No Graves for Heroes

by Jason Winn

  “Very good, Captain,” said Silva. “Tell your crew to confine themselves to their quarters and lock the doors. I have no need of them and want to conclude my business quickly.”

  “Go,” said Danso without taking his eyes off Silva’s.

  The crew shuffled out and a moment later Silva and Danso were alone. Silva crossed the bridge and locked the door behind the crew.

  “Have a seat, Captain.”

  Danso walked over to his captain’s chair and slumped down.

  “You’ve seen my ship. You’re a smart man. You know what we can do to your ship. Yes?”

  Danso sighed. “Yes.”

  “I’m looking for someone, a man named La Paz. I know he’s here.”

  “Then go get him and go.”

  “But there’s something that’s eating away at me, something I can’t figure out.”

  “What is it?” Danso crossed his arms and cocked his head.

  “I can’t for the life of me figure out what a piece of junk ship, such as yours, is doing at a resort for some of the most elite people in the solar system. Odd, don’t you think?”

  Danso didn’t respond.

  “So,” said Silva, “I’m going to ask you one more time. What were you doing on Pangaea?”

  “Just find your man and go.”

  “I hoped it wouldn’t come to this, Captain. You seem like a reasonable man.”

  “A group of people wanted to take my ship to Pangaea. I don’t ask questions when people are willing to pay.”

  Silva studied Danso for a moment before shaking his head. “No.”

  He reached into his tactical vest and pulled out a small spray can. Without hesitation he aimed it at Danso’s eyes and doused him with a fine mist.

  Danso shot back in his chair, growling and wiping at his eyes. Silva pounced on him and wrenched his hands down to the arms of the chair.

  “It only takes a moment, Captain. It doesn’t hurt or burn.”

  Danso opened his eyes and stared lasers into Silva’s face. “What did…”

  And then the captain of the Zulu Dancer was calm. His arms relaxed and he sat back in his chair.

  Silva held up the little black spray bottle. “Field interrogation kit. Works wonders. But it’s so boring, I’m afraid. If we had more time, I’d be more than happy to show you the old ways I was taught. Peeling flesh is more rewarding for me.” He tucked the bottle back into his vest and sighed. “But the times change, and you must go with it, I guess. Now, back to why you were on Pangaea. Why were you there?”

  “An American paid me to bring him there,” said Danso. His eyes were distant now, his voice calm.

  “Uh huh. Now we’re getting somewhere. Was the gentleman from America or are they ex-patriots?”

  “He is from America. I think the woman is Canadian, but I’m not certain.”

  And a woman, he thought.

  Silva’s eyes narrowed. Most Americans were under a travel embargo, even with the new president. The rich ones who could afford travel visas wouldn’t be caught dead in a floating hulk like this.

  “Why did he pay you to take him to Pangaea?”

  “He had to pick up some children.”

  “Who?”

  “French. A boy and a girl.”

  “Better. Why?”

  “I don’t know. I think they were in some trouble, but he never said more than that.”

  “Okay. And where are they now?”

  “Their suites are right down that hallway.”

  “What’s the American’s name?”

  “Nash, Axel Nash.”

  “And the woman?”

  “Devon Drake.”

  Silva had heard the man’s name before, a long time ago, but he couldn’t quite place it. It was no matter. He could squeeze all of them into the shuttle and take his time figuring things out on the frigate. There was something going on here.

  Not wanting to waste time, Silva bound Danso’s hands to his chair arms and pulled a data pad from his vest. He tapped the screen and a dot appeared. La Paz was still onboard.

  “Be right back, Captain. Don’t go anywhere.”

  Danso just looked down at his bound wrists with his vacant eyes.

  Silva navigated his way through the passenger quarters until he found the cabin where La Paz was staying. He kicked the door in and found the lens-eyed man sitting in a chair talking with two other men at a small table. All three of them shot to their feet as Silva smashed through the door.

  No words were exchanged. Silva unleashed on the trio, shredding their chests with automatic gunfire. Three seconds later, the room was horror of blood soaked bodies lying amid splintered furniture. The air smelled of gun smoke. Silva reloaded and made for the bridge. He had one more thing to take care of before he left.

  Danso was starting to come out of his daze when Silva returned to the bridge.

  “Captain,” said Silva. His deep gravelly voice had a soothing tone to it. “Where is the ship-wide intercom?”

  Danso nodded to the coms panel. Silva strolled over and pressed the ‘all-coms’ button.

  “Attention, good ladies and gentlemen, this is your temporary captain. There are four people on this ship I need to speak with. Axel Nash and your party, report to the bridge immediately. You have one minute. Otherwise I will return to my ship and destroy the Zulu Dancer. Thank you.”

  Silva released the button and returned his attention to Danso. “Did you get to do anything fun in Pangaea? I hear the pool scene at the Imperator Hotel is to die for. Some of the most beautiful women in the solar system sit by the pool all day.”

  Danso sneered. “No, we didn’t enjoy any scenery by the pool.”

  “Shame. Too bad it’s all gone now.” Silva tapped his chin. “You think those beauties made it out? Doubtful, right? Half of them are so jacked on chalk they can’t even remember their names. It’s weird to think about half-naked models floating in the void of space right now.”

  “What do you want?” asked a man in the doorway.

  Silva turned and looked at a man about his own age standing in the bridge entryway. A blonde woman stood at his side and two teenagers stood behind him. The man scanned the bridge with hawk-like precision, eyes stopping on Danso and Silva’s tactical vest. He was former military by his posture and build.

  American military, he thought. A wicked smile curled his lips.

  “Mr. Nash, I presume,” said Silva, aiming his weapon at the group. The kids’ eyes went wide. The blonde woman stood like a statue, no reaction at all.

  “That’s right,” said Nash. “What do you want with us?”

  “Just to have a little talk with you on my ship. Please step inside the bridge.”

  Nash waved everyone onto the bridge. He walked slowly.

  “Turn around please, hands behind your backs.”

  The four of them complied. With the speed of a viper, Silva secured their hands with plastic ties. He kept the barrel of his weapon pointed at their backs. He could feel the raw muscle in Nash’s arms. This man was a fighter. But for some reason he didn’t so much as flinch when the plastic bound his wrists together.

  When he was done, Silva spun them each around. “Do all you Americans give up so easily these days?”

  Nash stared down at Silva, his eyes cold as a winter evening. What game was he playing? There was no time to contemplate, however. Silva needed to get back to the frigate and get underway. The coup was almost complete and Rota was waiting for their final report on La Paz’s death.

  “This way, please,” said Silva. He motioned to the access door that led to his shuttle. He followed.

  “Are you going to untie me?” asked Danso in an annoyed voice.

  “I’m sure your crew will come to your rescue soon enough, Captain,” said Silva over his shoulder.

  He locked the access door behind him and made for the small shuttle’s bridge.

  The prisoners secure in their individual cabins, Silva made for the frigate’s bridge.

 
; “Captain, plot a firing solution for that ship,” said Silva. He pointed to the monitor.

  McKenzie looked back and forth between the monitor and Silva. He looked confused. “That’s not the mission.”

  “The mission is whatever I say it is. We can’t have all those witnesses running about.”

  “No.” McKenzie crossed his arms. “We need to be on our way now that La Paz has been neutralized.”

  Silva looked at Chang, who was trying to stay out of the discussion. “You—can you fly this ship?”

  “Yes, but sir, it’s biometrically locked.” He held up his hand and nodded to the captain’s console. “The captain is the only one who can fly it.”

  “His hand works just as well if he’s alive or dead.”

  McKenzie’s eyes went wide. His hand dropped to the pistol on his hip. Silva was faster, bringing his submachine gun to bear on the young captain. Gunfire filled the bridge as McKenzie fell backward against his chair.

  “You,” he shouted to Chang, “fetch me a knife from the galley. We’ll need his hand.”

  Chang groaned as he got out of his chair and waddled off to find a knife. Silva then went over to the weapons console and activated the targeting computer. He locked in on the Zulu Dancer and loosed a torpedo.

  A white dot on the console showed the torpedo’s path as it launched from the aft tubes and make a wide arc before shooting straight for Zulu Dancer’s bridge. The ship, clearly aware of being fired upon, turned to her starboard side, heading back to the jump gate. But the supersonic torpedo caught them.

  A second later, the front quarter of the Zulu Dancer sheered away, belching out debris and passengers into the void of space.

  Silva turned to Chang. “Cut the captain’s hand off and place it on his console.”

  Chang didn’t move, memorized by the destruction of a passenger ship. Mist filled his breathing mask and he wheezed in and out.

  “Hey,” shouted Silva. “Get to work, or you’ll be lying next to him.”

  Chang finally did as he was told without a word. A moment later, McKenzie’s bloody hand rested on the captain’s console. Silva took the knife and wiped the blade on Chang’s shirt.

  “Good work. I guess you are more useful that I thought,” said Silva as he walked off the bridge.

  Rage simmered in Axel as Silva entered the barren room. He knew where this was going. Silva would beat him until he found out why he and Devon traveled to Pangaea. Yet he knew his plan would work. All he had to do was hold out.

  This was the only play. The Zulu Dancer was a huge ship and they could have hidden, but it was clear to him that Silva was not one for games. If they’d tried to hide, Silva would have just fired a few torpedoes and several hundred people would be floating in space right now.

  It struck Axel as strange that the frigate seemed to have no crew at all, save for the dark-skinned captain who appeared briefly, before Silva admonished him and told him to go back to the bridge.

  Devon and the kids were all in different rooms. And now Axel was faced with a prisoner’s dilemma. Were they talking, rendering his information useless? Or should he talk first and guide the message? The last and most logical choice was to say nothing at all, hoping the other parties did the same.

  And then he’ll just put a bullet in everyone’s brain, he thought.

  Whatever he did, it had to be slow. He needed time.

  Silva entered the room, carrying a galley knife. He looked at it. “This isn’t what you think. See? No blood…yet.” He held up the knife. “Your traveling companions are perfectly safe, for now.”

  Silva slinked across the room. “But, Mr. Nash, I can’t stop wondering why you were on Pangaea.” He held up a small black spray bottle. “Unfortunately, I’m all out of my field interrogation agent. So, unless you’re just going to come out and tell me, I’m going to have to be more direct.” He held up the large knife again.

  “We were there to pick up the kids and take them back to Earth,” said Axel.

  “Why didn’t their parents arrange for proper transportation? Anyone staying there would have more than enough resources to send an appropriate emissary. Why would they send some tired, old American to do that?”

  Axel didn’t answer.

  Silva continued. “Speaking of your age, how old are you, Mr. Nash?”

  “Fifty-five.”

  “Did you serve in the Solar War?”

  “No. I was an engineer.”

  Silva was silent for a moment, before he narrowed his gaze on Axel’s right arm. He took it in a tight grip. “That’s an interesting mark on your arm.” He poked it with a finger.

  “Just an old burn scar.”

  Silva’s eyes began crawling all over Axel’s exposed skin. He pulled the collar down on Axel’s shirt, before ripping the crew shirt open.

  “You’re no engineer,” growled Silva. “That’s an old combat patch job; temporary skin until you can get to a field hospital. I guess you never rated getting proper skin grafts to fix this, eh? Shame, the Americans never took care of their own, after they lost. The Petty family threw you all to the war crimes commission in order to save their necks. I hear some of them even testified against their own generals. Tell me, what unit were you with?”

  Axel could see calculations flashing behind Silva’s eyes. He pursed his lips together and stared straight ahead.

  “Still won’t talk? You know I served with the Russians,” Silva said coldly as he picked up the knife. “I saw so many Americans die running away. You probably remember our policy on taking prisoners.” He turned to stare Axel in the eyes. “I probably killed some of your friends. I bet you’re thinking of them right now. The Russians showered me with medals for killing your countrymen.”

  The pain was coming, like a tidal wave, slow and inevitable. Axel steeled his nerves. This monster in the room with him was relishing his power over him. He would draw out the pain and Axel’s screams of agony would only fuel his sadism.

  Axel. Would. Not. Scream.

  He would not give this sick bastard the satisfaction of hearing him beg for his life, or eventually beg to end it. If he had to, he would die silent, his excruciating pain bottled up, never to be released. This guy could go fuck himself.

  The mission, he thought. So long as you’re breathing, Nash, you’ve got a chance.

  There were still some Americans alive with an iron constitution. Silva would see that today.

  Silva reached for the edge of Axel’s rugged patch of skin. He brought the knife in close. “I made a name for myself in the war,” he said. “Do you want to know what it was?”

  Axel didn’t answer. Saving all of his available strength for what was coming.

  “I was a commissar of the navy. But history remembers me as the Butcher of Luna.”

  Axel’s vision went red with rage. Here was the animal who killed hundreds of service men and women, after they’d surrendered.

  “I see you’ve heard of me. Good,” he hissed. With that, Silva began slicing Axel’s chest.

  A worker removed a painting of former President Petty IV from the wall of the meeting room. Cougar smirked at the image of the blow-dried tyrant being removed from all over the new capitol building.

  “This proceeding will come to order,” said Senator Kim. The young Hawaiian stood in front of floor to ceiling windows, with the snowcapped Rockies in the background.

  Men and woman quieted and took their seats at the long table in the center of the room. Cougar, now officially President Gardner’s senior intelligence adviser, sat next to the secretary of state.

  Senator Kim waited patiently for the room to quiet. “The congressional committee for the investigation of the criminal wrongdoing of the Values Party and Petty family will proceed. Before we begin, I would like to observe a moment of silence for the death of Judge Marquez.”

  The room went quiet as the men and women bowed their heads in reverence to the judge who certified the election, under protest. He’d been shot and killed while
giving a speech earlier that morning.

  Senator Kim broke the silence. “I know that the US marshals with the help of the Blue Shirts will bring the perpetrators to justice.”

  “Here, here,” someone muttered.

  “Now, I want to thank everyone in attendance,” said Senator Kim. “This investigation into the Petty Family, as you know, is at the forefront of the president’s first hundred-day agenda, and I think we all agree as to the importance of this matter. The American people deserve an accounting of the last forty years. The purpose of this group is to establish if any crimes foreign, domestic, or off-world were committed by the former president, members of his staff, or the Petty family.”

  The temporary head of the Justice Department, Trenton Bell, raised his frail, shaky hand. “Mr. Chairman, if I may.” All eyes turned to the old lawman, who had somehow survived the Petty regime through sheer political cunning. He held the respect of both political parties. Cougar respected him too, but he didn’t trust the man. “The Petty family lawyers presented me with a letter this morning, suggesting this committee exercise leniency in their investigations, less recent covert activities be brought to light before the UN. I haven’t the slightest notion as to what they are referring to, but they still have powerful allies off-world, through business and theological relationships, that may know things we in this room do not.”

  Cougar held his breath, hoping Bell didn’t look his way. The rest of the members began whispering to one another or simply looked confused.

  “Did they say anything else?” asked Senator Kim, eyebrow crooked.

  “No,” said Bell. “But everyone in this room has secrets that could tarnish their credibility.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bell. However, this committee will proceed with the matter at hand, and we will not be threatened with vague allusions to rumored operations.”

  Bell shrugged and clasped his hands in his lap.