Pew! Pew! - Sex, Guns, Spaceships... Oh My!

by M. D. Cooper

  Bat looked at the suit sprawled across the slab before turning back to the doctor. “Oh, that hazmat suit.”

  She took a deep breath before continuing. “What are you doing to my MB?”

  He shrugged. “Just breaking in the new suit. The rubber is still a bit stiff.”

  She seemed unconvinced, since she continued to stare at him.

  He stared right back. “Is there a problem with breaking in a new suit?”

  “It makes people uncomfortable. I’d prefer you don’t wear the suit outside your pod.”

  “So, you’re saying it’s not illegal,” Bat countered.

  Her gaze narrowed. “No, but the MB is a closed ecosystem. Maintaining peace and order is a delicate balance. When you do things outside the norm, you can throw that balance off.”

  “Well, I’d certainly hate to do that,” Bat said drily.

  “Don’t mess with me. I know you had something to do with those three deaths, and I intend to find out,” Dr. Gould cautioned, and walked away.

  “What are you talking about?” he said, but the door had already closed behind her. He watched the door and he sobered. He had to get to Level Seven and find out the truth before he became an easy scapegoat.

  He took a seat and waited. Now, adrenaline kept him wide awake and fidgety.

  An hour later, Bat emerged from his pod. He only brought his rubber gloves this time, leaving the rest of the suit behind. The hallways had emptied, and the stragglers he came across paid him little attention, since he was dressed normally with the gloves stuffed in the backpack he carried. The only thing that could be construed to be suspicious was that Bat was walking around at this hour, but late hour strolls weren’t uncommon in the MB, where insomnia was a common thing.

  He headed down the stairs—all seven flights—until he reached the lowest level. He’d walked through the MB a couple times before, to see the colony in person. Each floor was nearly identical. Level Seven was unfinished, with less than half of it built out. Cutting through Martian bedrock was an incredibly slow process on a planet with no large equipment and where any mistake could prove fatal to the entire colony. That was, until Big Bertha landed a week ago.

  The door Bat sought was near the edge of the new development, where only the mining crews lived. A wall of red rock blocked the hallway, with drills and tools charging in stations lining the wall. In the center of the hallway stood Big Bertha, like an ominous machine. He half-expected it to wake up and look at him with red LED eyes.

  He shivered and stepped over a cable to reach the door. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one watched, since what he was doing wasn’t precisely legal. The MB system scanned all hallways, but no one looked at the footage unless there was a reason. Bat didn’t plan on giving them a reason.

  He pulled out the key card he’d borrowed from Dr. Stevens, and swiped it over the screen. The door opened, much to his relief; they hadn’t closed the deceased doctor’s accounts yet. Like any detective story he’d read growing up, finding the weapon used was crucial to connecting the killer with the crime. Until he had evidence, Dr. Gould would pose a bigger and bigger threat to his own wellbeing.

  He entered.

  “Welcome, Dr. Stevens,” the computer said.

  Bat glanced around and frowned at the larger room. “Why does everyone get a better place than me?” Switching gears, he hurriedly opened his bag, pulled out the gloves, and tugged them on. Then, he pulled out the large magnifying glass that generally hung above the worktable in his pod.

  He scanned the pod, finding everything seemingly untouched since Dr. Stevens’s death. Artwork hung on the walls, and knickknacks sat on shelves. The entire inner wall was red bedrock, likely done to save resources as much as to give the pod a bit of style beyond the light gray plastic that comprised so much of the MB.

  He moved to the kitchen, where the doctor’s death had supposedly taken place. A few dirty dishes sat in the sink. Otherwise, everything seemed in place and well-kept. He found no signs that a man had died here a day earlier. He stepped carefully as he looked around, using the magnifying glass to peer closer into dark corners.

  “If I were an exposed wire, where would I be?” he mused.

  If Dr. Stevens’s death was an accident, the wire should’ve been easily found near the body—if not in this pod, then in one of the two neighboring pods where the other men had been found dead.

  However, Bat was convinced these three deaths were no accidents. He was also convinced that Dr. Gould had an inkling of the truth.

  In the corner, where the cupboards met the bedrock, Bat found a small hole in the floor. It reminded him of a mouse hole, except that the edges were smooth, as though they’d been cut. There were (reportedly) no rodents in the MB, and especially no rodents that used tools.

  “Why would Stevens cut a hole down here?” Bat asked himself. Since the good doctor had been cremated a few hours earlier, he couldn’t answer. The hole was too low for a Peeping Tom to spy on his neighbor, so the placement baffled Bat.

  Curious, he grabbed a light from his bag and shone it into the hole. The tunnel continued until darkness swallowed the beam. Whether the tunnel had always been there or not, the hole had clearly been made after the cupboards were put in, which was within the past year.

  He moved the magnifying glass from the hole and slowly across the floor. A tiny movement caught his gaze, and he swung the glass up the wall. Bat squinted, and then his eyes widened. It blended with the bedrock so well that if it hadn’t moved, Bat never would’ve noticed it. But, now it was unmistakable. A small reddish caterpillar was crawling up the wall.

  Bat leaned back. “Ha. I knew it! They do have bugs here.”

  The sound made the caterpillar reel back, and Bat found himself face to face with a little red man wearing a furry caterpillar coat.

  “Oh,” Bat said.

  The thing squeaked back a response.

  Little red men

  To call the creature a man was a rather extreme exaggeration. He—or it, to be precise—had two arms and two feet and one head, but that was where any resemblance ended. Its eyes were beady, as though it preferred darkness to light. Its skin was ruddy, much like everything on Mars. And, most notably, it stood less than two inches tall.

  The Martian stared at Bat, who stared back at it.

  “Hey there, little guy. How’s it going?” Bat said in a light, sing-song voice as he set down the magnifying glass. With his hands free, he slowly raised his fingers toward the alien. The Martian didn’t move, but kept a careful gaze on Bat.

  “It’s okay,” Bat continued. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  As he closed in, the Martian squeaked out what sounded akin to a string of profanities at Bat. Light glinted off the weapon in its grip the instant before it flashed. A bolt of power shot out at Bat’s forefinger.

  Warmth seeped through the rubber covering his finger. Bat glanced down to see the rubber blackened but otherwise not damaged.

  “Whoa!” he said. “Not cool!”

  The alien shot again; this time the blast hit Bat’s palm.

  With a finger, Bat flicked the alien off the wall. It flew through the air and bounced off the floor. The Martian landed on its feet and took off running. Bat scrambled after it. Just before it reached the hole below the cupboards, Bat cupped his hand over it.

  “Gotcha!”

  Little bolts of heat warmed Bat’s gloved hand. With his free hand, he rustled through his bag and pulled out a clear plastic jar. Carefully picking up the Martian, he plopped it into the jar and snapped on the lid. It shot in every direction, lighting up the jar like a firefly.

  Bat watched the angry alien bounce around the jar like a bumper car. “Shoot all you want, you little bugger. You’re not getting out of there. That plastic is indestructible.”

  He gingerly slid the jar into his bag, peeled off his gloves, and plopped them on top of the jar. He slung the bag over his shoulder and hustled to his pod, his heart teeming with
a sense of satisfaction.

  Once inside the safety of his home, he carefully lifted the jar and set it on his worktable. The Martian had quit shooting like it was in the Wild West, and now sat with its caterpillar cloak draped over its shoulders. It glared at Bat, who thought it was rather impressive that a tiny little creature with beady eyes could make a humanlike expression so apparent.

  Bat took a seat and watched the Martian as it watched him. Who would've ever guessed that the first intelligent alien life humans came across would be murderous little things?

  As he pondered the alien before him, Bat faced a quandary. Who could he trust with this grand discovery? He knew very few residents, and those who he could trust made for a very short list. He hadn’t spoken to a single shipmate after landing, which ruled them out. He certainly couldn’t trust Dr. Gould, since she’d covered up anything suspicious about the three recent deaths. Dr. Wenger was her assistant, and was as involved as his boss was. That left Sir, who didn’t give a whit about anything that took place outside of the heaters.

  Bat soon realized that there was only one person left on his list.

  He searched the directory and dialed the number. No answer. It was too early for him to be at work, so he had to be home. After a fitful glance at the alien in the jar, Bat left his pod and jogged down the hallway to the pod. He rang the doorbell. Still no answer. He rang it again, then again and again.

  Finally, the door opened. Hank the cook stood there, wearing nothing but boxers, looking more asleep than awake. “What the hell do you want at this hour?”

  “I need to show you something.”

  “It can wait,” Hank said and turned to shut the door.

  “No!” Bat exclaimed.

  Hank paused and eyed his visitor suspiciously.

  “It can’t wait,” Bat said simply. “The entire MB is in immediate danger.”

  Hank stared at him for a long while. Then he yawned. “All right, I’ll bite. Hold on.”

  The door shut, leaving Bat standing in the hallway. The lights still hadn’t brightened for the day, meaning it was still some time before six AM.

  A moment later, the door opened. Hank was dressed, though he still looked half asleep.

  “Hurry back, sugar,” a woman’s voice called out from inside Hank’s pod.

  Hank shut the door and shot Bat a hard look. “This had better be good.”

  “Trust me,” Bat said.

  Bat tried to set a faster pace, but Hank continued at a slow stroll.

  “Why me?” Hank asked as they walked.

  “I don’t know anyone else I can trust.”

  “You don’t know anyone else, you mean.”

  “I know lots of people.”

  Hank glanced at him, unconvinced. “Dead guys don’t count.”

  Feeling deflated, Bat said, “Do you want to see this or not?”

  “I’m not sure,” he answered.

  Bat stopped at his door, swiped his key card, and stepped inside.

  Hank followed. “So, what have you got to show me that’s important enough for me to leave Dirty Deidre naked and alone in my bed?”

  “It’s right here.” Bat gasped and his body froze. The jar was still on the worktable, but it now lay on its side, with the lid several inches away. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

  Bat grabbed the rubber gloves, fell onto his knees, and began searching.

  “What are you doing?” Hank asked.

  “It was there, in the jar,” he replied in a rush. “I left it for just a couple minutes. I don’t know how it could’ve gotten out.”

  Hank looked around worriedly. “What was it?”

  “The Martian.”

  “The Martian,” Hank echoed in a monotone voice.

  Bat jumped to his feet. “The little bastard got away. I’ll find him.”

  “And what did this Martian look like?”

  “It’s about this big.” Bat pinched his fingers. “It looks a tiny bit like a human, only it’s red.”

  Hank’s brow lifted. “You’re saying that Martians are little red men?”

  “Yes. I guess so.” He cocked his head. “Although, I suppose we’re the real aliens here since we’re Earthlings on Mars.”

  Hank cocked his head. “Take my advice, Bat. This Martian is something you should keep to yourself.”

  Bat stood. “You don’t understand. These things are what’s killing off people. They have these itsy-bitsy blasters that shoot out electricity, only it’s not electricity. Whatever it is, it’s some sort of highly-conductive energy that causes cardiac arrest.”

  Hank leaned on Bat’s worktable. “And you have proof of this?”

  “Yes! I mean, I did.” He grabbed the jar and held it up. “Look. How else do you explain these little burn marks?”

  “I’m a cook, not a detective.” Hank paused. “Maybe you should talk to Dr. Exeter.”

  “Who’s Dr. Exeter.”

  “He’s a clinical psychiatrist. A lot of new residents talk to him. You know, with the stress of getting used to colony life and all.”

  “I’m not crazy.” Bat blew out a breath. “They’ll never believe me without proof. I’ve shown Dr. Weber the burn marks on the victims, but he refused to hear me out.”

  “Dr. Weber is a trained medical professional. Maybe you should believe him.”

  “No! They’re covering it up. I know it.”

  Hank’s brows rose. “Bat, listen carefully. Dr. Gould carries a lot of power around here. You don’t want to make enemies with her. She can make your life very unpleasant if you piss her off. Do you understand?”

  Bat scowled.

  “So, take my advice. Keep this to yourself.”

  “But—”

  Hank held up a hand. “Trust me on this. She can make your life miserable. And, it’s not like you can hop on the next flight back to Earth. I didn’t start my career here as a cook. Do you understand what I’m telling you? So, you’d better damn well leave me out of this, at least until you have tangible, real proof. I don’t need my life to get screwed any worse by Gould. Got it?”

  Bat grimaced, then nodded.

  “All right. I’m heading back to my place. Get some sleep, Bat.”

  Hank left Bat standing alone in his pod.

  The MB was under attack by Martians. And Bat Johnson seemed to be the only one who believed it.

  The problem with alien invasions

  Bat had turned in Dr. Stevens’s personal effects in the morning, minus the doctor’s key card when he realized Security had no proof that the deceased doctor had had the card on him when he was delivered to Bat. If Bat was lucky, the key card would buy him at least one more trip to the doctor’s pod before Security closed the doctor’s accounts.

  The problem was, Bat couldn’t return to Level Seven during the day with all the drill teams down there. And so he had to wait, spending the day searching his pod for the little escape artist. After twelve hours of tearing his pod apart and finding no sign of a Martian, Bat gave up and ventured down to the commons to grab a bite to eat. Bat stepped in line behind the dozen or so residents ahead of him.

  He could already smell the dinner special: Mars bars. He didn’t know why they called Mars Bars the “special”, since they were the only entrée ever on the menu. Mars bars, an artificial concoction with the texture of tofu and a kale-like aftertaste, were the only abundant food source in the MB. With enough artificial flavor added, they weren’t half-bad. What he hated was that every damn one of the things contained lactose.

  Bat scowled when he reached the front of the line and found that salmon-flavored were the only bars left. He hated salmon. For a price, food could be specially prepared. The problem was, Bat had no money.

  He grabbed two bars and dropped them on a tray. The green squares with specks of pink jiggled with each step he took. He grabbed a glass of water before trudging over to an empty table and sat down. He was halfway through his first bar when someone took the seat next to him.

  He
glanced up to find Hank.

  “Hey,” Hank said in flat voice.

  Bat held up a chunk of a bar. “Who thought of making salmon-flavored bars?”

  “I take it you didn’t find that thing you lost since you’re so moody.”

  “I’m not moody. I have lactose intolerance.”

  Hank cocked his head. “I have no dietary restrictions on file for you. Didn’t you fill out the dietary questionnaire before leaving Earth?”

  “Lactose intolerance was listed as a disqualifying condition,” Bat said.

  Hank lifted a brow. “So, you’d rather be in gastric misery your entire life?”

  Bat shrugged. “It’s better than being jobless back on Earth and choking on smog every day.”

  Hank nodded after a moment. “Sometimes I forget how bad it is there.”

  “Although, at least people back on Earth aren’t getting killed off by little red aliens.”

  “Allegedly,” Hank corrected. “All right, I agree. Three deaths in one week is nuts. Everyone’s a bit freaked out about it. After all, we’d been on a long run with no deaths for a couple months at least.”

  Bat thought for a long moment, then his jaw loosened. He looked at Hank. “That’s it. The killing began right after we landed.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “Nearly the entire cargo hold on the ship was filled with a big drill. It was so big there wasn’t much room left for anything else.”

  “So?”

  “From what I hear, Big Bertha was a game-changer. It can cut through bedrock a hundred times faster than the hand drills they’d been using.”

  Hank nodded. “Yeah. The colony’s growth stagnated until Big Bertha arrived. Now, they’re chipping through rock that none of their drills could even scratch before.”

  “What if that rock wasn’t really rock after all? What if it was a defensive wall that was protecting a Martian city?” Bat leaned back. “The Martians think we’re invading them!”

  Hank sighed. “Here we go again with the Martian theory.”

  “It makes perfect sense. The three deaths all happened close to where the drilling is taking place.” Bat thought through his logic for a moment. “It’s only the beginning. There’s going to be a lot more deaths if we don’t stop drilling.”