The Last Hero: Book 2 of The Last War Series

by Peter Bostrom

  Bratta nodded, throat suddenly dry. “That … does sound reasonable. Ah, thank you, Commander Modi.”

  Modi nodded seriously. “You are welcome.”

  “So,” he ventured, “what do all of these do?”

  “This,” said Modi, “is a camera that can be easily fitted to any regular pair of glasses. Hardly an innovation in and of itself. Comes with a miniature ear piece and microphone. It’s reverse-engineered Chinese technology; just speak in a whisper and it should work.”

  Bratta took the mic and carefully touched it to his neck. “What next? How will the heads-up lens, attach to my glasses?”

  Modi reached for a pair of gloves, then picked up the tiny transparent screen. “It is articulated to clip onto the frame itself, so the lenses are not damaged. Some minor modification may be necessary before it adheres to your frames, unfortunately. May I have your glasses?”

  Bratta complied, blinking as his vision suddenly blurred. Modi seemed to be fiddling—it was hard to tell—and when they came back, the right-hand lens was slightly blurry.

  It shouldn’t be a big problem. “So,” said Bratta, “these are communication devices. Um, no offense, but how helpful will they really be? It’s not like there can be anyone else as backup if things go horribly wrong, is there?”

  “You underestimate the tactical value of a command center, Doctor Bratta,” Modi said. “Not only will all visual and verbal feed be instantly transmitted to the Midway, but the ear piece and heads-up ‘lens,’ as you put it, can be used to show maps, enemy positions, and any other relevant information that is best presented in a visual format.” He tapped on a few more keys. “Furthermore, the communicator will cycle through frequencies once you reach the office until I have detected their security personnel frequency, although your microphone will be muted on that channel. I think this will be a helpful feature.”

  There wasn’t much he could say to that, really. “You’re right, Commander Modi.”

  Modi blinked. “Thank you.”

  “Um,” he frowned, “for what?”

  The commander’s expression settled back into blankness. “Usually people are insulting me at this point.”

  Bratta snorted. “Believe me, I’m familiar with the experience.”

  Silence reigned for a moment.

  Modi turned to the far end of the bench. Bratta, feeling about as awkward as he usually did this far into any social encounter, picked up the ear piece and fiddled with it. It looked like it would be comfortable, at least. The design was incredibly size-efficient.

  The engineer reappeared, a dull metal cylinder about the size of Bratta’s two fists in hand. “This is an extremely powerful electromagnet. Place it near any hard drive you wish to wipe in order to destroy its contents.” he said, handing Bratta something that looked like nothing so much as a wristwatch and indicating a switch on the side. “It is remotely activated, which is a safety feature as much as it is tactical. I would not activate this device while wearing metal within a six-meter radius. I would prefer this device returned in working order, if possible.”

  Bratta hefted the cylinder gingerly. “I’ve worked with powerful magnetic equipment—and its safety regulations—before. I’ll keep that in mind when it’s in my pocket. Um. I don’t think I’d be able to forget it if I tried, to be honest.”

  “Good,” said Modi.

  “Do you think I’ll have to use it?” he asked.

  “The destruction of electronic records is certainly not within your mission parameters. However, survival is, and while I am currently unable to contribute to an ideal degree, it is a goal often greatly helped by having many options available. This includes instigating crises and running in the other direction before security can converge upon the crisis position.”

  “That … um, that is a very good point. I like that plan.”

  “I have one further item that will likely be of use to you.” Modi picked up a strange arm-length contraption of lengthy wires, straps, plates, and a rectangular case. “Lockbreaker Mark 1.”

  Bratta’s throat dried up all over. “Mark 1, version…?”

  “Version zero. This is the first step beyond theory.”

  A montage of Bratta’s own version zero prototypes flashed before his eyes. Several things were on fire, and many prominently featured an extremely put-out Jeannie—once literally, with an extinguisher. His heart sped up a little more than a little. “Er, what does it do?”

  “Theoretically,” said Modi, “it sends out electrical pulses to fool electronic locks to open or seal, depending on the setting, although extremely preliminary testing suggests a seven percent outright failure rate, full effects unclear. It should otherwise function like a normal glove with a secondary power and processing unit.”

  Just like he had made! A very wise design decision. Bratta beamed. “How does it work?”

  “Knowing how standard military and industrial electronic locks function is part of my job description, Doctor Bratta. The interface is designed to trick a wide variety of standard designs.”

  It had been years since Bratta had read up on this kind of technology. He resigned himself to having to blindly trust the engineer on this one.

  Jeannie stood on the other side. “You ready, Steve? Everyone is getting antsy.”

  Modi nodded. “You now have a statistically significant higher chance of success, I believe. I will brief Captain Mattis as to the nature of the technology I have given you.”

  Jeannie looked concerned, but didn’t comment. “Steve?”

  “Coming,” he replied. “Thank you, Commander Modi.”

  “You are welcome, Doctor Bratta.” Modi inclined his head, then turned towards his computer.

  The door hissed shut behind Bratta with a disturbing sense of finality.

  “Was that useful?” Jeannie asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “I hope. Uh, well, at least Commander Modi thinks they will help. You’ll have a direct line to a mic and ear piece, at least. And I have a magnet and a lockpick.”

  Her expression drew tighter. “I should be doing this. You are not an expert.”

  Bratta paused. “I … they know us both, Jeannie. But you don’t know where the labs are. I don’t want to, we both know I really don’t, but I can find them. And I get to play with Commander Modi’s prototypes,” he said, abruptly feeling a lot more cheerful. “Do you have any idea how inventive—”

  Jeannie chuckled quietly. “Alright, Steve. Here, have this,” she said, handing him a plastic card. It was the ID card of the man who’d tailed them in Glasgow. “Or should I say, alright, Mr. McIntosh?”

  Bratta pocketed the ID. “I can do this.”

  Her face set into hard lines. “You can. And you’re not about to get hurt on my watch. Even with your twit head.”

  “Excuse me?” his pitch skyrocketed. “I have been bruised and scraped and battered and my ankle still hurts!”

  “Walk it off, sissy,” Jeannie punched him in the shoulder. “I’ll be just outside the facility, so if everything turns pear-shaped, well … not sure what I can do with a facility full of moderately-paid security guards. Just … try not to die. Now come on. Our shuttle is this way.”

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Bridge

  USS Midway

  Orbit above Chrysalis

  Kepler-1011 system

  Mattis watched the shuttle fly toward Chrysalis with something approaching glum despair. Bratta was smart, there was no doubt about that. And the others—once he’d calmed down a bit—had made good points. Bratta was a civilian, and therefore significantly less likely to attract the kind of attention a military presence would. Jeannie didn’t know the tech, and Ramirez was far too noticeable a celebrity to even consider making the attempt.

  It still felt kind of crazy to send in a lone civilian, no matter what equipment Modi could give him. The guy was a geneticist, a scientist. Not a spy. Not an infiltrator. Yet he was, paradoxically, the only one aboard a ship of military personnel who cou
ld even potentially pull this mission off.

  This day kept getting better and better.

  “Sir,” said Lynch, tapping keys on his console. “We’re detecting an incoming transmission. Wide beam.”

  A wide beam transmission meant that anyone could pick it up, but such things were inevitably encrypted. “Any idea who it’s addressed to? Or where it came from?”

  “Not sure,” said Lynch, “on both counts. Wide beams are good for that….” He consulted his instruments, his voice suddenly painted with surprise and adrenaline. “Sir, I think we have our answer. The Luyang III is launching strike craft.”

  No. No, it couldn’t be possible. Yim wouldn’t—after all they had been through recently; they weren’t friends before, certainly, and there was some lingering anger there too, but—Yim, seemingly, had proven that he was simply a soldier doing his job. The war was over. Maybe the fighters were just performing a combat sweep. Or maybe there was some kind of danger the Midway wasn’t aware of.

  Yet, as Mattis watched the Luyang III’s fighters roar across space directly toward the Midway, he knew the true reason.

  Betrayal.

  The words he needed to say next were launch strike craft but he just simply couldn’t bring himself to do it. “Mister Lynch,” said Mattis, slowly, “what’s the status on the hangar bay? It was damaged, wasn’t it?”

  “Aye sir,” said Lynch, perhaps sensing where Mattis was trying to go with his line of questioning. “It was. But the pilots fixed it. There’s some minor debris remaining but it should be okay to launch ships.”

  No excuses.

  Lynch grimaced. “It’s not your fault, sir. You couldn’t have anticipated this….”

  He knew that. Yet still it hit him hard, right in the chest.

  “Open a channel” said Mattis, his heart heavy in his chest. “Broadcast it on all frequencies, and to all craft. Put it out on radio, Z-space, hell even via signal light in Morse. Message reads: ten kilometer exclusion zone established around the Midway. Any ship crossing this line will be destroyed.”

  Lynch tapped on keys, writing down his message. “Transmitting.”

  Mattis took a deep breath. “Launch strike fighters. Order them to engage and destroy any aircraft that cross the ten kilometer line.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” said Lynch, eyes fixed on his monitors. “Scrambling strike craft—” he turned and looked at Mattis, the corners of his mouth turned down. “The Chinese strike craft are accelerating to attack.”

  His mouth became a thin line as he watched his monitors, and the two clouds of fighters drawing closer and closer.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  MaxGainz Home Office Staff Entrance

  Chrysalis

  Kepler-1011 System

  Bratta stared at the MaxGainz staff entrance and wiped his palms against his jacket—only for the mostly-translucent panels of Modi’s Lockbreaker to catch on the fabric. He winced and tucked his hands behind his back. Yes, Jeannie wasn’t that far away. Just around the corner, really. But still … he felt awfully alone. He couldn’t believe he was doing this.

  He could not believe he was doing this.

  He couldn’t believe he was doing this.

  And yet, here he was. He stared at Callum McIntosh’s ID. It stared back. In a twist of fate that might have been amusing under different circumstances, it looked about as much like him as his own ID did, although the security guard had been a lot bigger than him. He scrunched his face up experimentally, trying to mimic the expression in the picture.

  He was stalling.

  Bratta squared his shoulders, and strode across the street.

  The staff entrance was unobtrusive, a plain door set in the side of the building overlooked by at least one security camera. He held the stolen ID up to a reader on the wall. It buzzed, and the door clicked open.

  That had been easy, hadn’t even needed to use the Lockbreaker. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, after all. Almost like a regular day at work.

  “Steve, there’s a guard.” Jeannie’s voice hissed through his earpiece.

  He jumped and looked around. Sure enough, a security guard was stationed at the end of the entry corridor.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Martha Ramirez’ voice came through, calm and steady. “Walk up to him and say you left some work in an office yesterday, and you’re coming in to pick it up. Walk up to him now.”

  He did as she said, ambling cautiously over.

  Jeannie spoke up again. “If he says you were acting suspiciously, laugh and agree with him. Mention hearing something, probably the wind. Keep talking. Your story isn’t that interesting and it’s probably near the end of his shift. Flash your ID and he should let you past.”

  Up ahead, the guard crossed his arms.

  “Alright, sir, what’s your business here?”

  Bratta’s palms went from damp to drenched. “O-oh, I’m just here to pick up some work I left in the office yesterday.”

  The guard raised an eyebrow. “At this hour?”

  Bratta did his best to set his face into an assertive expression. “Yes, I haven’t been able to come in earlier than this. Is that going to be a problem?”

  That had felt so brave!

  “It shouldn’t be, sir. You seem awfully nervous.”

  “Steve, you’ve got to calm down.” Martha whispered.

  Bratta’s eyes widened in shock. For a brief moment, he didn’t say anything.

  “Steve,” said Martha, “repeat exactly what I tell you: Oh, right, I guess I do look nervous, ha ha ha.”

  “Ah, of course, I must look a little nervous, don’t I? Ha ha,” he repeated almost as she spoke.

  She continued whispering through the speaker. “It’s the wind—I’m just imagining things, I’m easily distracted, keep going.”

  “Sorry, it’s just the wind, I thought I heard something—very distracting, you know how it is.”

  “I can’t say I do,” the guard replied.

  “Oh, I’m making such a hash of this,” Bratta tried. “I’m sorry,” he forced a smile, “it’s been a long day, my wife just isn’t listening to reason and the cleaning robot’s broken and—”

  The guard sighed. “Alright, sir, may I see your ID?”

  Bratta scrabbled through his pockets. The card actually turned up on the first try. The guard glanced at it.

  “Doesn’t look much like you.”

  “It’s the flash,” Bratta grimaced, familiar at least with this conversation.

  The guard squinted, shrugged, and held the ID under a scanner. It beeped, and he handed the card back to Bratta.

  “On your way then, sir. And see the main office about getting that ID re-shot soon.”

  Bratta stammered out a stream of promises and fled.

  “You probably didn’t need to coach him that far, Martha,” Jeannie said. “That was a fairly normal conversation for Steve.”

  “Hey!” he muttered. Laughter crackled in his ear. He shook his head and looked around.

  “Detecting security frequency now,” Modi’s voice came through. “I will monitor chatter for now. If it becomes relevant to you, Mr. Bratta, I will patch you in.”

  Bratta nodded. “OK.”

  There was a plaque that looked like it might have been a sign on the far wall. He wandered over, and yes, reception was that way, offices were there … Well, if the layout of this place was anything like the Zenith facility, the laboratories would be behind the offices, near the back, where they could be properly ventilated and fitted with emergency exits. The more expensive equipment, however, would be at the center of the complex, where it could be more thoroughly secured. Which wasn’t exactly ideal for him, but that was probably the idea.

  “I’m going to start looking for the labs now,” he whispered, and set off deeper into the building.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  MaxGainz Home Office

  Chrysalis

  Kepler-1011 System

  Bratta tried to look normal and purpo
seful, but it was hard when he was moderately lost and there were three voices in his head. At least the building had been quiet, so far. Like the grave. He hadn’t seen a single other living soul.

  “Steve, what are you doing?” Jeannie demanded, helpful as ever.

  “Trying to find the labs?” he whispered.

  Chatter streamed back at him. He did his best to filter it out, eventually settling on humming softly as he tried to study the latest sign without looking like he was studying it. He’d already been told in no uncertain terms by both Martha and Jeannie not to do that—according to them, there was nothing worse than appearing lost. Bratta was fairly certain he could name any number of diseases, injuries, and genetic defects that would produce a more discomfiting effect than their proposed worst-case-scenario, but he’d decided hadn’t been worth the time or effort to list them all.

  “Are you alright, Doctor Bratta?” Modi’s voice broke into his reverie.

  “Yes, yes, just trying to think!” he responded, a little more forcefully than intended.

  “Judging from your current position within the building and the information provided in the previous signage—”

  “I turn left!” Bratta interrupted, before feeling abruptly guilty. Modi hadn’t been the one causing problems.

  “Well done.”

  Not really knowing how to respond to that and about as interested in being seen muttering constantly to himself, he started down the new corridor in reply. It was essentially identical to the previous ones, although the increased spacing between doors at least suggested that he might be getting to larger and more important offices. Although … there were at least three floors above ground, and who knew how many might be below? Bratta felt a clammy sweat break out at the mere thought of how long it might take to explore the whole building.

  New junction. He’d been walking for ten minutes or so, and heading generally back and inward, so … straight on. Hopefully.