The Last Dawn: Book 3 of The Last War Series

by Peter Bostrom

  Well, that was certainly a lot to take in. Mattis glowered angrily but, on any specific point, he could not refute the Doctor. The issue was, of course, his growing caution regarding … well, everything. These new Chinese engine upgrades. The Deep State. Spectre.

  “And, don’t forget, this is the main reason why Admiral Fischer sent me here. To … reign in certain … tendencies of yours.”

  He wanted to punch the doctor in the nose. How dare he? “You’re right,” he conceded, avoiding the fight, taking a deep breath and letting it out. “Modi, stay with the ship. Fix the damage. Lynch, get the Rhinos and tell them they are going to probably go die in some really stupid way … make sure they bring their big guns, this place is dangerous enough at the best of times, and they don’t like outsiders even when they aren’t bombing them from orbit.”

  They both seemed relieved, in some way, by the change of orders. “Aye sir,” said Lynch, and got on the radio to the Rhinos.

  “Modi,” said Mattis, trying to put the uncomfortable conversation with Doctor Brooks out of his mind. “Engines.”

  “Yes sir,” said Modi, rolling his obviously injured shoulder. “It’s very complicated, so I will summarize and only relay the information you need to hear: the engines are damaged and they will require approximately four hours worth of work, at our current manpower strength, in order to make them operational again, and that will only be at approximately eighty percent of operational capacity.”

  Mattis grunted quietly. “Lynch, you hear that? You have four hours down there on that shit hole. After that, well, I hope you make friendly with the locals … if there are any still alive.”

  “Right,” said Lynch, beaming widely. “And by the way, Modi only told you what you needed to know. He’s learning, Admiral. Faster than a scalded cat that one.”

  “That,” said Modi, narrowing his eyes in confusion, “is animal cruelty.”

  Knowing exactly how this would transpire—Lynch would get angry, Modi would get confused—Mattis cut them both off. “Get going.”

  “Aye sir,” said Modi. “I should get back to engineering.”

  “And I should suit up,” said Lynch.

  Mattis nodded firmly. “Get to it,” he said, the ghost of a smile forming on his lips. “Whoever finishes first—fixing the engines, or finding out what can be found on this planet—can have a week’s extra shore leave when all this is done.”

  Lynch blew an appreciative whistle. “A whole damn week?” he said, eyes widening. “Depending on when this trip wraps up, we could be back in time for the Ranches & Rodeos meet this year. I’ve always wanted to go.” The Texan gave Mattis a knowing wink—senior officers, by federal law at the end of the Sino-American War, each got the exact same amount of shore leave, period. But he went along with the joke.

  “Maybe this is your chance.”

  “As for me,” said Modi, “I could spend the time examining the ship which Spectre brought aboard. I’m sure its construction is fascinating, and I cannot wait to just … pry it apart and see what’s inside.”

  That sounded suspiciously like work, but Mattis had the sneaking suspicion that, perhaps, Modi didn’t really have any particular hobbies. “Whatever makes you happy on shore leave.”

  Lynch went off to go get changed and get ready for his mission, while Modi ambled back to engineering, leaving just Mattis and Doctor Brooks alone.

  With a polite chuckle, Doctor Brooks nodded approvingly. “Positive reinforcement, even for your senior staff, game-ifying rewards to encourage friendly competition. You’re not half bad at this, Admiral Mattis.”

  Mattis didn’t smile. “This is my boat,” he said, firmly. “And while I appreciate your input, and accept that you are here on Admiral Fischer’s request, do not ever presume to give me orders when you’re standing in these corridors.”

  The mirth flew from Doctor Brook’s face, but he seemed to take it well in stride. “I understand. My apologies, Admiral. It won’t happen again.”

  “It better not,” said Mattis, and without further ado, turned and walked back to the bridge.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Losagar System

  Planet Waywell

  Senator Pitt’s Vacation Estate

  Smith crept forward slowly. Painfully.

  “John, freeze. You need to freeze now.” Sammy’s voice issued low and fast through Smith’s earpiece.

  For the fifth time in as many minutes, Smith locked his muscles and relied on the imported flora—a sterilized European woodland grown in a terraformed circle exactly as far as the eye could see from the remote estate, and no further—to hide from the guard passing by on a distant wall. Apparently Pitt’s ego was stronger than his sense of paranoia, because this was not something Smith would have classified as a defensible location.

  “OK, you’re good,” said Sammy. It was times like this Smith wondered just how old he was. Still a kid, right? Sort of?

  “Thanks,” he muttered back as he began slipping toward the compound once more.

  Having a smuggler’s illegal camouflage and scanning equipment was coming in handy, he had to admit. Not to Reardon’s face, though. Still. The stuff worked and it worked well.

  How many crimes had Reardon gotten away with using this stuff?

  He resolved not to think about it. Combining their skills had payed off; they’d mapped the area, plotted the best route, and downloaded it into his cybernetics. Unfortunately, said ‘best route’ ended in a crawl through some dense and likely thorny underbrush, but that was the job. He ghosted between trees, moving quickly enough to keep from dangerously open areas, and just slow enough to not catch a human’s immediate attention with his motion.

  Reardon spoke up. “Drone showing up over your spotlight-hogging ass, Smith. Get it under cover.”

  “Spotlight-hogging?” he murmured as he slipped under some particularly dense foliage. Overhead, the buzz of tiny motors drew closer. “We both know who’s always been better at stealth missions. Not the guy in the pink space ship.” The unseen device passed overhead and faded away.

  “Drone clear,” Reardon said by way of reply. “Also, the ship could be a distraction, you know. While I sneak off into the distance.”

  “Reardon, you’re a distraction, cut the chatter.”

  The smuggler ignored him. “And for your information, it is a perfectly respectable salm-”

  “Chatter, Reardon.”

  Smith dropped flat beside a cheerfully burbling stream as another watchman made their way onto the wall. Within moments they had passed, and he was off again.

  “Coming up on that hidden wire,” Sammy informed him. “Twenty steps out.”

  Smith smiled. Sammy was learning fast, already an excellent navigator. Although that wasn’t exactly surprising, living with Reardon’s … Reardon-ing, as the kid did. If that wasn’t the definition of a trial by fire, Smith didn’t know what was.

  “A wire as razor-sharp as my wit, and electrifying as my skill!” Reardon crowed. Always with the stupid comments.…

  “Actually, it’s coming up as a sensor wire,” Smith commented mildly, running the tiny scanner embedded in his left index finger over the general area. The thing chewed through battery like a hungry goat might chew through a vegetable patch, but it was one of the most useful pieces of equipment he owned. “So yes, sounds about right, Reardon.”

  “Do people usually call skill ‘electrifying?’” Sammy asked as Smith carefully stepped over the ground where the wire was hidden.

  “It’s often reserved for events involving overly excited hicks and revving motorbikes,” Smith replied. He was closing in on the compound now.

  “Oh. Explains why Harry’s using it.” The younger brother sounded very convincingly thoughtful.

  “Hey bro. Guess what?”

  Smith resigned himself to Reardon’s constant blathering as he reached the underbrush. It was definitely prickly, but at least that would keep his mind in the moment, rather than, say, on the brothers’ b
ickering.

  Sammy replied even as he crouched, looking for the path of least resistance. “What?”

  “Guess who’s cleaning out the waste module for the next month?”

  “…Is it you?”

  “Nope!”

  “…Is it John?”

  “Hey, that could w-”

  “No.” Smith cut him off as he shuffled sideways and began his crawl. For a short while, the air support was silent.

  Then, “We can see your ass.”

  “What?” he hissed at Reardon.

  “Through the scrub, there’s a gap above you,” Sammy replied, voice urgent. “We’re not kidding. Your backside is poking out. Guard on the way, you need to get out of sight.”

  Move too fast and he’d disturb the brush above and the guard would spot him. Move too slow and the guard would spot his rear anyway.

  Not ideal.

  He slowly rolled onto his side, curling back towards the nearest roots. Hopefully, minimizing his profile would be enough.

  “Head, get your head back,” Sammy’s voice rose in pitch. “He’s getting close.”

  Smith contorted himself further, getting a face full of thorns for his troubles. He muffled a groan as one of them scraped his organic eye, swearing under his breath.

  “Wow,” Reardon broke in. “Ease up on the eighteen plus talk, Smith. There’s a child listening.”

  “Hey!” said Sammy. “I’m nineteen!”

  Maybe the guard would find him and shoot him. Then he wouldn’t have to listen to the Reardon brothers anymore.

  Tempting, but no. Smith stayed very silent, and very still.

  “Okay,” Reardon’s voice dropped. “He’s about to go past now. Don’t move, John.”

  He didn’t.

  “He’s looking, he’s looking!” Sammy gasped.

  “He’s on his way by, it’s going to be fine,” Reardon said, the tension in his voice not doing much to allay anyone’s concern.

  Blood started trickling into his eye from a scratch on his forehead.

  “He’s moving away,” the kid said, elation filling his voice. “Holy hell. That was close.”

  Years of training kept Smith from so much as breathing a sigh of relief, though he couldn’t quite say the same of the Reardon brothers.

  “Am I good to go?” he whispered.

  “Clear,” Reardon responded, and the rest of the crawl passed without incident.

  Then, when his two nattering eyes in the sky told him it was safe, he shimmied up a tree to get a better look inside the compound.

  And promptly nearly fell out, because under a patio, hidden from any sort of prying aerial sweep, Senator Pitt was indeed home.

  So was his blown-up-by-aliens, body-found-and-identified, given-an-actual-state-funeral, incredibly-dead son, who was alive.

  And they were talking.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Rogue Planet Serendipity

  Surface

  Lynch wasn’t happy.

  The shuttle touched down on the surface of the dark world, and the loading ramp slowly—almost mockingly so—began to lower. It had taken far, far too long for the Rhinos in the away team to get suited up. Almost a quarter of their time had elapsed, and Lynch wanted those weeks of leave. At least, he wanted Modi to think he wanted them.

  They were too slow and his patience was already running out. The idea of going to the rodeo had ignited an eagerness in him which, bizarrely given all that he and the crew had been through, was motivating him to get the job done and get back to his vacation.

  Or maybe it was just beating Modi. That stupid idiot didn’t have enough sense to spit downwind when it came to … basically anything that didn’t beep or whir or zoom.

  Or maybe … thousands of people had just been killed on Zenith and he needed a distraction to remain focused on the job. They all did.

  Suddenly, at that very moment, he understood. That was why Admiral Mattis had dangled the seemingly childish offer in front of them. Of course. Not because a few weeks paid vacation would motivate him or Modi any further, or to game-ify their jobs, but if they let themselves dwell on the tragedy and loss of life, they wouldn’t get anything done.

  Admiral Fischer’s words echoed in his mind as the ramp extended fully. He would be CO of the Midway at the end of this mission, most likely. Soon these responsibilities would fall on him. He’d remember that little trick in the future.

  For now, though, think about the rodeo. And how nice those smoked ribs are going to taste….

  Lynch took in the desolate, empty landscape from behind his spacesuit. The surface was jagged and littered with rocks about the size of his head. There was no light; everything he could see was illuminated by the shuttle’s landing lights, and the comparably feeble lights on his suit.

  “What kind of guy makes this place his home?” he asked, simply.

  “Don’t know, sir,” said the Rhino near him, a Corporal Janice Sampson by the label on her chest. She had a massive, eight barreled rotary gun slung across her back like it was a sword. Their suits gave them strength beyond what normal people could sustain, at the cost of occasionally malfunctioning and twisting the person inside like a pretzel. “But, you know, some people choose to live in France, so I mean … everyone’s got a preference.”

  Lynch smiled. “France is the most amazing place to live, if you take away all the people who live in France.”

  “Right,” said Sampson, unslinging her massive gun and jiggling the ammunition belt nervously.

  Obviously the devastation on Zenith had rattled everyone. “You okay?” asked Lynch.

  “I don’t like the dark,” said Sampson. Well, at least she wasn’t focusing on the recent loss of life.

  Or maybe she was.

  “Okay,” he said, tapping the side of his helmet to bring himself into focus and banish the thoughts of how the cracked surface stretched out before him must be what Zenith looked like now, and tried to conjure images of cattle and massive hats. “Well … just going to have to suck it up. Based on Spectre’s intel—don’t trust that snake as far as I can throw him and throwing snakes is really hard because they’re all rope-y, so that’s not going to be very far—there’s an entrance to Dark Side City somewhere near here, in a cave or fissure.”

  “Hey Sampson,” said one of the other Rhinos, jokingly, his name tag obscured by the missile launcher he carried. He shouldered the weapon, revealing the name Baranov. “We’re going to the Dark Side.” He tweaked a knob on his suit, turning his voice all distorted. “Corporal Sampson, I am your father. Join me, and together, we shall rule the galaxy as Corporal and Private.”

  “You’re going to have your hand cut off if you keep that up,” said Sampson, her heavily armored head turning slowly as though scanning the barren rock. “There. A cave. That’s probably our entrance.”

  Just as Spectre had said. “A’right,” said Lynch. “Let’s move out.”

  “Aye sir,” said Sampson. “We got your back.”

  Lynch and the Rhinos stepped onto the loading ramp and began walking toward the cave. It was less of a traditional cave and more of a place where the ground had split, exposing a crack in the surface. It looked like it had seen better times; several chunks of the rock face had broken off recently, giving the cave opening a jagged, toothy look.

  “Looks like a mouth,” said Baranov, skeptically. “Like in that one space movie. Giant asteroid-worm with teeth.”

  “It’s not a mouth.” Sampson looked around for a moment, nervously, her helmet mounted light casting a white finger over the barren world. “It’s just rocks.”

  “I know that, you idiot.”

  “Hey, I am not an idiot. I got like 87% on my IQ test. That’s basically a B+.”

  “I only got a B-,” said Baranov. “But at least I passed. That’s all I care about.”

  Grimacing, Lynch interjected. “Actually, 100 is average.”

  “Wow,” said Baranov. “That’s scary. That means … that means, like, h
alf of everyone I’ve ever met was less than average intelligence.”

  “Why is that scary?” Sampson kept jamming a finger into the side of her helmet, as if trying to dig out earwax but forgetting about the composite shell.

  “Nevermind,” said Lynch. He knew that providing commentary into their … insights … would only annoy them. He kept his mouth shut for the rest of the walk to the cave.

  His troupe made their way into the wide open maw, walking two abreast with Lynch taking the lead, walking alongside Sampson. He reached down and adjusted the oxygen supply on his suit. Damn thing was always set too low…

  An arm from a spacesuit lay on the ground, almost buried in soil and dust, barely protruding from the surface.

  “Got a body,” said Lynch, crouching down beside it.

  Sampson whistled. “Probably buried when this place went rocking.”

  Curious, Lynch pulled on the fingers. The arm came loose, and for a horrified moment, he thought he had dismembered a body. But it was just a suit. No person inside it.

  “Dammit to hell,” he said, exhaling a breath he barely realized he was holding. “Jesus.”

  “Not reading any blood,” said Sampson, waving a sensor over the thing. “No tissue residue… it’s old, sir. At least twenty years. The plastic is fading, and the paint’s been bleached off the metal by the star. It’s not a body.”