Final Frontier Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 CJ Wolfe

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  Cover art by Edward Rangel at www.edwardproducciones.com

  To Mom & Dad, always, for keeping the faith.

  For Cody & Rob

  I’ve always wanted to take a crack at a World War Three storyline. However, this was a story that took two weeks to write but almost two decades to finish – sometimes you just have to wait until the time is right.

  I need to thank a small devoted group of people for their dedicated assistance: As always, Charles McClarrie, Rob Batting, and RMM (with our RPG group) for listening while I read and corrected aloud.

  A special thank you to Mauve and Landen Gleason for proofing/editing the different versions of this manuscript. A special thanks to my first readers (David Mayes, Christopher Toscano, Alex Rowles). The cover was created by Edward Rangel (www.edwardproducciones.com). Once again, I’d like to also thank William Hunt for his expertise in typesetting, running the final proof, and assistance in getting FF published.

  CJ Wolfe

  March 12th, 2021

  Final Frontier

  CJ Wolfe

  THE WIND SIGHED heavily through the ancient oak and pine grove as the lights of a lone cottage defied the growing darkness. Heartwood Estate encompassed the old Alderwood Forest, with its sizable acreage, and was home to the Farrell family - and had been for almost two hundred years. General George Farrell had purchased the retreat shortly after World War I, when land was plentiful and cheap. Through the years, the Estate prevailed and was passed from father to son even as open land virtually disappeared and survived relatively unchanged from generation to generation.

  Wayne Farrell, the latest owner, would be the last in the line of succession, being advanced in years, a widower, and having lost both sons twenty-two years ago in the Israeli-Arab War. The thought had troubled him before he had eventually decided that he was too old to care about such issues.

  A gracefully frail man, Farrell sat in his favorite chair with his feet propped up by the fire. He was surrounded by his favorite things: a glass of cherry wine upon the sideboard, an old Robert Jordan novel in his lap, a beautifully carved, but unlit pipe between his teeth, and an old dog named Jasper that was sprawled by his feet, warming himself near the open hearth. Firelight was reflected in the old man's eyes as he lost himself in the dancing flames, the book momentarily forgotten.

  Suddenly, he glanced to his left towards the old grandfather clock, original to the building of the house, as the clock struck the hour. After the magnificently carved mahogany timepiece rang out the tenth bell, the old man slowly levered himself out of the chair. Wayne Farrell finished his glass of wine and met the German Shepherd by the back door for their nightly walk. Slipping on a light-green hooded pullover, rolling up his jeans, and pulling on a pair of hiking boots, the old man opened the door to a large patio and a palatially landscaped, park-like backyard that merged with the forest after about a hundred yards.

  ”C’mon, old boy. Neither of us is getting any younger.” With that said, the man went from the patio towards the well-worn path running underneath the canopy of trees.

  Jasper stretched stiffly and then began to follow. He caught up to Farrell after about twenty feet and walked at his side, as always.

  Meandering through the dark forest, the path ran in a large rough circle that covered the better part of three miles. As the pair leisurely moved along the rutted track, the stars and crescent moon provided more than enough light to find their way. This had been their nightly ritual, religiously performed, ever since Jasper had been a pup. In those earlier years, the nocturnal walkers had been three until Wayne's wife died five years ago.

  As man and dog approached the fountain set in the clearing that denoted the midpoint of their nightly exertion, Wayne couldn't help but think of his wife, Marina. The wind blew a few restless leaves around the base of the fountain; the sound of water spit by three marble dolphins to fall through three levels to the wide catchment basin were the only other breaks in the silence.

  In the distance, an occasional flash of lightning momentarily removed the deepness of night upon the old forest. Moments later came the deep growl of faraway thunder. Still lost in thought, the old man sat on the marble bench that encircled the fountain. Sixty years of marriage, sixty new hobbies, sixty different garden experiments had provided a lifetime of memories for Farrell. He suffered a profound reverie and an intense unabated longing - a pain that seemed as much physical as emotional.

  Abruptly, an intense blue-white flash and an ear-splitting peal of thunder awoke Farrell from his memories. Pain gripped his chest and left arm in a crushing embrace as he fought for breath. He fumbled feebly through his jacket and looked for his non-existent medication. Bathed in sweat, an eerie calm descended upon him as he thought he heard his name called out in the night.

  ”Wayne? Wayne, can you hear me, hun?” He knew that voice, but it couldn't be.

  “Look at me,” the voice commanded. “I'm right here with you. Trust me, you'll be fine, dear!”

  His pain vanished, and as he looked up, a figure approached. ”Mar?” he managed to croak. “It can't be you, can it?”

  As the figure approached, he could see her distinctive cheekbones and long flowing auburn hair; a youthful ghost of his wife this was - but this was crazy.

  ”It is indeed me, dear heart, with a message for you. I am not allowed to remain here long. Remember to look for me here when the end is at hand. It won't be too long; we'll all be together again.”

  ”I don't understand, Mar. I must be dreaming? This can't be real.” He tried to get up and ended up stumbling in the mud, but the voice continued.

  “It is me, and this is no dream. Look for me here. You'll know when, and you too, Jasper. I love you and will see you both soon. Andrew, James, and I will be waiting for you.” The ghostly image lifted a hand in farewell as she began to disappear slowly.

  Jasper whined once, which caused the man to glance at him briefly; he plainly saw that the dog had shared in his hallucination. Or was it? Could it be real? Could his wife and boys be waiting for him? He longed for their company.

  Another bright flash of lightning and the pounding deluge of rain brought the man back to the present. A distinct presence remained, but neither man nor dog saw anyone there. As he slowly picked himself up out of the mud, Farrell attempted to collect his wits and resumed the path towards home. They stumbled along the trail, numb with the cold rain, and nearly tripped on the flagstones of the patio.

  Entering the house quickly, Wayne shucked off his wet clothes, rekindled the fire, and began toweling himself and the dog off. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the telltale blinking of the message waiting light on the information retrieval unit, the IRU. He finished drying off the dog, which settled by the fire, changed into some dry clothes, refilled his glass of wine, and then sat by the hearth to warm himself.

  As the clock struck midnight, a newly warmed Farrell rose and headed towards the IRU. He sat down at the antique roll-top desk and looked at the wall-mounted monitor that he activated by voice command. There were two video messages and one news service alert.

  “Play first message,” ordered the man. He sipped his glass of wine and began filling the bowl of his pipe.

  The screen showed a middle-aged, balding man dressed in a shirt and tie. “Good evening, Professor Farrell. If you're available to sub for Global in blocks two and three tomorrow, please contact Central Scheduling. Dr. Reinhardt has taken ill and might be out until Friday. Sorry to have missed you. If you're interested, let us know. Thank you.” The screen displayed an end of message logo and went blank.

  ”Next message, please,” prompted the professor.

  The monitor complied by next showing a blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy. “Hiya, Doc! I heard you'd be subbing in Global tomorrow and I, ah, wanted to know if you'd help me study for the test on Friday? I really need the help. Reinie’s killing us! I’ll bring breakfast. Thanks! See ya, Doc!” Again, the screen went dark after flashing David's goodbye screen.

  The old man chuckled, thinking that Reinie rhymed with heinie - Dr. Reinhardt was a horse's ass as far as Farrell was concerned. He sighed before responding. “Confirm with Central through Friday for Global, please. Add breakfast with David to both our calendars.”

  A few seconds later, two confirmation screens concluded the scheduled transactions.

  ”News brief only, please,” he instructed. For years now, Wayne had treated the IRU almost like a fellow human being. He almost always remembered to be polite - even when it wasn't necessary or took longer. Old school, he thought, something sadly missing in today's aggressive society.

  The monitor showed a news anchor behind his desk with an anxious look on his face. ”Forces of the New Arab Union, the NAU, clashed heavily today with the Israeli military on a front forty miles wide on the ever-disputed border. Heavy artillery fire continues in the region, and escalation is feared at this time. This is the worst reported military exchange in more than a decade. US forces in the area, as well as other NATO forces, are on full alert. More details to follow as we have them. This is Ted Benn
ings, CNN, reporting.” The monitor went dark.

  ”Just what we need. Another war,” retorted the man acidly. "When will those god-damned people ever learn?”

  *****

  An alert tone interrupted David in mid-game, and the overworked holo unit crashed. It was an antiquated lower-end model that had never been designed to run an entire household, provide communications, and play immersive net games. The unit powered back up and began running its self-check routine – sometimes, it actually came back online by itself. More often, David had to fiddle with it endlessly to the great annoyance of his foster brothers.

  “What’d you do to it this time?” Alex Garson, the eldest, demanded.

  “Nothing. Got a message, and it just stopped,” David replied neutrally. He didn’t want to start another fight over the holo. That would end up badly with everyone’s privileges revoked for a month.

  “Well, fix the damn thing, you shit,” this from Conor Tierney, the middle brother. “I know you made it go down cuz you and your losers were getting your ass kicked! You ain’t half as good as you think you are, y’know?”

  “You’ve been playing longer than we have,” David offered weakly. Being the youngest often meant he got the least holo time – or anything else that the Piedmont family possessed. He wore old clothes, shoes that his brothers had outgrown, and carried a school tablet that was almost fifteen years old and had been manufactured before he had been born. Even though it still functioned, David often wished that for once, he could have something brand new.

  David checked his netbook and saw that his request for an early morning cram session had been accepted. Meanwhile, the holo, for once, came back up after its lengthy reboot; Alex returned to watching his porn on his IVR headset, while Conor teamed up with his friends again to beleaguer David’s group of friends.

  “You back, Davey?” Aud asked. David answered her while resetting the game from the last save point. It was a strategy game, more than a generation old, that pitted two sides against each other in an attempt to conquer by land, sea, and air. Essentially each player had control of one or more armies; the goal was to work together to achieve victory. David suspected that one or more of Conor’s friends used cheat codes to gain victory points; despite this, David’s team – his closest friends: Audrey Goldberg, Paulie and Alyssa Andolina, and Abdul Dedjna – usually won anyhow.

  “I got your back,” Abdul crowed over the headset, his F-29 fighters covering David’s Mark IV pulse tanks.

  “Shit!” Conor groused. “You think you’re so goddamned smart, huh?” He engaged with his reserve marines and stormed the beach right into the trap that Aud had set for him. In a moment, he was out of the game – wiped out.

  “Yes! Nice going, Aud. Good cover, Paulie – he never saw it coming,” David said, enjoying the game.

  “Get Davey for me, Brett,” Conor lamented, cajoling his team to avenge him. Brett was a total hacker, and 60 seconds later, David had been wiped out from invisible aircraft carriers that suddenly somehow just appeared and knew precisely where he was.

  “I lose, you lose,” Conor laughed. “Good one, Brett!”

  “You’re an asshole, y’know that!” David said almost under his breath.

  “I am, huh?” Conor said, advancing on his younger brother. “Now, I’ll prove it.” Conor slapped David alongside the head several times and shoved him into the corner.

  “Stop it!” David demanded. He was much smaller than Conor and 5 years younger; his older brother really didn’t know his own strength at times.

  “David, Conor, enough! Don’t make me come up there,” bellowed Jon Piedmont, their foster-father. “Another word and no holo for a month.”

  “Sorry,” David called down from the loft. He ducked underneath a boot that Conor had thrown at him by reflex. The errant throw hit the holo, it immediately shut down completely, and the house went dark.

  “What the hell?” Jon Piedmont and Alex Garson exclaimed in unison.

  “I’ll look at it, Jon,” David called down. Alex lit his lighter so David could work. “It crashed big time, dunno why? David called downstairs while glaring at Conor.

  “Fix it, or I’ll fix you,” Alex growled. “These two idiots were roughhousing up here and caused it to crash, not me. I’d make them pay for a new one if genius here can’t fix it.”

  “Suits me, Alex. If you have so much energy, I’ll make a damn list. You want to stay here, to eat here, you do as you’re damned well told. You’re all old enough for me to petition to get rid of!”

  David worked for about three hours to get the unit to boot and bring the house back online. It functioned but didn’t seem to hold a charge on the power cells very well. David figured he’d leave it connected to the charger and see what happened overnight.

  *****

  Farrell arrived while a commotion was in progress at the Adam J. Hopewell Middle School. Campus security vainly tried to corral the growing group of middle schoolers through the security checkpoint; only one appeared to be operational this morning. The bottleneck would make everyone late, Farrell observed.

  Co-opted into playing diplomat, a cross between charming grandfather and riot police, the elderly professor spent nearly 25 minutes placating and defusing impatient teens.

  Many students came to school early to receive a breakfast allotment; there were so many in need, and the school had only modest means to feed them - you arrived early, or you went hungry.

  Hopewell's cafeteria could only house half the number now in breakfast line - it got worse here every day, Farrell thought. Several of the larger boys blockaded the entrance; no one was moving, and tempers were rising.

  "Master Alvarez, is there a problem?" Farrell asked easily. The surly teen, a faction leader, was large enough to look the professor in the eye.

  "Jus’ holdin' places for my boys," Jimmy Alvarez replied after a moment. "Ain't going without."

  "I see. However -" Farrell began before an administrator announced that they were over quota.

  Jimmy swore and pushed his way into line ahead of several smaller boys; outgunned, there was little anyone else could do.

  "Hiya, Doc!" David called, moving closer. He wore old clothes, toted an ancient backpack but possessed a ready smile.

  "Master Carlyle, good morning. It would appear that breakfast could be problematic." Farrell counted 40 or 50 that wouldn't get breakfast; even Jimmy Alvarez, with much pushing and shoving, had come up short. Hungry and angry were not what one would prescribe for a successful beginning of the day.

  "I brought breakfast; what I could find, anyways." David moved to sit nearest the security station - the only place unpopular enough to be empty.

  "Morning, Dr. Farrell," the security specialist offered. He gave the old daypack of David's a once-over before he was satisfied.

  "Morning, George. Are there always these many who don't get their breakfast?"

  "Getting worse, it is. I've heard of coming lunch cuts, too. Budget, you see."

  "How bad's it going to get, Mr. Marshal?" David wanted to know. He pulled out cinnamon rolls and a thermos of what smelled like vanilla coffee.

  "By a quarter, Davey. You get lunch, right?"

  "Uh-huh, but only today and Wednesday. I'm on your list?"

  "Maybe. Don't say nothing."

  "That might be wise, Master Carlyle. We're running late, son. What help do you need most?" Farrell asked. He thanked David for the roll and coffee - the roll was stale, and the coffee was only lukewarm.

  "Best I could do, sorry," David mumbled. "I got chapter 3, but 4 and 5 are ... a mess.”

  David studied with Farrell for forty minutes; the material was only a little clearer, but he felt better for the time spent. Carlyle was a fair student when he applied himself but struggled with history - especially stuff from long before he was born. The homeroom bell rang.

  "Thanks, Doc! See ya." David had Global in block three. First, language arts, then music - things he was gifted in.

  Language arts class began with an essay, the topics randomly assigned as the students logged into the course with their device of choice. David used an old notebook, two generations old but still serviceable, and was assigned a historical essay topic. It was going to be that kind of day, David groaned to himself. The program module prompted him to outline his essay before writing it. He was allowed to use built-in software to fact check; everything was timed, of course, and extensive reference used time and cost a student points.