The Last Champion: Book 4 of The Last War Series

by Nick Webb

  “Very well,” said Spears, resolutely. “Retrieve the survivor as a priority, Admiral Mattis. All other objectives are now secondary. This creature represents a profound opportunity I do not want to miss. I want to have words with … them.”

  Alright then. “Mister Lynch, time?”

  Lynch consulted his instruments, including a glowing panel mounted on his suit’s wrist. “Twenty-one minutes, sir. If we’re going to do this, we better hurry.”

  Yes. “I need a no-B.S. assessment. Can you extract this pod before the radiation cooks us?”

  Lynch’s face was unreadable behind the visor of his space suit. He seemed to be staring down at the wrist device, tapping at it with his spare hand. “Probably,” he said. “If I’m lying, I’m dying. Fifty-fifty chance.”

  Mattis had played much worse odds. “I’ll take it,” he said. “Extract the pod. Work with Modi.” It had taken them five minutes to walk there. So five minutes to walk back. Which meant they had sixteen minutes. Not long.

  “On it, sir,” said Lynch. Immediately, he and Modi leapt into action, puzzling over the glass door .

  “We’ll need to re-compress this section of the ship,” said Modi. “Just in case we nick the escape pod. Normally I wouldn’t concern myself with planning to fail, but given the time pressure, best not to risk it.” Modi pointed to a glowing panel on the wall. “See if you can interface with that thing right there.”

  Right. “I’ll get on that,” said Mattis, walking over. The system seemed still to be lit and connected to the ship’s main systems. Writing flowed across the panel, written in a strange language but using stylized English and Chinese characters. From what Mattis could make out, which was little, it seemed to be a strange creole of various tongues mashed together. In a way, it reminded him of reverse Shakespearean text; words out of time, separated by hundreds of years of linguistic evolution.

  He was reading from the future.

  A word flashed by, somewhat recognizable.

  ATMOSFEER

  It was highlighted in red. He scrolled back, touching it. An outline of the derelict—or rather, what he presumed the derelict would look like had it not smashed into the piece of debris—floated onto the screen, mostly red except for one section in the middle highlighted in green.

  Pinching the screen, Mattis zoomed with clumsy, stubby fingers, almost flying right past the green bit, which seemed to be the only intact section. The pod. A bunch of buttons flew up beside it.

  Behind him, Modi pressed the cutting fluid extruder to the frame around the glass. “Sir,” he said, “we’re about ready to try cut it out.”

  “Wait a moment,” said Mattis. He flicked through the controls, into the logs. “I see the problem. There was a fire in this room… the automatic fire suppression vented it to extinguish the flames.” He tapped on a few keys. “Here.”

  The doors they had passed through to get there slid shut. Nothing happened for a moment, although on his screen, the red box Mattis was standing in slowly began to turn a sickly green. Faintly at first, but then rapidly growing in intensity, air rushed in, hissing as it filled up the room.

  “Don’t remove your helmets,” said Mattis. “It’s just a precaution.”

  “Ain’t no way I’m removing my gear inside this rickety ship,” said Lynch, jabbing a thumb up toward the ceiling. “Whole damn thing could come down on top of us at any moment.”

  That wasn’t a bad point.

  Modi began cutting away at the framework holding the pod. The fluid made a loud snap-hiss as it bit into the metal. The hull seemed stronger here, far less affected by the radiation, and the work was slow. Modi had to refill the cartridge three times before any real progress had been made, and the cut he’d performed was depressingly small. Less than a meter long, a quarter of the distance they needed.

  The minutes ticked away. Mattis felt sweat starting to bead on his forehead even though he was cold, and air struggled to find its way into his throat. All the while, the mutant creature just stared at him, at Modi, and sometimes off into space, impassively ignoring them.

  Three more changes. Another meter cut. “Time, Lynch,” said Mattis, tapping his foot impatiently.

  “Eight minutes remain,” said Lynch.

  Dammit. “We’re not going to make it.”

  Modi replaced the cutting fluid magazine and continued to work. “Actually,” he said, “it is likely that when this section starts to come away, the pod will be removable with some degree of manual force.”

  Six minutes. Four minutes. Two minutes. The sweating continued. Mattis found his hands trembling slightly inside the suit. He could practically feel the radiation seeping into his bones. This couldn’t be good for his long term health…

  Then, with a dull creak and groan, the pod came loose, tumbling into the chamber. It was followed by a much deeper, much more troubling rumble from somewhere else on the derelict.

  “Okay,” said Mattis as the rumble all around them intensified. “I’m sure everyone’s feeling as shitty as I am, so grab this thing and make for the shuttle. We are leaving.”

  “Spears to away team.” Her voice carried a charge with it. “A ship is coming into sensor range.”

  Mattis moved beside Modi, grabbing hold of the pod. Utilising the low gravity still present in this part of the ship, he hoisted it along with the others and began making his way out. “What kind of ship?” He knew he wouldn’t like the answer.

  “Unknown,” said Spears. “A big one.”

  He hated being right.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Landing Pad 4

  Fermion City Spaceport

  Los Alamos v2.0

  Tiberius Sector

  Two hours later

  New Los Alamos—a busy, crowded, technological world that Chuck had read about but never visited. It was the location of a former research facility which, apparently, had been converted into a trading post that had ballooned into a small city. The atmosphere was thin, a strange orange-red color, and it reeked of sulphur. A slightly crooked neon sign marked the place as Los Alamos v2.0. Something was burning some distance away, pumping even more pollution into the atmosphere.

  Delightful.

  Chuck stepped down the loading ramp of the Aerostar and into the streets of Fermion City, the weight of his new pistol forcing him to resist the urge to plug his nose to keep out the smell. He’d strapped on the holster Sammy had mentioned; he resolved to keep his hand off the weapon unless necessary.

  It’d been some time since he’d actually shot anything, after all.

  Chuck adjusted his backpack, Jack strapped in and squealing inanely. Taking his son on a risky investigation mission didn’t sit well, but it was better than leaving him on the ship with Lily.

  “Hey,” said Sammy, wheeling up to the top of the ramp behind him. “You can’t be serious. No.”

  Chuck knew what he was talking about. “Jack will be safer with me,” he said, cautiously. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he’s okay.”

  “No no no,” said Sammy, rolling down the ramp, his hands on the wheels to slow himself. “You cannot be serious. C’mon. Leave him with me.”

  Chuck shook his head. “That’s not safe.”

  “I’ll keep Lily in the cargo hold and lock the doors,” he said. “It’s much safer than out there. I promise. Good Lord, don’t you smell that shit? You want him breathing that?”

  The idea that his kid would be left on a ship with a mutant whose intentions none of them could know, and nothing more than a wheelchair-bound kid to keep her in her place was … less than comforting. “You absolutely sure you can handle it?”

  Sammy touched a few keys on his wheelchair’s screen. “The doors are locked and she isn’t going anywhere.” He turned the screen around to show the feed from the internal cameras. Lily was standing there, gazing out the porthole, seemingly unaware she was trapped. “Those doors are triple-reinforced composite. She’d need an anti-tank weapon to get out. Meanwhile, all that’s betwee
n Jack and a bullet out there is, well, you.”

  All the reassurances in the world couldn’t fully convince Chuck, but he knew Jack would statistically be safer on the ship. With palpable reluctance, he handed the backpack over.

  Sammy extracted Jack and smiled like he’d just been handed a check for a million credits. “I’ll take great care of him, don’t worry.”

  Easier said than done. It felt strange to be leaving Jack with Sammy, but Chuck forced himself to think it was okay. The kid was kind and Jack seemed to like him. Plus, it made it easier to focus on his mission. Or so he told himself.

  The only thing that mattered was to find out what was wrong with Jack, and to cure it—before it was too late.

  Reardon had fitted Chuck with an earpiece, through which he was giving instructions. “Okay, so, you’re on the main street now.”

  “Thanks,” said Chuck, not even bothering to keep his sarcasm in check. “You’re a big help to me, you know that?”

  “You’re welcome,” said Reardon, without even a hint of irony. “So… basically, here’s the thing. Lily’s firmly secured inside the ship—can’t have a big girl like her walking around somewhere like that, especially when we don’t know her at all—and we can come to you if we need to get you out of there in a hurry. Sammy’s going to do computer stuff; if Bratta turns on his phone, I’ll make sure you know about it. And also take care of the little poop goblin.”

  Chuck ground his teeth. “That poop goblin is my son,” he said. A cloud of foul-smelling gas rolled over him, causing him to wrinkle his nose and fight the urge to gag. “And what about you?”

  “I’m going to give you the benefit of my smuggler’s wisdom,” said Reardon. “Remotely. Where it doesn’t smell like someone took a dump right there in front of me.”

  It was okay… it was okay. He just had to find Bratta. “How about you share a little bit of that so-called smuggler’s wisdom and gimme a hint where I should be heading to find Bratta?”

  “Well,” said Reardon, crowing a little, like he was the font of sagacity and experience. “The thing with these missing person cases is… everyone always ends up at a bar. I’ve done a bit of bounty hunting work in my time—”

  “You found a lost dog,” said Sammy in the background. “Once. And it was hiding on the Aerostar.”

  “In my time,” continued Reardon, slightly louder. “And the thing is: everyone always ends up at the bar. Ex-husband making you pay alimony you don’t want to pay? Bar. Crazy wife trying to cut off your booze? Bar. No wife or husband? Bar. Always to the bar.”

  “He’s actually right,” said Sammy. “For once. If nothing else, it’s a great place to catch some rumors, and on New Los Alamos, indoor locations have filtered air. Which means they’re popular hangouts, especially for travelers not used to the atmosphere. Plus, I ran a few more scripts and managed to hack into the location monitor for his phone. Turns out, yeah. He’s in the bar.”

  Reardon’s voice broke heavy over the comm. “What? Why the hell didn’t you lead with that?”

  Chuck could practically hear Sammy grin. “Because I like hearing you make a fool of yourself, bro.”

  “Okay,” said Chuck, hand subtly patting the pistol, just to make sure it was still there. “Where’s the bar?”

  Faint sounds of typing in the background. “There’s just one in town,” said Sammy. “The Lone Star Bar. Should be about a two-minute walk down the main street; look for a big neon sign of a white star. It should stand out in the atmosphere like a … well, like a giant …white … light.”

  Two minutes later, Chuck found himself inside a bar. It was as all bars were; dingy and dark, but the smell of it—fresh air, slightly synthetic as though passed through some kind of filter, was a profound relief for his nose.

  A single man sat at the bar, awkwardly perched on a rickety stool. To the far side of the room slouched in a booth, a woman half-sat, half-lay down on the cushion, her hands wrapped around a large brown bottle.

  Obviously she was not Bratta. But the male … Chuck took in the guy’s appearance. He had an unruly inch-long beard and wore a massive ten-gallon white cowboy hat, completed by a faux-leather jacket. He sat at the bar, scotch in hand. The ice had melted, his drink untouched. A large suitcase sat by his feet. His skin was so pale, he might as well have been a ghoul.

  It had to be him. Chuck vaguely remembered a description of him as “quirky”.

  “Mister Bratta?” he asked, cautiously, sliding into the seat beside him.

  The guy practically jumped out of his skin, his reaction telling Chuck all he needed to know. “H-how did you find me?” he asked, his accent distinctly British.

  Chuck almost told the truth, but thought better of it. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’m Chuck Mattis. I need your help, Mr. Bratta.” Chuck nodded to the man’s pale hand and up at the cowboy hat. “Or, should I say… cowboy vampire who is most definitely not Bratta.”

  A pause. The man hesitated. Then, slowly, the words came out. “I’m… Bratta,” he said, as though saying it, somehow, might make it untrue. “Yes.”

  Chuck smiled grimly. “You look like you’re going to take me back into your lair and drink my blood. How long has it been since you saw the sun?”

  Bratta grimaced and set his scotch glass down on the table. “Uhh… well, I don’t go outside much. There’s a UV lamp in the bathroom—they use it to find stains and things—and I walk past that sometimes. The, uh … air here doesn’t agree with me.”

  Well. That explained a lot. “Why are you dressed this way?”

  “I’m fitting in,” said Bratta, an edge of offence creeping into his tone. “Most patrons of this pub are Americans. This is an American colony. The Lone Star Bar is an American-run institution.”

  Ten-gallon hat. Fake deerskin leather jacket. Calling a bar a pub. Definitely passing for American. “Anyway,” said Chuck, trying to conceal his laughter. “Yeah. So … you’re hiding out here, huh? Still worried about the Maxgainz folks tracking you down?” He supposed ever since the feds had shut down the rogue company, its owners would probably not think too kindly about the former employee who shot the video that led to their demise.

  “That’s right. Blending in like a … like a true American patriot. And … hiding. Yes. I suppose you could call it that. Why? Who’s asking?”

  Chuck held his hand up to formally greet him. “Like I said, Chuck Mattis. Charmed. You may have heard of my father—the guy that helped bring down the folks you’re hiding from. Believe me, you’ve got nothing to worry about from me.” The scientist looked relieved at that. “Well. On that note, how would you like to hide out somewhere less smelly? Maybe on a ship?”

  The light in Bratta’s eyes shone. “You have a ship? And … you’d be willing to take me away from this place?” His voice became high-pitched and frantic. “Oh, thank God. I’m almost out of money, not even enough to buy a ticket offworld, and… and the smell of this place. No, no, I don’t care if they catch me. I can’t stay here another second.”

  Apparently he had reason to believe the Maxgainz folks were still active and holding a grudge. “That’s right,” said Chuck, tone soft, trying to calm him down. “Well, technically it’s Reardon’s ship.”

  That seemed to do it. Bratta snapped his fingers. “Oh! The Aerostar! I know her well.”

  Right. Okay. “Well,” said Chuck, diplomatically. “There’s only one catch. I need your help.”

  “Done.” Bratta slid out of the chair, hoisting up his large suitcase. “I’m ready to get off this smelly rock as soon as you are.”

  Chuck smiled and beckoned him outside. “Right this way, cowboy.”

  Outside, the stench of the air returned. Chuck turned toward the landing pad, frowning slightly as he spotted another column of smoke rising. This one seemingly emanated from the pad itself. “Reardon,” he asked, touching his earpiece. “Mind telling me what’s going on?”

  “Get back to the ship!” Reardon almost shouted. “We’re being s
hot at here!”

  Nice of him to tell him. His son was on that ship. Chuck grabbed Bratta’s shoulder. “We gotta run,” he said. “Or there isn’t going to be a ship to escape on.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Edgewater

  New Kentucky

  Tiberius System

  Guano’s mouth felt like sandpaper. Walking through the heat of the grimy city of Edgewater, practically drinking the humid, sulfurous air, had turned her lips as dry as chalk. She needed a drink.

  Why was she here?

  Damned if she could remember. Everything was such a blur in her mind. She just knew this was the place to be.

  And, God, her dry mouth…

  Fortunately, fate presented a solution. A slightly askew neon sign labelled The Hole hung precariously, glaring, above a large set of old-style saloon doors. From within, raucous cheering and off-key singing drifted out, along with the scent of cheap alcohol and the promise of … company. Or something.

  Guano pushed open the doors and stepped inside. The bar was full of women and men in uniform and was dark, dingy even, with thick clouds of smoke clinging to everything like a fog. Row after row of seats were aligned to thick oak tables, the corners occupied by booths. A fire burned on the far wall, and in front of it lay a thick bearskin rug. Viewscreens hung in the corner showed sports and news on repeat.

  All eyes immediately fell upon her. The singing trailed off. She could have heard a pin drop with the force of a grenade.

  “Guano?” asked a familiar voice. Major Muhammad “Roadie” Yousuf. The CAG and her boss. He stood off of a stool, cigar falling from his mouth in shock. “W-what the fuck?”

  “No way,” said Junior Lieutenant Deshawn “Flatline” Wiley, her gunner, from a nearby stool. “No way. No fucking way.”

  Seeing them snapped her back into a feeling of … normalcy, she supposed. She put her hands on her hips and grinned triumphantly. “Guess who’s not dead, bitches.”