The Last Champion: Book 4 of The Last War Series Read online

  Contents

  Title

  Dedication

  Front Matter

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Epilogue

  Backmatter

  The Last Champion

  Book 4

  Of

  The Last War Series

  For my three favorite admirals: Kirk, Adama, and Ackbar

  To be notified of future books in The Last War series, sign up here: smarturl.it/peterbostrom

  Peter Bostrom is the pen name of Nick Webb co-writing with other authors. The Last Dawn is by Nick Webb and David Adams.

  Copyright 2018 by Hyperspace Media

  Other books by Peter Bostrom:

  The Last War Series:

  Book 1: The Last War

  Book 2: The Last Hero

  Book 3: The Last Dawn

  Other books by Nick Webb:

  Constitution, Book 1 of the Legacy Fleet Series

  Mercury’s Bane, Book 1 of the Earth Dawning Series

  The Terran Gambit, Book 1 of the Pax Humana Saga

  Other Books by David Adams:

  Lacuna, Book 1 of the Lacuna Series

  The Polema Campaign, Book 1 of The Symphony of War

  Prologue

  Pediatrics Ward

  Edgewater Clinic

  World of New Kentucky

  Tiberius Sector

  It was times like this that Keeley Dunn wished she hadn’t dropped out of medical school.

  She surveyed the orange-green pile of vomit with a disdainful, tired eye. This was her life now; moving from pile of puke to pile of puke, taking care of it while the doctors and nurses did the real work. Why did babies puke so much? Who knew.

  The PA chimed. “All medical staff to the Doctor’s Lounge,” said a man’s voice. Someone she didn’t recognize. Must be new.

  Fortunately, janitors were mostly exempt from boring staff meetings. Keeley stared glumly at today’s special gift. It was an interesting one; it had chunks of mushed up pear mixed through it, last night’s dinner come back for a cameo. Keeley dipped her mop into the bucket and sloshed it over the sticky mess. As usual, the hospital grade cleaning supplies did their job, but they always required elbow grease. She dejectedly dragged the mop back and forth, absorbing the technicolor barf into it, then wringing it out in the bucket. Then she did it again. And again. And again.

  Only three more years of this, and then my student loans are repaid! She slashed her mop angrily across the smooth floor. All that money spent for a degree I didn’t even finish. Unfortunately, ninety-two percent of a medical degree is functionally equivalent to zero percent of a medical degree. More angry cleaning. But hey! At least they let me keep my sorority jacket. Nothing like a permanent reminder of that time I completely ruined my life and fucked up completely. Go Fight’n Wildcats!

  It was silly to be so angry over something so completely in her control, but she couldn’t help it. Everything had gone so well, her grades had been perfect, and then… and then she found she simply couldn’t concentrate. Information went into her brain and just as quickly left it. Nothing stuck. Even her day-to-day memory started to fade; she couldn’t remember what she had for breakfast, what her lecturer’s name was, or what exactly metformin was supposed to treat.

  Type two diabetes. It was type two diabetes. Which she knew now, of course, because that was the first thing she’d looked up when she got home. If only she’d known that during that exam. More mopping. Stupid brain… at least, no matter how bad it got, she would never forget that.

  Doctors moved past her, ignoring her as they usually did, but at least they paid attention to her wet floor signs. Minutes ticked away, and the pile of sick got smaller and wetter, until finally it vanished. Her task complete, Keeley and her bucket trundled toward the Doctor’s Lounge. Might as well eavesdrop on all the stuff they assumed the lowly janitor couldn’t understand.

  Squeak, squeak, squeak. The wheel on her bucket whined in protest as she pulled it across the smooth floor, toward the lavish, expensive suite the doctors had all to themselves. She leaned up against the wall, ears open, waiting for whatever boring talk they were about to have to begin.

  Instead of the murmur of the crowd and the chatter of voices, however, Keeley heard the faint dripping of water on carpet.

  Drip, drip, drip.

  Another leak. Dammit; if it wasn’t the seals in the roof, it was the air processing condensers. Things here were always on the fritz. Repairing or replacing either was a filthy, but fortunately simple, job—and, silver lining, it would give her access to the doctor’s lounge. Keeley put her hand to the handle and pushed open the door. Strange, really, normally the doctors were ready to complain the moment something stopped working at all—

  The doctor’s lounge was covered in blood.

  Bodies were splayed out on the carpet and slouched over the expensive leather couches, their throats slashed and arteries opene
d. The tiled kitchen area more resembled a slaughterhouse than a place where medical technicians could get a cup of coffee.

  A balaclava-clad man stood, partially hidden behind a potted plant, standing amongst the gore. He was right in the middle of turning over a body with his foot, the rest of him clad in a strange uniform; clearly military, but with no flags or insignias Keeley recognised.

  Keeley dropped her mop with a clatter, the bucket rolling in front of her.

  The man’s eyes snapped up and met hers. For a brief moment, nothing was said, and both remained motionless. The dripping sound continued, unabated. Water from his storm-soaked clothes.

  He went for the bloody knife at his hip. Keeley wanted to run, wanted to shout or do something, but instead found herself frozen to the spot.

  The man advanced on her, reversing his grip on the knife, Fixing her with a cold, even stare. His arm went up to plunge the knife into her. His foot hit the bucket and he went sprawling, the blade’s edge fiercely slicing Keeley’s cheek open and grazing her shoulder before clattering to the floor.

  Pain. Pain in her face and arm. The shock of it broke the strange spell of the moment, and she turned and ran.

  Keeley’s feet pumped on the waxed floor, skidding and nearly tripping the rest of her. Behind her, the man clambered up to his feet, growling quietly as he leapt into pursuit.

  Her voice found its way to her throat. “Help!” she shouted, squeaky and weak initially, but soon her fear gave her strength. “Help! Help me!”

  If anyone heard, they gave no sign. Keeley sprinted through the hospital, desperately looking for someone. Anyone. They couldn’t have all been at the meeting. They couldn’t all be…

  She skidded around a corner and darted around another, eyes fixated over her shoulder. Bracing herself, she shoulder-charged into the double doors that opened to the nursery. There was always a guard at the nursery. They would be able to help her. The guard, Alexander, he had a gun. A gun was better than a knife.

  “Help me!” she shouted.

  Into an empty room.

  Every crib vacant. Not a single child in sight. Alexander lay face down in the corner, his body surrounded by an ominous red pool. The only sounds were the humming of the atmospheric regulator and the gentle rustle of palm fronds on the skylight.

  And no way out.

  Through the skylight, a huge freighter passed overhead, slowing down, multiple ropes descending from it. More soldiers slid down the ropes, and inside its open cargo port, she could see dozens of incubators; cradles full of the children. The hospital’s patients. She could even see their faces.

  Keeley sunk down to her knees, closing her eyes and waiting for the knife to end her—for the madman to come and cut her down like all the rest. And, as she waited, a wide, genuine smile formed itself on her face despite it all.

  At that moment, right up until the man’s knife sunk between her shoulder blades, she was the most qualified doctor in the building.

  And then she wasn’t.

  Chapter One

  Meadows Country Park

  Peterborough

  Great Britain

  Earth

  July 4th, three months after the loss of the USS Midway

  Admiral Jack Mattis slid himself onto a cold bench on the side of the trail through the woods and stared glumly into the morning fog. He had hoped that a trip across the Pacific would be enough to hide him from the world’s gaze. He wasn’t that famous. Only the guy who blew up a celebrated warship to save the human race. No biggie.

  Or so he thought. Instead, as anyone with half a mind might have realized, eyes followed him everywhere.

  Hey, aren’t you Admiral Jack Mattis?

  Oi mate, how was the space battle? Is it true Admiral Yim is dead?

  How many aliens did you kill? Oh, wait, they’re “future-humans” now, aren’t they?

  The first dozen times he had to answer those questions, they were merely tiring. By the hundredth time, he was completely exhausted. And by what felt like the ten-thousandth time… well. At least long walks through Meadows Country Park had proved to be marginally effective at taking his mind away from the destruction of his ship.

  Marginally. Every time he closed his eyes, it seemed, he saw the ship’s reactor blossoming in space, its bulkheads busting and superstructure evaporating into clouds of superheated metal and gas. How quickly, with seemingly only the throw of a switch, the mighty warship—his home and, probably, his only true love—had turned from something into nothing. For thirty years he’d served upon her, and then, after a few years of “retirement”, another two more. Now she was gone. He felt as though a piece of him had died.

  Alas, USS Midway, I barely knew you.

  Still, not even a nightly ritual of a half bottle of scotch and a walk through an English wood had been enough to keep the doubts at bay. Maybe he shouldn’t have tricked Spectre like that, maybe there had been another way… maybe, maybe, maybe.

  Maybe he could have saved Friendship Station.

  Maybe he could have saved Captain Malmsteen.

  Maybe he could have saved Commander Pitt.

  Maybe he could have saved Captain Salt.

  Maybe he could have saved Ganymede.

  Maybe.

  The fog began to lift. Like ghosts, trees appeared from the mist, at first shadowy outlines and then branches and trunks and leaves.

  And a person. A woman in a Royal Navy uniform, mud from the trail on her boots, walking toward his bench with calm, deliberate ease.

  “About time you showed up,” called Mattis, barely having to raise his voice at all in the quiet English wood.

  Captain Pippa Spears stepped through the mud and, wearing a warm smile despite her customary stick-straight posture, sat down beside him. “Happy Treason To The Crown Day, Admiral Mattis. How’s the Fourth of July finding you?”

  “Not exactly feeling patriotic at the moment,” he said, grimacing slightly. “It’s hard to feel good about the upcoming Senate committee hearings. And, you know, add in a possible court-martial on top of that…” he closed his eyes and blew out his breath in a foggy cone. “A lot of people still believe the captain should go down with the ship.”

  Spears folded her hands in her lap. “You should talk to Admiral Fischer,” she said, her clipped British tone polite and polished as always. “She might be able to help you. As a character witness if nothing else.”

  He didn’t trust her. He didn’t trust anyone these days. Mattis merely grunted.

  “As you wish,” said Spears.

  They sat there in silence for a moment. “So,” asked Mattis, eventually, “how are you doing, Pippa?”

  “Oh, not too bad,” she said, offhandedly. “Upholding the will of the Crown and all. Not with the various colonies everywhere, scattered to the star systems. Little pockets of England. Just like old times. It’s true once more that the sun never sets on the British Empire.”

  “Because even God doesn’t trust Englishmen in the dark.”

  She laughed pleasantly. “Allegations bold and scandalous, Admiral Mattis, but well received. Always have time for honest banter, I say.” She considered a moment. “Command continues to be a bit of this and that. The Royal Navy is screaming for officers in command positions, so I’m losing my XO. The poor boy’s going to get his own heavy frigate. Bit rough, given his age, but I’m sure he’ll do a bang up job. And youth is something you grow out of.”

  Truer words were never spoken. “If you’re lucky.” Mattis shifted on the bench, turning to her. “Anyway. Last I heard, the Caernarvon was assigned to deep space patrol out of the solar system, until they get Goalkeeper back online after the latest SNAFU. How did you find the time to meet me?”

  Spears only smiled knowingly. “Officially, our long range targeting radar needs tuning. Unofficially, we had that thing dinged into shape weeks ago, but when the legendary Admiral Mattis calls you asking for a meeting, you don’t turn him down.”

  Mattis managed a slight, forced
smile. “Legendary my ass. To be totally honest with you, Captain, I’m starting to find Earth a little tiresome. A few too many politicians for my taste, and far too little to do. Not even administrative work. I’m sitting around here rotting in the, ahem, lovely English weather. Never thought I’d be clamoring for the opportunity to sail a desk.” His smile widened a little, becoming a shade more genuine. “Still. Coming all this way to pick up a Colonial? Britannia’s generosity knows no bounds, after all.”

  “I wasn’t sure if you had anything or not,” said Spears, “but I know that if you did, you’d want to show it to me in person.”

  Damn straight he did. Or rather, he wanted to share his misgivings with her. He lacked proof, but Modi was working nonstop on that as they spoke. And when Modi set his mind to something, he tended to come out on top. “Come on,” he said, standing up with a groan. “Let’s go get a beer.”

  “In sunny England,” said Spears, standing as well, “we call them pints. And let’s get one each, please.”

  They left the park in companionable silence, emerging from the misty forest right on the edge of a bustling metropolis. Mattis let Spears lead the way, straight toward a classical-style English pub entitled Drunken Pigkeeper & Touchy Leech Tavern, complete with thatched roof and small plaque.

  Established 2055

  Why did they name them such unworldly titles? “Age before beauty,” said Spears, grinning cheekily and pushing open the door. A bell chimed as she did so.

  Mattis stepped through and into the pub, his nose immediately attacked by the sweet, almost fruity scent of beer, expensive timbers and, as was typical for these kinds of establishments, the inescapable aroma of body sweat.

  Despite the early hour the pub had a dozen or so patrons, dejectedly cradling booze or grumbling to each other in low voices about the most trivial of matters.