Terminus Project: Mars (Dystopian Child Prodigy SciFi)

by Casey Herzog

  There was no thinking. The second Peter had complete control of the saw, he turned it on its owner, sending the blade crashing down into the man's helmet. A plume of gas vented from the gash in the man's helmet. Unlike the small tear in Peter's leg, no bindings or tape would save him. The decompression was instantaneous, and Peter had to close his eyes as he watched the man struggle against inevitability. He did not let go of the saw. Even now he felt a morbid safety in holding it. With eyes closed, he pressed the blade home, pushing further and further down as his foe thrashed wildly, his body spasming in a grim death throe.

  There was a long silence. Peter breathed through it. That was all the only noise in existence, the only thing in existence. Each breath came in a sharp short gasp. He couldn't steady it. He wanted to. He tried to remember how, but he couldn't. His eyes remained closed tight and his body just as rigid as he floated through the cargo hold, entwined with his victim.

  “Peter! Peter, are you there?

  Hello?”

  “Peter, please respond.”

  A series of voices called out to him. Minerva, Nisha, Alphred, the Admiral, Minerva again. They pierced through the mental shutdown of his mind, rousing him like some alarm clock waking him from a bad nightmare. Only, as his eyes opened, his nightmare remained with him.

  The saw was still spinning and Peter let go of the device the moment he saw what he had done. It was like some horrific watermill, spilling out his foes blood into the cargo hold with each rotation. Peter kicked the body away from him, unable to bear being close to the limp carcass. He could not see the damage he had done, as the man's visor was caked red. Still, he had a good enough idea. He couldn't help what came next. As he took in the sight of his own handiwork, Peter doubled over and vomited inside his own helmet.

  “Urgh gross.”

  “Peter? Peter is that you? Are you okay.” Minerva's voice rang through his headset yet again.

  “I just vomited in my helmet!” Peter could taste the sick in his mouth and floating around him. Thankfully, it wasn't much. It clung to his visor creating a hazy film that obscured his view. Though the stench was almost unbearable, he was grateful to have a visual barrier put between him and the body floating nearby.

  “What?” There was a silence on the line, followed by a continued press for reports.

  “Gabell, confirm, the terrorist. What has happened to the terrorist?”

  Peter hardly wished to answer the Admiral's question. He did not want to give voice to what he had just done. “He's gone, Admiral.”

  “Gone?” The voice was strained, impatient for detail.

  “Yes, gone! Okay. He's done, gone, work it out yourself!” Peter's breathing was becoming heavier again his mind agitated by the voices asking questions, the stench in his helmet, the pain in his body.

  “Okay. Peter, listen to me.” Alphred's voice came through; it was a calm waterfall through the others. “Can you get to cockpit? I need you to bring the shuttle to a stop. Can you confirm?”

  Peter groaned. Through the film of sick on his visor, he peered at his suit’s controls and thumbed the magnets back on. He felt his feet connect with the floor. Being grounded literally helped ground him mentally. “Okay. I'm going to the controls now. You'll need to talk me through the process...Slowly; my head hurts.”

  “Admiral Gayle here. Mars Base is sending out a shuttle to provide assistance and to bring you back to Mars Station. How's your air?”

  “Smells, Sir.” Peter answered. His head was too addled to understand the question.

  “The puncture in your suit Peter, can you staunch it?” Peter was losing focus. He couldn't even be sure who was talking any more. He just shuffled through the shuttle toward the cockpit as his consciousness slipped slowly away.

  CHAPTER 20

  The medical suite on the Unity was a familiar sight to Peter. He knew it almost as well as he knew his quarters. He recognized the particular spread of the lights above him as he opened his eyes, recognized the layout of the room, with its fold out beds and the form of Chief Scott sitting in her chair pouring over reports. Peter looked around in silence, unsure how happy he was to be alive. The chief didn't notice him until he tried to sit up.

  “Back in the land of the living, eh?” She rose from her seat and came to his side, hand gently pressing on his chest to force him back down. “Just rest for now.”

  “What happened?” Peter asked as he let his body be guided back onto the bed.

  “Nothing as spectacular as last time.”

  The chief's blunt answer irritated Peter and seemed to trigger an intense headache. “How'd I get here?” he asked, hoping she'd be more open in her answer to that question.

  “After you brought the stolen shuttle to stop you must have passed out. Can't say I blame you, breathing in a mix of air and sick. You really know how to punish yourself, Gabell.” The chief seemed like she was about to stop, but then continued when she caught Peter's expectant gaze. “The shuttle brought you straight here, and it’s now towing the stolen ship back to Mars Base. You've been recuperating here for a few hours now.

  Peter nodded and looked up at the ceiling. His mind was assailed with images, visions of that desperate fight. He needed to tune it out. “Alphred and Minerva, are they?”

  “They are fine, I'm assuming.” The chief returned to her desk. “They returned to Mars Station and are there now.”

  “Min's mother died.” Peter said it in a hollow voice without meaning to. He wondered just how Minerva would be taking it.

  “Did she?” The chief sighed as she shrugged her shoulders. “That's a tough break.” Peter turned to look at the doctor. He wondered just what she must have seen in life to make her so immune to basic human sympathy.

  “Can I leave?” Peter asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

  “No. When I'm happy you’re in good condition, Admiral Gayle and the other chiefs will want to grill you.”

  Peter winced, his brow bunching up as he tried to envisage that meeting. “They want to grill me? Did I piss them off?”

  “Give you a medal then; I don't know.” The chief seemed to be tiring of talking. “Let me get you some water. After you take it, I want to put you out for a while. I think you could do with a few more hours’ rest.”

  Peter wasn't about to argue with that. After everything that had happened, he wouldn't complain if the doctor intended to put him out for the next few years.

  What followed seemed to Peter to be nothing more than a PR campaign. After giving his account of things to the Admiral and chiefs, they began putting the best spin on it. Over the next few days, he watched as Earth news stations began to report on the opening salvo of war between the secessionist movement and humanity – that was how the newscasters worded it.

  He'd done it again. Without even meaning to, Peter Gabell had become an icon for Earth. As the newsreels spooled out breaking report after breaking report, his name and image flashed up like some hypnotic repeating image. Savior, hero, defender of Earth. These were just a few of the names being attributed to him. Between more serious footage of the damage inflicted on Mars Station, Peter was once more being held up as the symbolic superman. The new crews managed to find Sergeant Denver and forced him to give a speech on how proud he was to see Peter fighting, 'the good fight.' Meanwhile, more bizarre interviews took place with people who had gathered at Armstrong Space Center, leaving tokens of appreciation along with care packages for Peter. One announcer noted that the total number of donated gifts and letters of thanks for him were large enough to warrant their own shuttle.

  Peter sat in the mess for hours at a time listening to the reports. He would normally worry about how the press were portraying him. This time, he couldn't care less.

  Nisha sat next to him, silently watching him watch the newscasts. Her face changed moment by moment between concern, fear, and fretting over him.

  “Do you want anything to eat?”

  “Hmm?” Peter turned and blinked. He had h
eard her speak, but it was as if she was speaking from across the mess hall, not next to him.

  “I said do you want anything to eat. You've been sat here for almost six hours here. Colin told me.”

  “Did he...” Peter sighed and then rubbed his eyes. He guessed he must be sleepy, though in truth he did not know. He was not sure how he felt about anything anymore. Was he hungry, who could say?

  Nisha put out a hand and wrapped it around his, her thumb stroking his knuckles. “It must have been hard. I was listening to you fight that terrorist the whole way through. I can't imagine how scary it must have been. We're not even meant to be seeing active duty yet. This was Mars Cohort’s responsibility.”

  Peter shrugged his shoulders. He could feel something being stirred up inside him as Nisha spoke. Being reminded of those brief few minutes in the shuttle threatened to dredge up a host of emotions and feelings he was not ready to face; emotions he didn't feel he should have had to face. Though he knew Nisha was only trying to help, he needed her to shut up.

  “I'll have whatever looks best over there.” He nodded to the trays of hot food laid out in the center of the mess hall.

  Nisha bit her lip and stayed in her seat. She struggled against something, then stood up. “I'll get you a double portion. I don't reckon anyone will complain if it’s for the hero of the hour.”

  Peter's face bunched up at the title. “Please don't...don't call me that. Hell, I'd prefer Crater Face to hero right now.”

  Nisha sucked in breath and took a step back toward him. Only when he turned his head away from her did she continue walking over to the food, giving him a few moments of much needed solitude.

  Peter drifted listlessly through the next four days. The attack on Mars Station was now a full week behind them, and now the news turned its attention to Mars Cohort’s counterstrike against the secessionist forces on Phobos. A series of pinpoint sabotage attacks on the mining outpost there wiped out the secessionists without any casualties to the valiant defenders of Mars Station.

  “Retribution for the dead and closure for the grieving,” a female newscaster had said solemnly when wrapping up her report.

  A hand shook Peter on the shoulder, rousing him from the half stupor he had let himself fall into. It was Admiral Gayle. “We don't usually allow personal calls to clog up our channels, but I've got crewman Tharsis on the line in my office right now. I believe she would like to talk to you.”

  Peter frowned and looked up at the admiral. “Sir? Is something wrong? Has she turned in her resignation?”

  “Far from it. I would say her conviction and dedication to the mission are now beyond any doubt. While tragic, I think seeing the impact of the secessionist movement in her own home has allowed her to see just how important our mission is. I promised her a few minutes with you as she asked after you throughout the call.”

  Peter stood and followed the Admiral out into the corridor. He walked in step behind the man, silent and with his head bowed low.

  “It's an unusual thing, isn't it?”

  “Sir?” Peter looked up, irritated to find the admiral talking in riddles again.

  “Killing a man. It doesn't sit well does; it feels... unnatural.”

  Peter felt that feeling in his chest again, the feeling of something trying to get out. He mumbled an unintelligible reply and clenched his fists as he willed a lid shut on those feelings.

  “It'll get easier,” the Admiral assured, not seeming at all perturbed by Peter's lack of a proper answer. “It won't ever go away, but it'll get easier.”

  “How do you deal with it?” Peter spoke in such a hushed voice that he wasn't even sure if he'd spoken the question or merely thought it.

  “Any number of ways, any number of times. Remember the way he looked at you. Think what would have happened if you'd shown mercy; would he have done likewise? Think about the people you avenged by killing him. I know Minerva is grateful. If that man had gotten away, there would have been no justice for her mother.”

  Peter nodded. He tried to get into that headspace, tried to believe the words the Admiral was saying to him. He pictured Mrs. Tharsis, her face so much like her daughter’s and so different all at once. When he thought of her, he couldn't imagine her thanking him for putting a saw blade through another human's skull.

  The rest of the journey was taken in merciful silence. Either the Admiral had tired of dispensing advice, or had decided against bombarding him with it. When they arrived at his office, the man stood aside. “Go on. It's an unmonitored channel so don't worry about anyone listening in.”

  Peter didn't believe that. Even if he didn't feel he had the Admiral pegged, he felt very strongly that he and the other chiefs would indeed be listening in on this call. As he entered the room and walked slowly over to the hand-held device laid on the table, he felt an indescribable sensation of being watched by a thousand eyes and ears at once.

  “Peter?” Minerva's voice reached out through the silence. He didn't mean to but a slight smile began to form on his face. Minerva sounded just like she should in that moment. He could hear the slight worry and fear in her voice and took the data pad from the desk, angling it so she could see him.

  “Hey.” He smiled into the camera, taking in the sight of his friend and her mismatched eyes and hairless head. He liked the way the light above her seemed to form a halo around her crown.

  “You look terrible. Are you okay?”

  Peter shrugged his shoulders and eased himself into a chair. “I'm alive. I don't think I'm going to expire just yet.” As he spoke he tried to must some enthusiasm to his voice. He did not want to worry her, not after all she had already been through. “How are you doing?”

  Minerva took a deep breath and her eyes darted away from the camera as she answered. “Mum and the others who died in the attack had a memorial service today.” Another deep breath. She was doing well not to cry. “There were no cameras or transmission made of it for the news. Thank God.” She brought her hand to her face and scratched her cheek. Then for no reason Peter could discern, she laughed. “I think I appreciate now why you hate the media so much. I've had several people begging me for interviews, saying it would be good for the mission and morale on Earth.”

  “I hope you told them where to stick it.” Peter answered honestly, not caring what the chiefs or others listening in might think.

  “Yeah. I told them to take an unsuited walk out of an airlock,” another deep breath. This time, Minerva failed to hold her emotions in check and walked away from the camera.

  Peter frowned as he watched the vacant screen, hearing the sounds of her sobbing in the background. He hoped Alphred or someone else was there for her. He couldn't think of anything to say, so he stayed quiet, waiting patiently for her to return.

  “Okay, I'm back...Sorry, I-”

  “-It's okay,” Peter assured. “The Admiral says you're returning to the Unity soon.”

  Minerva nodded, strength and resolve returning to her. “Yeah. After what happened I need to, for Mom. I want to make sure that nothing like this ever happens again.”

  Peter sucked in a deep breath. He wanted to dissuade her. He wanted to tell her it was no good and she should stick on Mars Base if she knew what was good for her. If he thought he could do such a thing, he would offer to step off with her, let the others continue their mission alone. He couldn't say such a thing though. He knew people were listening and he knew they were listening precisely for this reason. The chiefs had seen him the last few days, noted the haunted look in his eye. They couldn't afford the poster child of the mission to step off. In fact, he doubted they would ever really have allowed Minerva to step off. They had bought a one-way ticket for Pluto, and they were not allowed to change stations. “It'll be good to have you here again. I don't think I could do this without you.” It was the only answer Peter could give that was even remotely true to how he felt in that moment. He really could not survive without her there.

  Minerva smiled at him. He couldn't
tell if it was genuine or not. At the very least, he felt certain she wanted it to be. She wanted to believe in the justice of the mission, wanted to believe that she was doing the right thing by sticking with it. “What about your father?” It was the only thing he could think of that might dissuade her without actually asking her to stay where she was.

  “He understands; says he'd do the same if he had the means. I know he wants to thank you for what you did.”

  “None needed,” Peter said.

  “Well, I'm sure you'll hear it from him eventually. We still have a few months in Mars space, maybe more to ensure the regions security before moving on.”