The Last Champion: Book 4 of The Last War Series

by Peter Bostrom

  They avoided all the doorways that were on fire, blown out and breached, or riddled with bullets. Wherever the Rhinos went, they would do their job more or less, but Mattis wanted people alive. And without a suit, he could go places they couldn’t.

  Finally, they found a passageway that didn’t look like it had recently been a shooting range. A long, narrow corridor which was probably some kind of service area. Almost too small for Rhinos.

  “Sir?” came a voice from ahead. A Rhino, the name Cho on his chest and Lance Corporal’s epaulets on his shoulders, stood there, minigun slung over his back, identical rifle to Mattis’s in his hands. “That’s a maintenance shaft. Nothing on thermal imagery, but there’s hull integrity if you want to take a look. I’ll make sure nobody surprises you from behind.”

  Something about the way the kid was speaking made him consider. “You don’t think it’s worth investigating?”

  “On the contrary, sir, if I were hiding from Rhinos, that’s where I’d be.” He pulled up his visor. “Our current weapons and equipment layout displays a profound tactical deficiency.”

  Mattis smiled at him. “Well, Lance Corporal, if you don’t mind me saying so, you’re smarter than the others.”

  Cho smiled back. “I love the Marines, sir. But I have a broken back. The Rhino suit interacts directly with the nervous system. I don’t carry the suit; the suit carries me, and I don’t need legs when I’m not doing the walking. This is the only position I can actually continue to serve in.”

  “No wonder Captain Flint wanted to keep you around.”

  Cho nodded firmly and extended an armored hand. “Lance Corporal Ji-Hun Cho.”

  Mattis took the hand and shook it as firmly as he dared, given the strength in it. “Admiral Jack Mattis.” He got the impression that Cho already knew who he was. “Okay. I’m going in. If anyone who isn’t a Rhino or our target comes down this corridor, and they have a gun, light ‘em up.”

  “I’ll watch your back, sir. And if Kluger comes back, I’ll make sure he doesn’t flame that passage.” He made a face. “I mean, I’ll do my best. We’re talking about a guy who read Animal Farm and decided that the moral of the story was that pigs are evil.”

  Lynch smiled grimly and turned to the small passage after Mattis. “Perhaps the biggest shock is that he can read.”

  Cho grinned. “Aye aye, sir.”

  They shouldered their rifles and stepped inside, leaving the noise of the battles behind them as they crept deeper into the bowels of the space station.

  Chapter Thirty

  Cargo Bay

  The Aerostar

  Surface of Vellini

  Tiberius System

  Chuck lowered his pistol, exhaling a long, deep breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. “Well,” he said, holstering his weapon in what he hoped was a single, smooth motion. “That was the easiest rescue ever.”

  “Rescue?” Smith blinked in confusion. “I’ve been free for months. All I needed was a lift off-world. Overpowering the guards was easy enough, but jury-rigging a spaceship was somewhat harder.”

  “Then what was with the signals?” asked Chuck. “The subtle numbers in the mirror and whatnot?”

  “That wasn’t subtle. I mean… I wrote things down for you. In full view.” Smith rolled his eyes. “I couldn’t send a clearer message—something like, Hey Reardon, come get me, I killed all those guys holding me, and I’m now sitting in that house they set up for me, totally defenseless to an orbital strike! That’d just be dumb.”

  It didn’t really make much sense to Chuck, but it was better than nothing. “Okay, well… you’re getting rescued. Come aboard and let’s do that talking thing you said.”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” said Smith, stepping onto the loading ramp and into the Aerostar’s cargo hold with a loud, relieved sigh. “Thanks, though.”

  “No worries.” Chuck stepped back, ushering Smith aboard. “So, okay. Talking.”

  “Right.” Smith squatted on the metal deck. Reardon moved around near him, and Chuck filled in the third point of the triangle.

  “So,” said Chuck. “Talk away.”

  “Okay,” he grimaced. “So, basically Harry, after we met last, I got ambushed almost as soon as we parted ways. Some ninja-dudes.”

  “Ninja-dudes,” repeated Chuck, skeptically.

  “Hey, my turn to talk.” Smith waggled his finger. “You’ll get your chance.”

  Fine. Chuck shut his mouth.

  “So, yeah,” said Smith, clicking his tongue. “You know, I never really bothered to ask. They claimed to be The Forgotten, but, well, honestly they seemed too professional. Too organized. And well-funded. But it turns out that great care must be taken when imprisoning CIA officers because we are tricksy, patient, violent people who are more than happy to collapse crying in despair in the corner and then, when their captors come in to interrogate them, break their necks, steal a gun, and shoot the rest of them. Who would’ve known, huh?”

  Chuck’s dad had told him about the Forgotten. They weren’t ninjas—or at the very least, they weren’t all ninjas—and it was pretty unlikely that all they were doing was guarding Smith just for fun.

  “The Forgotten were on the news,” said Reardon, snapping his fingers rapidly. “They said that they’d stolen a bunch of babies.”

  Smith’s features hardened. “Hm,” he began. “But you know what? It doesn’t add up. Why would the Forgotten get involved in deep shit like this? They’re about veterans’ rights, not kidnapping kids and torturing CIA officers, and … more: they kept talking about the harvest they’d come into possession of, but I agot the impression it was some kind of genetics thing. They kept talking about DNA markers and the like. I didn’t realize they were kids. Damn.” He made a face. “They seemed pretty nonchalant about the whole thing. Like kidnapping a dozen infants was an average Tuesday for them. The Forgotten might be a lot of things, but they’re not child-nappers. They’re just veterans who feel, well, forgotten by the system. They aren’t bad people at heart.”

  “Did you pick up anything else useful while they held you?” asked Chuck.

  “Not really,” said Smith. “If anything comes to mind I’ll let you know.”

  Reardon coughed. “Also, Smith. Uhh. There are multiple Spectres now. At least we’re pretty sure there are. We overheard some people talking. Through one of the cat-based-listening-devices.”

  That didn’t seem to impress him. “You always put bugs on weird things,” said Smith. “It never pays off. Not once. Not ever.”

  “It did this time.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “Nevertheless, this time I’m not shitting you.”

  A brief silence fell over everything as they digested that.

  “Oh, Smith?” Chuck smiled lightly. “While you’re aboard… don’t talk to the mutant.”

  “The what? You have one of those things aboard?”

  “Yeah,” said Chuck. “Showed up in a cargo box that Reardon opened. Packed with explosives, too. But don’t worry. She’s harmless.”

  Reardon glared at him. “Pff. Harmless, you say. A harmless, freakishly strong mutant human. We have her locked up in the cargo hold just in case, no matter what this bleeding heart says,” he thumbed at Chuck.

  Smith glowered and didn’t seem pleased at all, looking away for a moment. Then his eyes lit up as though remembering a forgotten detail. “There was one thing, actually,” he said. “While I was being held by the Forgotten, now that you mention it. Right on the first day, I overheard an odd word mentioned. Phrase, more like it. Operation Ad Infinitum. It was only once, and the one who said it got socked pretty hard by the boss. I think they got more careful after that.”

  Wasn’t much to go on. “That’s all they said?” asked Chuck.

  “Right. That and the harvest, which we now presume was them kidnapping a bunch of babies.”

  “Yeah,” said Chuck, scowling. “Well … that solves that, I guess. At least a little. Though
what they’re harvesting them for is a mystery.”

  “Mmm.” Smith adjusted himself, getting a bit more comfortable on the deck. “And we know the future-humans had been looking for Spectre. Hunting him, almost. And in return, Spectre was tinkering with brains. Something about radical surgical techniques designed to improve human potential.”

  “Right,” said Reardon. “And I think everyone’s calling the future-humans the Avenir now. Not sure why.”

  Chuck interjected, “French for ‘future’. future-humans.”

  Silence, as they were reminded of the gravity, of the sheer urgency and near-unbelievability of the knowledge that a group of mutated humans from the future had come back to the present, multiple times, for … what?

  “Anyone else got something to share?” asked Smith.

  “Remember, dead Jeremy Pitt’s still alive,” said Reardon.

  Oh yeah. Chuck had heard his father talk at length about Jeremy, but that was just another piece of the puzzle now. He held up his hand in a fist. “Okay, so. We’ve got baby abductions.” He pulled out a finger each time he named something. “We’ve got mutants being transported in explosive-laden boxes. We’ve got ‘Operation Ad Infinitum,’ whatever the hell that is. We’ve got a formerly dead Commander Pitt. We’ve got this ‘harvest’. Which may or may not be the kids. We have…” he thought for a moment. “The Avenir attacking the gene bank on Ganymede. So we know they’re into genetics too. And they’re after Spectre, too. And Spectre and brains and surgeries. And Jack being sick.”

  “Jack doesn’t seem related,” said Reardon. “He’s just a kid.”

  Smith raised an eyebrow. “Who’s Jack?”

  “My son,” said Chuck. “Infant. He’s got a strange heart problem. Not one doc has been able to explain it, and Bratta thinks there’s something fishy going on with his DNA. Given everything going on, that’s too much of a coincidence for me. Sammy’s taking care of him in the galley.”

  Smith blew out a low whistle. “You let a baby onto the Aerostar, Harry? You must be truly desperate.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” hissed Reardon, reaching over to push Smith in the shoulder. “Okay. So. You know things. Where do we go next?”

  “Well,” said Smith, considering. “I can take a look at Jack, that’s fine, but I have no idea what ‘Ad Infinitum’ is. I have no idea what the mutant-boxes are or why anyone would be shipping them around.”

  “I know the answer to that one, at least,” said Reardon. “The crates thing. Jovian Logistics. They were putting self-destruct devices on ships, and they used them to blow up US Navy ships, including one at Chrysalis. In fact, I think the one I ended up with was destined for the Midway—Your father’s old ship.” Chuck expected him to make some kind of joke, a flippant remark, but his voice was somber and quiet. “Anyway, they run depots across, well, everywhere. They’re one of the biggest military contractors out there.”

  “Jovian,” said Smith, ominously. “That’s one of Spectre’s companies.”

  “You told us the last time you were here,” said Reardon, clicking his tongue. “Seems like he had his hands in just about everything before he passed.”

  “Well, where’s their headquarters?” asked Chuck. “Where do they operate out of?”

  Smith pulled out a tablet, searching for a moment. “Looks like … oh! Well, that’s convenient. They operate right here up in orbit. In a station adjacent to the Vellini Shipyards.” He whistled. “Christchurch Corporate Business Park. Lots of corporate HQ’s there. Lots of companies with a presence, which will help our disguises. Hell, even our old friends MaxGainz used to have an office in Christchurch Corporate.” Smith scrolled through the data.

  “Why would a criminal enterprise be run out of a shipyard?” asked Reardon.

  “It’s not just a shipyard. It’s the shipyards. The US Navy’s premier shipyards outside of the biggie orbiting Earth. And Jovian Logistics is a well-regarded company—at least, no one outside of myself and a few spooks at the CIA ever suspected it was a front company for part of Specter’s operation.”

  “Well? What should we do?” said Chuck. “Bratta’s working on Jack. But it sounds like these Jovian Logistics folks might have even more answers for us.”

  “Okay, well, in lieu of any other options…” Smith closed his tablet. “Let’s go check out Christchurch Corporate. Whatever the spider at the center of this web is, I’m sure we’ll find it there.” He smiled. “Might even find a solution for your sick son, too. Or a lead, at least.”

  “If nothing else,” said Reardon, “we might be able to beg, borrow, or steal access to some advanced lab equipment for Bratta to run more tests on.”

  “Christ, we don’t have to beg,” said Smith, half-joking. “We’re not veterans, Harry.”

  Veterans. Veterans like his dad, practically begging not to be put out to pasture. Clinging on to his relevance. Unwilling to settle down, take off the hero hat and, well, just be a grandpa.

  He put that thought out of his mind. “Okay,” said Chuck. “Let’s go pay them a visit.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Maintenance Adjunct D

  Jovian Anchor station

  Planetoid Slingshot

  Vellini System

  Tiberius Sector

  Mattis and Lynch advanced carefully, their rifle stocks pressed close up against their shoulders, and the farther they got into the cramped passageway, the more certain they were it was abandoned. Water pooled from dripping pipes in the ceiling, the bulkheads were moldy and corroded, and spiderwebs hung in the corners. Nobody had been down here for months.

  Or, at the very least, it was deliberately engineered to give that impression.

  Carefully, Mattis advanced. The tunnel came to a three-way fork, branching off into the darkness. He swept all three passages with his rifle, but they seemed identical. Three passageways, no real options or maps, and alone.

  The latter part slowly drifted back into his head. They could have asked for reinforcements, or at least told someone other than Cho where he was going. “Mattis to Caernarvon,” he said into his radio, his voice much louder than he had anticipated. But static was his only answer. Must be too far deep inside the station, and probably interference from the reactor core, surrounded by metal and thick bulkheads. “Is anyone receiving me?”

  Not even Cho answered. They were on their own.

  Three passages, each seemingly alike. Mattis swept his foot over the ground, seeing which one was less dusty. Plenty of dust to the left, plenty to the middle. The right one had substantially less, and as his foot moved over the deck, it revealed something else, too.

  The symbol of two teeth biting into a planet burned into the metal. The same symbol they saw on the ruined Avenir ship back in the Pinagar system.

  Well, that made the decision easy. “This way,” he said to Lynch. Clicking the safety off his rifle, he turned right, the corner swallowing the illumination from behind him, the only light coming from the torch from his rifle. He came to another fork, and searched around until he found the mark again. He followed that passage. “Almost like a bread crumb trail, of you ask me,” grumbled Lynch. “Just watch out for an ambush.”

  The air began to grow warm, then hot. He must be getting closer to the reactor core. Water dripping down from the ceilings intensified; was this near the atmospheric and water processing plant? An industrial sector?

  After a short while, the passage came to a dead end, emblazoned with a crude rendition of the spray-painted symbol. Mattis reached out and carefully touched it. The bulkhead slid to one side, sinking away and out of sight.

  Beyond was a large room done up like some kind of barracks or, possibly, cell. There were four sets of bunk beds, a large, long table with eight sets of plates, cutlery, and cup of water. Mattis stepped inside, shining his light on the table, then around the walls.

  And on some woman’s face, sleeping in one of the bunks. Her eyes opened as the light hit them.

  “US Navy!” Mattis stepped f
orward. It seemed utterly surreal to him that someone could sleep through a Rhino attack, but he’d seen stranger things. “Hands where I can see them!”

  Another woman rolled out of bed to his right, coming to the ground holding a twin-barreled shotgun with two huge drums of ammunition. For a split second, Mattis just stared like a dumb, stupid idiot. Where did she get that? Was she sleeping curled up next to it? Lynch yelled at him. “Admiral! Ambush!”

  Then it hit him—they weren’t sleeping. It was just an act to get whoever discovered them to lower their guard. Just like he had.

  But he didn’t have time to think about it. Mattis kicked over the table, knocking over the plates and cups, sending everything crashing to the deck. The shotgun blew two indentations in the table, the echos reverberating around the cramped room. Lynch ducked behind the door, and sprayed the inside of the room with suppressing fire from his assault rifle.

  “We got an intruder!” the woman shouted, jamming the shotgun over the edge of the table and firing it blindly.

  Mattis ducked to the side. His rifle had better penetrating power than a shotgun. He fired through the table, rounds flying through, leaving large holes. Satisfied, he emptied his magazine, each round blasting a thumb-sized hole in the sheet metal, shooting until the weapon went click.

  Silence. Mattis changed magazines, then cautiously crept forward, peering over the table’s edge. Blood was everywhere. No need to check. She was gone. “Clear!” he said.

  A door opened at the far end of the barracks. Four people wearing various military uniforms and clad in hodgepodge composite armor ran in, weapons pointing at him. Mattis opened up, spraying the corridor with fire, his shots catching one of them in the neck. Lynch stayed in his cover behind the door and picked another one of them off with a shot to the head.

  Yet, standing out in the open with no cover had its drawbacks. The remaining two Forgotten fired, the rounds plinking off his space suit, one of them digging into his shoulder. Fortunately, the suits were armored to protect against micrometeoroid strikes, but high velocity rounds were another thing.