Mars Wars - Abyss of Elysium

by Abyss Of Elysium (Lit)

  Peter dumped his shock in a remarkable second of exquisite recovery and looked the Marine dead in the eye. "You know Corporal," he said evenly, "there's something I've been wondering about for years that has suddenly become very clear to me."

  The Marine didn't respond, so Peter allowed the question to lie and ferment in the air until the Marine blinked.

  "Now I know why a pantywaist such as your boss needs seagoing bellhops like you; no offense."

  3

  eter refused to engage in any discussions and walked quickly to his quarters. There he began packing his gear, tossing a few items toward his flight bag and smashing the rest against the wall. Minutes later, his communications console, tagged C2 by the colonists, lit up. He let it ping a dozen times before finally answering sharply, "Yes."

  "Peter, I'm on my way," said Ashley, who severed the transmission before he could respond. When she arrived, Francis was standing outside Peter's door, his back against the wall, arms folded, wincing with every frequent thump, bang and crash from within. He had still not even changed out of his pressure suit.

  "Francis," Ashley said, "go home and get some rest."

  "No, I need to talk to him. I just wanted to give him some time to get it out of his system before I went in."

  "Francis, go home. You can talk to him in the morning. Please," she said, then gently kissed him on the cheek. "I don't think we will ever forget what you did for us today. In case no one else noticed... you saved three lives, and you should know just how much we appreciate that."

  Francis, choking with emotion, touched her cheek with the back of his hand, leaving a red smudge on her face. He nodded stiffly, forcing a weak smile.

  "Dad?" came a voice from far down the passageway. It was Francis' son, Jack. He had qualified as a Mars colonist after receiving an advanced degree in astronomy.

  "Dad, is that you?" Jack said, walking closer in the dim light. Francis' face looked worn and somehow older. The former Navy special forces member had taken beatings before, literal and verbal. But, somehow, this one hurt worse than usual. The reason was clear enough; he had lost his best friend, probably irrevocably. And the whole affair had come about because of someone he hated passionately.

  "Jack, escort this man home, please," Ashley asked him.

  "You okay, Dad?" Jack questioned. "Where have you been? I've looked all over for you." The lanky man in his late twenties looked genuinely concerned for his father. He had only once before seen his father in such distress and that was after the death of Francis’ wife - Jack’s mother.

  Francis nodded. "Yeah, I've been right here. Let's go on home." Jack and his father walked slowly away, the son’s arm draped lovingly over the shoulder of his father’s filthy space suit.

  When Ashley turned around to face Peter's door, it was already open.

  ome on in. You can watch me pack," Peter said, tossing a bag of climbing equipment over his shoulder and against the wall.

  Ashley walked into Peter's room, closing the door behind her and began to cautiously step over the piles. The room was completely trashed. She looked at him but he would not return her gaze. Peter sensed that she did not know what to say or how to say it, so he sat down on the side of his bed, rubbing his hands together, and said nothing.

  For three years they had been friends, lovers and secretly married partners. She had spent more nights in this small room than in her own. Now that he was leaving, she would be losing a major part of her life. But Peter knew that she could not follow him, even if she wanted to; Lipton controlled their lives right now. Peter had gained his one-way ticket out by trying to save all their lives. Ashley obviously agonized over the conflicts welling within her.

  Peter had crawled out of his pressure suit, but still wore his cotton, insulated underwear. Ashley picked up a night shirt from the jumbled pile against the far wall, and removing her clothes, slipped it over her naked form. She touched the room's light controller and turned to faced Peter in the near darkness of the space. Her lithe form was embedded there as a fractal image; a muted, diffused shadow imposed gently against the darkness.

  Peter looked up at her dimly illuminated shape. He stood and took three steps toward her. The pain assailed him at once, forcing him to stop abruptly. He wanted to speak the words that could somehow cause Ashley to leave with him. This pain was far worse than he could have imagined. Love consumed his soul and forced his mind into an irrational, emotional anguish he fought to control.

  Yes, he must leave, but a part of him; a part of his vitality, would be ripped away from him and left behind. In a most literal sense, his soul was being left behind, hostage to a mindless, loveless bureaucracy and the political ravings of an indifferent system.

  An ache arose in his throat and solidly arrested his speech. He could not speak at all, for if he dared to form the words now, they would come forth as sobs. He did not want that to happen at any cost. These emotions he would abide alone.

  Ashley came slowly to him, and as she did, he could discern her fragrance, the sweet essence of her flesh and perfume, coalesced into an erotic, impassioned sense of intense and powerful enchantment. His sadness was not driven away by this new sentiment, it was made more profound. He wanted somehow, desperately, to comprehend how he could leave her, leave here, forever. The loneliness on the crowded planet of his birth would suffocate him.

  His bitter thoughts were voided as she lifted her hand gently, fingers extended and closed, and stopped it inches from his face. Slowly, with a lingering motion, he extended his hand toward hers, matching her fingers with his, but not quite touching. With an almost imperceptible motion, he brought his hand so close to hers, he could feel the warmth of her fingers. Still, they did not touch.

  Peter took a half step toward her and passed his lips across hers, also without touching, feeling again her warmth, her sweet breath, against his face. Ashley laced her fingers through his with a single, exacting motion. Then she kissed him, deeply, urgently, knowing the dawn would enjoin no more promises.

  Peter interchanged part of his sorrow instantly for passion. He knew well that the night would not last forever, and with its climax, the pain would return more powerfully and more inescapable than before. As their lips touched, he could taste her tears blended with his own.

  Just for a fleeting instant, before he was consumed by the fires of this oddly powerful fusion of sexual rapture and sorrow, the fear returned. In that final sentient second, he desperately prayed that he could chase it away; make the love last forever.

  Yet, no matter how reality raged outside their bond, for now he was lost; lost to the passion and sadness that ravaged his reasoning. He commanded the fear away, from here where there was no reason, only purpose. Here in the brilliant darkness there would be no baleful red sky, no cold and distant sun, and no pain. In the darkness, fingers and naked flesh were his eyes, much more perfect, more consummate instruments of explicit detail. And with this vision of infinite definition, in this merciful world devoid of logic or hurt, he alone irrevocably commanded his destiny and bent time itself.

  Without hesitation Peter altered his embrace, lowering Ashley gently to the floor and swiftly, forcefully slipped the night shirt away.

  4

  eter slept restlessly, and when he awoke early in the morning, Ashley had gone. He busied himself completing the task of packing his things, mindful of the strict weight limitations, taking only mementos in a small bag, agonizing over what he would have to leave behind. He then went to work on his pressure suit; scrubbing the cloth, polishing the metal bands and cleaning the transparent visor.

  If he was going to fly out, he was going to fly out looking his best. If he was going to feel miserable and defeated, he was not going to let anyone know. Besides, he mused, Gorteau had promised he would find a way for Peter to return. If there was any scientist on the two inhabited planets who could pull it off, it would be Gorteau.

  Although it pained him greatly, Peter had no time to dwell on Ashley's absence while r
ushing to finalize the selection of his meager treasures. He tugged the last zipper on his single bag closed when the inevitable knock came at his door.

  "Dr. Traynor, you have five minutes before we have to leave." It was the voice of the Marine.

  "Let's go now," Peter offered, feeling a surge of oddly placed exhilaration as he slapped the door open with the palm of his hand and faced the surprised Marine.

  "... Ah, er, you have five more minutes, Dr. Traynor..."

  "Don't need it. Let's get a move on..," Peter said, noticing Gorteau standing with his back to the wall.

  "Ah, Peter. Good to see you in such robust spirits!" the physicist said, slapping Peter's pressure suit. "My God, for a man on his way to exile, you look wonderful," he said, sizing Peter up. “And we won't waste precious time," Gorteau continued, solemnly turning his back on the Marine. Peter nearly had to suppress a smile. Gorteau was famous for his grand, embellished speech and body language when he was wound up.

  "The power brokers have contrived to rob us all of talent and time, so we shall make the best of what we have. While you were resting, I took the liberty of contacting John Bakker Hamilton of the Princeton Space Studies Institute. I have arranged a visiting faculty position for you until we can return you here. Hamilton assured me you may pursue any path you like while there. The pay is commensurate with any similar faculty position. Is that to your liking?"

  "Of course, but..." Peter stammered, truly surprised.

  "I have also discussed your situation with several officers of the National Science Foundation and the American Academy for the Advancement of Science. They assure me, as I already knew, that they were all fully aware of the intolerable scientific situation here. I believe the word used most often in connection to this administration was "appalling", which I properly assured them was a gross understatement.

  “Nonetheless, I have assurances from several members that the President is aware of the colony's situation and that your predicament will be brought to his attention in the coming weeks, as opportunity allows. No one I talked to seemed to think there would be any problems returning you here forthrightly. As you know, President Clarke would like nothing better than to see Lipton out posthaste."

  "Dr. Gorteau, I really..." Peter began truly flattered.

  "Don't be resistant, Peter. You deserve much better that what you've received. If the mob of incompetents who portend to call themselves bureaucrats can not reward you for your worth, then, by God, your own community will! Now, let us be off to the transport. I think your brief ambassadorship back to the home planet will do all of us good. While you are there taking care of some important diplomatic calls for the rest of us, we'll be here rooting out the kakistocracy."

  _________________________________________________

  The Martian Calendar

  January February March

  April May June

  July August September

  October November December

  ===================================================

  S M T W T F S S M T W T F S S M T W T F S

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

  8 9 10 11 12 13 14 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

  15 16 17 18 19 20 21 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 15 16 17 18 19 20 21

  22 23 24 25 26 27 28 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 22 23 24 25 26 27 28

  29 30 31 32 33 34 35 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 29 30 31 32 33 34 35

  36 37 38 39 40 41 42 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 36 37 38 39 40 41 42

  43 44 45 46 47 48 49 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 43 44 45 46 47 48 49

  50 51 52 53 54 55 56 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 50 51 52 53 54 55

  ====================================================

  - One Martian year equals 668 Martian sols.

  - One Martian sol equals 24 hours 39 minutes and 35.247 seconds.

  - Martian Seasons at Base Camp One - On the Elysium Desert of Mars

  Duration

  Spring 194.54 sols

  Summer 177.10 sols

  Fall 140.92 sols

  Winter 156.04 sols

  The Martian Calendar was developed by Dr. I. M. Levitt, former director of the Fels Planetarium in Philadelphia. The author acknowledges Dr. Levitt's kind permission to use the calendar in this book.

  Gorteau talked as they walked toward the public passageways. Turning to the Marine he said, "Come on son, you're holding us up. Where is this planet's military presence when you need it?" Then he turned and flashed a wink at Peter.

  The Marine sighed with exasperation. "... eggheads," he murmured quietly to himself, but loudly enough that Peter heard him.

  Gorteau walked faster, obviously in a hurry. Peter matched his pace, but switched on his suit's portable air conditioner as he felt his body heat rise. Gorteau was spinning an elaborate plan to "short circuit the administration's objectives,” laced with frequent winks. As he spun his wild tale, the Marine's eyes darted back and forth, as though he were struggling to remember the details of Gorteau's fairy tale to pass on to his superiors.

  Peter could not help but reflect on this moment as a wild dream. He was marching to exile off planet on a moment's notice, being escorted personally by one of the century's greatest scientists who was spinning an outrageous yarn designed to provoke the government staff. Regardless of Gorteau's intentions, Peter could not help but burst out laughing loudly when the physicist got around to his plans to "...perform a grand prefrontal lobotomy by excavation of the treasures contained in the temporal lobes of the face on Mars."

  "Laugh now," Gorteau mused, his back to the Marine, and fighting to suppress his own outburst, "but wait until Lipton sends an expedition to check it out!" He looked over to the Marine who was quietly mouthing "...face on Mars... temporary lobes..."

  Peter was certain that such a juvenile abstraction on Gorteau's part must have been contrived just to lift his spirits, and it was working beautifully. Yet with this thought, he realized he had not considered Ashley's absence. He had almost reached his destination, and as he rounded the corner to the airlock vestibule, he desperately hoped that she would be there waiting for him.

  She was not, but most of the colonists were. As the Marine saw the huge assembly of colonists jammed into the vestibule, he paused, and muttered, "... well kiss my ..."

  "Peter, we wanted you to know just how much your service here has meant and how much your service as Mars' first envoy to earth will connote in the future," Gorteau enunciated loudly, hand outstretched at the group. They responded by cheering heartily.

  The message console above the airlock door scrolled, "BON VOYAGE PETER - HE SHALL RETURN!"

  Peter's eyes darted about the room quickly, scanning the faces for Ashley, who was nowhere to be seen. No rational words had been spoken in their final, libidinous encounter that Peter could remember. He loved Ashley more deeply than he had ever realized until this moment and wanted to at least tell her as much in parting. But it appeared he would not have that opportunity. They seemed to be parting under her terms of final recall, which he knew was surprisingly different for every woman.

  The assembly pressed onto Peter, crowding out these final painful moments. Each seemed to have some final words of encouragement and a touch which he returned as long as he could carry a smile. He did not want to short change a single individual there. Yet, too soon, his burst of sentiment began to fade back again into the pain of missing his Ashley. But even as he thought about Ashley, Francis’ face appeared from the pressing crowd.

  "Peter....," Francis said, grasping his hand in a secure embrace. "Listen... I don't know how to tell you this..."

  "Stop it, Francis. I know already...," Peter replied, gently slapping his face with his gloved hand. "Dr. Gorteau, has made plans."

  "Yeah, I dialed the numbers for him," Francis replied immodestly.

  "We're going to take care of Sir Thomas while you're gone, don't lose any sleep over that ass."

  "Oh, I see. Shall I rent a two bedroom flat at Princeton?" Peter asked most sincerely.<
br />
  "Not to worry. You heard the idiot yesterday. He can't do without my services. He'll wish he had...," Francis replied, his voice husky with hate and rage.

  "Sir, you must depart now. We've already used up all the contingency time," the Marine reported. Peter looked to the faces of Francis, Gorteau and his friends.

  "Guys, listen, thanks for everything...," Peter started, his voice choking. "Godspeed to all of you, and God bless you all."

  "Godspeed to you, Peter," Gorteau said, grasping his hand one last time.

  Francis grasped his hand and forearm tightly. "Take care, compadre. Things around here ain’t over till their over.”

  Peter turned loose of Francis' grasp. Francis responded by gripping his hand and arm even tighter as if to reassure him. "Come back on the next ride or I'll kick your butt."

  Peter could only manage a quick nod of his head, as he turned away toward the gaping maw of the airlock. The applause followed and continued as the Marine's hand slammed down on the door and it sealed closed, the air hissing out and carrying with it the spirit of his parting friends.

  Peter glared at the Marine, who did not dare look at him or the crowd pressing at the inner window. To Peter, the whole affair had all the melodrama of a Nazi prison scene; the slamming of the door, the hissing of the escaping air, the crowd pressed to the window. Yet, even through this morbid thought, Peter managed one last theatrical smile and wave to those outside.

  At last the airlock stabilized to the slightly lessened pressure and the outer door sprung open into the MAT hangar. Another Marine awaited him there, dressed in the spotless and shiny red and silver Marine pressure suit.

  “Corporal Tyler releasing the prisoner to your custody, Lieutenant Quinton," Tyler reported with a sharp salute to the Marine officer standing at the open door of the MAT.