Mars Wars - Abyss of Elysium

by Abyss Of Elysium (Lit)

  No one could gain access to the colony now without ripping the doors off and depressurizing whole domes. Such a move would endanger everyone's lives. Hence, the colonists were counting on the intensity of the fray maintaining itself at a level somewhere less than mass death. Not a single individual thought Lipton was insane enough to think that even he would order that degree of retribution.

  Night had fallen over BC1 by the time the four Marines approached the airlock tunnels to the colony. Francis had terminated the power to the tunnels, so the battery powered emergency lights caused the tunnel to glow a dim ruby red.

  In the lead, fully suited Quinton approached the door, in a creeping, bent-over stance, weapon raised. Slowly, he raised his head and looked out the glass plate into the empty tunnel. Brinker leaned fully upright against the wall, head back, cigar propped up in his lips inside his helmet. He looked at his leader and shook his head slowly. "They never, ever made a piss ant Lieutenant that was worth a tinker's damn to begin with, but this guy is three, say four bricks shy of a full load," he reflected to himself.

  "Tyler, open the door," Quinton ordered the new Marine. Corporal Tyler slipped quietly to the door, also crouched, mimicking the Lieutenant, and grasped the handle, turning it with all his strength. "It's jammed, sir," he said breathlessly.

  “Imagine that!” Brinker whispered to himself, but just a little too loudly.

  "Brinker, get your black ass over here and help him," Quinton whispered through his lip mounted helmet microC2.

  Brinker, who had been laughing quietly at these fools attempting to open a pressurized door against Mars' virtual vacuum, suddenly lost his sense of humor as Quinton made his racial slur. The gullible, ignorant, boyish officer suddenly became something more malevolent. If Brinker had disliked him before, he hated him now.

  "... can't open a pressurized hatch, Lieutenant," Brinker replied unmoving, his voice sheathed with obvious contempt, glaring down at the officer.

  "And just what makes you think it's pressurized?" Quinton returned with equal contempt.

  Brinker said nothing, and simply nodded toward the status panel glowing on the bulkhead beside the door. The status indicators glared bright red, indicating the outer tunnel had been evacuated of air, causing the interior hatch to be pressurized with all the force of the interior domes.

  "We can't get to them!" Quinton declared incredulously.

  "Not this way," Brinker agreed with cheeky amusement.

  "How many other tunnels are there?"

  "Two more...," Hiraldo finally replied with contempt.

  "Hiraldo, you and Tyler go recon them and report back to me in five minutes," Quinton ordered, his eyes darting.

  "Waste of time," Brinker replied.

  "What's your problem now, Marine?" Quinton seethed at Brinker.

  "If I only had three inner doors to lock, and I was the world’s smartest scientist, I doubt seriously if I'd have missed one; how 'bout you?"

  "Are you daring to suggest that this operation is impossible?" the officer asked, now clearly hinting for some help.

  "You're in charge, Lieutenant," Brinker said, sliding down on the deck. The smart ass could sink on his own, as far as Brinker was concerned.

  Quinton's eyes flashed about. His plan to use the bluff of the weapons to root out the prisoners was not working. If he could not get access to the colony, then his big guns were worthless. He stared at the ground for two long minutes. Finally he stammered, his voice barely able to speak the words, "Okay, Brinker, you said you could go in and bring them out in two hours. So let's hear it."

  Brinker looked stunned. There was no way he would ever allow this bigoted fool to benefit or take credit for a single fragment of his ideas or knowledge. Let the jerk go it alone. He would just as soon ride along and amuse himself with the little twit’s stupid antics. So he said nothing, looking through the half darkness directly at the Lieutenant who was staring down at his gloved hand, reflexively clutching his weapon. It further occurred to Brinker that this arrogant pig had not looked him in the eye or talked to him as a man since he had arrived. But Brinker had seen it before; white faces that couldn't look black faces in the eye, man to man.

  Then another thought occurred to him, even caught him off guard: semper fi . . .

  "Okay," Brinker began, suppressing a sigh, "now listen up." Some principals, he thought to himself, were just worth more than others; but, damn, it was a close call.

  yler and Hiraldo each had portable welders strung across their shoulders, marching through the Martian dust, outside the domes, moving toward the colonists quarters, following Quinton and Brinker.

  Their first target was the colony's outermost pressurized zone. There were three and the plan was to depressurize one at a time, sweeping them, driving them all back to the last one, then ordering the prisoners out. There were emergency closets into which the colonists could move if they had to, they could put on their suits or they could die; their choice. Brinker knew that with proper timing and warning, with small, well placed holes, no one would die. It was a classic, professional Marine operation; a well planned surgical strike based on an intimate and personal knowledge of the enemy.

  They arrived at the first outer airlock. Brinker walked straight up to and looked through the transparent, plastic window in the door. The guard inside was reading. Brinker tapped on the window, and as the startled guard looked up, Quinton smiled and waved. "Okay troops, do it!" he said with a satisfied grin

  One Marine slapped a metal plate over the window while the other tack welded it into place. The frightened guard inside stepped back, clutching his PC2 up to his open mouth, speechless. He could immediately see there was something written on the metal plate. Slowly he stepped up and read,

  THIS DOOR WILL BE REMOVED IN 15 MINUTES. ALL OCCUPANTS INSIDE SHOULD EVACUATE FROM THIS ZONE IMMEDIATELY. THE UNITED STATES MARINES ARE PREPARING TO OCCUPY THIS FEDERAL PROPERTY BY FORCE.

  "Holy crap!" the guard cried into the open circuit of the PC2 which echoed throughout the colonist’s compounds, the administrative quarters and the Marines own circuits. Brinker did not even try to control his convulsive laughter.

  eter and Francis ran as fast as they could through the passageways to airlock 14 where the frightened guard had stammered half an intelligible warning in his PC2. When they arrived, the guard was backed against a wall, pointing to the sign, screaming, "The grunts are going to kill us all!"

  "Nobody is going to get killed," Peter assured him, walking over to read the sign. "Well I'll be," he said to himself. "They're actually coming in!"

  Then he stood back, trying to assess what they were up to. The first thought was the most obvious; if they wanted the colonists to die, there would have been no warning. So they were trying to control them. After that realization, the rest of the plan became evident.

  Toon came rushing into the airlock, followed by a dozen others. Peter motioned to the others, calling out, "Please step outside. There's not enough room in here for everyone." As they stepped out, Peter pushed the door almost completely closed, out of courtesy to those still outside, speaking quietly to Francis and Toon. "Okay, here's the counter attack," he began, his murmuring followed by Francis' loud guffaws.

  ive more minutes," Quinton said to no one in particular, eyeing the florescent dial on his watch. "Tyler, Hiraldo, prepare to remove the door," he said with some authority coming back into his voice.

  It was a senseless command as they were sitting on the ground by the door anyway. Brinker considered, even savored his comeback, but thought better of it. Quinton had the good judgment to listen and go along with his earlier reasoning. Besides, Hiraldo knew to cut a hole in the door to bleed the pressure first before she cut off the hinges. He had already briefed her on that.

  So Brinker sat in silence, under the dark Martian sky. The brilliant stars were the same stars he had seen from earth, only here, under the thin sky, they were much brighter. His favorite, the bright, bluish evening star, appeared earlier and
earlier after each sunset for months, then one day didn't rise at all as it went behind the sun. That blue star was home. With any luck, he would be speeding back there tomorrow, this last interesting game and Quinton receding behind him at thousands of kilometers per hour. The BURR would be gone, at last. The real world would be back under his feet. All the rest to Brinker were minor details.

  As he contemplated these things, the airlock door suddenly swung slowly open. It caught all of them by surprise. They waited for someone to walk out, but no one did. Quinton and Tyler held their weapons up and to the ready.

  Brinker carefully analyzed the strategy. Unfortunately, Quinton simply reacted.

  "Okay, let's go!" the Lieutenant cried.

  "No!" Brinker replied, having thought through the logic of their actions.

  But Tyler had already obeyed the command senior officer and was in the airlock, weapon raised. Quinton followed. Hiraldo looked at Brinker who shook his head and mouthed silently to her, "Fubar." The Lieutenant had just screwed things up beyond all repair.

  Brinker was a superb strategist and his plan was based as much on the psychology of his enemy as anything; their intelligence was the only weapon they had. His strategy was laid out three to four steps ahead and he always planned one or two contingencies. In the real world, this was an above-average military talent. Most others in the population did not have this predisposition or emotional substance. Quinton did not; he was basically a reactionist; a single-step strategist. Quinton's intelligence and aptitude were far below Brinker's. Unfortunately for all, his authority was not. The system had bred and sent Brinker a manager to lead, not a fighting man. It was the Sergeant's mistake for not acting on that, and now he knew it. He regretted not having shared with the Lieutenant the most elementary, detailed aspects of his plan. But it was too late now.

  e've got Marines in the airlock!" Jack Linde said to Peter and his father, Francis.

  "Good! Welcome them into our humble quarters," Peter replied jovially. They had just walked right into his lair.

  "I've got four Marines in the airlock, and now I’m closing the hatch," Jack said, moving the appropriate levers. "Pressurizing," he reported.

  "I do believe they've got guns; big guns," Toon said, eyeing the Marines through the port.

  "I’m impressed," Peter responded with scorn. "What I want to know is how they were authorized to bring that much weight in useless equipment to Mars?"

  "Pentagon," replied Jack.

  "Or NRA," Francis said with a wide grin. "Perhaps they're for duck hunting."

  "Special delivery!" Toon said, rushing through the crowded passageway with his box. "Line it up, Jack," he said, thrusting the box to Linde.

  Jack took the box, quickly unpacked the instrument, setting it up on a makeshift table. "I need more time," he warned.

  "Slow the repressurization," Peter ordered calmly.

  "Got it!" Jack finally announced, then sat by his device, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head.

  "Pressurization complete. Let them in!" Peter said, taking a deep breath.

  Quinton stepped into the room, weapon raised. "This facility is being occupied by the United States Marines. I want everyone clear of this room immediately! Follow my orders and do what I say and no one will be hurt."

  "Lieutenant, is this a robbery or is this an invasion?" Francis asked, stalling the Marine. Jack's hands worked busily at his small instrument from the far side of the room. With his back to the Marines, he looked carefully down into an eyepiece that resembled a microscope, focused, pressed a series of buttons and repeated his steps again and again.

  Quinton pointed his weapon at Peter, "Out, now!" he sneered.

  "You realize that if that thing actually goes off, we’ll all die, even you."

  "Don't screw with me, just move it."

  "Well, my work is done," Jack said with a smirk from across the room. "Let me lead the way."

  "I'll follow him," Francis replied with a fake smile.

  The four Marines were the last to leave the airlock. Brinker could see that the colonists were leading them, so he hung far behind. As they passed room after room, no sweep was made. There was no telling how many waited for them or what kind of plot the colonists had contrived. Brinker knew there was a game afoot. What he didn't know was that the game was already up.

  They all walked into the dining hall, where Peter sat down against a wall in front of a table along with Ashley and Gorteau. Francis, Toon and Mark Teiner walked to the table and stood behind them.

  "Are these the prisoners, Sergeant Brinker?" Quinton asked.

  "Those are the prisoners, indeed," Brinker replied, fighting a more insulting tone of voice. He knew at least part of what would probably happen next.

  "Alright; you six, follow me," Quinton ordered, sounding totally preposterous.

  "No," Peter replied unmoving, "We will not."

  Quinton stood silent, at a total loss for what to say. He held his pointed gun at them and they stared back.

  "Brinker, take these people into custody," he ordered, his voice trembling.

  "I'd like for you to tell me just exactly how you want me to do that," Brinker replied, his ridiculous weapon hanging uselessly at his side. "I doubt very seriously whether any one of them is going to sit still while I stuff them into pressure suits."

  "He’s right, of course," Peter added. "Not even United States Marines will risk their own lives by firing on us and chance blowing a hole in the walls of this structure. And, one man is hardly a match for six."

  "Alright, but we'll be back," Quinton rasped, now waving his weapon around the room. "Okay..., er, Brinker, you and your squad fall back by twos to the airlock," he said, nervously, claustrophobically eyeing the crowd that had gathered.

  Peter saw the man was about to lose it. So did Brinker.

  "Ah, yeah... Fall back… now!" Brinker replied, hoping against hope the colonists had enough sense to allow them to retreat.

  Peter knew that if Quinton's trigger finger even twitched, everyone in the room would likely perish. He had no idea he would be dealing with a deranged man. His plan of reason was falling apart and it was about to kill them all. Jack, however, did not know this.

  "Too bad, jarhead," Jack said from the crowd., "We just fixed your pressure suit. You won't be leaving us at all."

  Francis shot Jack a homicidal stare, but it was too late.

  "What... huh?" Quinton stuttered, the helmet enclosing his head suddenly became an obstruction as his eyes shot about, looking for the life support gauges on his wrist.

  Jack had used a far infrared laser to pepper their suits with a dozen pin sized holes as they walked out of the airlock. The laser's invisible energy completely dissipated on the surface in the red stripes of the Marine's suits so that they never knew they had been punctured. The original plan was to make them their prisoners, but the plan was about to tragically unravel.

  Quinton's eyes finally caught sight of his suit pressure gauge, now dipping toward zero. In the pressurized environment of the domes he had not noticed. With horror, he felt trapped and helpless. Peter and Brinker instantly realized the peril of the situation at the same time, their eyes picking up the tiny nuances of insanity in Quinton's face. Peter's body began its motion but far too late. Quinton raised his shotgun to Peter's face and pulled the trigger just as its black barrel was leveled even with his eyes. It snapped closed with an empty click.

  Peter more felt than understood in an interminable instant that the Marine's weapon was not loaded, and he froze, looking quickly to Brinker.

  "I told you the moron would do it," Hiraldo said to Brinker, the shells she had taken from Quinton's clip unrolling in her hand.

  "You traitorous bitch!" Quinton screamed, and then reached for his .45 caliber handgun that no one had been able to unload.

  Brinker saw it all coming and, grasping the barrel of his shotgun, was swinging it toward the back of the deranged officer like a bat. He struck Quinton with the
butt of the rifle on the helmet behind his head with a loud thump and sent him sprawling across the floor. Quinton fell hands out, slid a meter and lay still.

  Brinker removed his helmet and tossed it onto the floor. The colonists were frozen in terror and disbelief. Adjusting the cigar in his mouth with a steady hand, he looked down at the officer and sighed, "I just hope Lipton has more seats left on his prison rocket. I think I'm gonna be sittin in one of 'em."

  Quinton lay still, just slightly stunned. His eyes were open, hidden in his face-down position on the deck. His mind was racing. He could feel the weapon still clutched in his right hand. He needed only half a second and a good aim. He had lost all rationality now. His only purpose in life was to use what he knew to kill the turncoat black sergeant and bring his prisoners back to justice.

  He spun quickly over to kill Brinker. Peter had already rushed to grab the gun before the Marine could recover and lunged for it even as the Lieutenant was pulling the weapon off the deck. Peter struck Quinton as he fired. The bullet narrowly missed Brinker's suit and struck the wall of the dining hall. Quinton had carved a hollow point out of the lead projectile's head, and as it spun into the wall, it flowered, ripping a jagged, fist-sized hole. Because of the vortex of escaping air and its own spinning energy, as the bullet exited through the wall, it left a ragged metallic edge pointed in all directions. The air of the dining hall began to roar out into the dark Martian night behind the bullet.

  The force of Peter's impact knocked Quinton down and they slid together toward the wall, assisted by momentum and the out-rushing column of air. The hole wasn't large enough to pull much along in its wake, but the pressure was dropping far more rapidly than the emergency air banks could resupply. Peter could feel the air being sucked out of his own lungs.