The World Forgot

by Martin Leicht

  And then, suddenly, our path is blocked. I don’t have time to call out for thrusters. There’s an open gap to our right, and I put my whole body into the turn. We’re all sideways in our seats like we’re on an old-timey sci-fi television show. The bottom of the hull scraping against metal sounds like a million forks being drawn slowly across a million china plates. We clear the ship, just barely, and fly out into the clear. The ship shudders slightly.

  Chloe looks at the tactical display. “They’re toast,” she says. “Both hostiles are down.” She turns to me, her face stoic. “Nice flying. For a maniacal, heartless nut.”

  “Nice copiloting,” I reply. And call me mature or something, because I only think the for an immature, snotty brat part. “Couldn’t have done it without you,” I say instead. Something dangerously close to a smile nearly creeps across Chloe’s face.

  “Guys,” Cole says. “I hate to interrupt this touching mother-­daughter moment, but . . .”

  Chloe looks at the tactical again. “Rikslamma,” she spits, in what I can only assume is the foulest of Jin’Kai epithets.

  I don’t need the tactical to summon my own swear words. Through the viewport approximately eighty bajillion Devastator ships come into focus, ranging from what look to be single-­pilot fighters to enormous juggernauts three times bigger than the largest orbital cruiser I’ve ever seen, forming a blockade between us and our home planet.

  “Does it count that I got us pretty close to not being dead?” I ask.

  “It looks like they’re already engaged,” Chloe says, eyes on the tactical. “I’ve got readings on two unique power signature types coming from that fleet.”

  “Byron,” I say. “I didn’t think the Almiri built that many ships.” Cole shrugs.

  “They’ve spotted us,” Chloe cuts in. “Three bogeys are breaking off and are in pursuit.”

  “Didn’t we just play this tune?” I mutter. I come about and try to make a break for it, back into the belt, but these ships are bigger and faster than the ones that had been tasked primarily with taking out a defenseless space station.

  “They’re right on top of us!” Chloe shouts.

  Which, actually, I’d already pretty much figured out, because now our ship is rocking under a constant barrage of fire. The tactical and heads-up displays go dead—and just like that we’re flying blind.

  “Port thrusters gone!” Chloe informs us. “Secondary engine offline!”

  “This is it, then,” I say. I turn to her. “Chloe, I just want you to know that I love you and—”

  “Cut the sap and look straight ahead!” Chloe screams, pointing. Through the viewport a ship is materializing right before my eyes. It’s easily twenty times as big as us.

  It’s also awfully familiar.

  Two large turrets on either side of the hull open up a barrage of fire, visible only as brief blue muzzle flashes. The shots fly right past us, clearly intended for someone else. I turn the ship as best I can to get clear of the cross fire, and as I do, we all get a view of the Devastator vessels exploding silently in the void. The comm crackles to life on the console.

  “Elvie? Is that you, dearheart?”

  “Daddy?” I screech. I’m sobbing and laughing at the same time, barely able to form words.

  Beside me Chloe snorts. “Daddy,” she mutters.

  I clear my throat. “Dad, don’t tell me you’re flying that thing?”

  “Well, technically, your grandfather is,” my father replies. “And you have Oates to thank for the fireworks display. I suppose you could say I’m the resident science officer aboard.”

  “Dad, I found Chloe. Olivia. Long story. But the Devastators are chasing us.”

  “I know, dearheart, I know. The Almiri and Earth military forces are already engaged with the enemy.”

  “The military?” I ask. Stunned murmurs pop up around me. (Well, except from the Britta Brigade—they’re still busy complaining about Ducky’s puke on their shoes.)

  “A lot has happened while you’ve been away,” Dad tells me. “Crazy, world-altering stuff. Someone could write a doozy of a novel about it someday, perhaps. We can cover you out of the fire zone. I’m sending you coordinates now.”

  “Our tactical computer is offline.”

  “Then I’ll give you the coordinates over the comm and you can dock with us. Don’t worry. We’ll get a head start on these sons of guns.”

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “Elvie, dearheart, we’re going to Mars.”

  Chapter Twelve

  In Which our Merry Band of Misfits Get Their Asses to Mars

  “Dearheart!” Dad shouts, waving like a madman as Chloe and I walk down the shuttle’s ramp into the hangar of Byron’s command ship like we just returned from a two-week vacation cruise, as opposed to a daring and intestine-twisting escape through a debris field in space. A team of three Almiri passes us and makes its way up into our (okay, technically their) ship, pulling a hover cart loaded down with fancy alien doozy-whatsits.

  “Where are they goin’?” Marnie asks as they brush past her, Cole, and Ducky at the top of the ramp without so much as a “Pardon me.”

  “They’re going to take a look at your hyperdrive,” Dad says.

  “Oh. Well, then, Harry, I think I’ll join ’em an’ get a better jog o’ how this girl’s wired, if it’s all the same t’ ye.”

  “I’ll join you,” Ducky says, his face still green. “Just as soon as I make use of the facilities one”—he pauses midsentence for a seriously rancid burp—“more time.”

  I look at Cole, who’s just standing there, and the look I give him must say, Why are you just standing there? because he smirks and nods at my father.

  “So, this is my granddaughter?” Dad asks, examining Chloe like he’s inspecting a new motherboard for his computer.

  “I’ll babysit the Brigade for a while,” Cole says. “Holler if you need me.”

  Chloe glares at my father, squirming her face away when he touches her cheek. “This is my genetic lineage?” she asks, grunting. “Human. Ugh. Let me guess—your knees give out all the time, or something equally ridiculous.”

  Dad looks from Chloe to me. “Quite the resemblance,” he says.

  “There will be time for the family reunion later,” I say. “Dad, tell me what’s going on. The short version, please. I don’t have any patience for exposition at this point.”

  Dad clears his throat. “Come with me,” he says ominously.

  Dad leads me and Chloe out of the hangar and down a tight corridor. While the bones of the ship’s interior are unmistakably alien and advanced, there’s also no question that this is Byron’s personal flagship, with all of his decorating flair on display. Hung between access panels and computer node stations is a series of familiar oil paintings, mostly of dogs, that clash terribly with the otherwise clean white metallic décor. Just as I’m about to make a crack about Gramps’s Achilles heel for lousy art, we pass by a large mural of—literally—Achilles.

  Note to self: when you’re not so busy fighting for your life, remember to check if you’re related to Achilles.

  As we walk, Dad takes his best stab at explaining to me what’s been going on Earth-side as of late. “Shortly after you, ahem, parted ways with us,” Dad begins, “Byron and Oates and the rest of us rendezvoused with the surviving Almiri leader­ship. Byron and Oates were able to convince them that current circumstances dictated a change in policy regarding the Enosi resistance and their sub rosa relationship with the rest of mankind.”

  “This is the short version?” Chloe mutters.

  “Dad,” I say. “Cut to the chase, will you? Earth, happenings, you guys, Mars. Just tell me how this all ties together.”

  Dad nods and continues. “A little more than a week ago, the Jin’Kai invasion force entered expanded satellite range—which, as you can i
magine, made it a perfectly horrible time for the Almiri to reveal to the United States government that the president and several key members of the cabinet weren’t technically human—”

  “Wait,” I interrupt him. “President Holloway?” Then I pause a moment and consider the leader of the free world’s perfect single dimple. “Okay, yeah, that makes sense. Move on.”

  “Despite the unfortunate timing,” Dad continues, “the Almiri’s ‘coming out’ to most of the world’s governments has thus far been largely without incident.” He grins. “I like to think that I played a crucial role, given my unique position as a human with intimate understandings of the Almiri. I maintained the position—agreed upon by our elected leaders, I might point out—that our only hope in the days to come is to postpone any public revelation about aliens among us, and the inevitable fallout, in the hopes of coming together to valiantly repel those who would destroy us. It was a most inspiring bit of captaincy on my part, and a riveting story that I will tell you about in full at a more appropriate time—”

  “Please tell me that being long-winded isn’t genetic,” Chloe cuts in.

  “Good for you, Dad,” I tell him. He is still grinning, clearly pleased with himself. “Now skip to the part where they’re reenacting the act-three space battle from Return of the Jedi over New Jersey.”

  Dad nods. “Yes. I was getting to that. As you already know, the Almiri have been developing advanced offensive and defensive technologies for some time, in the hopes of slowly doling them out to the rest of us in a way that felt organic to our own technological growth. Some of these technologies had already found their way into the military, thank goodness, seeing as your grandfather’s attack fleet consisted of only about one hundred small to midsize vessels. When the Jin’Kai invaders arrived on the horizon, Byron’s force was deployed to repel them, along with any human-built ships that might be remotely up to the task. So the fleet you saw back there, engaged with the Jin’Kai? It consists mostly of human orbital military craft.”

  “Which aren’t going to be able to survive in a sustained conflict,” I surmise.

  “Precisely,” Dad agrees. “On a positive note, from what little evidence I’ve been able to gather so far, the Almiri ships have a decent edge in maneuverability over the enemy.”

  I nod at that. “We found that out for ourselves.”

  “Up until now the Almiri have been losing roughly one ship for every twelve enemies neutralized,” Dad says. “An excellent win-loss ratio. Unfortunately, simply due to Jin’Kai numbers, we’re bound to lose in a war of attrition.”

  We come to the end of the corridor, and Dad flicks a security card to open the door blocking our path. The door swooshes open to reveal the bridge. Unlike before, now not all of the bridge crew are Almiri. There are several men and women wearing American and French military uniforms running their stations side by side with their alien counterparts.

  “Cool, huh?” Dad asks.

  It is, but I’ve got other things on my mind. “So why Mars? If things are going so badly, then what are we doing running off to the red planet?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  It’s not my father who says it.

  The command chair swivels, revealing the cool, confident star of East of Eden, wearing a tight red uniform so covered in shiny baubles that he looks like an extra from Hansel Wintergarten’s Christmas video “Hey Girl, I’m a Tree, Come Decorate Me . . . as a Friend.”

  “Mars holds the key to rescuing the world!” Byron says dramatically.

  “And this,” I say to Chloe, “would be my grandfather. Hey, Gramps. Long time no see. Sorry about, you know, stealing your ship and stuff.”

  He does not look mad. Byron rises from his chair and walks over to me, reaching out his arms in a super-awkward gesture to hug me. I hesitate perhaps a moment too long, and he starts to pick up on it, so finally I just rush over and wrap my arms around him. Byron gives me two hard claps on the back, which I can feel reverberating throughout my skeleton.

  “It’s good to see you,” he says.

  “You too,” I say. I pull away and clear my throat. I point toward Chloe, who is hanging out in the doorway, observing the entire scene with about as much emotion as you’d have watching a yogurt commercial. “This is Olivia,” I tell Byron.

  “Chloe,” she corrects me. Her voice is harsh, but she’s shifting her weight uncomfortably from foot to foot, splitting her gaze between us and the floor.

  “Chloe, right,” I say, turning back to Byron. “Long story. She’s your great-granddaughter.”

  “Is she now?” he says. He walks over to Chloe, staring at her intently as he does, making her visibly more uncomfortable with each approaching step. Standing directly in front of her, Byron raises his hand and offers it to her.

  “Hello, young lady,” he greets her. “Welcome aboard.”

  “Whatever,” Chloe replies, self-consciously hugging herself while admiring the fine welding work on the floor plating. “You were saying? About saving the world?”

  Byron adjusts a shoulder bauble as he explains. “Ah, yes, that. You see, a hundred years ago I was doing research for an epic poem I was writing.”

  “Dammit, it is genetic,” Chloe says, more astonished than anything else.

  Byron appears not to notice. “I had in mind a poem that focused on the Almiri’s early days on Earth. A heroic retelling of how we came down to live among a species bursting with potential yet held back by their rather quaint grasp of the universe.”

  “And you thought somebody was going to want to read that?” Chloe asks.

  “The intention was to perform it aloud,” Byron continues, undeterred. “I was trying to ‘unearth,’ if you’ll pardon the pun, the earliest records we had of our journey through the cosmos—landing, making first contact, et cetera, et cetera. Records that should have been contained in our primary historical data bank. However, when I tried to access these records, I found none. I tried employing the assistance of our archivists, but they could not—or would not—help me. Through some sleuthing on my own over the next several decades, I was able to recover data entries whose time codes put them at or near the dawn of our arrival on Earth. The entries, however, were badly damaged. The damage appeared to be the result of energy surges and environmental corruption. Accidental in nature.”

  “A little too accidental,” Dad chimes in.

  “Exactly, Harry,” Byron says. “Upon further investigation it became clear to me that these entries had been intentionally destroyed. But why would anyone want to erase the most momentous event in the history of our race?”

  I’m finally beginning to see where all this is headed. “They had something to hide,” I venture.

  “Precisely,” Byron agrees. “From that discovery I launched into a nearly thirty-year long endeavor to recover anything that I could from the records. I was mostly unsuccessful, until just recently, when I was able to avail myself of your father’s rather impressive faculty for computer wizardry.”

  The fact that Lord Byron/James Dean/his father-in-law just gave Dad the ultimate compliment is giving Dad’s ego a near pornographic level of stroking. His goofy grin appears to be lifting him several centimeters off the floor.

  “So what mysterious secrets did you discover?” I ask. “And what does this have to do with Mars or the Jin’Kai or anything? I mean, not that I don’t love superlong stories about history and poetry, but the thing is that I really don’t.”

  “We weren’t able to glean much. But what we did find was telling. Geographical references to the colony ship’s initial landing site, fractured descriptions of the landscape, climate. None of these meshed with the commonly held beliefs of the Almiri, or the history passed down in our Code. And then we found a single instance of the name of the host planet.”

  Dad cuts in like a kid who can’t keep from revealing the punch line to his older si
bling’s joke. “Barsoom!” he cries. And I swear he squeals when he says it.

  “What the crimson crap,” Chloe says, “is a Barsoom?”

  I am clearly better versed in pre-turn-of-the-century sci-fi pulp novels than my daughter, because I recognize the forgotten nickname of the familiar planet immediately.

  “Mars? You mean the Almiri didn’t land on Earth originally? Why? And why bother to go to such great lengths to change their history?”

  “Perhaps they were ashamed,” Byron says. “From what I can gather, the Almiri were quickly repelled by the indigenous resistance. I wouldn’t be surprised if my ancestors wanted to keep the defeat under wraps. We’re not exactly known for being great losers.”

  “This is all purely speculation at this point,” Dad reminds me.

  But I’m stuck on another tiny detail. “Hold up. Did you just say ‘indigenous’?” I’ve met all sorts of alien creatures over the past several months, but for some reason the existence of martians is what’s threatening to blow my circuits.

  “The point is,” Byron says, gazing at me like I’m the one who’s getting us off topic in this conversation, “it appears that someone or something convinced the Almiri to abandon their originally designated host planet, and the circumstances were such that my forefathers thought it best to erase all evidence of the fact and create a false history for my people.”

  “And if there was something powerful enough to chase off the Almiri,” I say, slowly putting it all together, “you think this something might be useful against the Jin’Kai.”

  “It is a desperate shot in the dark, I will readily admit,” Byron says. “But at this point it’s all we have left in reserve. The alliance of Almiri, human, and Enosi fights bravely against unimaginable odds, but our time is quickly running out.”

  “How quickly?” I ask. “It will take us weeks to get to Mars. Not to mention the time it’s going to take us to convince the martians—I repeat, martians—to let us use their superweapons.”

  “With our hyperdrive engaged, we should be there in a matter of hours,” Byron tells me. “We should have an adequate head start on the Jin’Kai, even if they are in pursuit. And as to the planet’s inhabitants,” he says, “as far as we can discern, Mars was long ago abandoned.”