Chapter Fifty-Four
Pinegar System
Gas Giant Lyx
USS Midway
Bridge
Mattis gripped the armrests of his command chair tightly. “We need to break out. Lynch, can we charge the Z-space drive if we adopt a purely defensive posture?”
He shook his head. “It’d take twenty damn minutes, Admiral, or longer. You know damn well that ain’t an option.”
He did know damn well. “Modi,” he said, touching his radio. “I need your magic up here.”
“What do you need? I am … overwhelmingly busy down here.”
“I’m sure you are,” said Mattis. “But we’re encircled, and I need a way to get the hell out of it.”
Modi’s voice conveyed hesitation. “That is beyond my area of expertise. I do not even know why you’re asking me.”
“Well, I’ve heard it said that you should never make an engineer mad. They tend to get explosive.”
“I’m not that sort of engineer,” said Modi.
Damn.
“Actually sir,” said Lynch, curiously, “I do have something.” He held up the tablet Spectre had given him. “The gravity pulse from our new engines. Apparently—” he shot Spectre an annoyed glare. “It can be used to repel objects at a distance, in a much smaller, much more restrictive manner similar to the gravity pulse weapon the future-humans use.”
He’d left the line open. “Modi? Did you catch that?”
“Certainly did,” said Modi, “and I’m working on it. I might very well be that kind of engineer after all.”
“I’ll take what you can give me,” he said.
Spectre chimed in. “It will work,” he said, “you just have to be careful of hitting your, ahem, remaining ships. Get them to form up with you and punch a way out.” The Midway shuddered again as it was repeatedly hit. “It will work.”
Mattis really, really did not want to trust Spectre in any way at this particular juncture, but he knew he had no choice. “Make it happen,” he said. “Lynch?”
“Yes sir,” he said. “I’m working on it now. It’ll require extra power from the engines, which I’m sure Modi won’t be happy about given their state—”
“Given the state of the engines—” said Modi, but Lynch cut him off.
“I know damn well the state of the engines! Just do it you damn robot!”
Mattis risked a glance at the radar screen. Only two ships were reporting combat ready; the rest were silent—blown to debris, or too badly damaged to even move. “Midway actual to USS Hamilton, USS Gage, priority alert: we have an option to get out of this mess. Stand by for instructions.”
“Aye aye, Admiral,” said Abramova, her voice laced with fire, Russian accent coming through thick. “We have all the survivors from the Hancock that we’re going to be able to get.”
Mattis grimaced as another wave of fire hit them, followed by the wailing of alarms and the ominous creak-groan of stressed metal.
“Hope this works,” muttered Lynch.
“It had better,” said Mattis. Or they were all dead.
“Ready down here,” said Modi.
Mattis took a deep breath to steady his nerves, then touched his radio. “Midway actual to USS Alexander Hamilton, USS Gage, form up with me; make a wedge. ”
“Confirmed,” said Abramova. “Hamilton on your port.”
“Gage on your starboard,” said the captain of the USS Gage, whose name he did not recall.
“Then let’s get the hell out of this kill zone.” Mattis glanced to Lynch. “Activate the gravity drive. Push those bastards out of the way, and clear the road.”
The screens on the bridge shook and shimmied as power was diverted away from various systems, and emergency batteries struggled to keep up the load.
A noise he had never heard before spread throughout the ship. A low, pained groan, like a beast in agony, reverberating from the walls, and a shudder ran through the decks, deep and ominous, signaling something dire which he did not truly understand. Everything seemed to bend and warp, as though the ship itself were being squashed, twisted, flexed.
But it worked. The future-human ships tilted as they were shoved violently out of the way, clearing a hemisphere around the blockade. The Midway, with the Hamilton and the Gage fast behind them, tore out of the gap, heading to the horizon of the gas giant. If they could get behind it, they could be safe … for a time, at least.
Closer and closer it came, with the Midway’s engines straining under the load. The ship fired its guns off the stern, rear torpedo tubes loosing another volley, and the future-human ships—disorientated by the gravity push—seemed unwilling to pursue.
For a second he thought they might, actually, make it.
Then a lone torpedo, a single missile, drifted out toward the USS Gage, lazily, like a fat wasp coming in to sting. Point defense shells exploded all around it, but heedless of the maelstrom it tore through, dug into the ship’s aft, and detonated.
When the light of the explosion cleared, the Gage was gone.
The Midway and the Hamilton sailed on, around the horizon of the gas giant, and finally, everything was quiet.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Pinegar System
Gas Giant Lyx
USS Midway
Ready Room
With the gas giant interposed between them and the vortex—and the future-human fleet seemingly content to lick their wounds, regroup, and try and recover their damaged ships—they had a break in the battle which Mattis was infinitely grateful for.
The ship’s shifts were changed, the significant damage the ship had taken throughout patched up as best they could, and a stocktake was made of their ammunition.
Plenty of torpedoes left. That wasn’t the problem, however. They didn’t have enough shells for the main guns to have another sustained engagement, especially with the anti-missile flechette rounds, and the USS Hamilton was almost completely dry on everything, plus their forward hull plating was cracked and weakened.
Then came the bad news. Modi was requesting to see him in person. Modi finally arrived in his ready room looking forlorn, and even Lynch didn’t say much.
“Sir,” said Modi, saluting crisply—something Mattis realized he had rarely seen him do, except where necessary. “There’s an issue with the repairs.”
Whenever Modi said there was an issue, it tended to be either tiny, or huge. “What’s the problem?” asked Mattis.
“The issue is … systemic,” said Modi, his tone conveying the most sincere apologetic tone Mattis had every heard in a person. “A warship is more than simply a collection of plates. It has a framework. It has a skeleton. A skeleton made out of metal. The stress of using the damaged engines in the way we did, along with the ship’s numerous battles … the metal superstructure of the ship is riddled with micro-fractures. Almost the whole ship. Down to her bones. She’s an old woman with osteoporosis, brittle.”
Weren’t they all. Mattis considered a moment. “How do we fix it?”
“At some point,” said Modi, heavily, “you can’t fix a thing. The process required to cut out the pieces of damaged superstructure and replace them with new ones will, by sheer necessity, create more weak spots. The ship’s not engineered that way nor, really, can it be. The Ship of Thesus is a myth; some parts of a boat simply can’t be replaced. Engines, yes. Computers, yes. Even the wiring and hull plates. But not her skeleton. This kind of metal fatigue is why airframes get retired, why cars eventually become unroadworthy, and why ships eventually get drydocked.” He winced, visibly, as though in great pain. “This isn’t something we’ll be able to work our way out of, sir.”
He didn’t accept that. “But—”
Modi shook his head. “Sir, all the faith in gods or overengineering can’t keep physics at bay. I’ve seen the damage myself. It is real.”
“It’s real,” echoed Lynch, somberly. “He brought me down to show me before we brought this to you. The superstructure’s … sir, it�
�s like frayed wood. Splintered everywhere. If we were an ocean-going vessel we would be floundering, but because there’s no gravity outside, and only because there’s no gravity outside, we’re holding it together. Push the ship too far and she’ll break.”
Mattis put his chin in his folded hands. “What do you suggest we do?”
“Retreat,” said Modi, simply. “Initiate Z-space translation, and head back to Earth. It’ll take us months to get there at the speeds we’ll need to travel at, in order to not tear the ship apart, but we’ll get there. Dock at the shipyard, and have the Midway stripped for parts and salvage.”
“Or,” said Lynch, a fire creeping into his tone, “come around the other side of the gas giant, and let those future-human mother fuckers have whatever we’ve got in the tank. Take out as many of them as we can, with our nukes, with our guns, with our everything, until there’s nothing left.”
“I can’t just withdraw and let our adversary build up strength,” he said, shaking his head firmly. “If we let more and more of them come through—let them establish a defensive line, maybe even manufacture space-gun-platforms or otherwise fortify the vortex they’ve made, then we’re only making problems for ourselves and our people in the future.” He looked to Lynch. “But I also cannot take this ship on a blaze-of-glory run with unclear objectives, limited resources, and accordingly, no real chance of success. The Midway and her crew deserve better.”
“A’right,” said Lynch, “what do you suggest we do then, sir?”
He considered. “Modi, this damage to the superstructure. How does it affect our combat capabilities?”
“Ironically,” said Modi, curiosity gilding his words, “the hull plating—that which absorbs the majority of weapons impacts—was largely undamaged by the gravity drive, and still remains effective. The issue is with maneuvering. If we push the engines beyond about forty percent, for a short Z-space translation, that should be fine; we’ll slowly be worsening the damage, which will, eventually, cause the ship’s hull integrity to fail and she’ll break up, but as long as we don’t push it beyond sixty percent … it should be okay for a short stint. Above sixty percent, in a limited burst—no more than an hour—would be very unwise.”
“How unwise?”
Lynch grimaced. “Sir, my gran used to say … sometimes the juice ain't worth the squeeze.”
“I concur,” said Modi. “Let’s just say, that I do not wish to remain aboard if that’s the case, given the alternative.”
He considered. “So you’re telling me that we can make a short quick burn, or a long, slow burn?”
“Precisely. Also a short, slow burn, but I’m not sure why you would want to do that.”
Mattis closed his eyes a moment. Options … they needed options. “Okay. Dismissed, gentlemen. Do what you can. I’ll send for you when I have something.”
Lynch and Modi saluted crisply, then left, leaving Mattis alone in his ready room.
He ran his hands through his hair. Time to report to Fleet Command.
He picked up his communicator and saw that he had many missed calls from Chuck. There was no time to answer them, but as he went to connect to the military channels relayed through the ship, it started vibrating, still set to silent.
On a wild impulse, he clicked the answer key.
“Chuck,” he said, a slight waiver in his voice. “This isn’t a good time.”
“I know,” said Chuck, urgency in his. “But listen. I got something big for you, and you have to hear it.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
Earth
United States
Georgetown, Maryland
Presbyterian Hospital
Chuck finally had his father on the phone. The connection they had was bad, static-y and full of distortions from the vast distances involved, and he knew, on some level, that he had to be quick.
Besides, the doctor had delivered the news: a new heart murmur, worst than the last. He’d abruptly left, and something told Chuck that he wasn’t telling him the whole story yet. He wanted to be done with this conversation before the doc came back.
“Listen dad,” he said, speaking quickly. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’ve been doing some digging around here—me and a guy named…” he almost said the name but didn’t. “Doesn’t matter. Look. Me and this guy. A CIA officer. He’s connected to Harry Reardon. You remember him?”
“Of course,” said Mattis, his tone distracted. “I barely got to exchange any more than a handful of words with him, but he left an impression. What did you find out?”
“Well, I know what the future humans are after.”
A long pause. “How in hell did you figure that out?”
“It’s Spectre,” said Chuck, his tone energized. “It’s Spectre in a very literal, real way. The future humans … all the places they’ve attacked. All the worlds they’ve been to. They’re all chasing after Spectre. They want … him.”
His dad frowned in confusion. “They … they want Spectre? As in, they want to kidnap him? Why?”
“I don’t know. My CIA contact thinks so, but … I don’t think it’s kidnapping,” said Chuck, stressing his tone to get his point across. “I think it’s more … returning him. Or retrieving him.” Chuck hated speculating but this was all he had. “There’s something about him that is connected to all this. And the alien-future-people want him badly. If you ask me … I think he’s one of them. I could be wrong, but….”
Rain began to fall outside the hospital window, a grey sheet that pitter-pattered on the glass. His son was sick, and he was speculating about the motives of mutant humans from the future. Where the hell was that doctor?
“That doesn’t make any sense,” said Mattis. “The mutated future-humans we’ve seen didn’t have any resemblance to humans that exist now. Spectre is—”
“Spectre might be something like a variant of them,” he said. “Maybe. I have no evidence of this, but there’s more to him than we could know. The exact truth … I don’t know. That’s what I’ve been trying to work out. What the people I’m working with have been trying to work out. What exactly he is. And we’re not certain, but what I do know is that everywhere Spectre has been, the future-humans, just like clockwork, have shown up and attacked. And not just in any random order—systematically. Planet by planet by planet, moon by moon by moon, all the places Spectre went, they went—within six months. They want him.”
“But that can’t be true,” said Mattis, shaking his head at the tiny communications device. “Spectre came to us for protection. With information. He’s a rat, but he isn’t—”
“Wait,” said Chuck. That bought a surprised scowl to his face. “Spectre is … aboard your ship? Right now?”
“Yes,” said his dad. “He’s been aboard for some time.” He paused. “Listen, son, do you have proof of what you’re telling me?”
Of course he would ask for that. “Sending through what I have,” said Chuck. “It’s not much, so prepare to be underwhelmed. Just hold tight.”
He swiped on his phone, selected all the files that Smith had sent through, and uploaded them. The connection seemed slow, almost as though the signal strength were poor wherever he was. He watched the progress bar lengthen, planning to deliver one last piece of bad news before they hung up. Though … perhaps he shouldn’t. Perhaps old Jack shouldn’t be distracted with something like….
His grandson being sick with some mysterious … something. Dammit, of course he had to tell him.
Just as the upload finished, Mattis swore softly down the line and, after a brief squeal of static, the line went dead.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Pinegar System
Gas Giant Lyx
USS Midway
Ready Room
Mattis barely had to scroll through Chuck’s information to see that what he was telling him was true. The more that came through, the more he saw it all lined up.
Everywhere Spectre had been, the future-humans had followed.
They were after him.
Spectre had been playing him the whole time.
He should have seen this.
Should have predicted this.
Should have protected his crew from … from all this.
Mattis almost hurled his phone against the wall. The tiny device dug into his palm as his fingers tightened around it, flexing the metal and plastic. He could just so easily crush it, or break it, but he knew from experience that this wouldn’t make him feel any better.
Slowly, gently, Mattis put the device back into his pocket. He took several deep, long breaths, fighting to control his anger, and when finally he had let his rage play out, his emotions settled into cold, cold fury.
With careful, measured steps he walked out of his ready room onto the bridge. “Lynch,” he said, gesturing for him to follow. “Walk with me. And you too,” he said, to one of the marines on the bridge.
Obviously confused, Lynch and the marine fell into step with him.
“Sir?” he asked. “Where are we going?”
“To the brig,” he said. “To find out if Spectre is really there.”
“Uhh … okay. And then?”
Mattis didn’t say a word, but marched, grimly, down through the corridors of the Midway—busy, bustling corridors full of crewmen moving to effect repairs throughout the ship—towards the ship’s cramped, uncomfortable, small brig.
He had been so paranoid about everything that he hadn’t seen it right in front of him. The thing to remember about crying wolf is that, in the end, there really was a wolf.
When he got there, the presence of the two guards laying sprawled out, their bodies shocked and burned, almost made him think he wouldn’t find Spectre there at all. But, sitting on his cot as though nothing was wrong, the door closed, was the man himself, quietly humming some kind of tune.
“Ahh, Admiral,” said Spectre, smiling widely. “I see the information I gave you was of some use. Given that we are alive.” His gaze turned to the two dead marines. “Not so for these men, unfortunately. Electrical fault. Terrible bother. At least they went quickly….”
The Last Dawn: Book 3 of The Last War Series Page 23