The Last Champion: Book 4 of The Last War Series

by Nick Webb

  “I can’t discuss the ship’s movements with a civilian,” said Pitt, although his tone was gentle. “Not even the Admiral’s son. Sorry.”

  “Got it.”

  Pitt led him toward a small room off the corridor leading away from the shuttle bay. It was small and cramped, with just a small table and four chairs inside. Chuck stepped in first. Pitt’s escort followed behind the pair of them. Pitt held up a hand. “May we speak in private?” The Marine hesitated, but then nodded, not seeing the harm in standing guard outside the tiny room.

  “So,” said Pitt, gesturing for him to sit with one hand once the door was closed, his other tucked formally behind his back. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  Although he wanted nothing more than to not think about it, talking was good. Chuck relayed to Pitt, briefly but accurately, what had happened in the Warrior’s infirmary after Pitt had left in a hurry.

  “I see,” said Pitt, nodding understandingly, both hands cupped behind his back. There was some edge, some twist in his voice that Chuck couldn’t really read, but he ignored it. “You must be very concerned.”

  “I am,” said Chuck, closing his eyes for a moment. “He’s just a baby. I just brought him aboard for a test, that’s all. That’s all. I didn’t want this to happen.”

  “I meant,” said Pitt, a slow smile creeping across his features, “you must be concerned for yourself.”

  That confused him. Chuck raised an eyebrow. “What?”

  The door to the conference room opened. Captain Flint stepped through. “Commander Pitt, what the hell did you ask me down here for? Don’t you know we’re heading into a potential war zone? Get the hell back up to the bridge,” he thumbed behind him toward the door.

  “Well,” said Pitt, moving his hands from behind his back, revealing a pistol. A chromed 9mm pistol with selective fire. Chuck’s pistol. He didn’t even glance at Flint, whose eyes had gone wide at the sight of the gun in Pitt’s hands. “Aren’t you concerned that they will blame you for the child’s disappearance? And for this?”

  Chuck could only stammer, his hand instinctively reaching for his hip. But, of course, the pistol was in Pitt’s hand.

  Pitt leveled it at Flint’s face. “Are you ready to die, Captain?”

  Flint glared at him, saying nothing.

  Chuck pushed back his chair, standing up. “Wait,” he said, “what the hell—”

  The pistol roared. Flint’s head exploded into gory chunks. His lifeless body slumped against the door, sliding slowly, almost deliberately, down to the deck. Pitt emptied the magazine into him, blasting the lifeless body a dozen times.

  Chuck stared. In his periphery, he thought he heard someone banging on the door and shouting. The Marine escort, most likely. But he couldn’t take his eyes off the blood. The brains. The body.

  Pitt turned to him, slowly and deliberately, gun smoke trailing from his weapon, rising like a tiny ghost.

  Chuck mutely shook his head, unable to process what he was seeing. What was happening, why was all of this happening…

  The pistol’s butt clubbed his temple, sending him sprawling. The weapon clattered down beside him, and as he blacked out, he could hear Pitt talking into his radio.

  “Security Alert Team to conference room two, Chuck Mattis has murdered Captain Flint.”

  And then he passed out.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Bridge

  USS Warrior

  Z-Space

  The Warrior groaned as it slipped into Z-Space, bathing the whole of the bridge in multicolored hues. For a moment, Mattis thought he’d pushed the ship too far—it was damaged, after all—but the noise faded after it transitioned. As his newly acquired ship sailed on, he began to relax his grip on the command chair’s armrests.

  This was the right decision.

  The shift changed and he let anyone who still had replacements available swap out. Calaway, to his credit, had someone available, but stayed anyway.

  He would need people like him in the future.

  “Sir,” said Calaway, his voice breaking the tense silence on the bridge. “Fleet Command on Earth is signaling us.” His fresh face grimaced. “Something about … stealing a ship. And returning it immediately.”

  “Ignore them on my authority.” He felt a vague stab of guilt. So many officers following his commands were sinking their careers. He was, after all, chasing after his stolen grandson. There was no other reason, not really. And commandeering a starship for a purely personal reason was naturally frowned upon. “Establish an uplink with Fleet Command. Transmit them copies of the ship’s log. I want them to know that I’m issuing the orders and that I’m responsible for all that has happened. If there’s punishment in the future for this, it should be reserved for me and me alone.”

  A ripple of relief ran through the bridge. If anyone had lodged their complaints, they had done so electronically. He had no doubts most of them would want to preserve their hard-earned appointments after all of this was done. But, to their credit, nobody had said anything openly.

  And he hoped that, more than preserve their careers, they’d want to preserve humanity.

  The Warrior was beaten, bloody, and wounded, but she was ready to go for round two.

  On the Z-Space monitor, the Stennis, using her powerful upgraded engines—Chinese systems that Spectre had used to open portals to the future—began to pull away from the Warrior. It felt odd to no longer be at the tip of the spear, but Mattis accepted it. Given the circumstances, this was the best he could ask for.

  The Stennis caught up to their target, the two dots merging on his screen. Then both translated from Z-Space. They were back at Erebus, the gas giant where they had first detected the original Avenir ship. Mattis could only imagine the battle taking place there. Flashes of cannon fire in the dark of space, missiles and strike fighters, and the occasional torpedo.

  A signal flashed on his command console. “Sir,” said Calaway, “we’re receiving an audiovisual signal from the USS Stennis.”

  “Put it through,” he said. The main monitor flickered, and an image of Commander Pitt came through. Mattis adjusted himself in his seat. “Jeremy. How’s the engagement going?”

  Pitt didn’t smile back. His expression was grave. “Admiral Jack Mattis,” said Pitt, his tone somber. “Captain Flint is dead. Your son, Chuck Mattis, murdered him.”

  Whatever he thought Pitt was going to tell him, that was not it. Mattis just stared at the screen in dull bewilderment. “What did you say?”

  “He had a pistol. Somehow you neglected to tell us that fact when requesting he come aboard.” His tone turned dark. “What the bloody hell were you thinking?”

  It was true. Chuck did have a gun. But he knew how to use it, and it hadn’t been a problem. Chuck didn’t even know Flint. Why would he shoot him?

  It made no sense. It made no sense at all. And, for just a moment, Mattis almost missed the strange turn of phrase Pitt had used. Bloody hell…

  His communicator chirped. He ignored it, but the device kept buzzing incessantly. Hoping it was Chuck, he waved for his communications officer to mute the microphone, anxiously picking up his personal device.

  “Admiral,” said Modi on the other end, “listen to me very carefully, and answer my question with a brief yes or no. Is Commander Pitt with you?”

  Still stunned, Mattis struggled to get words out. He glanced at Pitt’s audiovisual. The kid was watching his every move.“N-no. He isn’t.”

  “Very good,” said Modi. “Admiral, we are in great danger. Pitt is a clone, but he is much more than that—he is a clone grown without a brain. That is not his mind in there. It’s not Pitt. Someone else is inhabiting his body. Some other brain was put inside.”

  “Admiral Mattis,” asked Pitt through the line, “respond please.”

  He closed the link with Modi and unmuted his connection to Pitt. “What do you want me to do, Jeremy?” he asked, carefully.

  “Power down your engines. Y
ou don’t need to join this fight. We’ll handle it from here.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” said Mattis, politely. “My son’s child is there. I’m coming to get him.”

  “Have you forgotten your duty?” Pitt—or the creature pretending to be Pitt—scowled at him over the video. “The ship we are pursuing has submitted to boarding. We’ll have the captured child returned. Spears and her ship should return to the rest of the fleet and continue aiding the injured.” There was something too practiced, too perfect, too neat in his voice that betrayed the lie. This thing was not on his side.

  “I think,” said Mattis carefully, “you’re stalling me.”

  For a second nothing happened.

  Then Pitt slowly smiled. “Have it your way, then,” he said. “Maybe I am.”

  Bastard. Bastard… Mattis had trusted him. Trusted this person. This clone. This thing.

  “Who are you?” demanded Mattis. “How is it you have Pitt’s memories? His personality? His mind?”

  “You make it seem like there is no distinction between what that man thinks and believes and what I think and believe.” A distinctly English accent crept into the man’s voice. “But the truth is, we are not the same, for this mind is Legion.”

  Mattis was speechless.

  “Do you know what a fly-by-wire flight system is?” asked Pitt. Mattis did not and his expression obviously conveyed this. “It is a system found in all modern air and spacecraft. Early aircraft manipulated their flight surfaces through wires and cables and, later, hydraulics. Physical movement. Later, systems migrated to using computers; the pilot was not really flying the plane, not directly. He was merely passing instructions to a computer who manipulated the control surfaces. The pilot told the plane to go left, and it did, but only because the computer agreed.

  “So it is with my slaves. One part of the consciousness speaks and the other obeys—a process which takes place subconsciously. The slave does not realize he is not the master, and in the absence of commands, does what it would naturally do. Like a car with the driver’s hands taken off the wheel.”

  Mattis scowled. “Still fond of vehicle metaphors, aren’t you?”

  Pitt smiled darkly. “Been in the mind of a pilot too much,” he confessed, the smile spreading slowly across his face. “But by now I assume you know who I am.”

  He did. But he didn’t—couldn’t—say it. He’d seen that man die. Seen him explode. Had sacrificed the Midway to do it. His ship. His crew. Jeremy Pitt.

  “Goodbye, Admiral,” said Pitt. Spectre. Then the connection went black.

  “Sir,” said Calaway, “we’re coming up on the Stennis and the skunk.”

  White hot anger coursed through him, threatening to burst free like a ruptured gas canister. But he pressed his fingernails into his palm so deeply, so roughly, that the pain forced him to keep his composure.

  Spectre, or his duplicate, or whoever he was, would pay for this. That was enough for now. Everything else was noise. “Signal the Caernarvon,” he said. “The Stennis is now a hostile entity. Inform Captain Spears that we’re going in hot, and we’re going in hard.”

  Calaway hesitated only slightly, then nodded. “Yes sir,” he said, and went about his duty.

  Mattis stared at the rapidly approaching dot that was the USS Stennis, its hull docked with the Avenir vessel, the ship that had his grandson aboard.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Bridge

  USS Warrior

  Gas Giant Erebus

  Vellini System

  Tiberius Sector

  The Warrior translated out of Z-Space, the Caernarvon right behind it. The Aerostar flashed into existence well behind them, close enough to engage and support, but far enough to be safe.

  General Quarters was called, the weapons were charged, and the targeting radars began painting both the Stennis and the Avenir ship, locking them up for gun runs. It was the first time Mattis had seen the new ship up close; sleek and black and long, like a cigar bristling with knobs that were obviously weapons.

  The ships were locked up, the guns were loaded, and Mattis had no idea what to do.

  He couldn’t fire on them. Baby Jack was over there.

  “Calaway?” he asked, leaning forward in his chair. “Can we dispatch a boarding pod with Rhinos aboard?”

  Calaway stared at him. “You trust those clumsy idiots with your grandson?”

  The memory of Sampson violently shaking her rocket launcher made him reconsider.

  “What about… the uplink to Fleet Command. The Stennis is still patched in, right? Any chance we can make an electronic attack? Get into their computers somehow?”

  “Won’t be possible, sir. The moment they detect that, they’ll lock us out.”

  Mattis glared at his screen, watching the two ships. Spectre-Pitt wanted to delay him, to keep him from being here. There must be something he wanted. Something Mattis had a chance to use against him.

  But what?

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Bridge

  USS Stennis

  Gas Giant Erebus

  Vellini System

  Tiberius Sector

  Pitt-Spectre—or JP-98 as he preferred to be called—watched Mattis’s newly acquired ship translate from Z-Space with an expression that was half bemused smile, half annoyed frown.

  This wasn’t the plan.

  But this time he’d finally dispatch Mattis.

  The banging on the bridge door grew louder, followed by the snap-hiss of industrial cutting torches. The crew of the Stennis were going to cut through the casemate. They’d gotten wind that he’d killed the bridge crew—they’d hesitated when he’d ordered them to dock with the Avenir ship, and he couldn’t bear disobedience.

  Fortunately, the cutting torches would take them far too long. By the time they were through the armored hull it would be too late.

  Still. The noise was irritating. Maybe it was time to get rid of the entire crew. He’d dispatched of the bridge crew easily enough. Their limp, broken bodies lay scattered around the room like discarded toddler’s toys—this body, infused with the adjusted DNA, was a physical wonder. But he couldn’t fight all of the ship’s crew on his own.

  Fortunately, he wouldn’t have to.

  He turned his attention back to the task at hand. Mattis’s ship. “What do you think?” he asked the pilot, the one who had brought him Jack. She called herself Guano. Why someone would use a term for literal shit as a form of self-identification eluded him, but his name was also a letter and a number, so who was he to judge? At least in his defense, the ‘JP’ actually stood for a real name. “What do you think they’re planning?”

  “I don’t know.” Guano held the squirming child with a level of skill that surprised him. The chemicals coursing through her brain hadn’t obviously dulled her flying skills, even if they had affected other parts of her. Her perceptions. Her impulses. “Admiral Mattis won’t fire while this child’s aboard. And he probably won’t risk a boarding party.”

  “Very well.” JP-98 ran his hands through his hair. Hair… sharing one of these bodies was wonderful at times—he’d missed having hair. It reminded him of his youth, long ago. “We should get rid of the rest of the Stennis crew. You planted the device you found in your pocket into the coolant relay in the walls of your quarters, yes?”

  The dull creature, Guano, stared at him blankly for a moment. He could almost see the rusted cogs groaning as they moved in her head, her genuine thoughts wrestling with her programmed, implanted urges. “Yes,” she said, finally. “It’s … a bomb? To destroy the ship?”

  Fortunately, he hadn’t told her what it is. “Quite the opposite, my dear. A bomb would be detected by the Stennis’s sensors. No, no. This is much more subtle.” He touched a button on his wrist computer, sending out a signal to the tiny thing that would interfere with the electronics in the coolant system.

  Immediately, klaxons and warning sirens wailed.

  “Caution, coolant flow to reac
tor has dropped to zero,” said a pre-recorded voice. “Reactor core temperature climbing. 1,100 degrees Celsius. Meltdown in twenty four minutes.”

  It would take some time to reach 2,900 or so degrees and a meltdown to happen. They would either try to restore cooling, or, more likely, evacuate. Either one was fine. He didn’t need the Stennis for that long anyway. All he needed was its engines. The special engines which would allow him to bring through as many reinforcements as he needed: manpower, ships, technology. Anything.

  And he could finally get these little wailing specimens to his labs in the future where he could harvest them. And he could finally complete his plan. Operation Ad Infinitum.

  The power build up began in earnest, the overloaded reactor pouring its energy where he needed it to go, slowly burning itself out as it did.

  He tapped in a command to connect him to the Avenir ship, where his Jovian Logistics employees—impersonating those sad veterans, the Forgotten—were waiting to board, bringing the specimens with them. And soon they would all be safely away from this place.

  And time.

  The connection opened to his counterpart on the other ship. “Fifty-six? We’re ready for you, old chap. You boys head on over.”

  “Understood, old chap,” came the reply, in a voice that matched his own.

  The clanging, cutting, and general infernal racket ceased.

  Guano examined her console. “It looks like they’re evacuating. Some in escape pods, some in shuttles.”

  “Excellent,” he said, steepling his fingers and staring at Mattis’s ship. “Pilot, go take that child to sickbay with the others. Get back here sharpish. Just in case I need you.”

  “Yes sir,” said Guano, attempting to cradle the fussing infant as she turned to the bridge exit.

  JP-98 watched the screen with cold impassion. They would be coming for him soon. Mattis kept interfering, kept snatching victories despite powerful odds against him. But with the portal open, there would be no further mishaps. No more. No more chances for Jack Mattis. Soon…