by Jason Winn
Axel was about to respond when he saw Danso’s face freeze in mid-rant. “What?”
Danso reached out and pulled open Axel’s jacket. “You’re bleeding.”
“What?” exclaimed Axel as he swatted Danso’s hand away and opened his jacket. Blood covered the right side of his shirt.
“I’ll get a first aid kit,” said Danso.
Axel pulled off his jacket and shirt. A stray bullet must have caught him. It was a grazing shot across the hardened, yellowish skin on his right side. The old fake patch job had no nerve endings, so he hadn’t felt the bullet or the blood.
“Shit,” said Axel. “Must have been an armor-piercing round to go through this jacket.”
Danso appeared with the first aid kit. Axel thanked him and found a bandage. The wound was only a few inches long and thankfully missed his ribs.
“I better go get a new shirt,” said Axel. He started walking back to his room then stopped. “Damn it. I don’t have any new shirts. They’re all floating on Pangaea now.”
“I’m not giving you the one off my back, Nash,” said Danso. He broke into a smile. “But there’s plenty of spare clothing in the crew quarters. You can find one there.”
“You’re hurt,” said Devon as Axel walked into his room.
“Just a scratch,” he replied. “It’s nothing.”
There was a pause as Axel considered the fact that he was wearing a new shirt. He looked down. There was no sign of seepage through the bandage. “How did you see that?”
Devon fluttered her eyes.
“Huh,” Axel grunted. “What else can you do?”
She started to speak and stopped herself. “First tell me about the Battle of Luna.”
“Can’t you look that up or something?”
“Yes, but all the American records were destroyed or locked away.”
“I’m not surprised.” Axel was too tired to put up a fight, so he let out a sigh. “All right.”
Devon’s face was alight with wonder. She sat back in her chair.
“It was a rescue mission. The last two American carrier cruisers, the Petty I and the Petty II—you can tell the Petty Family was keen on naming ships after themselves—were sent with a small escort fleet to the dark side of the moon, where the Russian navy had just finished beating up on an EU orbital hospital and medical frigates. Bastards kept insisting they were really weapons research bases, in spite of UN assertions to the contrary.
“However, American intelligence and the idiot captain of Petty II failed to notice the grid of surface-to-air nukes the Russians had deployed on their dark side moon bases. Their attack on the EU hospital was a trap to lure us in.”
“Which ship were you on?” asked Devon.
“I was on a destroyer called the Heinz with a boarding party of colonial marines. We were going to start picking up survivors in escape pods, once we were close enough. But we never got in range. The Petty I and Petty II were turned into fireballs within seconds. They didn’t stand a chance.” He snapped his fingers. “Sixteen thousand men and women died in an instant.”
In his mind’s eye, he saw the two massive carriers vaporized by a dozen miniature suns. “The shockwaves from the blasts disabled our escort fleet. The Heinz was dead in the water a few seconds later.”
“Was it from the EMP blast?”
“No. There’s shielding for that now. This was a series of shockwaves from each nuke that just pounded the ships. The hulls can’t take that much raw energy blasting them over and over. Fires broke out. Men were screaming to abandon ship. All the bulkhead doors were closing, locking men in at their stations. It was…hell.” His voice was almost a whisper now. “There was this one kid, Marcus, who came crawling up to me as I was trying to reroute power to the escape pods. Half his face was blown off. The other half was just terrified. I wanted to do something for him, but instead I said a prayer that he would die and be put out of his misery.
“I looked out a window and I saw the big Russian interceptors coming for us along with their carriers. Those are nasty ships, look like buzzards. Their stealth tech was so good back then. They were just waiting for us behind all the wreckage of the medical station. I got the escape pods powered back up.”
“I thought you were a marine. What were you doing with the ship’s power?”
“Every man still has to know emergency procedures. I was trained as a backup electrical engineer for emergencies like this one.”
“Oh.”
“A few seconds later, guys are dragging their buddies onto the escape pods and I hear the captain’s voice over the intercom, surrendering to the Russians who are about to come disintegrate us.” A cold chill rolled down Axel’s spine. “But the Russians didn’t stop. They just kept coming. They didn’t give a shit. They opened up on us. And they didn’t need to. They could see the escort fleet was all disabled. The Heinz was the last one to get shot up. Fires broke out in my section. That’s where I got all this.” He pointed to his ragged torso and patches on his arm and shoulder.
“That must have been awful.”
“Yeah, it was. That kind of fire just sticks to you and burns like napalm. Then I got mad. We’d surrendered. The fight was over. Rules of war state quite clearly to refrain from firing on an enemy combatant once they have surrendered. But they were out for revenge for the whippings we’d handed to them. They wanted to feel tough for once. They’d get to say they put the nail in the American coffin.”
Axel felt his fists tighten and jaw muscles twitching.
“But I had something for them. After I managed to snuff out the fires on me, I dragged my burned ass to the fire control room and got it back online. And as their flagship carrier got into range, I put a railgun round right through their bridge.”
Axel relaxed for a moment remembering seeing the shaft of tungsten steel slam into the coning tower and watching metal shred and the ship start to list. “They thought we were disabled. Nope.”
“Then what happened?”
“I made it to an escape pod and aimed myself for the light side bases controlled by the Japanese. Barely made it. Twenty-one thousand, three hundred and fifteen Americans were in the last Battle of Luna. One hundred and twelve lived to see the sun again. I think the entire engagement lasted fifteen minutes.”
“What happened to the Russians?”
“Like the history books say, they got the shit kicked out of them by the EU’s Mercedes Armada.”
He looked up at Devon and flashed a wicked grin.
The monitors in Axel’s room came back to life, showing the chaos of the imperial birthday celebration. Blood soaked courtiers and soldiers ran toward a camera, thunderous gunfire could be heard over the screams of the frantic and the dying. A banner at the bottom of the screen read “Chinese Emperor Assassinated.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Axel. Devon sat on the bed next to him, marveling at the chaos on the screen.
“Whatever was jamming our communications is gone,” she said.
“Must have been part of the fun back on Pangaea.” Axel thought for a moment. “That tech is usually reserved for military.”
He was glad that whatever was responsible for that was behind them.
“This was the scene moments ago,” said a voice on the news feed.
Axel and Devon stared dumbfounded at the tiny old man swaddled in red silk and perched on a massive jade throne. Tubes ran from his arms and neck, disappearing into the silk cocoon. His long white beard flowed down like an icy waterfall. A moment later, a group of white-clad imperial guards, standing at attention off to one side, unshouldered their ceremonial rifles and opened fire on him. Shards of jade exploded into the air. Men and women screamed. The shriveled man gasped once and slumped over. Then the audience chamber erupted with screams and automatic gunfire.
“We’ve stopped,” said Devon.
Axel jerked his head away from the monitor. “What?”
“Axel!” shouted Danso over the intercom. “Get your American ass up her
e and look at this.”
“More pirates?” asked Devon.
“Unlikely, not this close to a jump gate. Customs patrols usually keep them away.”
“Here.” She handed him a pistol. “Don’t take any chances.”
Axel racked a round and tucked the pistol into his back pocket. “Trying not to. Make sure the kids are okay. If it’s the Brazilians again, we may have to hide them.”
On the bridge, Axel found Danso in a near panic. Sweat rolled down his wide brow. “I just wanted to get home and be rid of you people.”
“Let’s just take a breath and calm down.”
Danso’s face went slack and anger simmered in his eyes. “Calm down? Look at this.” He snapped his fingers at a crew member and the main monitor showed a row of five patrol fighters hovering a few kilometers from the Zulu Dancer.
“They’re hailing us, Captain,” said a man sitting at the coms station.
Danso waved his hand.
“Zulu Dancer,” said a voice in a thick British-Indian accent. “This is Commander Raj of the Godavari Protection Services. Heave to and prepare to be boarded.”
“What right do you have to board my ship?” Danso fired back.
“This is a customs inspection. We see you are carrying a large number of passengers and you are about to cross into Indian-controlled territory.”
“This is international space and I will not be harassed. Interplanetary treaties state that the Belt is subject to maritime law.”
Axel knew this was a dangerous play. Law or no law, when a man is pointing a gun on you, they are the law. He started to speak up to tell Danso to let them board the ship and they could deal with the situation diplomatically. He and the kids could hide until the threat was gone.
There was a long silence. Danso made a cutting motion with his hand. The crew member muted the conversation.
“Danso,” said Axel, “this isn’t a fight you can win. Doesn’t matter if they are in the right or not. Just one of those ships could tear us apart.”
Danso let out a big breath and shook his head. “I don’t like this.”
“Well, I’m reasonably certain they aren’t looking for me or the kids.”
Danso sneered at Axel. “They aren’t here to wish us a safe passage, either.”
“Bribe, shakedown, then?”
“Maybe. Indians are not known for that, though.”
“Captain,” said a crew member.
“What now?”
“They’re backing off.” The monitor switch to three dimensional. The five Indian ships were backing away from the Zulu Dancer.
Danso and Axel looked at the monitor, uncertain of what to make of the retreat. A sixth ship emerged from the jump gate.
“Who is that?” asked Danso.
A sleek black frigate appeared on screen.
Axel squinted at the monitor. He didn’t need to stare long at the ship. It was Chinese. The angles of the craft and the positions of the engines gave it away. While he had never seen this specific model of frigate, he had no doubt of its country of origin.
“Should we try to run?” asked Danso.
“No,” said Axel slowly. “That thing could catch us with its maneuvering thrusters. But what is it doing here?” He thought for a moment. The Indian patrol craft were burning away from the Zulu Dancer toward Ceres, leaving them alone with the mystery warship.
He thought for a moment. If the Chinese wanted the kids, they would have sent their own people to the hotel, not the Brazilians. Then it hit him—the swarm of people in the passenger suites.
“There must be someone on the ship they’re looking for,” he said. “There’s no other explanation. With all the people on board, they have to be looking for someone we took on in the panic.”
“Well, they can have them,” said Danso, frustrated. “They can have all of them, as far as I’m concerned. I just want to get the hell out of here.”
“They’re hailing us, Captain,” said the coms operator.
Danso waved his hand to let the transmission through.
“Zulu Dancer, this is Captain McKenzie of the Chinese Imperial Navy. You are harboring enemies of the Chinese emperor.”
Axel formed a plan in his head.
Danso started to speak, but Axel stopped him and waved for the conversation to be muted. “Don’t give them some asylum shit and quote maritime law. We give up whoever they want and go about our business. But listen to me, Danso. Let them take all the time they want.”
Danso’s face was a mess of confusion. “Why?”
“Just do it!” shouted Axel. He was already in a run back to his cabin.
He ducked inside to find Devon exactly where he left her.
“What is it?” she asked.
“A Chinese frigate. Looks brand-new. I’ve never seen the design before.”
“Was it the one that was jamming us on Pangaea?”
“That’s a good bet. It’s going to have the latest tech installed.”
Devon pursed her lips. “That’s interesting.”
“Why?” Axel didn’t wait for an answer as he produced his data pad and furiously typed in a message. He had no idea if the frigate would jam his transmission, but this was the only card he could play. He hit send and wished the little data packets godspeed on their journey to his old friend Kim.
“You calling Javelin?” she asked. “He have ships he can send?”
“Something like that.”
“Why won’t you tell me?”
He took her by the shoulders. “If you don’t know, they can’t pry it out of you.” That and he didn’t want to get her hopes up, provided squibs were capable of hope.
She smiled. “That’s sweet. Wait. What do you mean, pry it out of me?”
“Where are the kids?”
“The next room.”
Axel bolted from his suite and barged into the cabin for Ravel and Jean-Baptiste. They both jumped in their seats and looked up from the wall monitor.
“All right,” said Axel. “No bullshit this time. What the hell are you two carrying?”
Ravel looked at Jean-Baptiste and shook her head. Jean-Baptiste squirmed in his chair. “I can’t say,” he said.
Axel ripped the pistol from his belt and aimed it at Jean-Baptiste’s kneecap. His voice was a low growl. “This won’t kill you, but you’ll wish you were dead. Now. Tell me why there is a Chinese warship following us.”
Ravel screamed and covered her mouth with her hands. Jean-Baptiste flinched at the sight of the pistol, pulling his legs under him, as if that would shield his knee from the bullet.
“They’re going to board us any minute and I need to know what that Russian gave you in the game. Now!”
The young man finally spoke. “It’s Brazilian tech. It’s got nothing to do with the Chinese, I swear. Papa just sent us to Pangaea to pick it up.”
Ravel cursed in French.
Axel had a thousand questions, especially what the tech was, but there was one question above all. “This the first time Daddy sent you two on an errand like that?” he asked as he lowered the pistol.
“No,” said Jean-Baptiste. “He’s been training us since grammar school.”
Axel looked at the two kids. They couldn’t be more than late teenagers or early twenties at the oldest. What kind of father would send their kids into a mission like that, with no support or backup? The thought made him sick. But he also realized he was pissed at Cougar for setting him up like this.
Did he even know? he wondered.
Just then he felt the subtle clank of a shuttle connecting to the Zulu Dancer.
Silva dropped his transmitter and pulled a long tube from his trans-camo coat on the deck in the equipment room. He then threw on a tactical vest, festooned with weapons and armor plating. A submachine gun slid into a thick holster on his side.
He left McKenzie to banter with the captain of that ancient behemoth a few kilometers away. Last, he opened a locked case the size of a thick book. Inside was a co
ntrol panel with a series of switches, under a nuclear warning label. The lights on the panel turned red, under the word “Armed.” He strapped the remote detonator to his arm and locked the case closed with a biometric lock.
He walked back to the bridge.
“I hope you won’t exercise your American heritage and try to run away, my good captain. There’s a little surprise waiting for you in the ready room if you take off without me.”
Silva flashed a wicked grin. McKenzie looked back at him, defeat simmering in his eyes. The once strong captain looked broken, ready to accept his fate, whatever that may be.
Silva turned to head to the small shuttle bay at the rear of the ship. “Relax, Captain. It will all be over soon. Now be a good sailor and arm the weapons systems. Put a railgun shaft through their engines if they try to take off.”
McKenzie’s voice was shaky. “Aye, sir.”
In the shuttle bay, Silva powered up the small craft. The bay doors opened, revealing the blueish force field. The stern of the Zulu Dancer was visible with its huge engine baffles sticking out the back. The nose of the shuttle pressed through the force field and Silva was in open space, headed for the docking port on top of the bridge.
As he flew toward the massive craft, which was the size of an ancient ocean liner, he started to wonder why a ship this old and decrepit was on a resort so luxurious and exclusive as Pangaea.
Moments later, Silva stood on the bridge of the Zulu Dancer, staring at her crew. There were six on the bridge, all native Africans from the looks of it; dark-skinned, stoic men. They looked disciplined in spite of their untucked shirts and baggy shorts.
“Put your hands down for God’s sake,” he said. “No one gets hurt if you all do as I say.”
They put their hands down and kept their eyes on the machine gun in his hands.
“Now,” continued Silva, “where is Captain Danso?”
A short pudgy man in a flower-print shirt stepped forward. “I am Captain Danso.”
Silva registered a world-weary privateer, who was well past retirement age. But the man must be clever if he’d lived long enough to have all those wrinkles on his face. His eyes were defiant; those of a proud man. Silva reasoned he would begrudgingly do what he was told. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen trouble.
