Oblivion Gambit: A Military Science Fiction Space Opera Epic (Book 4)

By J.R. Mabry and B.J. West

An invincible alien army is closing in on Earth. Only one broken man has any hope of stopping them. Power up your weapons, boys—this shit is about to get real. Crossing the universe in search of a nameless Peruvian shaman, Jeff Bowers finds him...and the ability to control his own mysterious powers. Only the destruction of the universe stopped the Prox from attacking Earth. Now, here in a new universe, another Earth is staring down the most ruthless alien army imaginable. Only Jeff knows what’s really going on. Only he has a chance against the Prox. And as the shaman says, “If you want to kill a snake, cut off the head.”

"Oblivion Gambit" is the fourth and final book in the thrilling Oblivion saga. If you love "Star Trek" and "Starship Troopers", you simply cannot pass up this adventure. Get "Oblivion Gambit" today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: John R. Mabry
• Release date: Dec 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781947826939

Book preview

Chapter One

[ STRING 311 ]

Is the shaman dead? Jeff wondered.

On the bridge of the Annabel Lee, Jeff stared at a scan of the carapace on the main view screen. It was covered with soot, like a gigantic, slate-gray fingernail, torn from its host and discarded. He stood and examined it from various angles, wondering about the life of the being who had grown it, worn it, died in it. A flash of inspiration—he trotted to the command chair and pulled up a panel. He did a planet-wide search for human life forms. There had been two frontier towns, one on this continent, another on an adjacent one. Was it possible that the shaman was there? As possible as anywhere, he supposed. It was much more likely, however, that Jeff had been grinding the little man’s ashes into the dust as he carried the carapace back to the ship.

There’s one way to find out, Jeff thought to himself, feeling an instant curl of dread in his gut. A part of his brain began screaming at him, Going into the All cannot be your first response whenever something happens. That way lies danger and destruction. One day you’re going to push it too far again, and you’ll have another whole universe of souls to bury.

He heard the voice. He felt the twist in his intestines. But still, he took his command seat, gripped the handsets, and closed his eyes.

He sent his consciousness out into the void, as he had done so many times. It had become easier with practice. Once again, he saw the Prox approaching Sol Station.

There’s nothing I can do about that, he thought. He knew that wasn’t true. He felt torn. He could teleport there. If the universe survived, he could ask to captain a ship. In his heart, he knew it wouldn’t stop the Prox, but he might die trying…if he didn’t kill everything and everyone else.

No…he let his awareness widen, searching out the energy matrix that was the shaman. He gritted his teeth, hoping against hope that the little man was still among the living.

He found him.

Jeff felt almost giddy with relief. He surrounded the shaman’s energy with his own, willed his consciousness to descend to where the man was.

A cluster of yurts, a ring of trees, a sky bursting with stars. Thought you’d lost me, huh? the little man said. There was no one else around.

Is he talking to me? Jeff wondered.

He backed up, finding the position, the constellation, the star system, the planet. It was…far. Jeff’s body whistled. He did a quick calculation. Doing an equation in his head while holding presence in the All felt a bit like juggling, but he managed it. He figured it would take him three weeks to reach the shaman’s location. How the fuck…? But he knew. Jeff was not the only person playing with fire. Prometheus had a twin.

Come, the little man said. Come now.

It will take me three weeks to reach you, Jeff said.

It will take less than a heartbeat to reach me. Come.

Jeff struggled. He could do it. He knew how to do it. He was just…afraid to do it. I’ve already destroyed one universe.

You won’t destroy the universe. I’m here.

Jeff’s brows knitted over his closed eyes. What the fuck did that mean?

Come, the shaman’s voice was insistent. We’re running out of time.

Jeff knew it was true. Even now the Prox were closing in on Sol Station. He opened his eyes and made some adjustments to the autopilot. Then he closed them again. Then he simply wasn’t there.

I have bad news, Mr. Liebert whispered. He had approached her captain’s chair, which was unusual to start with.

Nobody likes to hear that, Mr. Liebert.

No sir. I’ve found Camil Nira.

Surely that’s good news.

She’s in prison, sir.

Good god. Jo buried her head in her hand. What for?

It seems that another of the crew members we’re looking for, Martin Pho, was shot in a food court. Near as I could figure, Nira acted to neutralize the threat, but too late. Did a real number on the attacker, though.

Dead?

Liebert nodded.

Shit, Jo swore. Now what?

There’s one more crew member we were searching for, Dr. Emma Stewart.

Of course. Jeff’s girlfriend. Jo felt black clouds gathering above her. She ignored them. Duty, she reminded herself.

She does not appear to be aboard.

Also dead?

Liebert shook his head. I have no idea. There’s no record of it, if that’s the case. She’s just…gone.

She could have just gotten so pissed at Jeff that she took off, Jo thought. Jeff did have that effect on people. Okay, we can’t do anything about Pho, and Stewart needs more investigation. What can we do about Nira? Jo realized they were speaking in low, conspiratorial voices, but that in fact, everyone on the bridge could hear them. She felt momentarily ridiculous.

I don’t know, sir, Liebert says. Her sentence is ten years in the Interworld.

My god, she’ll atrophy away to nothing. She’ll never get that muscle tone back. That’s practically a death sentence for a military person, Jo said, thinking out loud.

Liebert did not disagree.

What kind of pull do we have? Jo asked.

Pull, sir?

Yes. What kind of jurisdictional authority do we have at Epworth Station?

Uh, none, sir. It’s an autonomous microjurisdiction.

With whom we have a protection pact, do we not?

Liebert blinked. I…I don’t know, sir.

Well, someone is guaranteeing their security. If it’s not the RFC it’s the Authority.

Liebert was apparently speechless.

Don’t just stand there, Liebert, pull up everything we have on any agreements between the RFC and Epworth Station.

Do you have an idea, sir? Liebert asked.

Of course I do, she thought, but she just gave him a hard stare.

Right away, sir.

Hey, babe. Wanna play? The guy was handsome, a little too handsome. He twirled his pool stick and posed with it at a suggestive angle.

Nira shook her head and turned back to her drink. I wonder what he really looks like? she wondered. He’s probably a little troll, ugly as a pug, with BO and long wisps of single hairs combed over his bald pate. But he’d picked out a nice avatar, that was for sure.

She didn’t get to pick her avatar. It was assigned to her. And it looked like her—kind of. She still had long black hair, now permanently hanging behind her in a pony tail. She was still lithe and athletic. But she was taller, which she didn’t mind at all. What did bug her was that her avatar wasn’t very Latina, it was more generically ethnic. Her skin was a soft brown, which she quite liked—darker than her real skin, and it suited her. But her facial features were just off enough to make looking in the mirror difficult.

Another guy sat down next to her and ordered a beer. He placed his elbows on the bar and glanced over at her. She caught his eye and gave a quick nod. He nodded back. Once more she wondered what he really looked like. Like everyone else here, his avatar was nondescript—handsome, 20s-normative, completely lacking in dandruff or body odor or bed hair.

She took a sip. She knew that every time she did, a tiny amount of ethanol was released into her IV. She could try to get drunk, but at a certain point, the drip would cease. She could drink all fucking night, but she’d get a little tipsy and no more. In some ways that was a relief. In others it was a pain in the ass.

Her own body, she knew, was in a hibernator, hooked up to a snake’s nest of tubing. Tubes to feed air to her lungs, tubes to carry nutrients to her stomach, tubes to carry her piss and shit off to where it could do someone some good. Her mind could amuse itself to death—within limits—while her body atrophied a little bit more every day. She imagined she could even feel it, but it was probably her imagination. There was a mild ghosting effect between her actual body and her avatar, and it was unsettling at first. It was a bit like riding a bicycle—you got the hang of it, and then you just didn’t think about it. Unless you did.

You’re new, the guy said.

You live here? She narrowed one eye at him.

Nah. I keep a condo, though.

She nodded. A lot of folks did. Aboard a space station like Epworth, where real estate was valuable, it was cheaper to rent a coffin pod in the real world and rent a spacious Interworld apartment for your off-hours. It wasn’t a thing that military people did, but she knew lots of folks made their meager paychecks go a little further that way.

You live here? he asked her.

She knew what he meant. Was she a cripple, a prisoner, or a freak? She held up her right hand so he could see the red band around her wrist.

"Wow, okay. Now I am intrigued. He grinned. I like dangerous girls. What did you do?"

A hulking Numerian put a blaster hole through the chest of…someone in my care. She swirled the beer in her glass and took a sip. So I tripped him. Then I crushed his windpipe with my elbow. She glanced up. Even his avatar’s eyes were wide. She leaned in so that their noses were almost touching. Boo! she said with a sudden jerk.

If he had been there in the flesh, she hoped he would have jumped a bit. But as it was, he turned back to the bar and downed his beer. I…uh…gotta be somewhere, he said.

She pursed what passed for lips as she watched him walk away. She turned back to her beer and caught the bartender’s eye. She raised her glass and he nodded.

It wasn’t the end of the world, being in the Interworld. She wasn’t in pain. She could move about freely—mostly. There were premium areas off limits to her, but she could go anywhere the standard package allowed, compliments of Epworth Security. Meanwhile, her every move was monitored, studied, quantified. Most importantly, she couldn’t get into any real trouble here. Her neural worked, but it was firewalled—she could only access information pertinent to the Interworld. She could access the feeds. She could find out about the real world, but she couldn’t manipulate anything there.

They’d started housing criminals in the Interworld about fifty years ago. It was cheaper, it was safer, and it was deemed more humane. The ratio of criminals to the general public was about the same, except that here nothing was truly private and you couldn’t actually hurt anyone—not physically, anyway. You could still break someone’s heart. It was, she realized, an enticing pastime.

She had to admit, being able to roam freely in the Interworld beat the hell out of being locked in a prison cell, but the torture was the same—the inability to get to anyone or do anything you cared about. Sure, lots of people got jobs. She could do that. She could make money, too. And maybe, after enough time, when despair had softened her will into a desperate pool of resignation, she would.

She knocked back the rest of her beer and signaled for a new one. Before it arrived the pool player took the stool next to her and leaned in a little too close. Wanna get a room? he asked.

She scowled at him. You’re barking up the wrong sexual orientation.

She scooted her stool back, re-establishing a comfortable amount of personal space.

He scooted over, closing the distance again. I don’t think you’ll be disappoint—

Grabbing his right arm in her left hand, she swung it like a lever behind his back. With her right hand, she guided his head to the bar—forcefully. The VR provided a very satisfying cracking sound as his head hit the virtual wood. She knew she couldn’t actually hurt him, but she could surprise him, and that was almost as good. "Sorry to disappoint you, asshole. But you’re going to back off, or I’m going to kick your ass from here to Sol Station." It was the only real landmark she could be sure of, but the threat seemed to do the trick.

Okay, okay.

I’m going to let you go now, and you’re going to slink off into whatever sleazy hole you like to call your nest—and let me be very clear about this—you’re going to go there alone.

Okay, jeez.

She released him, but she was ready. He lunged at her and she punched him in the gut. He doubled over, winded and writhing on the ground. Nira wondered how much of that reaction was VR simulation and how much pain he was actually feeling.

Whichever it was, he slunk away as ordered. She turned back to the bar where a new beer was waiting for her.

On the house, the barkeep said.

She’d lost her interest in it. She felt disgust—for the moron who’d tried to come onto her and for herself. She accessed her neural and paid. The barman looked up and back down again, nodding his acknowledgement. She stepped out onto the street.

The problem was knowing what to do with herself. She loved her job. More than confinement, more than the shame of her conviction, the thing that ate away at her night and day was the emptiness of her time—as empty of meaning as of content.

She stuffed her hands into her pockets and set off walking.

The Interworld was huge. Many of the wonders of myriad worlds were recreated there, and tourism was huge. Did it matter that the sites were simulations? Surely it did, but not as much as you’d think. She loved walking until she was lost, then stumbling upon something like the Parthenon. It was the one thing that really kept her going.

Passing an alley, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye.

That’s her, she heard.

She didn’t think, she just reacted. With skill honed over many years of martial arts training, countless simulations, and real-life battle conditions, her reflexes were fine-tuned and exact. She wasn’t sure how the idiot from the bar had caught up to her so quickly, or how he had amassed a posse, but distance meant less in the Interworld and with a neural you could call almost anyone.

Besides, she didn’t have time to think about how, only to assess the fact of it, the threat, and the parameters of that threat.

She dove into an adjacent alley across the street. Then she positioned herself with her back to one wall, and edged to where the ladder of a fire escape provided an additional out. She was at a disadvantage in that, while free people could wake up and exit the Interworld anytime they chose, she was stuck there. However virtual the danger might be, for her it was real since this was the only reality she had.

There were four of them, stepping from the relative brightness of the street into the shadowy confines of the alley. There was the guy who had come onto her, but he wasn’t in the lead—his friends were taking point. Fucking coward, she hissed. She assumed the jigotai position, widening the stance of her feet and lowering her torso into a crouch, gathering energy for a possible spring in one direction or another. She raised her hands in the jigotai defensive mudra, but this was deceptive. It was defensive until it wasn’t. They might be in position to deflect and protect, but they were also in the perfect position to strike when the opportunity was ripe.

She didn’t want to hurt any of them, but unless they were prisoners like her, only she was in any real danger.

The two in front both grinned like jackasses, but wore very different expressions. One was tall, with a cool affectation, wearing shades and holding a cricket bat over his shoulders. He swaggered as if he didn’t have a care in the world and was walking toward his next pitch. She named him Batter Up.

Next to him was a hulking ox of a man—an exaggerated avatar, surely, originally intended for fantasy play. But he was decked out not in medieval garb, but in contemporary dress, which she thought odd but didn’t have time to wonder at. He slouched, and his forehead slouched as well, like a landslide of flesh over a scowling countenance. He even seemed to have an overbite. He had a baseball bat—nails stuck out of it at odd angles in a thick, wiry, unruly mass. She named him Menace.

Just behind him was an odd sight, an older avatar. It was a custom job that wouldn’t have come cheap. His hair was thin, and his coat was thick and straight. His eyes were heavy-lidded, like a lizard’s, and his face was void of emotion. She could read nothing about him, other than the fact that he was coming. She named him the Fixer.

And then there was Horn Dog from the bar—coming for his pound of ass, any way he could get it.

Nira seemed frozen, motionless, yet her fingertips quivered microscopically with gathered tension, like the string of a drawn bow. She knew how she looked—small, defenseless, easy prey for goons like this. But she knew something that they did not—her jigotai position was no ruse.

She meditated on her extended fingertips, willed her breath to slow, felt her heart rate lower. She felt time slow down as she watched Batter Up raise his bat over his shoulder, saw Menace draw back his own, ready to take the second blow.

When they were about 2.5 meters away, she launched herself from the wall with a kick, jumped, and caught Batter Up in the face with her boot. She employed an ukemi maneuver, using her arm to absorb the shock of her fall, then rolling. She rolled toward Menace, placing her other boot in his groin with sufficient force to knock him off his feet, howling with pain and clutching at his genitals.

Rolling into a crouched position, she assumed migi-jigo-tai and froze, turning her attention to the other two. Horn Dog was backing away now, finally, perhaps, seeing the error of his ways. The Fixer froze in place, contemplating her with dead eyes. She couldn’t read what was going on in his head, but she imagined he, too, was surprised by her prowess. His eyes narrowed, boring into hers. She imagined that meant, We’ll resume this at another time. But I’ll be watching you. Then he turned and seemed to almost float toward the street—at least, she couldn’t detect any motion from his walking.

Any more, asshole? she asked Horn Dog. She started marching toward him, stepping on Batter Up’s head along the way. Horn Dog was still backing up. He tripped over a discarded pallet, and Nira found herself improbably towering over him. She knelt and grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling his face up to hers. Because I’m ready anytime you are. You just bring. It. Fucking. On.

In her peripheral vision she saw something swinging toward her. She launched herself into a sideways roll to the left, and had to stifle a laugh when Menace’s nail-studded bat connected with the side of Horn Dog’s face.

She gathered herself up to her full, diminutive height and assumed jigotai again. She slowly raised her right foot in anticipation of a kick, but this time it really was for show. Balanced on one leg, she knew how she appeared: regal, otherworldly, dangerous. She might have looked ridiculous if she hadn’t earned it, but she had. She was poised like a tantric goddess, her pose suggesting more limbs than she actually possessed, all of them seen and unseen dangers.

Running or hobbling, they all cleared out now, leaving her alone in the alley. She lowered her leg and sighed. A blinking light in her peripheral vision alerted her to an incoming message.

Oh, Jesus, she muttered. Violence of any kind was a violation of her terms of incarceration. She resigned herself to her fate and looked up to retrieve the message.

And there was the beach. And there was Jeff. And there were two moons in a hazy, purple sky.

Jeff flexed his knees. The gravity was slightly less than earth-standard, maybe .83. That would be nice, until he had to get aboard another ship. The air was cool, and thank god, breathable.

Hungry? asked a voice from behind him.

Jeff turned and saw a campfire on the beach. Sitting on a fallen log was the man he had crossed the galaxy for, betrayed his friends for, the man whose name he did not know.

His eyes were kind but tired. On the fire was a pot. It’s just beans and rice. No meat.

Jeff walked over to the fire and sat down cross-legged on the beach. Now he wished he’d put on his field jacket before transporting. That was stupid, he thought.

I thought you were dead, he said.

Are you cold? the man asked, as if reading his mind. He looked behind him and grabbed a colorful blanket. He passed it to Jeff, who noted how the man was wearing his, and draped it around his own shoulders in a similar fashion. It felt like wool, and it didn’t take long for him to feel comfortable.

There are lots of people who wish I were dead, the man answered the question at last. But I persist.

It was hard to find you, Jeff said.

It was easy to find me, the man countered. You were scared to come.

That was both succinct and true. Jeff conceded as much with a nod. I destroyed a universe…

Maybe.

Jeff scowled. "What do you mean, maybe?"

Destroy is a harsh word. There’s a lot of distance between harm and destroy.

I didn’t destroy it?

The little man started humming.

Okay, he’s going to play games with me. Great, Jeff thought. If something is just harmed, it can be fixed. Right?

No answer. The little man scooped some beans and rice out of his pot onto a metal plate and passed it to Jeff. He picked up a colorful woven bag and fished in it. He pulled out a spoon and wiped it on his sleeve. He passed it over.

Jeff took it hesitantly and tried the beans. Then he tucked in. He was hungrier than he thought.

I didn’t destroy a universe? he said again, his mouth full.

There was damage. Whether it can be repaired…I do not know.

Is everyone dead or not? Jeff asked.

I do not know…because I cannot get there.

Jeff nodded. So one of the things that was damaged was the connection…to the other strings.

The man nodded. Okay, we’re getting somewhere now, Jeff thought. His breast filled with hope.

I’ve come a long way to find you, Jeff said, trying the rice. I should at least know your name.

Tomás. Diaz. He smiled, chewing slowly. Nice to meet you. Again.

I’ve just been thinking of you as ‘the shaman.’

Tomás laughed out loud, and a few grains of rice shot from his mouth. Ha! Shaman. He shook his head. "No. I am no curandero." But he didn’t say what he was.

Jeff discovered he didn’t know what to say. He’d waited a long time for this. He’d put a lot of hope into it, too. But now that it was here... Um…where are you from? he tried. It sounded lame.

"The way you number the strings, I’m originally from 308. There, I lived in Peru. Mi familia...they are still there." His English was good, but Jeff detected a Latin American accent. He found it kind of charming.

So you’ve crossed over from other strings, too.

The man nodded.

Did you destroy…or harm your universe?

He shook his head.

Why not?

You have to know how.

And I don’t know how. Jeff said. It wasn’t a question.

"You know how to see. You know how to move. But you do not know how to move safely."

Will you show me how to move safely?

The man smiled again. I’ll show you.

Will you show me now?

I’m going to finish my dinner. Then I’m going to sleep.

Okay… Jeff felt foolish.

Tomorrow I’ll show you.

That seemed reasonable. There was a lot of information Jeff wanted from him, anyway, even before any teleportation lessons. Jeff ate another couple of bites, and as he did so a frivolous question occurred to him. He was about to dismiss it, but he realized that one of the things he needed to do was