The Last Champion: Book 4 of The Last War Series

by Peter Bostrom

  Roadie blew out a low whistle. “Damn girl,” he said, “you gotta show me this.”

  Wordlessly, Guano squirmed out of the beanbag, made her way out of the ready room, and down the hall to the simulator room. Roadie followed her, equally silent but obviously curious. She climbed up the ladder leading to the simulated cockpit and jabbed a thumb behind her. “C’mon,” she said to Roadie. “Wanna gun for me?”

  “Hell no,” he said, shaking his head. “This is about you.”

  Fair enough. No gunner then. She wouldn’t need one. Guano scrolled through the various simulations available. There were many, but one caught her eye.

  Encounter at the Concorde. The no-win situation. The one Brooks, that dickhead, had described as the Kobayashi Maru from ancient sci-fi.

  She thumbed the power up switch. Time to win it.

  Her virtualized ship appeared in space, surrounded by ‘allies’. Eight fellow Warbirds; identical ships with identical layouts.

  They were the real enemy in this simulation. Friends pretending to be enemies.

  Carefully and deliberately, Guano took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. She felt the rush of energy fill her, and then nothing. Nothing but total calm. Tranquillity. No energy, no anger or passion, just cold, calculating piloting. Pure survival.

  Guano set her course, falling into formation with the ships she knew would eventually betray her. As soon as they arrived at Objective Alpha, the Warbirds flickered and turned red, but Guano was ready. The moment the Warbirds turned toward her, she pulled the stick back into her gut. Cannon fire flew below her ship.

  Easy. Guano kicked out her foot, jamming it on the rudder pedal and swinging her ship to the left. One of the Warbirds floated directly into her sights. She barely breathed on the trigger, firing a quarter-second burst that sailed into the cockpit of the simulated fighter, blasting the crew compartment into shreds and sending the ship tumbling listlessly through space.

  One down, seven to go.

  The chattering of guns—sounds played through the simulator’s speakers to provide pilot situational awareness—gave her just enough warning to jerk the control stick to port, swinging her ship out of another devastating line of fire. She flipped around, flying backwards through space, painting the lead Warbird with her missile lock radar. It couldn’t get good tone.

  But that was okay. Heat seeking missiles had a maddog mode, where they would just fly out straight and hit the closest target that, hopefully, wasn’t the ship that launched it. Use of this mode was highly discouraged because US spacecraft almost always traveled in groups, but she was alone out here.

  Guano switched on maddog mode, then dumped two of her heat-seeking missiles without lock. “Fox two, fox two. Maddog, maddog.”

  The twin missiles streaked away from their railings. Just as she anticipated, they parted and flew in different directions, each spearing directly into a fighter, blowing it away. Guano fanned her rudder pedals, little puffs of gas maneuvering her reversing ship from side to side, fishtailing away from the inevitable return fire. It flew past her cockpit, missing the canopy by inches, but a miss was a miss.

  Three down, five to go.

  The other five, probably reacting to some hidden quirk in their programming, broke off their attacks and reformed their attack wing. Guano was more than okay with letting them go; she had a full complement of radar-guided missiles just itching for targets. She flipped her ship again, flying the same direction her nose was pointed, and burned away from them.

  Perhaps the programming wasn’t anticipating that; an aggressive push with close range missiles followed by a retreat to distance. The fighters circled aimlessly. Perfect targets for the radar-guided missiles. “Fox three, fox three,” said Guano, squeezing off both missiles. Again, both found their targets, splashing a pair of simulated fighters to white hot balls of flaming debris and expanding gasses.

  And then there were three.

  The missile strike seemed to galvanize the remaining fighters into action. They turned toward her, cannons flashing bright twinkles against the black of space, vomiting glowing streams of fire straight toward her.

  Easily avoided. Guano twisted her ship and opened the throttle, moving out of the way of the deadly streaks. Three computer opponents versus her. Easy meat. She tipped her nose up. The opposing ships immediately did the same. She tilted her nose down. The enemy ships did the same, too. Interesting. She had two more long range missiles left, and two heat seekers, but she wanted to keep them.

  She didn’t think she’d need them.

  The enemy ships fired their missiles. The wailing of the missile lock alarm filled her ears. Completely on muscle memory, she tapped the countermeasures; flares, chaff, and electronic decoys. The enemy missiles lost lock. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

  Wiggling her nose up and down, Guano cruised towards the three remaining enemy fighters. Bots were dumb. They kept trying to compute a lead on her ship but they didn’t count on someone like her constantly changing their course to make them miss.

  When they got close enough, Guano gave each fighter an intense burst from her guns, and that was that.

  “Holy shit!” shouted Roadie from the sidelines. A small crowd of pilots had wandered down from the ready room and gathered around the entrance, watching her fight. “You… you killed them all?”

  “Naw.” Guano pointed up at the large screens. Eight red dots had appeared at the edge of her radar range. “There’s another wave spawning. I’m pretty sure that they just keep sending you more fighters until you run out of fuel and ammunition.”

  Roadie smiled at her. “Alright, well, you proved your point. C’mon down here and we’ll celebrate. Pretty sure nobody’s even reached the second wave before.”

  She turned back to the screens. “I’m not finished.”

  The next wave—appearing from nowhere— swooped in, missiles screaming toward her. Guano dumped flares and chaff to decoy them and then, as though it were the easiest thing in the world, split them up one by one and cut them down. She tried to conserve her ammunition as much as possible, giving each ship only a short burst when she was sure she was going to hit, but two craft remained at the end, her missiles depleted and her guns empty.

  Now things were getting interesting.

  The two remaining fighters, seemingly possessed of infinite ammunition, dove down on her, and she jerked her fighter back and forth to avoid them. She kept dodging and they kept firing. Far more rounds than they should have. It almost seemed like two streams of constant fire were coming from each of them…

  Something she could use to her advantage. Guano pulled back the stick, opened the throttle, and gained some distance between the two fighters, fishtailing her ship to spread them out. The distance between her and them grew. Then, when she was well out of range, she flipped over and burned hard, straight toward them.

  The two spacecraft peeled away, one to port, one to starboard. She accelerated, her ship trailing an expanding silver stream behind it. The two hostiles turned back and opened up with their infinite ammo guns, shooting endlessly at her.

  Ever so carefully, Guano thread the needle, flying between the two ships. Precisely between them. Both ships turned to fire at her and, instead, their lines of shooting crossed.

  Both ships burst into white-hot fireballs that quickly faded.

  “Holy shit!” shouted Roadie again. The gathered pilots and crew cheered like crazy.

  A third wave appeared, predictably, but this time Guano was out of tricks. She took off her helmet and flicked off the simulator. With a sigh, she blew out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, and with it came the battle fugue. She grinned impishly over the side at Roadie.

  “Wow.” Roadie and the others stood by with stunned expressions on their faces. “That… was sensational. Bravo zulu, pilot.” Bravo zulu. ‘Well done’ in naval slang.

  Guano climbed out of the cockpit and waggled her eyebrows. “See? I’m fucking fantastic.”

  �
�That you are,” said Flatline. “You set a new record.” A slight edge of bitterness crept into his voice. Or jealousy. “And all without a gunner, too.”

  She clambered down the ladder and grinned at him. “Next time,” she promised. “I’ll need you if I’m going to get beyond the second wave.”

  That seemed to mollify him slightly. “Okay.” Flatline gave a playful little bow. “Anyway, I guess you’re back to form. We should probably find you some quarters.”

  She smiled her appreciation.

  Everyone seemed so pleased with her. So proud of her achievement. They showed her around the Stennis, they bought her a few drinks to ‘cure whatever was left of her hangover’, and finally, Flatline showed her to a spare set of quarters on the port side of the ship, right next to the reactor cooling network—a detail she wasn’t quite sure why she knew, but it seemed important for some reason.

  Guano slid into her rack, rolled over onto her side and stared at the bulkhead. She knew coolant fluid pulsed beneath it, almost like a heartbeat, keeping the ship’s powerful reactor alive. A stray wire poked out from the panel, a tiny sliver exposed.

  She reached out for the panel, gently pried it open, reached into her pocket, withdrew a small black device she didn’t even remember carrying, slid it into the gap, then pushed the panel closed.

  Within moments she was fast asleep and dreaming, the incident completely forgotten.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Hangar Bay

  USS Stennis

  Debris field

  Pinegar System

  Mattis stepped off the shuttle and finally removed his helmet. Standing in the recently re-compressed hangar bay, a woman in a suit was waiting for him. His chest tightened as he took in her features. Olive skin, hair done up tight in a bun. It had to be Martha, flanked by a pair of Marines.

  He hadn’t been prepared to see her on the bridge, but he was really not ready to see her standing right there. Suddenly he felt twelve years old again; words struggled to find their way past his lips.

  “It’s good to see you too,” said Ramirez, smiling a little.

  “Yeah,” said Mattis. He jostled his helmet under his arm. “So… uhh.”

  “Mmm.”

  Silence. “Every time we meet,” said Mattis, managing a small smile, “there’s always a little bit of awkwardness.”

  “And whose fault is that?” said Ramirez with a notable edge of bitterness, then seemed to catch herself, obviously embarrassed. “I’m … sorry.”

  “No worries,” said Mattis, grimacing. “I know I should have called.”

  “You definitely should have called,” said Ramirez, but she shook her head as though dispelling the thought from her mind. “Never mind. Look. The thing is, there’s a real danger here that you need to deal with.”

  That was good. They could deal with their relationship—or lack thereof—later. Later… it was always later when it came to Ramirez. But this time, this time, he would make the time to talk to her about everything. As soon as they had the time.

  “Okay.” Mattis adjusted his grip on his helmet, turning to speak over his shoulder. “Move that pod into quarantine. We don’t know anything about it and I don’t want it fucking up the ship. Inform Captain Spears that our mission was successful, and leave it for her to follow up.” Then he turned back to Ramirez. “Let’s walk and talk.”

  “Very well,” she said. “The main conference room is toward the stern, we can have a proper chat there.”

  They fell into step together, walking out of the hangar bay and into the ship proper. “Okay,” said Mattis, firmly putting one boot in front of the other. He didn’t want to wait until they got to the conference room “What’s the deal with these missing kids?”

  “Have you watched the news?” asked Ramirez. She seemed strangely okay with talking out in the open.

  It was difficult for Mattis to say, especially given her prominent role in the show, so his answer came out as a guilty, “No.”

  “Well you should.” Ramirez was obviously fighting the urge to let sarcasm and frustration into her voice. “We ran a program recently about some children that were stolen from a nearby world, New Kentucky.”

  Her words sparked a flash of memory. “Yes, you’re right,” he said, nodding firmly. “Spears mentioned the same thing.” It was very bad news indeed. “Stolen kids, huh?”

  “Straight out of their cribs,” said Ramirez, disgusted. “The bastards killed every adult in the whole facility, then they lifted the kids offworld. A review of the security footage showed that the ship carried a Forgotten insignia. Which is why I need you—or at least, part of the reason why I need you.” That last little bit, almost a confession, drew a little smile from him. “We know you’ve had experience with these people before.”

  “That’s right,” said Mattis, “and like I told Spears, this just isn’t their MO. The Forgotten had a specific grudge against specific people, and yeah they were basically terrorists, but despite their violence they were otherwise… well. I wouldn’t say they were good people, but they wouldn’t massacre a facility of childminders and steal kids. It just doesn’t sound like them at all.”

  She considered. “Well, regardless, I think that working on the assumption that it was them, for now, is probably best.”

  Despite his gut feeling misgivings, Mattis couldn’t help but begrudgingly agree. “Sure.”

  Ramirez led them toward the main conference room and pushed open the door. “Just keep an open mind,” she said, with something that seemed almost like caution or warning. “Okay,” said Mattis, stepping inside.

  The conference room was a long, low-ceilinged room with one far wall dedicated to a screen. In the center was a long oval table with a dozen chairs arranged around it. And at the end of the table was a man who stood up as they entered. His eyes were closed, but Mattis recognized him.

  Senator Pitt.

  Mattis’s hands became fists at his side, acutely aware of the pistol strapped to his hip. “You bastard,” he said, the words escaping as a faint hiss. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Senator Pitt opened his eyes. They were red and puffy, as though he’d been crying. “Hello, Jack.”

  “Fuck you.” Mattis practically spat the words, setting his helmet down on the end of the table with a clatter. “I should ask Flint to throw you out an airlock. What are you doing here?”

  “I’m here,” said Senator Pitt, his tone weak, “not to fight with you. I’m here to ask you for help.”

  That was a stretch. A little of the anger left Mattis’s body; the man seemed genuinely upset, and if this was some kind of trick or misdirection, it was a bloody good one. “What do you want?” he asked, skeptically.

  “It’s about Jeremy.” Commander Jeremy Pitt. Senator Pitt’s son.

  “Okay,” said Mattis, gently. The loss of his son had obviously affected him. That was understandable. “I’m sorry about that. You know I did my best. I didn’t want anything to happen to him. You know that.”

  “You don’t understand,” said Senator Pitt. “He’s … he’s alive.”

  The words hit him like a bombshell. They took a moment to process, as though the idea was just so ludicrous and insane that merely thinking about it was tantamount to believing it, which was crazy. “Pitt,” said Mattis, with as much kindness as he could muster. From one parent to another. “Jeremy’s—Jeremy’s dead. I was at his funeral. I saw his body. He’s gone.”

  Whatever reaction Mattis was expecting, it wasn’t a broad, happy smile piercing through the mask of sadness. “I’ve learnt recently that’s … not quite true.” A strange, almost manic energy seemed to take over him. “My son never really died, Jack. Not really. He survived the explosion of the ship he was on. The president, President Schuyler, she wanted to keep it a secret given all the politics going on right now and the diplomatic situation with the Chinese. She even kept it from me.” His words came out almost frantically fast. “He was very badly injured, and he was in a
coma for some time. He nearly recuperated and was going to make his return, but then the Forgotten—they got hold of what was happening and kidnapped him and are going to use him for ransom. For extortion.”

  There was something about the whole story that seemed off, strange, as though it were full of half-truths and misdirections by omission, but there was also a palpable truth there as well—Pitt was not lying. That much was clear.

  Just enough for Mattis to believe him. Sort of.

  “Okay,” said Mattis, nodding his head. It was strange to agree with Senator Pitt, but… if Ramirez trusted him, then he could, too. “What can I do for you, then?”

  “Well,” said Senator Pitt, taking a deep breath and slowing his voice as though through deliberate effort. “I was the architect of the US—China peace deal. Something the Forgotten didn’t exactly like. I’m worried that they’re going to use this as leverage, to try and ruin the deal, somehow. Blackmail me into pulling out of the continuing talks.”

  That made sense. “And what about the missing kids?” asked Mattis. “How do they play into this?”

  “That’s the thing,” said Ramirez. “We don’t know that. Not yet. But if anyone can find out, it’s you.”

  Mattis wasn’t a detective. He shrugged helplessly. “How am I supposed to do that?”

  Ramirez tapped on her wrist computer—did everyone have one of those these days? Everything old is new again. He felt so behind the times—and the wall-mounted display lit up. “Before I ran the story about the stolen kids, I received a text message telling me not to run it. Unfortunately, because I’m a dumbass who doesn’t check her phone, I missed it and ran the program anyway. They specifically told me not to run it and specifically not to talk to you. I think that’s what they’re afraid of. They don’t want you involved in this—probably because they saw what happened to Maxgainz when you got involved.”

  Something in the back of his mind made him wonder if that was bait, but he pushed it aside. It came from a place of regret and pain.