Armageddon Read online

  Expeditionary Force

  Book 8:

  ARMAGEDDON

  By

  Craig Alanson

  Text copyright © 2019 Craig Alanson

  All Rights Reserved

  Contact the author

  [email protected]

  Cover Design By

  Jeff Ross

  Table of Contents

  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 ONE

  Ambassador-at-large Woolsey took a pen out of the inner breast pocket of his immaculate suit jacket, then smoothed the jacket lapel so it would lie flat, without an annoying wrinkle. The pen was placed precisely parallel to the legal pad of paper, with the tip and end of the pen at the same distances from the top and bottom of the paper. Woolsey poured a glass of water from the pitcher in the center of the table, and set down the glass so it was lined up with the pen. All was properly in order. No. The pen was closer to the top of the paper pad than to the bottom. A slight nudge moved it into position, and-

  “Woolsey,” his exasperated colleague from Indonesia sighed, getting nods from the representatives from Brazil and South Africa. “Can we begin, or must you fiddle with that damned pen for the remainder of the day?”

  “My apologies, Ambassador Irawan,” Woolsey nodded toward his esteemed colleague. “The purpose of this meeting is to consider actions that were taken without proper preparation and planning. I believe we should not begin our discussion in a slap-dash fashion.” His lips curled downward at the word ‘slap-dash’, as if that were the ultimate sin. With a fingertip, he nudged the pen ever so slightly.

  “It is just a pen,” the representative from South Africa groaned. She had been in enough meeting with the fussy American to know that is just the way the man was, and nothing could be done about it other than complaining.

  “Very well,” Woolsey interlaced his fingers and placed his hands on the table, the tips of his pinkie fingers barely touching the unmarked pad of paper. “We are here to-”

  “Hey! Chowderheads!” A voice came from Woolsey’s pen, and all four around the table stared at it in shock. They knew that voice.

  Though he was startled, Woolsey’s inner emotions were not evident in his mannerisms. He lowered his head to examine the pen from the side, without touching the traitorous device. “You are the being called ‘Skippy’, I presume?”

  “You presume correctly. That is the only thing you have been right about today.”

  Woolsey saw the others were looking to him to converse with the alien AI. It would have been nice to think the others valued his leadership skills, but the truth was, they blamed him for bringing that pen into a secure conference room. He created the mess, he had to clean it up. “How are you speaking from my pen?” His composure slipped momentarily at the unforgivable loss of control. The meeting was in a conference room in the basement of a building, with no electronics present. Power to the electrical outlets had been cut off, indeed the wires had been severed. Light came from LED bulbs in battery-powered lamps on the table. Every precaution had been taken to avoid being overheard by the AI aboard the Flying Dutchman, yet Skippy had managed to infiltrate the secure facility. And it was Woolsey’s fault. “This is my favorite pen!” He had been given that pen by a president of the United States, nearly twenty years before. When not in use, it was kept in a locked drawer, in his office desk at home.

  “Oh, I do like to keep some secrets,” Skippy chuckled. “Don’t worry, the components will dissolve into nano dust when we are done with this delightful conversation. Your pen will be fine.”

  Woolsey recovered his composure. “While we appreciate your input, this meeting is-”

  “This meeting is a collection of brain-dead bureaucrats, wasting time with a bunch of blah blah buh-lah, while the adults are doing something useful,” Skippy scorned.

  “We are here to consider whether Joseph Bishop should continue in command of the Flying Dutchman,” Woolsey stated calmly, returning to his unflappable nature. “While his inventiveness has proven to be, at least temporarily, useful in the past, we now face a new paradigm. Earth is safe for the next-”

  “Earth is safe?” Skippy snorted. “This just in,” he said in his best smarmy Ron Burgundy news anchor voice. “We have a breaking news flash! The good citizens of Dayton Ohio might disagree with you about them being safe, duh.”

  “Yes. That is hopefully a minor-”

  “Seriously? You idiots represent the governments of this mudball, and you are basing your decisions on hoping your world is safe?”

  “Regardless,” Woolsey lost a tiny bit of his cool. “Bishop has proven to be impulsive and reckless. His action of stealing the Flying Dutchman proves that-”

  “No. I’ll tell you what really happened,” Skippy’s voice dripped with scorn. “The Universe said: ‘I am sending two of the most powerful warships in the galaxy to blow up your planet. You monkeys not only have to stop those ships, you have to make the Maxolhx think they did go to Earth, found nothing interesting, then disappeared under circumstances that are not at all suspicious. Oh, and even if by some miracle you succeed, in less than sixty years, aliens will discover your local wormhole is not really dormant anyway. The Universe asked: What do you ignorant monkeys think of that’?” Skippy paused to let that sink in. “You useless ninnies ran around flinging your hands in the air, like a little girl who got a bee in her hair, screeching ‘We surrender, we surrender’! You know what Joe Bishop said?”

  Skippy didn’t wait for an answer.

  “Joe Bishop said: Hey, Universe: Hold my beer.”

  There was silence around the table. Heads bowed slightly. Perhaps they were considering what the alien AI had said. Perhaps they were just a little bit ashamed.

  “So,” Skippy made a sound like he was taking a breath. “Any questions?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  I managed to swing my legs through the hatch, and get into Skippy’s new escape pod mancave without wacking my head. Until I sat in the too-small seat, and wacked my head on the too-low ceiling anyway. Before I could speak, I noticed a new decoration attached to the far dome of the pod. A gaudy, white leather belt with gold decorations. “Uh, what’s that?”

  “It’s a gift from Brock Steele, Joe. It arrived on the supply ship this morning.”

  “Uh, what do you need with a belt?”

  “Ugh,” he sighed. “You are such an uncultured cretin. Look at it closely, knucklehead. Hey! Don’t touch it with your filthy monkey hands!” He screeched.
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  “Ok, it’s a white leather belt. So?”

  “It’s not a white leather belt, numbskull. That is an ‘Egyptian’ belt that Elvis Presley wore in concert, with one of his famous jumpsuits.”

  “Oh. Was that during his ‘Fat Elvis’ period?”

  “If you can’t talk respectfully about the King of Rock and Roll, you can right leave now.” Man, he sounded genuinely pissed at me.

  “Sorry. Like you said, I’m an uncultured cretin. Huh. You mean this isn’t a reproduction? This is the real thing?”

  “Of course it is!” He gasped. “Do you think Brock Steele would send me a fake as a sign of his undying admiration for me?”

  “I guess not. How did he get it?”

  “He’s a billionaire, Joe.”

  “Yeah, you keep reminding me.”

  “And a fighter pilot.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Astronaut, too. Also he was just named People Magazine’s Sexiest Man of Year, again. Plus, there is a rumor, which I can confirm by the way, that Brock will receive the Presidential Medal of Freedom, for his heroic actions during the Dayton Incident.”

  “Hero- What?” I sputtered. “The Merry Band of Pirates saved the freakin’ day, all he did was-”

  “Joe, Joe, Joe. This continued jealousy is not-”

  “Jealous? Skippy, I met the guy. He puts his pants on one leg at a time, just like I do.”

  “Sure, except millions of women around the world would love to get those pants off him. Meanwhile, your shower thinks the two of you should see other people,” he giggled.

  “Crap. Can we drop the subject?”

  “You started it.”

  I had lost track of the conversation, but I was pretty sure he had started the snarkiness. As if that mattered. “It is a very nice belt, and the Merry Band of Pirates are proud to have it aboard our ship.”

  “Hm,” he sniffed. “That’s better. What do you want to waste my time with now?”

  “I want to know how your project is going.”

  The fake innocent tone in his voice did not fool me for a second. “How is what going, Joe?”

  “You know what I mean, you little shithead. Can you really finish putting Nagatha back together again?” Since the revival of our ship’s AI, it had been a slow process bringing her back to full operation. Three times, she had to go temporarily dormant to prevent her matrix from deteriorating, while Skippy made adjustments to the kludged-together, mismatched collection of alien components that comprised the substrate she lived in. Nagatha was still officially optimistic that she would, or could, be restored like she was before she nearly sacrificed herself for a mudball infested with filthy monkeys.

  By the way, ‘a mudball infested with filthy monkeys’ was how Nagatha recently described Earth, which shows that she was still not yet back to her kindly, polite personality.

  “Put her back together again?” Skippy answered slowly. “What, you think she is Humpty freakin’ Dumpty?”

  “Uh-”

  “Seriously, what’s up with that? Why would anyone think horses could help fix a broken egg? They’re horses. They don’t even have thumbs, duh.”

  “Hey, I never said that.”

  “Ugh, you monkeys are idiots.”

  “It’s just a nursery rhyme, Skippy. Stop avoiding the question. Yes or no?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “No it is not. Yes, or no?”

  “Fine. The answer is yes.”

  “Great! Then-”

  “Sort of.”

  “Sort of?”

  “It’s kind of a ‘shmaybe’ thing, Joe.”

  “If you are trying to screw with Nagatha, I am not just going to touch that belt, I’m going to lick it.”

  “You wouldn’t,” he shuddered with horror.

  “Uh huh. And then I’m going cut that Velvis out of the frame, and use it as a towel after I shower. I’m going to rub it all over my filthy monkey body.”

  “Yuck. I am locking the door to my mancave from now on.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Hmmph. Now you’ve insulted me. Maybe I don’t feel like answering.”

  “Mmm, that belt looks really tasty.” I made a show of licking my lips. “I wonder what flavor it is?”

  “Ok, Ok! Do not get anywhere near that belt. Or any of my other precious stuff. All right, here’s the deal.”

  “The deal?”

  “It’s an expression, Joe. Like I tried to tell you, it is complicated. I am totally legit about making my best effort to reinstall Nagatha exactly the way she was. There are two issues with that task. First, her matrix changed after she downloaded herself into the DeLorean, and then when she had to compress herself to survive inside the crappy computer of the Dagger. So, even if I could rewind her back to the way she was, all of her experiences during the incident would be lost. She does not want that.”

  “Ok. I can see that it is legit. You have to make adjustments. What else?”

  “She wants to make changes to herself. Remember when I reloaded myself back into my canister after Zero Hour, and I had an opportunity to optimize my matrix? Nagatha now has the same opportunity. Instead of randomly stuffing herself into nooks and crannies of the available substrate, she is optimizing her own matrix. She is doing it, Joe. I am giving her advice, but the decisions are her own.”

  “Oh,” I relaxed back against the seat. “Will she be able to do it?”

  “Sure, Joe. No problemo. It will take time. Um, and it’s not going to be a completely smooth process. She will be operating under reduced capacity for a while. Also, while she is tweaking her matrix, she will experience periods of reduced or impaired cognitive function.”

  “Impaired? Oh, shit. Do you mean we’re going to hear from a drunk Nagatha?”

  “I would describe it as more high than drunk, but-”

  “Is she going to be waking me up at zero dark thirty to marvel at the freakin’ Universe, like you did?”

  “That never happened,” he sniffed.

  “I have video.”

  “Let’s not argue about this,” he said quickly. “I do suggest that if Nagatha contacts you, and you judge that she is impaired, you be kind to her.”

  “Oh. Sure thing.”

  “And not laugh at her and complain about being woken up, when she is wondering about her place in the cosmos and trying to share a freakin’ moment with a friend, you know?”

  “Uh-” Crap. Skippy did remember drunk-dialing me in the middle of the night. And somehow, he thinks I am the jerk. I pushed myself off the seat, being careful not to bump my head again. “I’ll tell the crew to be extra nice to her.”

  “Hey, before you go, can you tell me something? Would you really have licked that belt?”

  “I guess we’ll never know,” I answered smugly.

  “Crap. Now it’s going to bug me.”

  I did feel a little bit sorry for him. “I can tell you that I was not looking forward to finding out what Sweaty Elvis tastes like.”

  As I turned to squeeze through the too-small hatch again, Skippy made a sound like clearing his throat. “Hey, Joe, is everything Ok with you?”

  “Yeah, sure, why do you ask?”

  “You are spending a lot of time moping around the ship. This is the third time this week you have visited me in my mancave. Not that your visits aren’t just delightful for me,” he made a gagging sound.

  I crouched in the passageway so I could look at him. “I’m bored, and kind of waiting for the other shoe to drop, you know? Since we got the ship mostly fixed, I don’t have much to do. I’m worried the Army will reassign me dirtside. Being down there for the Congressional hearing about the Dayton Incident was bad enough. That was two weeks of my life I’d like to get back.” The hearings had been closed-door classified briefings, where I had to testify before five different committees or subcommittees, whatever the difference is. Plus I was debriefed by the Army, the Secretary of Defense’s office, UNEF Command, and a separate
UN commission appointed specifically to investigate the near-disaster at Dayton. That last one was the worst. I learned that, once appointed, United Nations commissions pretty much never went away. Eighteen nations had people getting paid by the UN to investigate, and those bureaucrats planned to ride that investigation into a comfortable retirement.

  “UNEF Command is still debating what to do,” he grumbled.

  “Yeah. Well, enjoy your Elvis memorabilia, I’m going to the gym. Or something.”

  Skippy called me the next day, while I was in my office doing nothing useful. Most of the ship was on lockdown while Skippy got the auxiliary reactor warmed up for restart, so I was confined to the forward part of the Dutchman’s crew section. “Joe, I have good news, great news, and news whose suckitude has reached previously unexplored levels of suckiness that until now, were largely considered only theoretical. Really, this is a privilege, as we will be breaking new ground in the exciting scientific field of suckitude research. Think of it as an expansion pack for suckiness, for after you have completed all the levels in the basic game.”

  “Oh, joy. Do we have to pay for this expansion pack?”

  “Ha!” He chuckled. “You will be paying, that is for sure, buddy.”

  “Crap.”

  “Bad news first, as usual?

  “No, I’ve had a rotten day already. Tell me something good to cheer me up, before you give me the beat-down.”

  “Ok. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. The good news is- Wait, I should tell you all this is still unofficial. You might call it gossip. Even I am not supposed to know this yet, I got the info from conducting surveillance on the United Nations and associated staff.”

  “That is called spying, Skippy, not gossip.”

  “Huh. Then what is gossip?”

  “Gossip is when you tell me what you discovered.”

  “Ah, got it, thank you,” he laughed. “Hey, before we dish about the juicy gossip, should we put on fuzzy slippers and get a half-gallon of ice cream out of the freezer?”

  “Let’s not, and say we did.”

  “Probably a good idea. Anyhow, Becky heard Susie say she saw Tamika pass Johnny a note in Algebra class and-”