.
Grunting in frustration, Guano flicked the master arm switch on her missiles and picked out two strong radar returns, locking them up. “Fox three,” she said, trying to summon some energy. Click click. Bzzt. The computer chirped to let her know the missiles were fired, and as they streaked past her cockpit, she could see the pixels in the exhaust trails.
“Yeah!” said Flatline. “Take that, you shits!”
The Last Dawn: Book 3 of The Last War Series Page 10