No Graves for Heroes

by Jason Winn

  “Not really. I’m supposed to be Canadian. Right?”

  “True. Okay, I’ll think of you as American. I just believe in what Cougar and President Gardner are doing.”

  “What’s that, exactly?”

  “Building us back up into a great nation. I hope at least. We used to be that.”

  “Before the war?”

  “Way before. Over a hundred years before. Before those tyrants took over everything with their fundamentalist bullshit, the corrupt, murderous bastards. They stripped the people of all their rights, burned the Constitution, and turned the place into their own private kingdom. When I was a kid, my grandfather told me about how it used to be, when you could go anywhere you wanted on the internet, say what you wanted to say. A man could strike out on his own and earn a living for his family. He called it the American Dream. I want that. I know a lot of other people want that, too. They’re tired of seeing all these other countries rise up and colonize the solar system. Meanwhile, me and my father and my brother and sister had to grow up learning Bible verses from the Neo Testament and get told how righteous the Petty Family was and how we should all strive to be like them. You grow up and find out it’s all bullshit. You’re just a cog in their machine. By the time most people learn all that, they’re too old or strung out living on government handouts to do anything about it. This is my second chance.”

  “If you were so walled off from the rest of society, how did you learn your life was so bad?”

  “Friends who got out. Their families had some money or valuable skills and they fled to the planets. When I hit sixteen, I was conscripted into the military and got some glimpses for myself. Don’t ever tell a teenager he can’t do something. They’ll find a way to do it.” Axel smiled thinking about sneaking glimpses at EU and Indian movies, showing how the free people lived.

  “You look tired, again,” said Devon. “You should get some sleep, before we get to the spaceport.”

  Axel nodded and wondered if this was going to become a thing between the two of them. She looked young enough to be one of his daughters and yet she was the one sending the old man to bed.

  Blue Shirts, named after the blue uniform of the Revolutionary soldiers and again after Union colors of the Civil War, were men and women sworn to protect the lawful transfer of power from the Petty presidency to that of President-Elect Nathan Gardner. Thousands of true patriots volunteered for this perilous duty, and many paid the ultimate price to rekindle American democracy. Scores of fanatic citizens resisted the election results. It was only with the aid of these selfless heroes, in their signature blue uniforms, that the Petty family’s power over the country was broken.

  A monument to these fearless men and women was erected in downtown Denver, with the promise of one in Washington, DC, should the city ever be returned to normal.

  Reverend Senator Lawson threatened to take the administration to court for pulling down the Fourteen Commandments monument in front of the new capitol building. His face turned red and the veins in his neck bulged. “The people came to that monument for spiritual replenishment,” he bellowed.

  The news anchor, a clean-cut young man with a blue tie and an American flag pin on his lapel, nodded in agreement. “The people hear you, Reverend Senator. President Gardner would be wise to heed your words. Do you think he’s a foreign plant to subvert the grace of the American people?”

  “I have no doubt. My people tell me…”

  Cougar muted the feed. He sat at his desk in the old capitol building, slouching in his chair, watching the Eagle One News channel. He looked over to a blank wall screen, and with a blink on his eye the screen came alive. “Call Director Fernandez,” he said.

  A moment later, FCC Director Fernandez appeared on the screen. He was a young tech savvy activist who had risked his life providing communications assistance to Gardner during the campaign. He was given special permission to return to the country from his base of operations on Luna in order to head up the all but defunct Federal Communications Commission. He was sitting at a table, surrounded by his staff. “Yes, Mr. Monroe.”

  “The president has ordered me to tell you that Eagle One’s broadcast license has been revoked. Terminate their feed immediately, including all satellite, airwave, internet, and subspace means of transmission.”

  “At once, sir,” said Fernandez with a broad smile.

  “And Fernandez—might want to lock all the doors before you hit the kill switch.”

  Fernandez laughed. “The guards are on full alert.”

  “Good man.” Cougar ended the call.

  Cougar liked Fernandez. They’d only met face-to-face once, but the kid hadn’t baulked when President Petty’s people tried to block the FCC offices and started shooting at his motorcade. The Blue Shirts accompanying him swept in and cleared the building. Seventeen Petty loyalists got themselves killed trying to prevent what Cougar had just ordered.

  Ten minutes later Eagle One’s signal went black, replaced with a message “Unable to reach streaming server.”

  “Shame,” said Cougar. The formally state-run media outlet had to know their goose was cooked as soon as Gardner put his hand on the Constitution and took the Oath of Office.

  A wall screen lit up red with the message “Incoming call from Herbert Tennent—urgent.”

  The fly smells shit, Cougar thought.

  Herbert Tennent was the single largest Petty family donor and their chief spiritual adviser, a sort of Christian consulate. The owner of multiple faith-based business—including universities, publishing houses, clothing lines, and football’s Nashville Crusaders—Tennent loved the spotlight and held countless political rallies for the Petty family. The old windbag had been Gardner’s most outspoken critic and the probable orchestrator of the Values Party armed resistance during the transition of power.

  Cougar slouched lower in his seat, and pulled the brim of his high roller hat low enough to almost make it look like he was catching a siesta. “Hello, Herb.”

  “Mr. Monroe, I demand an explanation to the Eagle One outage!” shouted Tennent.

  Cougar couldn’t help but wonder why these guys were always shouting. It had to be from drinking all that Righteous Fire soda. It was, after all, loaded with sugar and caffeine. Although he’d heard rumors, they liked the harder stuff, in private, at their “revival parties,” which was code for putting God’s love inside of fresh virgins, boys and girls. But those were just rumors, supported by hundreds of illegally posted videos.

  “They lost their broadcast license,” said Cougar. “Something about unregulated transmission packets. I’m not a technical person. But the law’s the law.”

  “They’ve been on the air for almost a hundred years. They are a national treasure of fair and balanced news and enlightenment.”

  “Yes, I’m sure the war widows who are getting fleeced for their pension checks will be lost at sea until we get this worked out.”

  “Worked out?” Tennent’s eyes looked like they were going to bulge out of his head.

  “Well, they might get going again, if they can fix the transmission thing. Is that why you called?”

  “No, actually.”

  Cougar looked up at Tennent’s doughy face on the screen. The man had a thick mop of ghost-white hair and tanned skin the color of copper.

  “Then what is it? I’m a busy man.”

  “My sources tell me there is an illegal operation going on right now.”

  A bolt of adrenaline shot through Cougar. He hadn’t expected this. Tennent was still deeply connected with the remaining Values Party members. The statement meant they were leaking classified information to people like Tennent and possibly other multinationals.

  “Don’t know anything of the sort. But if I did, the business of government is not for you to interfere with.”

  Tennent’s face softened. “Mr. Monroe, you’re new to national politics, so let me give you some advice. You’d be wise to view me as a friend.”

  “Not a ch
ance. You were part of the problem. Now you’re out and if you’re not careful, maybe we’ll find some things wrong with your businesses. You hear me?” Cougar could feel his face reddening.

  “Careful, Cougar.” Tennent spat the word. “This little hiatus from the Petty family might not last. And when it’s over, there will be scores to settle. You’re on that ledger.”

  “What are you going to do, get your Russian gangster friends to come kill me?” Cougar patted Peace Breaker on his hip. “I’m real scared.”

  Tennent glared through the screen and nodded slowly. “That’s right, play in the deep end. There’s sharks swimming there. And if I find that you or that heathen president of yours are doing anything to jeopardize me or my associates’ interests, we will take a stronger stance.”

  Cougar stood up. “You threatening the president?” He narrowed his eyes. “Am I hearing you right?”

  Tennent flashed a wicked smile. “I would never do that and for the record I am not, nor will I, threaten the president. Can’t say the same for others, though.” With that Tennent ended the call.

  Cougar stared at the blank screen wishing he could reach through it and strangle Tennent in front of his wives and children. Show them all what a coward he was. He believed the show of force by the Blue Shirts and the assertions by the military to stand by the Office of the President was enough to keep the megacorporations in line. It looked like he might be wrong about that.

  The ride from the Nairobi train station to the Obama Spaceport took just under two hours. Axel and Devon were treated to a wilderness overflowing with wildlife. They skimmed over the tops of the acacia trees in an old hover bus with an open top. The ride was shaky, and for the entire trip, Axel had visions of the Chinese tourists falling into the Tidal Basin.

  The driver, a well-fed local with sunglasses and a backward baseball cap, seemed to be able to talk endlessly, never once pausing to take a breath.

  “Those rhinos, down there, they were almost extinct a century ago. The Chinaman came in here and almost wiped them out. But we showed them.” He raised his fist and flexed his bicep. “No more horn poaching for you, Chinaman. Making your little dicks hard for your women. The elephants are our nation’s pride. There are more elephants in Kenya than any other country on the continent. See the giant tusks on that one. He’s the big boy. You don’t mess with him.”

  Axel tuned the driver out and turned to Devon. “I’m guessing you’ve never been in space.”

  “No, but I have files on space travel.”

  “If you were an actual person, I’d tell you there is a big difference between reading a book about war and experiencing it, but in your case…”

  “Does our ride at least have gravity fields? I don’t know if I can handle weightlessness.”

  “I’m sure it does,” as soon as Axel said that however, he realized he had no idea what lay in store for them.

  “We’re almost there,” the driver shouted. He looked over his shoulder at the two of them and pointed to metal spires rising up from the horizon.

  Axel felt a touch of queasiness hit his stomach. It had been a few years since he’d been in space. Seeing the massive ships come into focus made the insanity of what he was about to do all the more real. The mission had only been a thought, like thinking about an upcoming trip to the doctor or waiting for a landing craft to depart from the carrier ship. Those things were unpleasant, but they weren’t real until you were standing at the door. Now, he was about to board a ship and go risk his life.

  “Obama Spaceport,” shouted the driver.

  Axel and Devon stepped to the front of the bus and, while it was growing dark, the two gazed at a sprawling complex of control towers, endless strips of tarmac, and spacecraft ranging from small pleasure craft to hulking cargo haulers as large as skyscrapers, all parked in groups. Axel tried to figure out which of the ships would be taking them to Titan.

  Lights flickered from landing zones and communications towers. A circus of activity buzzed around various craft, security and supply drones flew in all directions, and maintenance workers shot lasers across hulls, which Alex recognized as 3D scanners looking for any voids in the protective outer layers. Sparks cascaded down from a large passenger liner as a worker welded an antenna in place.

  “My favorite part is coming up,” said the driver. “We are just in time.” He smiled wide and his eyes lit up in anticipation.

  “What’s going to happen?” asked Devon.

  Axel responded with a shrug.

  “There it is,” said the driver.

  With that, the entire tarmac, which was several square kilometers, by Axel’s estimate, began to glow with white light. Slowly, the light intensified until the entire area was as bright as first-morning light. There was a warm radiance to it.

  “Brilliant,” said Axel.

  The driver began to maneuver them to a landing space on the edge of the softly glowing tarmac. “You see, they cannot have overhead lights for safety reasons, so they said, ‘Hey, we need light to work through the night, let’s put it beneath the ground.’”

  The craft landed and the doors opened. The driver helped load their bags onto a trolley before shaking their hands and walking off toward a terminal.

  “Mr. Nash,” said a man with a thick East African accent.

  Axel turned to see a short, stocky bald man with a tiny scar on his cheek. He wore a loose-fitting linen shirt and matching pants. “Yes.”

  “I’m Captain Jojo Danso. Mr. Monroe arranged a ride for you on my ship.”

  “Oh, great. Where is it?”

  Danso led the way and after a short tram ride, Axel and Devon stood before a massive passenger liner. “The Zulu Dancer,” said Danso with all the pride of a happy father.

  Axel felt like crying. The ship was almost as large as the cargo haulers he saw on the other side of the spaceport. Portholes dotted the sides for several decks. It looked like one giant tube with engines sticking out the back. Actual rocket engines, Axel thought. Modern space technology had abandoned those for dark matter energy reactors decades before.

  “I can see you are a little hesitant,” said Danso. “Don’t worry, Mr. Nash. As a great warrior once said, ‘She may not look like much, but she’s got it where it counts.’” He laughed a high-pitched, girlish laugh and led his passengers toward an elevator to take them up the side of the ship to an airlock. About a dozen men joined them for the ride up the elevator. Axel identified them as crew. There was no way a ship that size had just the pilot. Several carried duffel bags, as well as mechanics’ kits, ship-board coms gear, and several cases of Guinness beer.

  “And,” continued Danso on the elevator, tapping Axel’s arm to get his attention, “yes, there is a modern propulsion reactor on there. I like to keep the old engine bevels for nostalgia’s sake. This was once a proud ship of the Kenyan aristocracy. You will be traveling in antique comfort. Most of the decks have gravity.”

  Axel’s eyebrows lifted at the word ‘antique’ being used to describe anything on a spaceship. He turned to Devon. “You see, baby, this is a fine star bird. We’ll be in the lap of luxury.” He stifled a gasp as they passed through the airlock door, where the duroplastic seal was visibly chipped in several places. “Nothing to worry about.”

  Captain Danso graciously showed Axel and Devon to their quarters. The crew quarters, despite the ship’s rather dingy exterior, were quite comfortable. And the captain had been right, the rooms were furnished in truly antique décor. The beds were four posters, made of real wood, featuring scrollwork depicting lizards, tropical plants, and pineapples. The handles on the dressers were carved to look like seashells. And the mirror was framed by a pair of gold seahorses.

  “This deck was Caribbean-themed,” said Danso. He stood on his heels, hands in his pockets and belly sticking out.

  “It’s very nice,” said Devon. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

  Danso took her hand and kissed it. “You’re very welcome. If you should need anything
at all, please buzz the bridge.”

  With that, he turned on his heel and walked out.

  Axel opened the door that adjoined their rooms and brought in Devon’s things. He laid them on the bed, while stealing glances out the windows, which were much larger than they looked from the tarmac.

  “This place is something else,” he said.

  “The ship or the spaceport?” asked Devon.

  “Both, I guess. We never spent any time over here in the service. Africa was considered a neutral to hostile area. It wasn’t till years later that I learned they were just tired of the American government bullshit of pushing little countries around. If they found out you were an American, they’d beat you up if you were lucky, or worse, stab you and leave you for the lions.”

  “Goodness.”

  “Yeah, we kind of did it to ourselves. At least that’s what I read. When I was in, we were infallible, and it was everyone else that was wrong.”

  “Now?”

  “Now is iffy. I think everyone is taking a wait and see approach.”

  “I’m glad they didn’t stab us. I’ve been stabbed. You wouldn’t like it.”

  Axel looked out the hallway as he heard someone approach. One of the crew, who hadn’t ridden up with them on the elevator, walked past the room’s door. The man glanced absently into their room and Axel had a memory flash.

  “Milo?” Axel shouted out.

  The man stopped and popped his head into the door, a shocked look on his face. “Yes, sir?”

  “That is you, Milo…um…” Axel snapped his fingers. “Milo Omar.”

  The man looked confused. “Yes, that’s right. How do you know my name?”

  “You’re Jaali’s younger brother. I worked with him on Venus. Holy shit, man. How are you?”

  Milo cracked a wide smile. “Oh my goodness. You worked with Jaali at the New London Station?”

  “I did. Yes. He and I drank quite a bit of warm Guinness together. How is he?”

  “Retired. Getting fat in his backyard.”