by Jason Winn
“You’re a foolish idealist, Monroe. You think you can cozy up to the EU or India and rebuild the American Dream? It’s over. It’s been over for a long time, now. You just won’t let it go.”
“I know,” Cougar shouted. He could feel his face turn red now. “And bastards like you killed it. You’re the ones that started the Solar War. You’re the ones that closed down the universities and fought to keep the global power grid out of the country. You’re the ones that privatized the military and state governments and put your fucking church in charge of the supreme court. That. Was. You.”
“Why so angry, Mr. Monroe?”
Hearing that, Cougar thought he might just be able to kill Tennent’s goon squad standing in his yard. His hand twitched. He could do it. It would feel good. But the snipers would get him. And Tennent would still be alive. Trading his life for a few thugs was a bad deal. He took a deep breath.
“As I said, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Have it your way. I guess it doesn’t matter anyway. In a few hours, I’ll have irrefutable proof that it was someone you sent there. Goodbye.”
The screen went blank. The goons turned and walked silently away.
Walking around Pangaea, Silva felt a burst of energy in his old bones. He’d spent the last thirty years wandering forgotten colonies drifting around Venus and Mercury, antiquated self-sustaining science outposts home to squatters and anarchists, hoping for a patron. But no one wanted to hire the Butcher of Luna. Too much liability when a man has such a notorious past.
The best offer came from the head of product development at Nobel Adult Entertainment, Farson Gitt, a disgusting toad of a man who wanted the Butcher to bed his porn star wife, Edra, on camera. The woman wasn’t unattractive, but a Russian naval commissar, even a disgraced one, had a little pride. He wasn’t going to be remembered as a pornographic novelty.
His luck changed six months ago when he answered a peculiar contract request from Rota. He knew the man through black market networks, but never met him. Rota offered him squad leader for the coup, a chance to see some real action again. A week later he was under the knife, getting a new face and muscular enhancements. And through the help of a sonic neurosurgeon, all his PTSD from the Solar War was removed. His body rejuvenated and mind clear for the first time in decades, he set to work putting together and training a team of assassins.
A substantial payday was less than an hour away. When the targets were dead, he’d collect his payment and perhaps become a military adviser to the new Chinese emperor, or maybe even a board member for a multinational security company.
They made their way through the tranquil Pangaea streets, passing monitors with displays of the Beijing Archipelago celebrations off Ganymede. Women danced in unison, dressed in vibrant gowns, while highlights of the emperor’s hundred-and-fifty-year rule played on other screens next to images of the resort’s luxury experiences.
He gathered his men outside the party. The music coming from the imperial residence was rhythmic, filling the entire neighborhood with a festival atmosphere.
“I want you each close enough to hold hands with the targets,” Silva said in a low voice. “There will be over a thousand people in there, including soldiers and bodyguards.”
At the VIP gate entrance, Silva and the men flashed their badges as they glided through the security scanners. The scanning tech was several generations behind his men’s concealment measures; all it detected was their clothing and body vitals.
A pair of young hostesses beckoned them inside, murmuring a welcome.
Silva forced a smile and brushed past the girls. They wound through a twilight garden filled with genetically altered orchids, roses, and lilies. Cartoonish animals jumped and frolicked throughout the garden, scampering up to guests to be petted before running off to play with one another among the flowers. The air flickered with fluorescent songbirds darting between the trees.
The garden opened into a courtyard brimming with socialites. Beyond that, the imperial residence rose up from a rocky foundation made to look like an ancient Chinese countryside, complete with waterfall. Silva noticed a railing off to the left. Twenty feet below him, another party was in full swing. This one was for the non-VIP resort guests, well-heeled tourists hoping to get a glimpse of one of the solar system’s most powerful men.
“Where’s the prince?” asked Costas.
“He’s not scheduled to arrive for another hour. Good thing. Security will be even worse then.”
“I’ve got Ms. Stewart,” said Lin. His voice was almost robotic. He rubbed his thigh that concealed his pistol.
“Good,” said Silva. “Get close to her. The rest of you fan out and find the others. Wait for my signal.”
As they walked off, Silva checked his pocket for the transmitter.
Within fifteen minutes, Lin, Shihao, and Costas were mere feet of their targets, making polite conversation with other partygoers. Silva took a moment to study Ms. Stewart, a tall redhead with perfect skin and a brilliant smile. Her eyes dripped with confidence, dismissively waving off advances from a drunken old man in a Korean general’s uniform. With all her wealth, she could buy Pangaea ten times over. Silva decided he hated the decadent woman, how she’d used her power and influence to ensure the emperor’s reign well beyond his years. Her bodyguards were good, staying a respectful distance away, yet their eyes darted in all directions scanning for threats. Lin stood behind the preening bitch, conversing with a group of men dressed in corporate formal wear.
Director La Paz seemed the complete opposite of Stewart. He was short, fat, and hugging and kissing everyone who approached him. His big stomach bounced up and down with every new round of jokes and laughter. He wore old ocular implants where his eyes used to be, coin-sized lenses that spun constantly, trying to refocus on whatever he was looking at next. Costas stood next to a pair of women waiting to talk to the jolly electronics magnate.
Admiral Yong sat in a chair, cane resting across his lap. A line of military men from several nations gathered around the old man as he held court. He spoke with steady hands, recreating naval engagements from his youth. His thin hair covered liver spots on the top of his head. But his eyes were sharp and his teeth as white as pearls. In his formative years, he was a ward of the emperor and remained one of the royal family’s closest military advisers. Shihao hovered directly behind Yong, so close he could reach out and pat the old man on his skeletal head. His hand a centimeter from the pistol compartment in his thigh.
As Silva surveyed the grounds, he noticed mech-suited infantry at the far edges of the courtyard. In their enameled armor, they stood still as oak trees, a reminder to all that this was a place of safety and security. The elite needn’t fear any acts of violence. The overt show of force was ridiculous, in Silva’s mind. The armored suits were for open field warfare or boarding Jupiter-class ships, not personal protection. Did the Indian prime minister walk down his capital streets on Mars with a hover tank at his side? No.
There were imperial bodyguards milling about the crowd. They were so obvious, barely sipping their drinks while constantly looking over their shoulders, the obtuse angles of machine pistols poking out from under their clothing.
Silva checked his watch. It was time to begin. A deep calm rippled through his body. He sent a message to McKenzie to kill communications in and around Pangaea.
A moment later, the monitor screens throughout the residence went blank. Several gasps rose up from the crowd. Silva reached for his transmitter.
Axel rose from behind the couch to see two men with pistols to the kids’ heads. Who in the hell had these two pissed off?
A cocky man in a suit and an open-collar shirt stood behind them. He had olive skin and jet-black hair sticking up in stylish spikes. Two of their comrades lay on the floor, pools of blood expanding around their limp bodies. The smell of gun smoke filled the air. Shell casings littered the tile floor.
“I am Inspector Gilmar Britto of the Brazilia
n Republic. Put down your weapons.”
Axel kept his pistol trained on Britto. “No.”
“Ravel and Jean-Baptiste Rudeaux are enemies of the state. They are coming with us.” Gilmar had a smug look on his face. The kind of a man who was used to being in charge. Axel measured him. He had thirty pounds on the shorter man.
“I’m afraid I can’t let you take them,” said Axel.
“Mr. Nash, I have you outnumbered three to one.”
Axel flinched at the mention of his name. “Used to be five to one.”
Britto frowned at this. “I’m going to give you until the count of three to throw down your weapon and place your hands over your head. You are responsible for the attack on Tugarin Security forces, friends of mine. Their security AI identified you.”
“Were you the one they were waiting for?”
Britto smirked. “I shouldn’t tell you, but since you and your woman on the floor over there are going to be in a Tugarin jail for the rest of your lives, yes.”
“Why?” Axel only had a few pieces of the puzzle. While it was obvious the boy was involved in some light espionage, it wasn’t entirely clear who he was stealing from.
“Your friend, Jean-Baptiste here, thought he was receiving classified information from one of our top chemical firms. We’ve been surveilling him for several weeks now. We had an undercover officer from Tugarin Security pose as a rogue scientist and give him industrial secrets.”
“What kind of secrets?”
“That is all I am going to tell you, Mr. Nash. Now, put down the gun and be reasonable.”
Axel considered his options. He could try shooting the men with guns pointed at Ravel and Jean-Baptiste. But if a round went stray or one of them got a shot off in the split second he needed to kill both men, one or both of the kids could die.
“I can kill the girl first if you like. We don’t really need her. She was just window dressing.”
Axel said nothing, considering his next move.
“Ahh,” said Britto, “maybe this will convince you your position is hopeless.” He produced a phone. “My friend on the street can simply have a platoon of resort security up here in a matter of seconds. Mendes, come in.” There was no response. “Mendes?”
Britto stared at his phone. He muttered something about a bad signal.
It’s happening, thought Axel. Step one, kill communications.
Three concussive booms could be heard in the distance. Axel immediately recognized them as explosions, not fireworks. That was followed by the sounds of gunfire echoed from the street. Next came shouting and sirens and louder gunfire. The men pointing guns at the kids became distracted. They looked up toward the window.
Britto looked confused. “Stay on them!” he shouted to his men as he crossed the room to the windows. Axel saw his opening. He wanted to say something to Devon, who was still on the floor, but he dared not take his eyes off Britto. One of the men looked up to the window again.
Axel lunged at Britto. He wrapped his arm around the man’s waist and spun him toward the men holding guns. They raised their weapons and pointed them at Axel and Britto.
“Don’t shoot!” Britto screamed.
Axel put a round in the one over Ravel. The man fell backward, spraying bullets into the ceiling.
The second man opened up on Axel, but he ducked to the floor. Britto danced as the automatic gunfire tore into his chest. The windows behind him shattered.
Axel went to one knee and dropped the shooter. The kids shook in their seats, disbelief across their faces.
While the room was quiet, there was chaos in the streets below.
Silva aimed his narrow-band transmitter at Lin and pressed a button. Bang! A blinding flash enveloped Lin and Ms. Stewart. Smoke clouded the air. Blood and body parts flew in all directions. Stunned people spooked like frightened cats, eyes wide, mouths open, arms over their heads.
Not wasting the element of surprise, Silva aimed at Shihao, who was still directly behind Admiral Yong. The soldiers around the old man had taken aggressive postures, scanning the now frantic crowd for signs of danger. A split second later, they were all enveloped in a flash of light.
Turning to La Paz, Silva caught Costas staring right back at him. He knew what was happening. The “body armor” he was wearing was a suicide vest. Silva stared back. Time stopped as terrified partygoers scattered in slow motion. Screams stretched out into moans. And in that moment Silva grinned back at his team member. He raised his transmitter.
First rule of assassinations, old buddy. Kill the assassins.
A crowd rushed between the two of them. Costas broke into a run at Silva, while reaching into his bag for the weapon inside. Rage burned in his eyes. A crowd collapsed around La Paz.
Silva pressed the button. His eyes burned with the light of explosion. He felt bits of flesh pelting his face right as the blast knocked him to the ground.
After a few seconds, Silva found his feet, stood up, and desperately looked around for La Paz. The grounds were now a current of screaming-mad people stampeding toward the garden and onward to the main streets.
Silva caught the flicker of metal from La Paz’s eye lenses. Blood trickled from one of his ears. The fat man’s lips flapped as he barked orders to his bodyguards. His thick protectors formed a human shield around him. They punched and kicked people out of their way, cutting through the throng of humanity. Gunfire erupted a few yards away. A man in a tuxedo collapsed next to Silva, blood pulsing from a hole in his neck. Costas was nowhere to be found.
Alarms began to sound all over the resort. The blank monitor screens came alive with warnings and emergency procedures, and maps to the nearest escape pods and landing bays.
Silva chased after La Paz, leveling people as they strayed into his path. The man had to die today. A woman gave Silva a dirty look for being pushy. He didn’t hesitate and punched her in the throat. Her husband saw this and ran at Silva. Not wanting to get into a never-ending brawl, Silva quickly closed his long coat, pulled up a hood hidden in the collar and pressed a button in the sleeve. The trans-camo fabric activated and he disappeared. The man lunged at where Silva had been standing, only to miss and crash into other people trying to get away.
“Silva,” said Chang from the ship, “what’s the status?”
“Had a slight complication. No bother, though. I’m about to set things right.”
“Were those explosions I heard?”
Silva killed the connection to Chang and focused on following La Paz.
Invisible, he had an easier time getting through the crowd. He still punched and kicked people in his way, but they had no way to retaliate against an invisible assailant.
La Paz and his entourage made it to the main street. Silva eventually scrambled his way right behind the group. He turned to look back at the imperial residence. Smoke billowed up and the two mech infantry at the main gate swept the fleeing crowd for targets.
“Stay close to me,” Axel shouted when they reached the lobby.
Outside, the streets were choked with honking cars and people running for the docking bays. Gunfire echoed in the distance. Smoke rose above the trees from the direction of the imperial residence.
Ravel screamed when she saw a beautiful woman lying in the street. Tire tracks ran across her back. She stumbled over to the woman and kneeled. Axel grabbed her shoulder and pulled her up.
“We don’t stop,” he said to her. “Not for any reason.” He turned to Devon who looked as calm as a placid lake. “What’s the best way back to the ship?”
Devon responded with a few blinks before pointing to a grove of trees. A stone path led through the trees. “That leads to a service shed. We can get below the streets in there.”
“Come on,” said Axel as he led the way.
A gentle voice spoke over intercoms. “Attention. Attention. There has been a security incident. Please shelter in place. Security personnel are working to address the issue.”
The video monitors that ha
d been showing highlights of the Chinese emperor’s birthday celebration were now flashing a red-band warning to seek shelter.
They were about to cross the street when a car came plowing through the crowd. Bodies flew into the air. People lunged to get out of the way. The car’s windshield was smashed and streaked with blood. It careened past Axel’s group and slammed into another car. Metal and glass shot into the air.
As Axel looked up, he glimpsed spacecraft crisscrossing one another outside the protective dome. Ships were leaving in a hurry, the elite fleeing, fearing they’d be next.
Axel grabbed Ravel’s arm and pulled her through the screaming and battered crowd. They made it across the street before the staccato thunderclap of auto cannons sounded in the distance. The prince was making his exit, that or the assassins were being pursued. No matter, the prince’s status was of no consequence. Axel had to get these kids to the Zulu Dancer.
Thick palm fronds slapped at their faces as Axel stayed on the narrow path. They rounded a corner to find a squat maintenance building no larger than a shed. Two uniformed security guards were waving select people through the door. They held automatic rifles. A small group of people waved ID cards in front of the men. One man approached with his woman in tow. The guard looked at the man’s badge and pushed him away.
Axel drew his pistol and shot both men in the head. They slumped to the ground. The group turned and looked at him in stunned silence.
“Through the door, go,” he shouted, pushing Ravel and Devon forward. He snatched a rifle off one of the guards, along with a pair of magazines. Jean-Baptiste followed. His eyes were wide with terror. “Devon, lead the way to the ship.”
His words were punctuated with gunfire ripping through the thick foliage. A second later a fat man in a tuxedo and gold jewelry, flanked by armed bodyguards, broke into the little clearing. Alex pushed Jean-Baptiste through the door.
