The Last Champion: Book 4 of The Last War Series

by Nick Webb

  Chuck frowned in obvious confusion. “But, why?” he asked, curiously. “Why would these former military veterans with connection to Jovian Logistics be working on … genetics? What’s this doing here?”

  Bratta didn’t have an immediate answer to that, but a glance at the time-date stamp made him pause. “That can’t be right,” he said, frowning and turning the screen back towards him.

  Publication Date: September 26th, 3102

  “This database is from the future,” he said, simply.

  “Bottom line. Can you use this to synthesize a cure for Jack?” asked Chuck.

  “Easily,” said Bratta. “The retrovirus’s genetic code just requires printing. I can manufacture it here, if you want. I am, after all, more than qualified.”

  The two exchanged broad smiles.

  Chuck, obviously relieved, was still scratching his head. “Still. Why did all the docs clam up when they saw Jack had a problem? It’s like … it’s almost as if someone knew which doc I was going to, getting to them first, and … I don’t know.”

  Bratta wanted to soothe the man’s obvious paranoia, but … it actually made a little sense. “No competent doctor would have missed the obvious signs of genetic tinkering here. I think you may be on to something, Mr. Mattis.”

  Regardless of why the various doctors he’d seen were covering up the reason for Jack’s mysterious illness, all he could feel now was relief. Intense, cathartic relief.

  “Well … that’s odd,” said Bratta.

  “What?”

  “This data. I entered another search term into the index. Mitochondrial. It’s a genetics term. Something that will come into play with Jack’s retroviral treatment. But what I found was … interesting.”

  “What?” Chuck asked again, exasperated.

  “Clones. Jovian Logistics appears to be involved with cloning technology. In fact, there’s a whole file on …” he was shaking his head in disbelief, “Jeremy Pitt.”

  “Holy shit,” said Chuck.

  “Holy shit,” repeated Smith.

  “Uhh,” said Sammy over the ship’s intercom, “so, hey, there’s… a ship out there. A big, weird-looking ship. Looks military.” There was a brief pause. “Hey, guys? Get up here. Now.”

  Everyone started to move to the exit of the cargo bay, back toward the rest of the ship, but Smith caught Bratta’s shoulder.

  “I’ll stay here,” said Smith. “Review the data. See what I can find. I have a bunch of implants that can interface with computers… it’ll make searching really easy.”

  “Okay,” said Bratta. “Take care, okay? We don’t know what’s in there.”

  “I’ll be careful,” said Smith, nodding firmly. “Go. Check out the big battle.”

  “Battle?” Bratta hadn’t heard anything about any battle. His hands still felt shaky the last one. “A… space battle?”

  “Yup. My gut tells me things are about to heat up around here.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Bridge

  HMS Caernarvon

  Vellini, High Orbit

  Vellini System

  Tiberius Sector

  The view screen was engulfed in light as bright as the blue beams that had nearly doomed them. When the luminescence faded, an expanding debris field from the alien ship was revealed, along with the Warrior and the rest of the US fleet.

  Or what was left of them.

  Whatever effect the pseudo-gravity pulse had inflicted on the ships had been devastating; every ship was burning on multiple decks, venting atmosphere through cracks in the hull, their external lights flickering weakly, like the gasps of the dying. Casualty reports hadn’t been relayed yet, but it was clear that thousands of US servicemen had been annihilated in the blink of an eye.

  Mattis stared in bewilderment. It had drawn them all in with its gravitational technology that they had wielded with devastating effect just months ago against Ganymede. And once the fleet was pulled in close….

  They committed suicide. A suicide bomber. That took out half the American naval space fleet. Whether it was actual future-humans aboard that ship, or rogue Forgotten, they had dealt the American military its most deafening defeat since the early battles of the Sino-American war.

  “The Avenir are full of tricks,” said Blackburn. Characteristic British understatement.

  It was true, though. They had tricks. And Mattis couldn’t keep underestimating them, whoever they were. Every mistake was a price paid in blood. Last time the Avenir had fired big rocks at them. This time they, or the Forgotten commandeering their salvaged ship, had blown themselves up to cripple the American fleet. What would they do next time?

  “Commander Blackwood,” said Spears, an uncharacteristic tremble in her voice. “Dispatch search and rescue teams to the stricken American ships. Coordinate with ships able to help others if any exist. Have our strike craft hunt down escape pods and recover them. Dispatch our Marines, medics, damage control teams… everything we have. Have the shuttles assist with escape pods when they’ve dropped off our teams. Supplies and personnel out, escape pods and wounded in. Push the strike craft overboard if we have to make room.”

  “Captain,” said Mattis, “request permission to leave the HMS Caernarvon. I need to go aboard the USS Warrior and assist in whatever way I can.”

  Spears’s eyes flicked to him, examining him critically. “Not with that arm you’re not,” she said.

  Damn. He’d almost forgotten. His right arm hung at a strange angle, obviously out of its shoulder socket. Pins and needles crept up from his fingers, past his wrist. “I’ll have one of the medics reset it and take a painkiller,” he said. “It’s more wanting to assist with command and coordination efforts anyway, and…”

  He trailed off. Blackwood was holding his hand, examining it curiously. “Do you mind? I used to play rugby and my team’s doc would do this all the time. I can pop it back in in a jiffy. It won’t fix it but you’ll be back in the game.”

  “Go for it,” he said, grimacing slightly.

  “On three. One.” Blackwood suddenly shoved his arm back in its socket. Pain exploded up his arm and he bit the inside of his cheek to quiet a surprised shriek.

  “Dammit! You said on three!”

  Blackwood brushed her hair out of her eyes. “Yes, so you would be relaxed on one. You would have tensed on three. Unfortunately, that trick only works once.”

  Fair call. “Hopefully you won’t have to do it again,” said Mattis, rubbing his shoulder ruefully to banish the tingling sensation. “Have that painkiller waiting for me. Permission to leave the bridge, Captain?”

  Spears nodded mutely, her eyes remained glued to the main monitor, idly chewing on a thumbnail as she watched her allied fleet burn against the black of space.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Corridor

  HMS Caernarvon

  Vellini, High Orbit

  Vellini System

  Tiberius Sector

  Mattis felt numb as he walked toward the Caernarvon’s Hangar Bay, and it wasn’t just residual effects from the pain. He fell into a crowd of people, medics, damage control crews and engineers, moving with a sea of people toward the waiting shuttles. It seemed as though Captain Spears was sending across half her crew. Perhaps that was too much.

  The tide of people filtered into shuttles, most carrying supplies and engineering tools; welders, cutters, and emergency bulkheads. The rest carried stretchers and medical supplies.

  As the shuttles departed, he saw waves of similar craft from the Stennis heading toward the wrecked fleet. More shuttles. More ships. More aid. He saw Sampson without her suit, her massive, bulky arms carrying more things than a woman of her surprisingly diminutive stature would suggest, and right as the loading ramp on his ship closed, he saw her begin to load up Cho’s motorized wheelchair.

  Everyone was helping. An ominous feeling came over him, seeing the urgency at which they moved, and seeing the escape pods floating away from dozens of ruined American ships.
>
  Perhaps what they had taken wasn’t enough.

  Off in the distance, one of the ruined American ships, one that had been closest to the Avenir vessel when it blew, exploded in a quickly extinguished puff. Mattis’s stomach tensed as he imagined all the survivors being incinerated in the blink of an eye.

  So much senseless loss. And what had they gained?

  Nothing.

  And, most disturbing of all, he still had no idea who his enemy was.

  The shuttle lifted off. As it flew out of the hangar bay doors, a blonde-haired nurse with a neatly trimmed beard caught his eye.

  “Admiral,” said the guy, eyes falling on his arm, his accent difficult to understand. Yorkshire, possibly? “Got a little something for you.”

  He extended his arm, rolling up his sleeve. “Thanks.”

  The nurse gently pressed the needle to his shoulder and slid it in, depressing the plunger. “What have you done to yourself, sir?”

  “Hurt my arm.” Mattis rolled his arm experimentally as the needle left his skin, but a sting of pain in his shoulder made him wince. “Commander Blackwood fixed it.”

  “I told her not to do that anymore,” the man muttered, then cleared his throat. “Well, I’m sure she was chuffed to bits to be able to mangle another one of my patients—what a duck. I suppose she gave you a song and dance about rugby and how that qualified her to practice medicine?”

  It was difficult to understand the man’s accent. “She did mention she played rugby,” Mattis echoed.

  “Reyt. Well, regardless, based on the swelling, you’ve probably right stuffed it. You’ll need physio to restore the strength and make sure the rotator cuff heals properly.” He took hold of the limb and slowly turned the limb over in his hands. It only hurt a little. “Nerves and blood supply don’t seem to be compromised. That’s good.”

  “Right.” Hurry, goddammit. He tried to summon anger, frustration at the delay, but all he could think about was those US ships burning in space, their internal atmospheres igniting, their crews dead and dying. How they were dying right now, at this very moment. Every second they spent here was a second they were not helping.

  “You’ll be fine.” The medic unceremoniously dropped the hand which caused more pain than the twisting did. “Just remember, and I can’t emphasize this enough: over-stretching the injured tissues should be avoided for between two and six weeks.” He gave a sour look. “This should be in a sling.”

  “No time for slings. I’ve got people dying out there. My shoulder can wait.”

  “Reyt, Admiral,” he said, then tapped on his wrist computer. Mattis could see the text flowing across the screen. Casualty reports.

  The trip over to the American fleet was performed in silence. Mattis’s ship banked toward the Warrior. As he drew closer, Mattis didn’t like what he saw. The whole lower subsection was leaking atmosphere, illuminated from within by burning fires. The stricken frigate tumbled end over end, slowly, surrounded by a twinkling field of debris that looked like a dozen stars.

  The Avenir vessel was destroyed, but at what cost? Mattis glanced guiltily at the nurses’s arm computer. It was still scrolling with casualty reports and casevac requests.

  And there was only one place the kidnapped kids could have been. On the ship they’d just blown up. Spears had done the right thing. Made the same decision he would have made. Made the hard call.

  Somehow, that knowledge made him feel worse. More guilty.

  The shuttle ducked and weaved as it maneuvered around a sea of debris. Small pieces plinked off the hull. Gently, almost reverently, the ship docked with the Warrior, silently sliding into the hangar bay, settling down on the landing strip with barely a whisper, all noise fading away as the ship’s engines powered down.

  Silently, the doors closed. Air filled the hangar bay as the airlock opened. The loading ramp dropped down, and Mattis was greeted by the nose-searing scent of burning electronics and metal, stale air. And screaming.

  “Need a medic over here!”

  “Priority one casevac, coming through!”

  “Make a hole—walking wounded, walking wounded!”

  Mattis dodged out of the way as the Warrior staff—many of them wounded themselves or not even medical staff—started frantically loading the shuttle he’d just departed. An ominous rumble came from within the ship, along with the groan of stressed metal, but it settled quickly.

  The smell of burning metal was quickly joined by the acrid, coppery smell of blood.

  A vague sense of helplessness came over him. He stared at the seemingly endless rows of wounded being loaded into the shuttle. Face after face, stranger after stranger, all wearing the same uniform he did.

  Then passed one that he knew, laying unconscious on a stretcher. Admiral Fischer.

  He wouldn’t have recognized her if it were not for her Admiral’s pips. Her face was covered in blood, half her hair burned away, her uniformed blackened and burned, half-melted and stuck to her body.

  Alive or dead, he didn’t know, but she wouldn’t be commanding anything while she was under.

  With a renewed determination, Mattis made his way through the crowd toward the threshold and into the USS Warrior’s superstructure, intent on heading to its bridge.

  And then he met someone he did not expect.

  Chuck Mattis, his son. He was wearing some kind of overcoat, had a pistol strapped to his hip—was that thing licensed?—and he looked as though he hadn’t had a shower in a week.

  Mattis couldn’t help but stare. “Ch-Chuck? What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Dad,” said Chuck, his eyes tired. He looked like he’d just walked through Hell; dirty, sweaty, clearly unrested. He was wearing strange clothing. And something about him… his posture had shifted. Changed. It was like he strode down the corridor with … purpose. “I have to talk to you.”

  The words didn’t sink in. “What are you talking about? What are you doing here?”

  “It’s Pitt,” said Chuck. “Jeremy Pitt. I know you saved him.” He took a deep breath. “Dad, he’s not who you think he is. We—we think he’s a clone.”

  “A clone? As in, a copy of a person? He sure looks like Jeremy Pitt.”

  Chuck nodded grimly. “Come with me. I’ll show you.”

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Patricia “Guano” Corrick’s J-88

  Vellini, High Orbit

  Vellini System

  Tiberius Sector

  Guano tracked Roadie’s ship as it plummeted, tumbling as it fell, leaving a burning streak across Vellini’s atmosphere.

  “Okay, hold onto your arse, Flatline, because we are going to be heroes today. SAR is going to be mad busy with all these damaged ships, so it’s up to us.”

  Flatline sighed in her ears. “How, Guano? We can’t squeeze two people in here—”

  “Actually we can,” she said. “The J-88 has a pretty big internal cargo space.”

  “A big space that’s full of fuel,” said Flatline. “Not exactly made for passengers.”

  Duh. “We can dump that. Then use the cutting torch in the toolkit to burn them a way in.”

  “The cutting torch?” asked Flatline, a whine creeping into his voice. “Cutting into the fuel tank isn’t safe, even if it’s empty.”

  It’d be fine. “We’ll get flash-fires, but eh. No biggie. Frost and Roadie’s suits are atmospherically tight, so they can just ride. It’ll be fine.”

  “You can’t be seriously thinking of doing this.” That was exactly what she was thinking. “But … okay. Hell, let’s do it.”

  It was all she needed to hear. Guano followed Roadie’s ship on her long range radar, until it broke apart in the lower atmosphere. A brief moment passed where she feared he hadn’t done I, but then she saw it. Two emergency beacons. One for Frost, one for Roadie.

  The rockets in his ejection seat would slow them down, his flight suit would protect them, and their parachute would lower them both safely down to the surface. She checked th
eir life signs remotely. Roadie looked fine; elevated heart rate—fair enough—and otherwise okay.

  She couldn’t get anything from Frost. Could be a glitch.

  “Okay,” said Guano, “prepare for atmospheric reentry.”

  “Wait, maybe we should—”

  “We’re doing this, Flatline,” she said, an edge to her voice that would hopefully shut him up. “You already agreed, so hold on tight.”

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Sickbay

  USS Warrior

  Vellini, High Orbit

  Vellini System

  Tiberius Sector

  Chuck led him farther into the ship. It was strange to be following his son around a military vessel and not the other way around, but soon he found himself in the infirmary; the already cramped quarters were intensely crowded, but as the injured and dying were transferred to other vessels, Mattis found room to breathe.

  And room to talk to Chuck.

  “Why are we in sickbay?” he hissed. “And what the hell are you doing here? This is a war zone. How did you get here?”

  “I came across on the Aerostar.”

  “That was you?” Mattis’s eyes went wide. “We considered firing on that ship. There were transmissions… transmissions that were warning our enemies of our actions. Jesus, Chuck…”

  His eyes flashed. “Look, there’s more going on here than just a space battle against some rogue ex-military folks,” said Chuck.

  Mattis didn’t have the energy to yell at him. And it wouldn’t have solved anything anyway. “You haven’t answered why you’re here yet.”