The Last Dawn: Book 3 of The Last War Series

by Peter Bostrom

  “Good thing I’m still wearing my spacesuit,” said Lynch, obviously trying to make light of the situation.

  “Yeah,” said Mattis, and stood out of his command chair … for what he suddenly realized might be the last time. Admiral Fischer had gotten her wish after all; for the second time, Admiral Jack Mattis was stepping down from the command of the USS Midway, although he had to admit, not even she would have anticipated him going out like this.

  Then again, if she had wanted the ship back at the end of the mission, she should have been more clear about that. He couldn’t help the little smile that crept over his face and, in amongst the realization that this, really, was the end, he was in some way relieved that the Midway was his ship to the last.

  “You okay there, Admiral?” said Lynch, his voice soft.

  “Yeah.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.” Mattis took a deep breath and pushed everything else out of his mind. “Let’s get going.”

  The long, slow walk down to the main hangar bay was made in silence. Mattis felt numb; the processed air of the warship felt suddenly cold to him, as though it were stealing the warmth from his bones, stiffening his joints in a painful, physical way, almost as if the ship itself was trying to discourage him from leaving it. Around them, the crew made their way to the escape pods, and Mattis made sure to fall behind anyone he saw. He would get off last.

  Half-way to the hangar bay, Modi met up with them, a pair of senior engineers in tow. “For what it’s worth,” he said, his tone even as he fell into step with Mattis and Lynch, “I think this is the right course of action. Sorting through the ammunition we loaded would have taken far too long.”

  It would. Mattis nodded grimly. “Thank you, Commander. Even if Spectre was bluffing us—and I simply don’t think that’s in his nature—there was just no way we could take on all the remaining ships on our own. We couldn’t win. But…” he let just a little bit of a smile play over his lips. “We can force a draw.”

  Modi inclined his head slightly as they rounded the final corridor toward the hangar bay. “What do you mean, Admiral?”

  His mind played over the possibilities, slowly putting together … something. Not quite a plan, but an idea. A start. “Modi,” he asked, “have you had a chance to inspect the ship Spectre came aboard with?”

  “I have only performed a customary evaluation of its capabilities,” he said, curiously, “it seems to be of a standard construction, none too dissimilar to our own, if significantly more advanced in most ways. But this is hardly the time to discuss its capabilities.”

  “Actually,” said Mattis, his grin turning positively Cheshire-like, “now is exactly the time.” He stopped outside the airlock to the hangar bay and pulled out a spacesuit from a nearby locker. “What can you tell me about its engines?”

  Modi’s face fell. “If you are seriously considering taking that ship’s engines and giving them to Spectre, I can tell you that will take far too long, and … why would he fall for that? He came aboard on that ship, there’s just no way he’d be fooled by anything we could do to it. If we try to blow it up, he’ll know.”

  “Of course,” said Mattis, matter-of-factually. “I can’t expect anything else.” He paused, pulling on a glove. “What about the ship’s other systems?”

  “Other … systems?” Modi stared blankly at him. “Well, they’re … they’re basically just the ones that come on a standard shuttle. Nothing special.” Modi squinted. “You think Spectre left something in the shuttle’s computer that would let us, I don’t know, hack into those ships out there? That won’t work, because—”

  “That’s not what I’m planning,” said Mattis, pulling on the legs of his suit. “Listen. Here’s what I want you to do.…”

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chrysalis, Low Orbit

  USS Midway

  Pilot’s Ready Room

  Guano had barely trundled into the Ready Room, still clad in her flight suit, when the evacuation alarm sounded, followed almost immediately by Admiral Mattis’s voice.

  “All hands, all hands, this is the Captain speaking. Abandon ship. I say again, all hands, abandon ship. This is not a drill.”

  There was a brief moment where the fifty pilots and gunners crammed into the ready room all looked at each other, as though sizing up if the sound was real or not. If they should act or ignore it. Remain seated and wait for orders or follow protocol and get to the escape pods. The lighting flickered and turned red.

  It wasn’t a joke.

  Roadie’s booming voice broke the spell. “Go! Go! Go!” he shouted, making a dramatic shooing motion with both hands. “What the hell are you waiting for, a signed invitation? You heard the Captain! Get to your coffins, now!”

  Coffins. The pilot’s slang for escape pods. Because they were small, fit one, and were notoriously unsafe.

  A slightly-less-than-totally-disorganized stampede of flight-suit clad aircrew flowed out through the door to the ready room and spilled out into the corridor. Roadie followed up the rear, shooing everyone along like some kind of angry mother hen, shouting over the constant drone of the evacuation alarm.

  “What the hell?” asked Flatline, his voice pitching upward. “Did we get hit? Hit in the reactor? We didn’t even get to launch again!”

  “I don’t know,” said Guano. Someone tripped and crashed into her from behind; she grabbed Flatline, instinctively, and nearly pulled him over too, but the three of them kept their footing.

  “Sorry,” said Frost, her dark skin several shades lighter than normal. “Oh my god, I can’t believe this.”

  “Just stay calm,” said Guano. Someone else jostled her and she fell against the bulkhead, and then with a groan, pushed herself back up to her feet.

  A sudden surge of panic leapt through her. An instinctive fear. Things were getting out of hand, and fast. There were people all around her, pushing and being pushed, and the corridor suddenly got a lot tighter.

  Stampede.

  “Stop!” roared Roadie, which bought everyone to a screeching halt in the middle of the corridor.

  For a moment she thought he was going to yell at them all, but, instead, his finger pointed to the pressure doors embedded in the bulkheads. The escape pods.

  Not a second too soon.

  “Everyone aboard,” she said, taking in a deep breath to steady her nerves, shaking off just how close they had come to disaster. “C’mon, c’mon.”

  She and Roadie, working together, managed to corral most of the flight crew into the cramped, uncomfortable pods, a situation made worse by their flight suits. One on hand, some seemed glad for the extra protection. On the other, it made an already uncomfortable fit distinctly claustrophobic.

  With her heart still racing and images of being crushed to death by her fellow pilots flashing through her head, Guano waited until the crowd had thinned out and then, hurriedly, began peeling off her flight suit. No way she was getting into one of those things without maximum room, air be damned.

  “What the hell are you doing?” asked Roadie, shaking his head as he saw her yank off her gloves. “No, come on. Put your suit back on.”

  Guano shook her head. “Nope.”

  “You can’t be serious,” said Flatline, still dressed in his.

  Roadie’s voice became soft. “Guano … you know those things aren’t exactly robust.”

  Guano wiggled out of the suit pants. “I know. But if I’m going to asphyxiate, I want it to be because there’s a hole in my coffin, not because my own flight suit gave me the ole’ hug of death.” She kicked her feet, shoving the thick leggings away. “Besides,” she said to Roadie, grinning like an idiot. “If I die, I won’t be around to bother you anymore.”

  Roadie’s face was a somber mask. “Patricia, don’t even say that.”

  The use of her first name knocked the goofiness out of her. “What,” she said, managing to crack a little smile. “The ship’s evacuation siren means we’re now on a first name basis?�
�� She twisted in a little teasing tone. “Mo?”

  “Something like that, I suppose.” Roadie smiled a light, pleasant smile that, if just for a moment, reminded her of that night they had all drunk way too much tequila. “You be careful, a’right?” he said, briefly reaching out a hand and touching her cheek.

  “Yeah,” said Guano, closing her eyes a moment and leaning in to the touch. His hands were so warm, and after nearly getting trampled to death, she … suddenly felt like she needed a little touch that wasn’t threatening at all, wasn’t dangerous, and was … almost very nice.

  There was a brief silence as they stood there, the only sound the wailing of the klaxon.

  “Oh baby, mmm…, oh baby, yeah baby,” said Flatline, grinning at the two of them like the infantile moron he was, then ducked into his pod.

  Any semblance of there being a mood utterly vanished. Roadie put his hand down, and then, in a moment, the CAG-attitude was back. “Into the coffin, Lieutenant,” he said. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

  “See you on the other side,” said Guano, hesitantly stepping into the tiny little pod. A thick metal sheet sealed her in with a hiss, and through the tiny window she could see Roadie.

  The two exchanged a look, and then she touched the bright red launch button and her tiny craft shot away from the Midway and into space.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  12,449km from Chrysalis

  Future-human Vessel S-84

  Command Center

  Spectre watched with eager satisfaction as the first of the escape pods flew away from the Midway toward Chrysalis, their automated pilots doing exactly what he thought they would do—make for the nearest source of human habitation and land.

  He scanned each one, carefully, using the advanced ship’s sensors. They showed, very clearly, that there were humans aboard … living people. Not decoys. Not false heat signatures. The resolution on the future-human ship’s scanners was extremely fine—it could watch the thermal readings of the people inside just like a black and white movie.

  None of them were Admiral Jack Mattis, however, but there were just so many that perhaps he’d missed him.

  No matter. If Mattis decided to go down with his ship, that would be fine. Otherwise he would die on the surface of Chrysalis. Either way suited him just swimmingly.

  The future-humans standing around him, like impassive golems, didn’t move or react to the chaotic scenes taking place on the holographic displays all around them, just as they hadn’t reacted to their friend having her brains blown out right in front of them.

  So perfect.

  “Take away the body,” he commanded one of them, absently, his gaze fixated on the Midway. His minions grabbed the arms of the dead one and dragged it away.

  He used his handheld to link his implants to the ship’s command codes. A series of impulses directed through his implants brought the fleet closer, and closer, cautiously advancing, wary of any tricks.

  Spectre was prepared. He scanned the Midway constantly, an eye on their reactors. The standard tactic to secure a ship being abandoned was destroy it; damage their reactors in a catastrophic explosion using well-placed high explosives. Not dissimilar to what he’d done to the Hamilton. Now that he could control those mutant … things, a simply command to the green monster inside that box on the Hamilton was enough to get it to spark the explosives it was sitting on. Poor bastards wouldn’t have even had time to cry for their mothers before they died.

  But the Midway’s reactors looked totally normal to him, humming away at low power mode, typical for a ship at rest. Even a high resolution scan indicated no high-explosive anywhere in the vicinity of the reactors. Everything seemed so … safe.

  Yet he couldn’t trust them. Couldn’t begin to think that Mattis didn’t have a plan for just abandoning his ship like this.

  “You,” he said, pointing his finger toward a random future-human. “I’m making you my assistant.”

  “As you wish,” the creature hissed, its voice a combination of wet leather and sandpaper. That immediately bought a frown to his face. Why would anyone build one of these beautiful creations with such an unpleasant cadence to them? Was it an error in its DNA? Some kind of manufacturing defect?

  “What’s your name?” asked Spectre, barely able to keep the disgust from his voice.

  The creature didn’t answer. So perfect, so obedient, even the concept of names was alien to them.

  “I’ll call you Lurch,” he said, nodding resolutely. Lurch was a good name for such a malformed shadow of perfection. Or possibly Grue, for gruesome? No, Lurch was better. “Lurch, I imagine you’re good with starships since you’ve been piloting one. In your evaluation, is the Midway in any danger of exploding?”

  The creature, Lurch, ducked its head and consulted the readouts. “No,” it said, dragging out the words roughly. “Reactor temperature, stable. Hull integrity, stable. No signs of—” a thick glob of drool descended down from its quivering lower lip, splashing on the console with a wet, disgusting splatter, “elevated system use.”

  Spectre tapped his foot impatiently. “How goes the evacuation?”

  “Eighty-five percent of their escape pods have been launched.” Lurch, slightly too slowly, craned its head around, looking at the various displays and screens. “Based on tactical evaluations of the Midway’s crew, and given that they are currently executing a well-ordered evacuation which is not under duress, this would likely be a full complement of their enlisted crewmen, and most of their officers.”

  It was difficult to listen to that thing’s rasping any more. If Spectre knew Mattis at all, the crotchety old bastard would want to wait to be the last man off the ship. And since he was, well, old … he’d want to take a shuttle. Not a rickety escape pod.

  Using the high-res thermal camera, Spectre scanned over the Midway, looking for people. He moved from face to face to face, scanning them, taking them in … searching.

  And then he saw him. Admiral Jack Mattis, climbing aboard a shuttle, the last man to leave the USS Midway. The shuttle sealed, then took off, flying out of the hangar bay and banking toward Chrysalis.

  Now the ship’s engines would be his—and with their gravitational lensing ability, he could create his own vortex. And leap forward into the future … where the next phase of his plan would take place.

  Time travel was a fun game. And Mattis had given him the tools to play.

  “Lurch, come with me,” he said, triumphantly. “Wipe that silly drool off your face. We’re going to that ship. Bring a security detail just in case; sweep the ship, kill anyone you find. Alert me immediately if there are any stragglers.”

  “Yes, Christopher,” said Lurch.

  Spectre glared at him. “Never call me that name again,” he said, and made his way down to the shuttle bay.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chrysalis, Low Orbit

  USS Midway

  Shuttlebay

  Shuttle Zulu-1

  Mattis took one last look at the hangar bay of the USS Midway—it seemed like a lifetime ago he’d taken command of her again, following Captain Malmsteen’s death—and then stepped aboard shuttle Zulu-1, waiting as the hatchway sealed with a hiss.

  The craft took off, leaving the hangar bay and the ship far behind.

  “You okay?” asked Lynch, carefully.

  “I will be,” said Mattis, resolutely staring out the window at the slowly receding sight. “It’s just a ship.”

  “Jack,” said Lynch, hesitantly. His drawl softened, which Mattis had come to recognize as Lynch taking a matter very, very seriously. “She’s not just a ship. You know that.”

  It was too true to confront. Not yet. There would be time later.

  “I know, dammit. I know.”

  Mattis pulled out his communicator, searched through the various frequencies, and patched it through to the one Spectre had used to contact them.

  “You won, goddammit,” he said, completely unable to keep the absolutely genu
ine anger out of his voice. “Take my ship and never show your face around here again.”

  “Thank you very kindly,” said Spectre, a distinctly superior, mocking tone in his voice. “I assume the keys are under the sun visor?”

  Mattis glowered. “The president going to hear about this. You can’t just steal a US Navy warship and expect to get away with it.”

  “My dear Admiral Mattis,” said Spectre, “I already have.” And then he cut the link.

  “Jack,” said Lynch, smiling nervously as the shuttle drifted away from the Midway, “he’s not going to fall for it.”

  “I’m counting on it,” said Mattis, smiling a little bit, too.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chrysalis, Low Orbit

  USS Midway

  Hangar Bay

  Spectre stepped off the shuttle like Julius Caesar coming to inspect his latest conquest.

  It was tempting to think to himself that it had all been too easy. In truth, not everything had been smooth. There had been hiccups. Mistakes. Minor errors. But now … now it was okay. Everything had worked out in the end, and now, his hard work was finally about to bear very sweet fruit indeed.

  Spectre walked through the hallways and corridors of the ship, admiring how empty it was. He kept checking, again and again, the reactor levels, but if Mattis had done something to sabotage it, whatever he had done was so minor that not even the incredibly advanced future-human tech could detect it.

  Maybe he had really, truly, given up. Checkmate was checkmate, after all.

  Spectre took his time walking all the way to the bridge. Upon arrival, he discovered Mattis had, very helpfully, left the armored casement open; invitingly, almost mockingly so.

  “Lurch,” said Spectre into the strange device the future-humans used in lieu of radio. “Sweep the ship from stem to stern. Make sure you check everywhere. Leave no stone unturned; I want this whole ship searched. If there are any explosives, any humans left behind, anything at all … you let me know.”