Last Life (Lifers Book 1)

by Thomas,Michael G.

  “How will you find out? Don’t you want to know what happened?”

  “Uh, sure, but I don’t see how.” He felt tired, his brain overloaded with the memories of too many years of pain. There was nothing left for him.

  “I want to know the truth, about how my husband died. I’m grateful you’ve told me what you know, but it doesn’t explain anything. After all this time, I think I’m entitled to know.”

  “I’m sorry. There’s no way to know who did what, on another planet, and all those years ago.”

  “You’re not interested?”

  He felt even more tired. Her enthusiasm should have fired him up, but it wore him down, exhausted his final reserves of energy. “Sure I am, but it’s not gonna happen, Rose. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not giving up.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ve suspected something was wrong ever since they told me he was dead. Was it someone from our own side? I’ll find out the truth, or go down fighting. You want to help me?”

  “Rose, I can’t…”

  “Can’t, or won’t?” Her voice lashed at him.

  “I, er…”

  “Last chance, Cage. We’re about to leave the track to try and lose those bastards. It’s a one-way trip. There’s no way back. Your call?”

  Inwardly, he sighed, knowing he was putting himself on a path to more pain, more suffering. And maybe even put her life at risk by helping her. The alternative was worse.

  “I’m in.”

  She swerved the wheel over and plunged into a dark, dense tangle of vines, creepers, and young trees, spinning the wheels to pass a concrete and steel bollard that came out of nowhere. “Good.”

  “Now hold on. I know a way they won't be able to follow. A gift that Rob left me...in case I ever needed it.”

  She tapped on the large display to her right. A detailed computerized view of the electric Falcon appeared, accompanied by a wealth of information, most of which Noah had little interest in right now. Her finger hovered over the button in the corner. He couldn't quite make out the words, but as she pressed it, the interior lights shut down, as did the screen and every other indication that the machine was alive.

  “Good luck tracking us now.”

  Chapter Three

  Westbank, PanAmerica, Earthside

  Vos was uneasy as he eyed the General. He was raving and cursing, his face dark with fury, strutting up and down the track, and bellowing useless orders at his men. Harsh words slashed at the deputies for their failure to do their job. The deputies were in awe of him, and every man had the same thought. It gnawed at Vos; the knowledge there was more to this exercise than a simple pursuit.

  What’s so special about Cage? Why is he so desperate to nail him?

  At one time, Hartmann drew his sidearm and looked to be about to shoot one of his MPs dead. His hand shook. Then he held himself rigid for several seconds, forcing him to become calm. Hartmann holstered the gun and threw an accusing gaze at the Sheriff. Vos was attempting to contact his office. Trying and failing. Struggling to get the mobile comms working and tell his office put out an APB for Cage. So far, they hadn’t replied. He tried again, cursing Cage, cursing their crappy equipment, cursing Hartmann and his MPs for what seemed to him to be more of a vendetta than the lawful pursuit of a felon.

  General Hartmann tilted his head up to the sky and nodded in satisfaction as another swarm of drones appeared. They were almost silent, skimming in perfect, programmed formation over the dense, tangled forest of trees and aluminum. Crisscrossing the ground, completing a circuit, and going around again, they’d found nothing. If they had, the swarms committed to the search would have combined in a balletic display of aerial technology and zoomed onto the target. Opened fire, and they could all have gone home. Vos suspected it would be a long time before he managed to sink into his armchair and watch one of the reruns on the tube.

  “Hey, Sheriff, I haven’t seen those uniform flashes before. What are they?”

  He glanced at Deputy Bowen, who was eying the beleaguered MPs. The soldiers looked uncomfortable, and they darted frequent glances at Hartmann, like he was a bomb waiting to explode. Their boss was an unhappy man. A man who was about to lash out and litter the landscape with ruined careers.

  Vos recognized the insignia Bowen had asked him about. Any Mars vet would know what they represented. Bitter memories. Defeat. Death.

  “The flashes are Mars Recon II. I didn’t think the unit still existed, apart from a few small contingents. They keep them for drills, parades, funerals, that kind of thing. At least, that’s what I thought. It looks like I was wrong.”

  They studied the MPs some more, and the unit insignia troubled Vos. Following the end of the Third Martian War, people had taken enough of defeat. Sickened and dismayed by the terrible losses, the name ‘Mars Recon’ fell out of favor. Those who came back were treated as corporate warmongers and blamed for the current troubles. He’d read something similar happened in the past. Before the creation of PanAmerica, when America was a collection of States, they’d become embroiled in a vicious and ultimately unsuccessful war. The country was in South East Asia, known then as Vietnam.

  The troops came home to a nation disillusioned by the failure to achieve victory. Soldiers were abused, often shunned, and treated as outcasts. It was many years before Americans understood the debt they owed to their fighting men. Understood the failures should be laid at the feet of the politicians and the brass. Almost eighty years after American troops came home, the Chinese colossus invaded Vietnam. Millions of troops crossed the borders, and this time politics took a back seat. Spearheaded by a rain of tactical nukes, Vietnam fell within weeks. The attack left much of the interior a smoking ruin, and the countryside a garden of corpses. The Vietnamese Communists appealed to PanAmerica for military assistance. Their words fell on deaf ears.

  Bowen was still trying to get a handle on the MPs. Needing to make sense of the unit flashes, needing to put round pegs into round holes. Vos smiled to himself.

  He’d make a good detective. Senses something out of place, and can’t let it go. That's why this town is my town.

  The deputy wouldn’t let it go. “So if it’s disbanded, how come General Hartmann’s men are attached to the same unit? They don’t look like parade ground soldiers to me.”

  Vos agreed. They looked more like hired thugs, the kind of men he’d move on if they drifted through his town. “No, Bowen, they don’t look like parade ground soldiers.”

  “What do you reckon, Sheriff, have they decided to reinstate the outfit? You don’t think they’re having another try at Mars.”

  He shuddered; thanking Christ he’d missed the Second and Third Wars. They'd offered a bounty to vets who’d sign up again, but there were few takers. “No, they wouldn’t go again, not to Mars. If people thought they were going to attack Mars again, there’d be a riot."

  “A riot?”

  “No question, because we’d lose. Deputy, there won’t be another war.”

  “But, Mars Recon II…”

  “There is no Mars Recon II!”

  “But…those MPs…”

  “Shut up, Bowen. You’re starting to damage my calm!"

  A fourth war was impossible, even with the will to fight one, which there wasn’t. Following the retreat from Mars, PanAmerica was a nation in decline. Its infrastructure crumbling and raw materials in short supply. Even worse, the technicians fled to take advantage of the rich lifestyles offered by the rulers of Mars, the planet that had just defeated Earth, their homeworld. There were plenty of hungry nations on Earth looking for the collapse of PanAmerica, and one more campaign on Mars could be the final nail on the nation's coffin.

  Mars Recon II was ceremonial, not a fighting unit; he knew it for a fact. He’d seen them himself during a Memorial Day parade to commemorate the fallen. Military cops wearing the distinctive insignia came as a surprise, but there had to be a good reason, trying to rewrite history, maybe. No one could fail to rec
ognize the nine linked rings with the Roman numeral ‘II’ in the center, worn above their MP flashes. They were like an enlarged and modified version of the old Olympic rings, before that international sporting event disappeared. Even the MPs’ rotorcraft had ‘MRII I MP Co’ emblazoned on its side. A mystery.

  Is it possible? Are they planning to rebuild the Mars force, and put it back onto the rosters? What could be the reason? It sure isn’t to hunt down one man. That would be crazy. There must be another reason. But I’m damned if I can think what it would be.

  His deputies hung close to him, as if for protection from the soldiers. The MPs stood apart, standing close to the aircraft; relaxing in that familiar way of soldiers everywhere, awaiting orders, and seeing no need to expend unnecessary energy. The odor of something unpleasant tainted the air, like something toxic, a mixture of old, eye-watering poisonous chemicals. They blended with the more common smells of rotting vegetation, and dank, damp decay. The effect was almost nauseous. Another odor overlaid the stench of decades of neglect. Cordite, the acrid tang of burnt power hung in the air. A legacy of the cartridges Vos had fired from his .44. At least that had worked, even if he’d missed. He flung down the handset in disgust. The call didn’t connect. Either the comms in the Aircruiser were FUBAR, or they were out of range.

  Best not say our comms gear is useless. Why give Hartmann another rock to toss in my direction? We can't all be army boys with the latest toys.

  As if he’d read his thoughts, General Hartmann came up behind him. He swung to face him as the harsh, bullying voice made men adopt nervous expressions. “This is a screw up, Vos. How’re you planning to find him now? The drone sensors can’t pick him up in that place. He may as well be underground. You’re supposed to be the local experts, so what’re you planning to do?”

  You’ve changed your tune, General. When it looked like a cert to capture him, you were fired up. The gung ho officer, filled with contempt for us small town cops. Now you need us. I recall officers like you on Mars. Screw up, and find someone to take the blame.

  “We’ll find him, General. He can’t stay in there forever. Sooner or later, he has to come out."

  He reddened. “Screw later, I want him now! They’re in there somewhere, driving around in that red SUV. Why don’t you follow?”

  “My Aircruisers aren’t equipped for that kind of terrain. Even if they were, that place is a rabbit warren, hundreds of square kilometers of game trails and hidden paths. There’s no point in even attempting it.”

  A loud sigh, “Okay, so what’re you going to do? You’re so keen on protecting your jurisdiction, so get your men off their fannies and do something!”

  He gestured to the Aircruiser with the comms gear he’d used in the attempt to contact his office. “As soon as we get back into range, I’ll call my office, and they’ll check out the red SUV. It’s pretty distinctive, a local vehicle and well maintained."

  He rubbed his head and then grinned.

  "Yeah, looks like one of those classic Falcons, you know, the ones they made back in the 2020s. Heavyweight, big batteries, and chunky..."

  "I don't care who makes it. I'm not a collector. Just find the damned thing."

  Voss' nostrils flared, and he fought back the urge to strike out.

  "One of my deputies says he's seen it around town. When we find the owner, we’ll know where to look. Not many of those electric Falcons about these days.”

  “I bloody hope so.”

  “We’ll find him, General. Tell me, what’s the deal with the prisoner you took? I could talk to him; see if he wants to cooperate. He may know something.”

  “We’re dealing with it. If he does know anything, Guzman will get it out of him.”

  Vos glanced over to what had once been a windowless pumping station. The roof had long gone, but it offered a degree of concealment. From inside, he could hear the rhythmic, repetitive sound of fists on flesh. MP Master Sergeant Diego Guzman was ‘interrogating’ the prisoner. Enhanced questioning was nothing new to him, although he was a tad irritated about the prospect of having the suspect die in custody. The paperwork was murderous. He realized the General was still speaking.

  “What was that, Sir?”

  “You said the owner of that SUV lives around here?”

  “That’s what we believe, yes.”

  Hartmann nodded at the aircraft. “Use the comms in the cockpit. Find out what you need, get the address, and we’ll go pick him up.”

  “I’ll try, but it may not be that easy, General.” The evasion was deliberate. The military man was getting in his craw. They’d have the local vehicle information within seconds. After all, they kept all it on file in his office, in case of computer or comms failures, which were frequent, “Addresses can be out of date, and the computer systems aren’t always working.”

  It would be a whole lot easier if you pulled your men back and left it to the local cops who know the area.

  “Make the call. We can soon check it out. Master Sergeant, get out here!"

  The noncom emerged from the doorway, dragging a bruised and almost unrecognizable Luther Jackson. He looked to be unconscious. “Sir!”

  “When the Sheriff has made his call, get on to our people. I want the rest of our men down here. Tell them it’s a priority. I don’t care what it takes; get ‘em in the air. If I don’t see a hundred pairs of boots on the ground inside of the next hour, I’ll be looking for someone to blame. Get me?”

  “Copy that, General. They’ll be here. What about him?”

  Hartmann looked down at the battered and bleeding suspect. “You get anything?”

  “Name’s Luther Jackson. He’s a local vagrant, scavenges scrap metal from around the old plant, and says he knows nothing.”

  Hartmann gripped the man’s head and tilted it back to show his face. A mass of bruises, skin mottled and cut, blood trickling down to soak into his clothes. Luther’s lips were twisted in agony, and his eyes opened as Hartmann began to twist his neck; eyes that were a window to his suffering.

  “This ain’t gonna stop, not until you tell us what we need to know. Where did he go?”

  The man looked vacant, and a sigh escaped the General’s lips. “I don’t reckon you softened him up enough, Master Sergeant. Make that call, and then work on him some more. He must know something. He was helping Cage, so I’m guessing he must know where he’s going. Don’t kill him, Diego. I need him alive.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Vos entered the cockpit, and the aircraft captain pointed him toward the comms console. Less than a minute later, a deputy answered, and he was reciting the tag number. They came back to him within seconds.

  “It’s registered to a Rose Romero. She’s a resident of Westbank, Sheriff.”

  “A woman?”

  “Yes, Sir. Address is here in Westbank, house number Fifty-Seven, Tenth Street.”

  “I want an Aircruiser stationed outside the house with two men. If they see her, she’s driving a red Flacon SUV, a classic, and she’s with the fugitive, Noah Cage. Bring her in, and if they get a shot at Cage, they’re to take it. No warnings. Just shoot the bastard.”

  “Sheriff, is that…”

  “Do it.”

  “Right. Uh, the Aircruiser you wanted to stake out that house, we don’t have one available. We have three vehicles waiting for repairs, and you have the rest of them with you. What do you want me to do, Sheriff?”

  “Tell them to walk! Get their lazy asses moving, now!”

  “Yes, Sheriff.”

  He replaced the handset and left the cockpit. Master Sergeant Guzman gave the prisoner a hard shove, leaving him lying in a crumpled heap on the ground. An MP sniggered as he delivered a hard kick into Luther’s ribs before he entered the aircraft. He snatched the handset from a departing Vos and began shouting into the mic.

  Hartmann had begun to cool down, as men rushed to obey his orders. Vos rejoined him, thinking to try to make peace. Jurisdiction or not, they had to work together, especial
ly if he was bringing an MP company into his town; enough men to do a lot of damage, if he didn’t try to head them off.

  He switched on a smile. “General Hartmann, I see you’re attached to Mars Recon II.”

  He got a suspicious look in return. “What about it?”

  “I served in the First War. I was Mars Recon I. Damn that was like going to hell and back. If I never see that place again, I’ll die happy.”

  He stared back at the Sheriff. “You don’t know Mars like I do, Sheriff. We had some good times on Mars. It’s a great place. Luxurious homes, wonderful leisure facilities, all built under the sub-surface. They’ve created a paradise, Vos. It’s a good place for families. Fat paychecks, too, a man can do what he wants on Mars. Great people.”

  He was struggling to comprehend what Hartmann was saying. “But, they’re the enemy. You’re saying we made a mistake, we should have knuckled under when they doubled the price of their raw materials. Were we wrong to attack them?”

  He scowled. “We don’t make mistakes, Sheriff, but it doesn’t alter the truth. They’ve got a lot going for them, and they never threatened us. Sometimes I wonder why we didn’t form an alliance with them instead of attacking them.”

  Vos was speechless. This man was part of the military machine that trumpeted the need to go to war. To beat down the enemy into submission, before the Martian ships began touching down inside PanAmerica. They said the invasion was imminent, with legions of Martian assault troops and advanced weapons landing on their front yards. Now Hartmann sounded like he was beating the drum for them.

  Incredible! Everything is upside down.

  “As a matter of interest, Sir, which unit did Cage serve in? On Mars, I mean.”

  A pause. The answer came out as a harsh growl, “Mars Recon II.”

  The General stomped away to talk to his soldiers, and the Sheriff stared at the tangle of wreckage, trees, and brush that blanket the hillside like a monstrous canopy of camouflage netting.

  Where are you, Cage? Which direction did you take, and where are you headed? And what’s the connection between you and this General Hartmann? You served in the same unit, is there something I’m missing? Maybe I should give it to Bowen work it out. He’s the best sleuth out of all of us. I’d sure like to know the answers.