“Although,” said Flatline, clipping himself in as well, “before the Battle of Earth we, like, did ditch a whole bunch of fighters overboard. Oopsie daisy.”
She snorted and fired up the simulator. “Right,” she said. “But that doesn’t count. Don’t undermine my point, dickhead.”
Flatline swung the gun around as the simulator booted up. “So,” he said, “did you learn anything about gunner life during your brief stint in the world’s most awesome ejection seat?”
“Sure did,” she said. “I discovered that on the ground you could power on the ventral turret and, from the gunner’s station, swing the guns to them to fuck with the ground crew. I heard over on the USS Walcott they actually play baseball with them.” She smiled. “We should do that.”
“Only if you want an article fifteen,” said Flatline, the joke obviously a little too on the nose for him. Not even a smile. “That’s just one mistake away from a court martial.”
“Yeah, but, think of the laughs.” Guano adjusted her straps. “That’s what I’m about.”
“Huh,” said Flatline.
What was his problem? She settled in as the various screens around the simulator lit up. The ship was in space, having just launched from a ship identified as the USS Concord, a fighter-carrier. She was flying out with eight other Warbirds, a heavy strike package. She tapped on the screens, bringing up her mission objectives.
- Depart from USS Concord as part of Alpha wing
- Investigate RCS return at Objective Alpha
- Destroy refueling station at Objective Beta
- Return to USS Concord
“Seems pretty simple,” she said, turning the autopilot on and letting the ship steer itself to its objective. Their wingmen formed up around her. She glared at them. “Hopefully those simulated targets can fly good.”
“Probably as good as any enemies we’re going to face,” said Flatline.
That was true enough, but it made her scowl. It was okay to dodge a joke or two, but to no-sell three in a row?
Something was wrong.
“It’s idiot proof,” she said, testing the waters again. “And fortunately, and I’m a real idiot.”
“That’s … not a good thing,” said Flatline.
Fine. Be that way then.
The autopilot carried them far, far away into deep space. Slowly, as the minutes ticked away, Guano felt annoyance and frustration seep into her. Where was the challenge in this? And why was Flatline being so … flat?
They arrived at Objective Alpha. A blank empty space with a single comet drifting through it, a silent ball of ice with a ferrous core. That would explain the radar blip the Concord had seen. “Right,” she said. “Onward ho, I suppose.”
“So much for the no-win,” said Flatline, as the ship turned to Objective Beta. As it did so, a light flashed on her console. Incoming transmission.
She thumbed the talk key. “This is Alpha one,” she said, hoping the computer would acknowledge her. “Send it.”
No reply.
“Guano,” said Flatline behind her, “behind us!”
She twisted her head around, and saw her wingmen—previously flying behind her in a V-shape—suddenly turned toward her, and she only had a split second.
Guano yanked the control stick downward, kicking out with her left foot. Space spun in front of the monitors as her ship pitched down and the missile-warning klaxon sounded in her ears. “Shit!”
The program had lured her into utterly empty space where there was no cover and no tactical opportunities, almost an hour away from rescue.
Cunning devils.
Virtual bullets darted over her cockpit, drawing silent streaks in space. Flatline’s gun chattered behind her, and she flung the stick from left to right, reversing her ship and flying backward, hitting the fire button with her trigger finger and spraying space with bullets.
“Contact portside,” said Flatline. “They’re firing.”
The computer played digital noises—tearing metal, explosions muted by the partial vacuum, and lights flashed on her console. She’d been hit, but how bad, she couldn’t know. She lined up one of the fighters and squeezed the trigger. Gunfire slammed into the Warbird, small explosions covering it as the rounds detonated, and then the ship burst into an impressive fireball.
No time to think about it. Guano kicked out her left foot, to bring her fighter around to the next one.
Her fighter didn’t respond. A swift glance at her cockpit showed her why. Lateral thrusters had been damaged; she couldn’t turn left. So right it was. She opened the throttle, her ship traveling forward once again, darting out of the line of fire. She rolled a hundred and eighty degrees, and used her thrusters to stop her momentum.
A missile burst beside the ship, spraying her with shrapnel. This would have killed her in a real fight—maybe—but the computer seemed to give her a shot. It, with seemingly cold precision, took away one of her missiles and halved her maneuvering ability.
“I winged one,” said Flatline. “Got it good.”
“Finish it off,” said Guano, taking a deep breath. “There’s kids in Africa who don’t have any spaceships to shoot at all.”
One of the Warbirds flashed in front of her, heading port to starboard. She kicked out her right foot, swinging the ship after it, and the missile lock tone sounded in her ears. She squeezed off a shot—the missile flew in a wide arc, slamming into the fighter and blasting it to pieces.
Interesting. She had expected the program to cheat and have it be a dud or something, but it seemed as though the program was confident.
Guano rolled again, to right her ship, and just as she got it straight, a missile flew straight into her cockpit.
SIMULATION OVER
“Oops.” Guano grimaced. “Guess I didn’t see that one.”
Flatline chuckled behind her. “Life sucks, as is tradition.” Now he laughed.
“So,” said Doctor Brooks, somewhat hesitantly. “That doesn’t sound like the battle fugue to me.”
It hadn’t been. She groaned. “Nope. Nothing like that at all. That was just regular fighting and … regular ole’ dying, I guess.” She grunted and thumped her fist on the console. “And it wasn’t even a real test. What kind of no-win scenario was that? Just … fly out into the open and die? C’mon. So what? You promised me something hardcore; that was just difficult. No different than the ship just exploding after takeoff. No wonder it didn’t work.” She twisted in her seat. “And you! What the hell is wrong with you?”
The vaguely uncomfortable look on Flatline’s face told her nothing except he knew exactly what she was talking about.
“Mmm.” Doctor Brooks paused for a moment, obviously considering. “We’ve tried twice now to make this thing happen in simulators, and judging by your heart rate, you were a lot more into this one.”
That was true. She wasn’t exactly sure why—maybe she wasn’t trying to dodge Doctor Brooks’s questions anymore, or maybe it was just a change of mood or way of thinking—but she had been a lot more engaged with that simulated fight than the previous one. “Yup,” she said. “Didn’t really feel anything though. I didn’t … I didn’t even try to bring it out, dunno why. Either way, nothing happened.”
“Maybe,” said Doctor Brooks, “you just need to be in a real life or death situation.”
Guano leaned out of the cockpit and stared at him, bewildered. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
Doctor Brooks smiled widely. “No more simulators. No more tests. I’m reinstating you to full duty.”
Chapter Forty-One
Admiral Jack Mattis’s Ready Room
USS Midway
Mattis cast one last look at his desk, making sure everything was neat, tidy and presentable for Admiral Fischer, and then he walked over to his desk, angled up the monitor that was embedded into it, and connected the call.
“Good morning, Jack,” said Admiral Fischer, dressed in her full uniform. A brief moment of static came acros
s the line, distorting her image momentarily before it resettled. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He put his hands on the edge of the desk, tilting his head. “Two things, I guess. Firstly … you’ve been awfully quiet since we launched. I almost began to think you weren’t actually keeping an eye on me after all.”
“I wasn’t,” she said, leaning back in her chair on the other end of the line. “I know you well enough to understand that if something were truly wrong, you’d just call me.” The ghost of a smile came across her face. “Which means this call is somewhat worrying to me.”
“It should be. I’ve been talking to Spectre. Our … guest … aboard.”
“Spectre,” she echoed, skeptically, her voice obviously curious. “Interesting. I … didn’t know he was there. You can’t honestly believe that’s a real name.”
“Not even for a second. As a matter of fact, I doubt basically everything that comes out of his mouth—and anything he does. And, I see you know him too. Interesting,” said Mattis, carefully repeating her wording back at her. “But, you know, he’s been right on the money about everything so far. Basically. I don’t want to trust him—and I don’t—but I am relying on him a lot more than I should be.”
“Okay,” said Fischer. “What does this have to do with me, and why I’m here?” She paused, considering. “Do you want me to talk to him? I can have a whole fleet of frigates come collect him. Just say the word.”
That was slightly more than what he was going for. “No,” said Mattis. “I’d rather keep Spectre on as short a leash as possible, and with as little contact with the rest of the ship as possible, if that’s alright with you, Admiral.”
“That’s fine with me,” she said. “I just want to make sure you’re not being sent on a wild goose chase.”
Plenty of geese out there. “I understand,” he said. “Instead, what I need from you is something a little more … specific.” Mattis tapped on his desk, bringing up a schematic of the local area of space and putting it on both his screen and hers. Through it ran a thick red line, intersecting nothing. “This is the future-human ship’s projected path. As you can see, its course doesn’t seem to make sense to us. Previously, their path lead to Serendipity—the rogue world we are now in orbit of—and that didn’t make sense to us either. They’re obviously looking for things. Things that are off the grid. Secrets that are hidden away from the public eye.”
She leaned over toward the camera and studied the image intently, and after a moment, Mattis saw a profound, obvious wave of recognition come over her face.
“Admiral,” said Mattis, gently but firmly. “I need to know what you know.”
Fischer settled back into her chair, touching her chin with her hand. “And you say that Spectre gave you this information?”
Her deflection was obvious, but Mattis let it slide for now. “That’s right.”
Fischer tapped her jaw. “I would very much like to talk to him about this.”
“And I’m sure we can arrange that,” said Mattis, patiently. “But for now … I need to know where the future-humans are heading. They possess a powerful weapon and a ship with surprising capabilities. They already badly damaged the Midway with their toys, and I haven’t gotten a full report back from Commander Lynch about what he found down on the surface yet, but I’m guessing it wasn’t good. Either way, I don’t want to get caught off-guard again. No more than I need to.”
“Well, you know as well as I do that senior Naval officers are expected to keep a host of secrets. It’s part of the job. Some information needs to be kept on a need-to-know basis.”
“I do understand,” said Mattis, plainly. “Believe me.”
She seemed, for just a moment, to be unwilling to cooperate, then whatever guard she had put up slowly melted away. “Look, I trust you completely, Mattis. But I can’t—I simply can’t—talk to you about this without direct authorization from the President.”
Interesting that she spoke of trust. A vanishing commodity in these times.
“Then get that authorization,” he said, firmly. “Make the call.” He paused, then added, “and get us some backup. That ship can kick ass. I don’t want to be on the back foot when we find it; they won’t be escaping from us this time.”
Fischer nodded grimly and, with a resolute nod, adjusted her uniform. “I can’t make you any promises, but I’ll do what I can. Let me make some calls. Stand by for my update….” She reached over to close the link.
And he waited. Surprisingly, he only had to wait five minutes before her message came through. He read it once, then again.
“Dammit, Fischer, this is cutting it kinda close,” he said to himself.
Chapter Forty-Two
Rogue Planet Serendipity, Low Orbit
USS Midway
Bridge
“Congrats, Commander Modi,” said Admiral Mattis, grinning slightly as he caught Lynch’s sour expression out of the corner of his eye. “Hope you enjoy your leave.”
Modi’s preening voice came through with no small amount of pride. “Of course I will.”
“This ain’t over,” said Lynch, voice dripping with frustration. “The South will rise again.”
“They haven’t yet,” said Modi, his tone matter-of-fact. “And I highly doubt they will in my lifetime. As for my leave … mmm. I haven’t decided what to do with it yet; I have a substantial amount of leave saved up as it stands, so … I don’t know.”
Lynch growled into the communications link. “Are you kidding me?” He paused. “How much do you have?”
“Sixty eight days,” said Modi.
“Sixty eight days?!” Lynch roared into the line like a lion. “Are you pulling my chain, Modi?”
“I’m perfectly serious.”
Lynch glared at Mattis—how was this his fault?—and then hissed into the line. “You’re a real sum-bitch, you know that?”
“Perhaps,” said Modi evenly, “you should spend your leave more frugally.” Mattis could swear there was an edge of sarcasm creeping into his voice. “Be more like me.”
“More like you—?” Lynch caught himself, took a deep breath, and then laughed. “Okay, okay. You earned it.”
“Yes,” said Modi. “I did.”
There was a brief moment of pause where Modi’s completely serious tone threw him. “Uhh,” said Mattis, “you are aware this … was just a game, yes?”
Modi was quiet for a moment. “I was not. Am I to understand there is no actual leave?”
Lynch stared at him. Mattis stared back.
“There … is,” said Mattis, carefully, wondering how he could circumvent federal law and grant the man five extra days. Show him a needle, make him faint, and call it medical leave? “But the goal was to …” he sighed. “Never mind.”
“As you wish,” said Modi, “I look forward to enjoying those leave days at an appropriate time.” Then he closed the link.
Modi. Just … Modi.
“You okay?” asked Mattis, curiously. “I mean, really?”
“Yeah,” said Lynch, his smile coming easy. “Modi and I like to compete. In case you hadn’t noticed. It’s just … something we do. And sometimes the payoff is to watch just how seriously he takes it. Damn robot.” He considered for a moment. “Still, pretty damn amazing how fast he got those engines up and running. Can’t read between the lines for nothin,’ but the man sure can perform miracles when you need them.”
“How’re the engines holding up?”
Lynch checked the instruments. “Just fine,” he said, “but there’s a note here from…” he stressed the name slightly. “Modi which recommends not traveling beyond sixty-six percent of maximum power. Just because, well, they did just get nuked. Makes sense. Honestly, it’s a miracle they got it back up anyway.”
“Modi’s good at what he does,” said Mattis, settling into his chair and watching the colors of the strange unreality of Z-space flitter by. “Can’t deny that.”
“Never did,” said Lynch. Then he
seemingly refocused, locking his eyes onto the console. “Okay. The trace shows we’re coming up on where the future-human ship dropped out of Z-space.” He glanced over his shoulder to Mattis. “Do we even know what’s there?”
Mattis didn’t know that, but couldn’t say he didn’t know. That wouldn’t help anything. “Admiral Fischer’s been making a lot of calls. If there’s anything more out there we can learn, we’re working on it.”
That, seemingly, was enough for him. Lynch tapped on some keys. “Here we go,” he said. “We should be dropping out of Z-space momentarily. Stand by.…”
The light on the bridge monitors began to fade. This time, as the ship slipped out of Z-space, it wasn’t smooth. The whole ship rippled as it transitioned, and the movement into real-space was a rough shove.
“Woah,” said Mattis, gripping his chair a little harder. Fortunately the inky black field of real space appeared, dark and punctuated by a field of unblinking stars. He touched his radio. “Modi?”
“Everything is fine, Admiral,” he said, sounding both harried and relieved. “The damage means things were a bit rough. But we got there.”
That would have to do. “Report,” said Mattis to Lynch.
“Z-space transition complete,” said Lynch, grimacing slightly. “More or less. Scanning for targets.” Almost immediately, the computers chirped, signaling a contact. “They’re here. RCS, painting the target. They’re right in front of us. Designating Skunk Alpha.”
“Show me,” said Mattis.
The main monitor snapped into focus, showing the hostile ship, battered and scarred from their weapon impacts. It was silhouetted against a huge gas giant, a massive marble floating in space, obscuring everything behind the target. It had its nose pointed toward a moon, the tip of it glowing as energy built up around it.
The Last Dawn: Book 3 of The Last War Series Page 18