No Graves for Heroes Read online

  “So he’s back on Earth?”

  “Yes, right outside of Nairobi. You probably passed his house on the way out here.”

  “I’ll be damned. Tell him Axel Nash says hello.”

  “I will. I will. I’m sorry. I have to run. Mr. Danso has me doing some checks on the water filtration system.”

  “Oh? Go. Go. Don’t let me hold you up. Let’s get a beer sometime and talk about Jaali.”

  The two shook and Milo disappeared down the hall.

  “I can’t believe you know that guy,” said Devon. “The probability of an American meeting someone they know out here is…”

  “A zillion to one. I know,” said Axel. “It happens to me more than you would think.”

  “Who else do you know?”

  “I wouldn’t believe you cared about that sort of stuff, what with being…artificial and all.”

  “I need to know as much about you as possible. That’s what makes our cover believable.”

  “I guess. Well, I know the vice-governor on SETI 101, over Venus. He’s an old associate. I know Max Lamp, quarterback of the Lions. I did a favor for his dad, once. I’ve spent a bunch of time helping the general of the Martian Defense Forces for the Northern District.” Axel paused and looked at the floor. His voice went low. “A lot of people, some are hostile now.”

  “What do you mean hostile?”

  “They were people I knew and worked with and while they’re still my friends, our respective governments aren’t. Understand?” Axel had friends and connections across all borders, people he could no longer associate with, because of his status as a war criminal, or because the Petty family pissed off so many people that his passport wasn’t worth a damn anymore.

  “Do you miss them?” asked Devon.

  “Of course. Some of them, anyway. But there’s nothing I can do about that.”

  The intercom crackled. “We will embark on our journey in ten minutes. Please make all necessary preparations.”

  Axel and Devon looked at each other. He had no idea what “perpetrations” they needed to make.

  “Do we need to strap ourselves in or anything?” asked Devon.

  Axel pushed out his bottom lip and looked around the room. “I don’t think so. The grav fields on ships like this, even the old ones, negate the change in velocity we would feel, like when a regular vehicle jumps forward. So…” He looked out into the hallway. “Let’s go for a quick walk.”

  The old paranoid soldier in him didn’t like being in a strange place without checking out the exits, escape craft, or hallways. He’d sleep better knowing where to go in an emergency. So far, the crew and captain seemed competent.

  They wandered through a warren of hallways, all decorated with a style Axel recognized as art deco. The early twentieth-century design concept, with its bold geometric lines, bright colors, and streamlined accents, had made a comeback in the early twenty-second century as the new solar entrepreneurs looked for lavish ways to show off their wealth. Many harkened back to the American Gilded Age when commissioning their spacecraft, orbital residences, and even tailored wardrobes.

  Finally, they found a grand ballroom, ringed with balconies, overlooking a mother of pearl–colored dance floor.

  A massive dome-shaped skylight looked down over the ballroom. Clouds streaked by as the ship burned through the stratosphere. Axel was taken back to his marine boot camp days, being hurdled into space for the first time. Back then, they made the recruits go in a standard G-class ship—no grav fields. This amused the instructors to no end, who slyly held onto toe hooks or small handles on the hull to make it look like they weren’t weightless, all the while holding back laughter as the wide-eyed boys and girls floated up and into one another.

  “Attention!” the instructors would yell. And, on que, the entire platoon of fifty recruits would snap to attention.

  “Why are my recruits floating around like a bunch of turds in a god-damned commode?” shouted the head drill instructor. “I said attention. That means stand the fuck still. Do any of you see the drill instructors floating like dead fish?”

  Then there would just be scared scrambling eighteen-year-olds grabbing at air as they tried to comply.

  Assholes, Axel thought as he giggled to himself. It was a hilarious sight and a pretty slick joke to play on the recruits. They had to learn about microgravity at some point.

  He looked up at the dome, there was nothing but stars and the moon now.

  “Look,” said Devon, pointing to a floating chair. It clearly belonged to a dinner table, below. The rest of the furniture must have been secured to the floor somehow.

  Axel took a coin from his pocket and tossed it over the balcony railing. It floated like a piece of dust in the morning sunlight. He took Devon’s hand. “Come on.”

  Without letting her protest, Axel leapt to the top of the bar, pulling her with him, and jumped over the side. It was a four-story drop to the dance floor.

  “No,” was all Devon could get out before they were aloft.

  Axel’s stomach went into old familiar swirls as he floated above the ballroom. At first, Devon flailed in the microgravity.

  “Just chill out,” said Axel. “You’re not going to fall. See?” He did a flip and took her hand. “Now, don’t let go of me, or we’re free-swimming.”

  “What’s that?”

  “When you can’t grab on to something to get back to a surface. We could be here awhile if that happens.” He removed his belt. “The key is to create collisions and reactions.” He looped the belt through a belt loop around her waist. He held on to the other end.

  “You putting me on a leash?” asked Devon. She cracked a tiny smile. “I just met you.”

  “Watch.” Axel pulled her close before gently kicking off her thigh. They floated through the air, tumbling and bumping into each other. Finally, Axel put his left hand out and wrapped his right around Devon’s waist. She joined him and the two spun around, high above the ballroom, under the star-lit dome. He looked into her eyes, and for a brief moment felt the urge to kiss her. She didn’t look like she would resist, her eyes rolling up and down his face.

  “I see you two are having a good time,” said one of the crew from the balcony. “If I could trouble you for a moment, we need you on the bridge. We are at the customs station. Shall I throw you a rope?”

  Axel was about to say yes, just to make things easier, but Devon spoke up.

  “No, I got it.”

  With that, she kicked off his stomach with the force of a sledgehammer. The two of them went flying to the balcony. Their momentum slowed to a stop, right out of reach of the bar.

  Axel reached into his pocket and produced a small metal disk. “Sometimes you need one of these.” With the flick of his wrist, the disk shot a thin thread out toward the bar and wrapped around it. Axel pushed a button and the two of them drifted to the balcony.

  “Is that a frog’s tongue?” asked Devon as she dropped down to the deck, next to the crew member. “I have a file on those. For when the ship’s gravity wells fail.”

  “Failed or got blown to hell,” said Axel. “Orbital marine’s best friend.” He stared at it for a second, looking at the war-scared emblem for his old unit—a skull in a space suit helmet. “Saved my life a few times.”

  “Come on,” said the crew member. “We want to get out of here quick. Don’t want to keep the captain’s cousin waiting.”

  Axel and Devon followed the man toward the bridge as a twinge of anxiety welled up in Axel’s stomach. If anything went wrong with this customs inspection, they were in deep shit. He wasn’t going to get his Canadian papers until they met with Javelin. As of right now, he was a fugitive with no identification on him, with an illegal squib and several corporate bounties on his head.

  They entered the bridge, just as Captain Danso was straightening his clothes in anticipation of seeing his cousin. Through the bridge monitors, Axel could make out the customs station. It looked like every other space station orbi
ting Earth, gray, mostly round with ships of varying size and purpose docked to the exterior. Lights on the bridge control boards indicated the customs shuttle craft had docked with the ship.

  The air lock door opened and Captain Danso’s smile faded to a look of horror.

  Axel turned to see a stern-faced administrator standing in the open hatch. He didn’t need to look at the man’s pale skin to realize that he was not related to Captain Danso. He had bright red hair, broad shoulders, a chiseled jaw, and an artificial lens over his left eye. A large pistol hung from his hip. Four stout men in green jump suits stood behind him, at parade rest. Several had scars or burn marks on their faces. One of them carried a secure radio clipped to his shoulder. Axel imperceptibly twisted his torso, feeling the hard resistance of the holstered pistol under his shirt.

  “I’m Inspector Mishkin, of Zavod Security,” the man said. “Is this everyone onboard, Captain?”

  “Y…yes,” said Captain Danso, and gestured toward his crew and passengers.

  Mishkin slowly took in the bridge. The lens over his eye fluttered with shades of blue. “You seem nervous, Captain. Is there anything I need to know about, before we begin?”

  Danso stuck out his chin. “No. Everything is in order, Inspector.” A sheen of sweat appeared on his brow.

  “Good,” said Mishkin. His tone was loud and curt. He locked eyes with Axel. “We’ll start with seeing everyone’s travel visas. I’m sure everyone’s paperwork is in order. This station was a known haven for smugglers and outlaws. My company, Zavod Security, was contracted to restore order.”

  Axel quickly surmised there was only one way this was going to end. Zavod was a large Russian security firm. They were notorious for kidnapping, extortion, and assassinations. Clearly, they had bribed the right people to get the customs contract for the space station.

  Captain Danso produced his credentials, a card with a holographic image of his face and the necessary international licenses. Mishkin held it up to his eye lens for a moment before returning it to the captain and moving on to the helmsman.

  Axel exchanged a look with Devon. They didn’t have any of these credentials. Their travel plans called for Danso to get them through customs, via his contacts. That was not going to happen and if he didn’t come up with a new plan in a matter of seconds, he would be hauled off to a dark cell.

  Mishkin’s green-clad men began to wander around the bridge, no doubt looking for something they could demand a bribe in return for turning a blind eye. Axel tracked each one through line of sight or off reflections in the bridge’s various monitor screens. They looked undisciplined. Little things, like a missing button or an unpolished boot, told Axel these men weren’t professionals, just hired thugs. Probably gangster muscle that fucked up and got sent to help with shakedowns.

  One by one, the crew presented their identification, until Mishkin stood before Axel with a smirk on face and his hand out. The lens flickered with green.

  There was a moment of silence on the bridge. Captain Danso was breathing so hard he sounded like he was about to have a heart attack. Devon stood so still she looked like a statue.

  “And you, sir?” said Mishkin. “Are you a crew member or a passenger?”

  The thugs all froze in place.

  Axel finalized his plan.

  “Passenger,” said Axel.

  Mishkin’s face hardened, clearly annoyed he was being made to ask twice. “Then, may I see your travel visa, Mr. Passenger.”

  Axel took a half step forward, while making a show of looking for his visa.

  Mishkin took in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh.

  Axel whipped his left arm around Mishkin’s chest, pinning his right arm to his side. Then Axel smashed his forehead into Mishkin’s nose. There was an audible snap of cartilage. At the same time, Axel ripped his pistol out and opened fire on the thugs. He spun himself and Mishkin in a circle as he fired.

  Deafening pistol-fire rang out on the bridge. Danso’s crew fell to the deck. Blood and gun smoke filled the air.

  Mishkin kicked and tried to punch Axel in the face, but the spinning motion threw him off balance. When the fourth thug slumped over, Axel pressed the pistol’s barrel to Mishkin’s chest and put two rounds into the man’s sternum. His body went limp and Axel released him.

  “What…what in the name of god did you do?” shouted Danso. The veins in his neck bulged and his eyes looked like they would pop out of his head.

  “What I had to!” shouted Axel. “Where the hell was your man?”

  “He was supposed—”

  Axel cut him off. “Shut up and get us to the jump gate, now.”

  “How am I going to do that? You stupid, stupid man. You need to get off my ship.”

  Axel let out a shattering “Hey!”

  This startled Danso.

  “You’d be in custody right now if it weren’t for me. Your ship impounded and half of your crew would be dead. So, calm the fuck down. Get the ship headed to the jump gate.”

  “As soon as that man doesn’t report an all-clear, the station will dispatch fighters to intercept us.”

  “What does he normally say?” asked Devon.

  Everyone on the bridge turned to look at her, stunned looks on their faces.

  The pilot spoke up. “They get on the radio and say the ship ID and clear to jump. But it has to be the inspector. There is a voice print ID on the other end. So, we can’t just call it in ourselves.”

  “And you killed the only man who could do that,” said Danso, annoyed. He rubbed the top of his bald head. “Maybe we could have bribed them or something, but now…”

  Devon walked over to the dead thug with the radio. She unclipped it from his shoulder and in a perfect impersonation of Mishkin, recited the ship’s ID number and “Clear to jump. My men and I will be staying aboard to ensure everything is prepared for the jump. This is the captain’s first time. We’ll catch a ride back to the station on a returning vessel.”

  “Understood, sir,” said a voice on the other end.

  Devon dropped the radio and looked at Danso. “There,” she said. “Wasn’t so hard, was it? That should buy you enough time to get us out of here.” She looked over at Axel and smiled.

  There was a moment of stunned silence on the bridge, before Danso said in a cold, angry tone, “No, I guess not.”

  “Make for the jump gate,” said Axel. He wasn’t asking and he was done with Captain Danso’s timidity. “We’ll space the bodies on the way.”

  “You’re doing that,” said Danso. “And what about their shuttle craft?”

  “Might come in handy later,” said Axel.

  The two men stared at each other, before Danso gave the order to get underway.

  The last of the strike team found seats in the Zhong Kui’s mess hall. Captain McKenzie put on a stern face and looked them over. While he wasn’t the overall commander of the actions about to take place across the Chinese empire, he was the captain of this ship, and as such had tactical command over their part of the operation. Five men stared back at them, several of them highly trained, battle-hardened men. He knew them all by name from their personnel files, provided by Rota’s intelligence team.

  Wu Lin, Daniel Costas, and Wei Shihao comprised the main attack force. Zeng Cheng and Andre Silva would be support and reserves, if needed. The non-Chinese—Costas, Lam, and Silva—had been recruited in order to provide some diversity to the team. While it was extremely common for people formally known as “westerners” to have immigrated to the Chinese Empire, the mix of races would provide extra confusion. All the men spoke fluent Chinese, as well as several other of the major languages.

  Costas was a blond-haired, blue-eyed young man with experience in the imperial special forces. Despite his kid-next-door appearance, he was an extremely skilled covert operator with specialties in space station computer hardware and close quarters assault.

  Lin and Shihao had average builds and the cold look of conditioned killers. They were to be t
he main trigger men.

  Cheng was a fat middle-aged man with big lips and thick, round lenses covering his eyes. McKenzie could not help but think the man looked like a blowfish. He was bald, but he still clung to some long wisps of hair in the form of a bad comb-over. An oxygen tube ran from his nose to a device on his belt. His specialty was remote system hacking. He belonged to several black ops hacker networks and would be responsible for cracking any of Pangaea’s security systems, as well as handling the strike team’s communications and emergency response software.

  Silva, aka the Butcher of Luna, was a man in his late fifties with tanned, leathery skin and white hair. He was the assassination consortium’s point man. He would relay updates back to the operation’s commander, General Xi. He could fill in for the trigger men or pilot the frigate should something go wrong. McKenzie disliked him immediately. The man acted more like a babysitter than an active participant, and his cold black eyes reminded McKenzie of a serpent. Intuition told him, this was the only man on the team he’d have to watch closely.

  The Boys, as Rota called them, had smuggled additional gear with them. This included spray-on special ops body armor, the kind intelligence services and the emperor’s family used, as well as several nano-skin masks. The later could perfectly replicate a 3D scan of an individual’s face over the wearer’s. The end result could fool any security facial scanner. Suitcases bulged with the latest designer clothing to help everyone who was sneaking into Pangaea blend in.

  McKenzie went to speak, but Silva cut him off. The old man’s voice was cold and gravely with a slight Scandinavian accent. “Captain McKenzie here will dock with Pangaea in two days. You all will disembark and neutralize the targets one hour before Premier Tang’s grand birthday. The frigate’s electronic warfare array will be used to jam all communications on the resort, until we have confirmation that the Premier is dead. Then, General Xi will make an announcement over the secure channel that we are to return to Jupiter and land at the Beijing Archipelago.”

  “And then the people will rejoice at what a mess we’ve made of things,” said Costas in a sarcastic tone.