Oblivion: The Complete Series (Books 1-9)

by Joshua James

  “That? Oh, that was just me saving your damn life. No thanks necessary, though.”

  “You killed them!”

  “You don’t know that. And even if I did…” Ace pushed Ben off of him. “Why do you care?”

  “Because they’re just cops doing their job. They’re innocent.” Ben remembered the image of the cop he’d killed inside the apartment block.

  “I’m a cop, or I used to be,” Ace said. “They weren’t that innocent.”

  “Just because you were dirty doesn’t mean the rest of us were,” Morgan said.

  “Not dirty,” Ace said. “Opportunistic.”

  “Sounds like it rhymes with dirty,” Ben said.

  “You telling me that you didn’t kill any innocents in the war, soldier boy? You telling me your hands are clean?”

  Ben didn’t answer. He just solemnly walked over to his beaten-up captain’s chair and plopped down.

  “Yeah, I didn’t think so.” Ace took his position in the cockpit. “Besides, what does it matter? We’re never coming back here again.”

  Ben glanced out the forward cockpit. He could just see the curve of the planet growing more prominent as they rose.

  He had a feeling he wasn’t going to see Earth again for a long time.

  Thirty-Three

  Lee

  Coming out of a fold jump was never easy. Even under the best circumstances, it was jarring. When you did so on a disabled wreck of a ship, it was so much worse.

  No one on board the UEF Atlas came out of their last desperate gambit comfortably. Some of the crew were lucky enough to have seats for the highly dangerous form of travel. Most were left to just hold on to something. Unsurprisingly, that led to mixed results.

  Saito half expected the Atlas to be torn to pieces during the fold jump. So when they arrived at whatever their destination was, mostly in one piece, it was the first bit of good news he’d had since the ambush.

  Ada got up off the floor of the bridge. Despite being able to keep her cool all through the horror of the last few hours, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from throwing up. Saito knew the feeling. That jump had left his guts feeling riled up, too. At least two others on the deck were involuntarily emptying the contents of their stomachs.

  “Status?” inquired Saito as he removed his mag bracelets.

  “Sir…yes sir. Standby, running diagnostics.” Chevenko shook her head, and Saito could see she was trying to shake out the cobwebs and the horrible sensation that there was liquid sloshing around in her skull. She stiffened, and Saito could only imagine things got worse when she saw just how much damage the fold jump had done.

  “Major?” Saito looked out at his crew on the deck. Most of them were okay. Some were injured. Those who were the least negatively affected by the trauma of a fold jump had tried to corral in the dead from earlier to stop them from sliding around the bridge.

  “Sir…we, uh…I’ll just show you. Transfer diagnostics to Saito.” Chevenko clearly didn’t know how to describe to her captain what had happened to his ship.

  Saito had mixed feelings when he saw the damage to the Atlas. A large chunk of the ship was gone: the back two thirds. While that meant that most—if not, hopefully, all—of the enemies who’d boarded them were lost somewhere in time and space, it also meant that they were truly dead in the water. There was no steering, no chance of restoring the engines; they had no control over their own fate. They were at the mercy of space and hopefully, if everything had worked out the way it was supposed to, they were near a space station.

  Proximity alarms suddenly rang out on the deck in the form of a flashing yellow light. An automated voice rang out over the public announcement system.

  “Warning, collision alert, four hundred and thirteen miles. Warning, collision alert, four hundred and three miles. Warning…”

  “Bring up the bridge screen,” ordered Saito.

  “Bridge screen isn’t functional, sir,” replied Chevenko.

  “Then retract it and open the bridge window.”

  “Retracting screens.” Chevenko pressed a couple of buttons, and the huge bridge screen slid away. It wasn’t the only part of the bridge that did; metal shutters were also pulled back, revealing a thick window about a third of the size.

  Saito got up out of his chair and walked over to the window. Space outside was spinning, as was the Atlas, so he only caught glimpses of what they were going to collide with.

  It was a space station. They’d hit their mark. But if they weren’t careful, they were going to run into their mark and probably destroy not only their ship, but a station full of people.

  “Can we raise that station?” Saito was addressing anyone on the bridge who could reach out.

  “We tried, sir,” said one of the comms crew that Saito didn’t know.

  “And?”

  “We weren’t able to talk to them, but we did send out our mayday signal.”

  “So they know we’re here?”

  “They should.”

  “That doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence,” Saito said. They’d survived the ambush and fold jump, but there was no way they’d survive a head-on collision with a space station.

  “Sir?”

  “I need everyone on this bridge to retreat to the escape shuttles below us. Don’t disembark until you receive my order, but board and prepare to take off,” he said. He walked up to Chevenko. “Relay that order to the rest of the ship, and then join them.”

  “How about you, sir?” Chevenko asked.

  “I’ll be right here in case they try to communicate and get through to us. Go. And Major, thank you. You saved a lot of lives today, including my own.”

  “Sir,” nodded Chevenko before she tapped into the PA system.

  Saito calmly walked back over to the window and stared out. He didn’t see the stars or the black abyss of space. He saw his wife Beverly.

  Beverly was in her sundress, barefoot, dancing in the grass. It was the last week of Naval Officer school, and Saito was stressed out about the final exams and command observations. In an attempt to get his mind off the pressures of graduation, she’d insisted they go out to the country in Virginia and spend the afternoon, have a picnic.

  Saito, then just Lee, had his officer handbooks with him as he sat under the shade of a goliath willow tree. He couldn’t hear the chirping birds or buzzing insects. He didn’t feel the cool breeze coming off the Chesapeake. Nor could he hear his then-girlfriend’s pleas to put the handbooks down and dance with her.

  Beverly took the handbook out of Lee’s hands. She haphazardly threw it away and threaded her fingers into his. Her smile was brighter than the sun that shined down on them that beautiful cloudless day.

  “C’mon, Lee. Don’t be such a grump. Dance with me,” urged Beverly, her brilliant green eyes locked with his.

  “There’s no music, babe. What are we supposed to dance to?”

  “No music? Listen,” said Beverly. She stood still, held one cupped hand to her ear. “You don’t hear that?”

  Without his attention buried in his officer’s handbook, Lee heard everything. He heard the bugs and birds. He heard the sound of the wind cutting through the grass and leaves. He heard the music of nature.

  “You do, don’t you?” Beverly was so radiant and happy. Lee was so happy and in love.

  All that happiness disappeared in a blink of an eye. It was replaced with the image of their ruined apartment in Annapolis, pieces of concrete hanging on by strands of steel rebar. As he entered the apartment looking for his wife, his Beverly, Saito saw her arm sticking out from under a pile of rubble.

  The whole bridge shook and then came to an abrupt stop, sending Saito sliding across the floor. When he got up and went back to the window to see what was going on, he saw small rocket-propelled trapezoid-shaped objects flying towards the Atlas. There must’ve been almost a hundred of them.

  “C’mon, boys,” he muttered under his breath. “Come and get us.”

  Saito kn
ew exactly what was going on. It was standard emergency docking protocol while out in the frontier of space. Legitimate enterprises rarely had to use the little rocket-propelled stabilizers to attach to and direct a rudderless ship. Typically it was the tool of pirates, but in this case, it was a tool of saviors.

  Thirty-Four

  Wash

  “Let’s see what we got here,” said Washburn as he stood in the docking bay of Sanc-33 with one hand on his hip, the other holding a fresh cup of coffee.

  Behind Washburn were Wei, four armed members of the station crew, and six police mechs. They were all ready for whatever was going to come out of the large ship that slowly made its way through the plasma screens separating the inside of the docking bay from cold space. The emergency plasma rockets were taking their time.

  “Jesus, looks like they’ve been through hell,” said Wei as he and the others looked at the damage the Atlas had endured.

  “Get Royce and the other engineers down here. We may need to pry this big hunk of junk open like a sardine can,” ordered Washburn.

  “On it.” Wei stepped away for a second and called George Royce, the head of station engineering, through his HUD.

  The whole of Sanc-33 shook when the remains of the Atlas landed on the docking bay floor. A loud metallic scraping sound accompanied the closing of the shutters over the plasma in the docking bay.

  “Well, here goes nothing. Let’s hope they’re friendly and grateful,” said Washburn as he calmly walked towards the Atlas. Docking bay workers sprayed the Atlas down with hot, steaming foam to try and counteract that extreme cold of space, and therefore the ship’s outer hull. This way, they could actually touch it without almost instant frostbite.

  Washburn knocked on the wet metal hull of the Atlas. He then put his head against it, listening for any knocking back. There was nothing, so he moved on to another section and did the same thing. Still nothing.

  “Sir! Mr. Mayor! The window!” One of the docking bay workers pointed at the bridge window on the Atlas.

  A motorized staircase on wheels was brought up to the window, Washburn on the top of it. Still sipping his coffee, he looked through it and saw Saito standing there, waving at him. Washburn waved back.

  “Who is it, sir?”

  “Some guy,” answered Washburn. He looked at the uniform. “Military. Probably an officer or something.” Washburn’s dad had done a rotation. Said it was good for the résumé. Wash hadn’t, but like so many other things in his life, things had just worked out for him. He knew enough to know all the bars on the guy’s arm meant something, but Wash couldn’t be bothered to know what. “There’s survivors inside, let’s get this open and get them out.”

  “But what if they’re hostile?” asked Wei.

  “We’re a sanctuary station, Sheriff,” Washburn said, annoyance creeping into his voice along with a scratch in the back of his throat. He coughed, mildly at first, but it gathered steam quickly. He was soon hanging off the arm of the staircase. “Hostile or not,” he said as he caught his breath, “we have to provide them shelter, food, and any care we can give. Get this tin can open, send whoever’s in charge to my office.” He half-walked, half-staggered down the steps. “I gotta go take my meds.”

  What’s taking so long? They should’ve had them out of there an hour ago. Washburn impatiently waited in his office for whoever was in charge of the Atlas. He practiced different positions that would make him look powerful or in charge. He wanted to make a good impression on his new guests, but he never knew how to sit, or what to do with his hands. These sorts of things occupied way too much of his time and energy.

  “Saito from the Atlas is here to see you, Mr. Mayor,” Washburn’s secretary, Melissa, informed him through his HUD.

  “Send him in,” said Washburn.

  A beaten-up-looking man entered Washburn’s office. There were so many bandages and Band-Aids that it looked like they were all that kept the aging military man together. Still, the mayor of Sanc-33 was intimidated. Perhaps it was because he was looking at a man with real power; not like himself, who ruled over a fiefdom of small shops and apartments.

  Washburn stood up and held out his hand. “Welcome to Sanctuary Station 33. I’m Mayor Jaime Washburn. And you are?”

  The man shook his hand. His grip was brief and strong. “Saito. Captain Lee Saito, of the UEF Atlas.”

  “Of course, Captain,” he said. “I’m the mayor of this humble hunk of junk here. And as a sanctuary station, we of course will provide you and your crew with anything you may need. We have provisions, such as food and water. You can stay in our guest bunks down on level three. I would offer to repair your ship, but…we can figure out another mode of transportation for you, if you so wish. And any medical care your crew may need would be our pleasure.”

  “How safe is your station, Mayor Washburn?” asked Saito as he sat down in the seat across from Washburn’s desk.

  “I assure you, your crew will be safe here. No matter what happens outside of these walls between the UEF and AIC, sanctuary stations are agreed neutral zones that no—”

  “No, that’s not what I’m asking. How secure is this station? Can it withstand an attack?” Saito’s eyes looked cold, emotionless, defeated.

  Washburn tried to keep the surprise off his face, but he didn’t like this turn one bit. “We’ve repelled the occasional pirate raid, but we’re not a military station. Why do you ask?”

  “My crew…it’s important that you don’t let them out of the docking bay yet.”

  “What?” Washburn asked in surprise. “You don’t want me to let your crew go get food, a shower, maybe some sleep?”

  “It’s hard to explain, Mr. Mayor, but—”

  “Call me Wash,” Washburn said. Saito raised an eyebrow. Washburn didn’t know why he said it. Everyone on the station called him Mayor. He liked it. What had possessed him now? Was he so intent on showing that this man didn’t intimidate him that he allowed him to do something he was very much not fine with?

  “Okay, Wash,” Saito said. “I’m not sure they can all be trusted. We need to vet them first, make sure they aren’t…” Saito stared straight through Washburn as if he wasn’t even there.

  “Aren’t what? I’m sorry, Captain. I want to help fulfill your requests here, but what do you think your crew is? Are they spies? Thieves? Bad tippers? Why don’t you trust them?”

  “The Oblivion cult,” Saito said. “I’m sure you’ve heard of them.”

  Washburn was stunned at that mention. How could this man know about the incident earlier? “Of course I have.” He hesitated. “We have a population of them here.”

  Saito’s expression changed to one of anger. “Wait… you have cult members on board this station?”

  “Of course. Like I said, we’re a sanctuary station. That doesn’t just apply to soldiers on different sides of a war, but we’re a haven for people of all religions.”

  Saito shot up out of his chair. With both palms flat on Washburn’s desk, he leaned in close. “Listen to me, Wash, and listen good. You need to throw them in a cell with a signal blocker. Or even better yet, throw them out an airlock, because they’re calling trouble onto your head, probably right now. That kind of trouble is something you really don’t want.”

  This guy is cracked, Washburn thought. I don’t care what his rank is.

  “Mmhmm, is that so?” Washburn took a sip of his coffee. “Last time I checked, you were the captain of your ship, not this station. So I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try to tell me what I need to do.”

  “You damn well need to—” Saito almost lost his cool, but he caught himself. “Sorry, Mayor, I didn’t mean to…” He took his hands off of Washburn’s desk. “Just please, watch your radar. Because they’re coming. I know it. I know in my gut that this isn’t over. And when they get here, you need to be prepared.” He paused. “We need to be prepared.”

  “For what?”

  “Death. Death is coming, and it doesn’t give a shit abo
ut sanctuaries.”

  Thirty-Five

  Ada

  “Is this really necessary?” asked Baez.

  Ada shrugged. She liked Baez, but his constant complaining was getting on her nerves. As far as she could see, everyone was doing the best they could under the circumstances.

  The rumors had spread like wildfire among the surviving crew in the docking bay. Those who had seen first-hand the shapeshifting characteristics of the creatures, and how ineffective their weapons had been, were far more understanding of the captain’s desperate ploy to detach the ship and fold jump. Those who hadn’t were the ones whispering the most.

  Which made Ada struggle to understand Baez. He’d been there. He’d seen those things. What would he have done?

  Understandably, no member of the Atlas crew was thrilled about being denied access to the rest of the station. No one enjoyed being quarantined. They knew there were food, drink, hot showers, and warm beds waiting just beyond its doors.

  “We need to make sure that no member of the crew is compromised, Private. So yes, this is necessary until we figure all that out,” said Rollins. He sat on top of a metal crate as a Sanc-33 medic saw to the stump where his hand used to be.

  “Compromised? Isn’t that just a nice way of saying that we aren’t one of those, those, I dunno, monsters that attacked us?” Baez was restless.

  “Exactly,” said Rollins. “We can’t risk one of those things getting loose on this station and wreaking havoc.”

  “Where’s Saito?” asked one of the engineers, lying on his back nearby. Precious few of them had made it forward beyond the cutoff.

  “He’s trying to secure our place here on this station until we can find a way back home,” said Rollins.

  A tall man in long tan overalls walked up. His lengthy face looked like a peanut to Ada.