No Graves for Heroes

by Jason Winn

  A long tube with a nozzle at the end dropped from the ceiling. One of the men grabbed the nozzle and jammed it into a hole on the side of the crate. A few seconds later, blue gel seeped from cracks in the now-still crate which was then lifted and placed on top of several others. The two men produced and lit cigarettes.

  A droopy-faced man stood up from his chair behind the counter and looked Axel up and down. A metal plate covered half of his bald head. His hand went to a large pistol holstered on his site. His other held a cigarette.

  “Speak English?” asked Axel.

  There was a long silence as the man took a long drag off his cigarette. “Of course,” he replied in a thick Russian accent.

  “I’m looking for a brother and sister. Hoping we can make an arrangement.”

  The man looked down at a dingy monitor. “Names.”

  “Ravel and Jean-Baptiste Rudeaux.”

  The man didn’t bother to type anything in. He simply looked up at Axel and blew out a cloud of smoke. “They’re here.”

  “I’d like to pay their fine, or whatever.”

  “Or whatever,” the man said in a mocking tone. “Who are you with?”

  “Let’s just say I’m a concerned friend.”

  “You their father?”

  “No. I just need to take them off your hands.”

  “I cannot do that.”

  “Why not?”

  A second man appeared from the other side of a stack of crates. He darted over to the counter. He was a head taller than the droopy-faced clerk, with thick shoulders and his left hand had what looked like tentacles in place of fingers. Digital tattoos covered his arms and neck.

  “I am the manager. What do you want?” His voice was electronic sounding, as if he had a throat implant.

  The clerk leaned over and whispered something into the bigger man’s ear.

  The big man flashed a sneer. “Those two aren’t going anywhere. Now get the hell out of here.”

  For a second, Axel thought about ripping out his pistol and just shooting these two, but the guards on the cat walks had taken an interest in the exchange. Their weapons were unslung and their fingers were on the triggers. Instead, he gave Tentacle Fingers an icy stare. “That’s how you want to play it, Ivan?”

  “Who is Ivan? What are you talking about? You an American? You sound like a fucking American.” The man spat at Axel’s feet. “Fucking loser, get out before I have you shot.” The man became so enraged, he switched to swearing in Russian.

  Axel turned on his heal and walked out. It had been a long time since he killed a Russian. He wouldn’t need the Hijack. Memories of the Battle of Luna came storming back and all he could feel were the controls for the Heinz’s railguns in his hands. He wanted that feeling again.

  Axel heard the door to Tugarin Security lock behind him. A train of freight trucks lumbered past him. An idea flickered in his head. He dialed Devon as he started jogging to find an open loading dock.

  “Hey, baby,” said Devon. There was crowd noise behind her.

  “Where are you?”

  “Shopping. Got to keep up appearances, right?”

  “Shopping for what?”

  What the hell could a squib possibly need? he wondered.

  “Oh, just some jewelry.”

  “Um, okay. Can you access the logistics network in the lower levels?”

  There was a pause. “Yes. What do we need?”

  “I need one of these freight trucks. Can you control them?”

  “Let me see…Yes. I’ll take that one. Just charge it to my room.”

  “Hey, can you focus here?” Axel hissed. “We’re kind of trying to get the hell out of here.”

  “Sorry, baby. Okay. You’re going to need to plug your phone into a truck. The security on those would take a while.”

  “You can get into the network, but not the trucks?”

  “Some of them are carrying millions of dollars of cargo, they’re locked down pretty good and—”

  “I get it. Fine.”

  Axel found an open loading dock. Through the bay’s blue force field, he could see a cargo ship docked with its wide doors open. Drone carts raced back and forth between the cargo ship and the freight truck. Everything was in boxes, so Axel could not make out the items being loaded.

  “What am I looking for?” asked Axel.

  “There’s a green panel on the front of the truck. Open it and connect your phone to the jellyfish interface inside.”

  Axel knew the jellyfish interface was a universal port adapter for computer access. The clear sponge-like connector allowed for almost any device to connect. Just push it into the spongy bulb and the device was connected. It reminded Axel of stiff pudding.

  He found the green panel and tore off the front plate after a few whacks with the butt of his pistol. The jellyfish interface was right in front of him. He put his phone on speaker and pressed the business end into the sponge.

  “And, we’re good,” said Devon. “What now?”

  “I want you to smash this thing, at full speed, through the cargo door of Tugarin Security.”

  “You got it, hun. Carmel mochaccino, large.”

  “Are you ordering goddamn coffee?”

  “What else do you want me to do? Sit in the room all day? That wouldn’t look very good.”

  “Can you even drink coffee?”

  “I’m not really supposed to. But it’s all about the image.”

  “Let’s just go.”

  Axel pulled the submachine pistol from his back pocket, unfolded it, and racked a round. He felt his senses sharpen as the truck moved forward. He broke into a run to keep up. He looked over his shoulder to see several drone carts, boxes still attached, take off after the big truck, like a flock of baby ducks chasing their momma duck.

  After a few minutes, they were rounding the corner. There was a huge crash as the truck annihilated the cargo door of Tugarin Security. Axel raised his weapon and slid between the truck and the door. Men shouted. The front counter had been thrown clear to the other end of the warehouse. The droopy-faced clerk was splattered against the front of the truck. The front panels of the truck bulged from cargo being thrown forward on impact. The air smelled of fish.

  Axel immediately scanned for the catwalk guards. They were looking down at the truck. He opened fire in two short bursts. They each fell over the side, landing on piles of blue crates. Sparks flew as bullets ricocheted off the truck’s metal sides.

  Axel scanned the main floor. Tentacle Hand was shooting from behind a pile of crates. Axel wanted to shout something to the effect of “How do you like America now, bitch?” but he let his weapon do the talking. The man’s head exploded and he collapsed backward.

  Someone shouted, “Get him!” in Russian.

  Axel scanned for targets. Taser rounds ripped through the air, their electric-blue steaks slamming into the side of the mangled truck. One hit from those and he’d be wishing they were live ammo. The Russians wouldn’t let him die easy.

  He rolled to the closest pile of blue crates. A flicker of movement caught his eye. A beast of the man charged him, Taser pistol in his hands. The man roared as he closed the distance.

  Axel emptied the clip into the man’s chest, right as something slammed across his back. Axel’s legs went limp and he crashed to the concrete floor. He heard the whoosh of something cutting through the air. He rolled just in time to miss the tip of a stun stick.

  A giant of a man stood over him. His eyes burned with murderous rage. With the flick of his wrist, Axel performed a combat reload as the man raised the stun stock above his head for another.

  He raised the submachine gun and pulled the trigger. The hammer snapped.

  “Fuck!” shouted Axel. He rolled to his right as the stun stick crashed to the ground. Sparks flew up as the muscle-ripping electricity discharged.

  Axel rolled back as the brute wound up for another attack. In a second Axel was on his feet. The man roared and charged, stun stick extended l
ike a lance. Axel charged. At the last second, he sidestepped the stun stick and rammed the barrel of his machine pistol into the man’s open mouth. The stun stick fell to the floor as the attacker tried to rip the gun from Axel’s hands. Axel drove the man backward, while ripping the pistol’s bolt back to clear the dead round.

  They crashed into a pile of crates. The bolt flew forward, chambering a fresh round. Axel pulled the trigger. Chunks of meat and bone shot out of the back of the man’s head.

  Gasping for breath, Axel dislodged his weapon from the man’s mangled jaw, and scanned the room. There was no one else.

  As the adrenaline of the fight melted away, Axel realized there were hundreds of crates in the storeroom. He looked down at one to see a cryptic label with numbers and Cyrillic characters. He needed to hurry. There was the very real possibility that these goons had buddies or at least a security system connected to the resort’s main computer systems. Station security men could be on their way right now. A quick glance at the mangled desk revealed that the clerk’s computer screen was on.

  Axel checked it. It was still on the screen where the clerk had looked up Ravel and Jean-Baptiste. He found their crate numbers, eighty-one and eighty-two.

  A few moments later, he found the crates. He pushed the ones stacked on top of them to the floor and pulled the kids down to lay side by side.

  Aw shit, he thought. They would be frozen by the Cortozine. He had no idea where the revive agent was. Probably in a tube up in the ceiling. Nothing could ever be easy, could it?

  He ripped a pair of gloves off one of the dead Russians and flipped open the latches. Blue gel oozed over the sides, and Axel breathed a sigh of relief seeing that the kids were at least in one piece. Ravel lay in her case, hands bound, with her long hair matted across her face. With a finger, Axel pulled back her hair, to reveal her face frozen in horror. She must have been so scared to be thrown in this coffin, in pure blackness, only to be met with the numbing sensation of the Cortozine swelling up around her. Not being a soldier, she must have thought she was going to die.

  Jean-Baptiste was more serene. He looked like he’d passed out when they threw him into his crate.

  Axel thought for a moment. Where could he find that revive agent to bring them out of their chemically induced stasis? Then it hit him. Axel pulled the tube containing Cougar’s Hijack. He was pretty sure it would work. Then again it could kill them.

  Axel gritted his teeth and cocked his head back and forth. The choice was made as alarms sounded in the distance. He popped the top of the tube and slid out the syringe. There was no time to guess their bodyweight. He fell to his knees and stabbed Ravel in the neck, shooting her half the total dose. He did the same to Jean-Baptiste.

  Ten seconds ticked by. The sirens grew louder. Axel reloaded his submachine pistol and pulled the hand cannon from his belt. Whoever came through the snarled opening to Tugarin Security was getting lit up. Javelin’s words echoed in his head, “So, as you can see, Mr. Nash, there is a lot riding on you.”

  With a scream of pure horror, Ravel shot up from her crate. Her hands whipped at her face, trying to clear the Cortozine from her eyes, nose, and mouth. Axel looked around the mess of the place and found a full bottle of vodka. He upended it over the girl’s head, washing away most of the blue gel.

  She started yelling something in French, gasping for air.

  Axel took her hands. “Shhh, you’re going to be all right.”

  She looked at him in shock, coughing and wiping her nose.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you out of there.” He wrapped his arm around her chest and heaved her to her feet and out of the case. At that moment, Jean-Baptiste shot up from his case, gasping for air. Axel helped him up as well.

  “American?” Ravel asked in her thick accent.

  “Axel Nash, pleased to meet you.”

  “How did you…where am I?” Ravel asked.

  “I’ll explain everything shortly,” said Axel. “First, we need to get out of here.”

  He walked over to the phone still jammed in the truck’s control panel. “Devon, you still there?”

  “Darling, are you all right?” she asked. “I heard something that sounded—”

  “Not now,” Axel fired back. “Can you still operate this truck?”

  There was a pause. Axel could hear heavy footsteps coming down the main corridor, outside.

  “Yes, I can,” said Devon.

  “Ravel and Jean-Baptiste,” shouted Axel, “allons-y.” He waved his hands toward the open doors. He hoped his French wasn’t too rusty.

  Ravel said something to a still-stunned Jean-Baptiste as Axel opened the cargo doors of the truck. Cartons of fresh fish and ice spilled out from the open doors.

  “Oh mon Dieu,” said Ravel as she climbed in. Jean-Baptiste followed, still wobbly. Axel helped him up.

  “Stop!” a man shouted.

  Axel stuffed his pistol back into his pants and climbed up on the back of the truck. He saw that the brother and sister were more or less safe inside. “Devon, let’s go!”

  “Where?” she called out from the phone.

  “Anywhere. Just go!”

  The truck lurched out of the broken door and turned onto the main corridor. Axel hung out the side of the truck and gasped when he saw a row of security vehicles blocking the corridor.

  “Full speed, Devon!”

  “Hold on.”

  The truck barreled toward the row of police cars. Shots rang out. EMP rifle blasts struck the front of the truck, disabling the electric engine. But it was too late, the massive cargo hauler had already hit top speed.

  Axel braced himself as time seemed to slow. He could make out the frightened security officers in their dark blue uniforms running in all directions. The cars got bigger and bigger as the truck closed in. Several officers spayed gunfire at the truck. Sparks flared as bullets ricocheted.

  Then the impact. There was a terrific boom as the truck smashed into the center car. Metal and plastic splintered on impact. The car flew to one side and smashed into the wall. More security guards opened fire. Bullets punched through the truck’s sides. Axel ducked.

  A hundred meters farther down the corridor, the truck rolled to a stop. Axel jumped down and did a quick injury check. He was okay.

  “Come on, you two,” he shouted.

  There was no reply.

  Smoke filled the corridor from the row of police cars. Fire alarms wailed. The fire suppression system engaged, spraying white foam in all directions. The fluffy streams blotted out any of the security guards trying to get their bearings.

  Axel jumped up on the back of the truck and scanned for the kids. They were slowly getting to their feet. Blood trickled down Jean-Baptiste’s head. Ravel helped him to the edge. Axel grabbed the kid by the belt and hoisted him to the floor. Ravel jumped down.

  Jean-Baptiste started to speak. “Not now,” said Axel.

  He led them to an elevator back up to the main level.

  Weapons rattled and clicked as the assassination squad made last-minute preparations. McKenzie stood on the other side of the doorway, monitoring from the bridge as the docking master guided his frigate into a bay. He noted other moored warships on his monitor, almost all of which were from the Chinese fleet. Old men flexing their muscles, he thought. They were antiques by comparison to the Zhong Kui. Some were old enough to have fought in the Solar Wars. Their captains could just as easily have taken private transports to Pangaea, but these were the ships of vain old men desperate to show their status.

  Fading soldiers looking to gain favor with the emperor’s great-grandson, he thought. He wondered if they fantasized about the man of honor wanting to take a tour of their aging war birds.

  McKenzie smirked. These ships were elegant with their gold dragon scale accents, but there wasn’t one ship that was in his frigate’s class. He could make mincemeat of them all with the push of a button.

  He turned back to see Lin and Shihao, the main assassins. Co
mpartments opened in their thighs and they slid their pistols onto clips, which in turn retracted into their legs and closed. McKenzie had read about imperial assassins and their extensive mechanical and biological upgrades. Compartments opened in the men’s forearms, where extendable knives were stored. How much of them was actual flesh and blood? Rota had assured him there would be no squibs on the mission. Now he wasn’t so sure. He absently tapped the pistol on his hip.

  Silva, dressed in a tuxedo and a black, shimmering jacket that went down to his ankles, appeared next to Costas and dropped a heavy case on the table between the men. He flipped several locks and opened it. “Put these on before you go,” said Silva. He pulled thin gunmetal gray vests from the case. “A little insurance.” He handed them to the assault team.

  Costas eyed him suspiciously. “What’s this?”

  “Mark Nine body armor. Hasn’t even been issued to the military, yet.”

  “You could have given this to me before I got dressed.”

  “No matter, just put it on,” snapped Silva. “If the situation gets hairy, you’ll be thanking me on the ride home.”

  Lin and Shihao obeyed Silva without a word. Costas yanked off his shirt and slid the vest onto his chest. Once it was fastened, he packed a slim shoulder bag with a collapsible assault rifle. He then donned a designer jersey from a Martian soccer team and hoisted the bag over his shoulder.

  When the men finished, Silva produced a tablet. “These are your individual targets.” He tapped a few buttons. McKenzie watched the men’s eyes flutter as their ocular implants flickered. “Director La Paz, of Chang InterSolar Electronics. Julie Stewart, she’s the third-richest woman in the solar system. American ex-patriot, trillionaire owner of the Bank of Ganymede and major financier to the imperial family. Last, Admiral Wang Yong, second-in-command of Chinese joint forces command. Your facial recognition optics should pick them up once we’re in the party.”