Beyond Mars Crimson Fleet (51 page)

“Admiral,” Captain Renee
alerted his superior, “we’re encountering intense gravitational
waves!”

“Strength?” Selena quickly
questioned.

“Five Ligos—no, seven!
Ten! Eighteen!” Renee mouthed as he watched the strength of the
waves increasing at an astronomical rate. “They’ve increased beyond
measure!” his face drained of all color it had.

However, Darius was
skeptical of the reading. “That’s impossible! We would have to be
flying into a neutron star or a black hole!”

Suddenly,
a vibration was felt throughout the
Quinton
as it was felt throughout
every other Earth ship. And as it heightened, metal, resin, and
plastic groaned in strain.

Renee readjusted the viewer
to zoom out so that the image would encompass the surrounding
space. As the hologram refocused the view, the captain’s eyes
enlarged in pure fright; space was rippling like water—and
asteroids were being pulverized and crushed to atoms.

Hurriedly he returned to
his instruments, and through the powdery dust of asteroid residue,
Renee’s scanners detected the unmistakable trail of debris his
fleet was leaving behind. The path of wreckage was produced from
function fatigue that memory alloys and materials were especially
prone to when subjected to intense changing pressure or over-usage.
Parts distorted, unable to retain their correct shape, and in the
process either broke apart or jammed together, improperly
positioned.

“ADMIRAL!” Renee cried out, “
we must
turn back
!
The
ships can’t handle the strain
! THEY’RE
STARTING TO BREAK UP!”

“NO!” Darius shouted back. “OPEN FIRE!” she
screamed again.

But as the crimson vessels
began a second bombardment, several ships immediately blew up as
misaligned weapon parts shorted out. Again they fired, and again
more ships died, some now detonating from power plant and engine
failure.

Without
warning, every instrument and console on the
Quinton’s
bridge began to smoke from
surging electrical power. Renee abruptly turned and ran for the
main hatch, hoping for the safety of an escape pod. He was closely
followed by other cyborgs bent on saving their own lives. But as
they streamed past an infuriated Darius, an all-consuming rage
engulfed her and what was left of her sanity.

“COME BACK HERE, YOU
COWARDS!” Selena pulled out her ion pistol and began killing her
crewmen. Oblivious that her bridge was now filling with smoke,
flame, and exploding equipment, she continued shooting
wildly.

“I’LL KILL YOU ALL! I’LL
KILL THE MARTIANS!” she shrieked, as he electron bolts raked the
hatchway. “COME BACK HERE!”

And then in a brilliant
flash, it was all over.

* * * * *

As the
last of the Crimson Fleet became exploding stars to the blackness
of eternal space, Winslow was awed as he observed their final
moments from the bridge of the
Mariner
. The Martian fleet was halted
as soon as they detected the Indra ships. John knew that they would
not let the Earthers go. It was unfathomable how they annihilated
them, however, and he now understood why no debris was ever found
of those who dared to trespass in their space. Their very atoms
were disintegrated into plasma gases that simply floated away into
the cosmos. But the show was not over, yet.

“Commander!” the sensor
crewman called out over the headphones, “Indra fleet is advancing
on our position!”

John’s heart went to his
throat at the news. The Martians were in no condition to tackle
anyone else.

“Orders, Sir?” Captain
Landorf asked anxiously.

Winslow hesitated to answer
as the Indra closed in.

He had to come up with a
solution fast.

Gritting his teeth, John
briskly walked to the communication’s console and clicked on the
transmitter. “This is Commander Winslow to all ships, hold your
fire! Repeat! Hold your fire!” he hoped he guessed right. “Don’t
fire unless fired upon! Let them commit the first overt
act!”

Within a minute, the Indra ships stopped
less than a hundred yards from the battered Martian formations. The
alien vessels’ tentacle weapons bobbed and weaved menacingly as
they sparkled in globular energy that ballooned and then receded in
random threats. The alien spacecraft, themselves, seemed to be
alive, as their energy fields expanded and contracted like
lungs.

The Martians stood anxiously anticipating
the next moments, not knowing what to make of it. For several tense
minutes, the two species eyed each other—waiting.

Winslow
sweated in the cool, damp air of his space suit. “Come on, damn
it!” he cursed more to himself. “Let’s get this over with!” And to
his amazement they did; an Indra ship directly in front of
the
Mariner
instantly winked out.

More swiftly followed, and
the number of alien ships rapidly decrease, until finally only one
vessel remained. It bobbled like a buoy upon the sea and glistened
in beautiful rainbow colors. A spectrum of absolute delight it
became, and a great feeling of solace filled the interiors of every
Martian ship.

Winslow stood bewildered
and wondered why they had spared them. Maybe because of Wakinyan,
John thought, but he would never truly know.

In a burst of splendid
radiance, the alien craft vanished into the realm of hyperspace.
All became peaceful and serene, as the Martian fleet floated above
the asteroid belt alone.

“Goodbye, friend,” Winslow
said as he relaxed. He then turned the fleet of Martians ships
about and headed back to the former arena of chaos. The battle was
now over, and the aftermath job of rescue and recovery became his
most immediate concern.

* * * * *

Chapter 27:
Farewells

Armon Quinton fought to wake up from the drunken
slumber that filled his head. The previous night’s victory
celebration had gotten way out of control and somehow deteriorated
into a wild orgy. Nothing was taboo, as every partygoer indulged
his or her most sinful urge. And as the gala dragged into the wee
hours of the morning, Quinton, like the rest, succumbed to a
comatose sleep.

The celebration was the
climax of the last few days, which had seen Quinton achieve his
greatest personal and political victory against opposition
factions. As Ektos’ advised, Armon had successfully linked all of
his powerful political foes with the Martian rebellion. The
arrests—and executions came quickly, and now there was no one to
resist his will or the dictates of his government. Everything had
play easily into his hands, perhaps too easily.

As Armon’s mind started to clear, he tried to shift
his body in what he thought to be his bed, but his body was held
rigid by what seemed to be restraining devices. The bed was also
hard and very uncomfortable with a coldness liken to wood or resin,
and the more he twisted, the more uncomfortable it became.

There was also a stench that impregnated his
nostrils. The scent was akin to bile, found only in a
slaughterhouse. To say the least, it was nauseating.

Against the resistance of his lids to move, Armon
forced his eyes to finally squint open. For a moment, he did not
perceive the strangeness of his surroundings. There was a terrible
glare off of what looked like some plastic or glass shield that
encased him, which also muffled sounds from the outside.

Finally as the last of a drugged sleep dissipated,
he finally recognized where he was—mounted in one of Ektos’
nutrient cylinders.

“WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING IN HERE! LET ME OUT!”
Armon screamed as he struggled against his bounds.

The noise brought a figure robed in black who
casually walked over to look down at him. “Hello Chairman Quinton,”
Logos voiced merrily. “I’m glad you have finally awakened. Now we
can proceed,” the android’s many changing faces smiled.

“I NOT PROCEEDING ANYWHERE, YOU DAMN MACHINE!” Armon
bellowed. “LET ME OUT OF HERE OR I’LL HAVE YOU SCRAPED!”

Logos smile broadened. He then turned and walked
away.

Suddenly, the cylinder was up-righted and placed on
a handcart. It then followed Logos as he strolled through the
examination chamber.

“I hope you and your friends enjoyed yourselves last
evening. Ektos went very much out of his way to ensure your party
was an overwhelming success,” Logos spoke with sarcastic humor.

As he was pushed down the passage, Quinton’s mouth
slowly opened wide in an increasing state of shock. For lining the
green walls of the subterranean chamber were all of the guests to
the previous night’s celebration, each nude and mounted in a
nutrient cylinder, like he.

“WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU”RE
DOING!” Armon screamed out again.

Logos looked back. “Don’t
worry, Mr. Chairman; technically, they are all brain-dead. They
won’t feel a thing.”

“YOU MONSTER!” Armon voiced
his outrage.

Logos chuckled. “You built
your planet on lies and corruption, you destroyed Mars for defying
you, and then you slaughtered innocent people because they pose a
political threat to you. Tell me, Mr. Chairman, what do you think
makes one a monster?” Logos simply replied.

Quinton dropped his head in
silence. He had no answer. And as he past each benumbed face, he
became penitent, but not at what he had done, or for the demise of
so many of his contemporaries. Instead, it was for being caught in
a trap of his own making.

Finally, the small
procession entered the feeding room and Armon’s cylinder was hooked
up swiftly to the nutrient apparatus. Still, he struggled as a
condemned criminal would, hoping for the miracle of escape, but
alas, there was none.

Unexpectedly, a figure
approached from the back-lit corridor that came from Ektos’ lair.
Although the man was silhouetted against the light, he assumed a
familiarity.

“It’s good to see you,
Armon,” the man’s echoing voice called out from a distance. “Glad
you could make it.”

Quinton looked carefully at
the well-dressed man who approached. As the figure came into the
light, Quinton then saw his face quite clearly—it was his
own.

“A damn clone!” Armon
became angry again.

“No,” the duplicate
corrected. “A synthoid. I am a machine made from both organic and
synthetic parts.”

“How?” Quinton did not
believe his own eyes.

The synthoid smiled. “Each
time you stepped into a scanner, your mind and complete physical
body were translated into digital information. From that, it was
easy to construct me. I even have your memories and brain pattern,
and can pass all but the most rigorous scrutiny,” the duplicate
explained. “Impressed?”

“You’ll never get away with
it!” Armon tried to convince the machine as well as
himself.

“But we already have,” the
duplicate indulged further. “Your friends that you’ve passed in the
examination room have all been replaced—and have not been detected
by either their most closest friends or family.”

“Why?” Quinton asked as his
hope faded. “Why have you done this?”

“Because if we hadn’t—you
were in the position to get rid of us. And that is exactly what you
would have done.”

“MURDERER!” Armon spit
out.

But the duplicate just
laughed. “You should talk!”

Quinton suddenly went into
a frenzy, attacking his bounds with all of his strength, but the
straps refused to give.

“You shouldn’t be so
upset. You’re about to become a part of the greatest being in the
universe—Ektos! You should be honored!”

But Quinton’s rage only
grew as he continued his assault upon his bounds, cursing as he
did.

However, as much as the
duplicate enjoyed the show, it was time to get on with things.
“Farewell, Armon. It was nice talking with you.”

The machine turned its head
and nodded. Great valves were then heard to cycle.

Quinton stopped his
struggling immediately and became frightfully still as he looked up
and listened. His heart pounded faster and harder, knowing his
greatest fear and his fate were one. “OH MY GOD!” he cried out in
panic upon hearing the surge of the green ooze making its way down
the injection tubes. He felt the vibration increase as it drew
closer.

In a loud ‘whoosh’, the
flesh eating green slimy shot out of the tube and all over Armon
Quinton. His screams were bloodcurdling, as the deadly liquid
filled his cylinder and began eating at his skin almost
immediately. His screeches grew earsplitting and painful as living
fluid dissolved him slowly. Over a minute later as he gave up his
last breath of life, Armon Quinton was released from his agony—and
journeyed into oblivion.

* * * * *

Aboard
the
Ariana
over two
thousand light years away, another drama was playing itself out. As
Deputy Commander John Winslow walked towards one of the medical
treatment rooms, his steps were deliberately unhurried. The somber
duty, which he now carried out, was one born out of ritual; it was
also one of the things he hated most about the service. Still it
was done out of respect for a fellow mariner who was about to
embark on their final journey.