by G J Ogden
“You’ll need me,” said Tory. “I can find Cutler Wendell. And besides, we have a score to settle.”
Hudson nodded, “Thanks. It looks like I need someone new in the second seat, anyway.”
Tory scoffed a laugh, “Like hell… I’ve seen your flying. The second seat is yours.”
Hudson was about to object when Tobin spoke up. “What about me? I still want to help, and there’s no way I’m going back to Mars. My mom would kill me!”
Liberty laughed, but it was not meant unkindly. “Maybe you could come with me?” she said, glancing across to Morphus to check its reaction. “I have a feeling I could use the support.”
Morphus nodded. “Piloting the Revocater will result in significant physical and mental strain,” it said, seemingly agreeing with Liberty’s suggestion. “There will be times when the stresses become difficult to bear. A companion for what I believe you call, ‘moral support’, may be advantageous.”
Liberty winced, “You’re not really selling this to me, Morphus.”
The alien frowned, but Tobin smiled and cut-in, “Don’t worry, I’ll have your back.”
Hudson went around the table, refilling everyone’s glasses. “For what it’s worth, it sounds like we have a plan.” He picked up his glass, and offered a toast. “Here’s to kicking Goliath’s ass.”
They all drank, including to Hudson’s surprise, Morphus. The alien placed the glass down on the table, and examined the remaining contents inquisitively. “This liquid is similar to the one I sampled previously. Its alcohol content remains highly toxic to human beings,” it announced. “In addition to numerous deleterious consequences, it will increase your arousal and excitement, lower inhibitions and increase impulsivity.”
Tory grabbed the square bottle off the table, and held it up to Morphus. “That’s the whole damn point of it, lady,” she said, before placing the neck to her lips and taking a long gulp. Then she looked at Hudson, and said, “I’ll get started on the checklist. Let me know when you’re ready to leave.” Then she swept off towards the cockpit, bottle still in hand.
CHAPTER 17
Aripple of tracer rounds flashed past the cockpit of the FS-31, as the red planet loomed large ahead of them. “Shit, they’re really serious about us powering down,” said Logan Griff, arching his neck to get a better view aft. The two MP patrol vessels were still on their tail. “Why the hell did you bring us to Mars if this ship is on a damned MP watch list?”
“It’s not,” replied Cutler, coolly. “Or, at least it wasn’t.”
A priority communication channel clicked opened and the haughty voice of an MP officer filled the cockpit. “FS-31 Patrol Craft Hawk 1333F, you are under arrest by order of Admiral Shelby,” the officer began. His voice was thick with self-importance. “Power down immediately, or you will be fired upon.”
As if to reinforce his point, the lead Martian patrol ship fired again, sending another volley of tracer rounds past their nose. The shots flew by so close that Griff instinctively ducked away from them. “Cutler, these assholes aren’t messing around, we have to abort and find somewhere else to dock.” Cutler didn’t answer, and Griff realized that he was still holding course towards the planet, and that his approach velocity was dangerously high. “What are you doing?” he demanded, growing suddenly even more nervous of Cutler’s intentions than those of the high-and-mighty MP officer. “You keep going like this, and we’ll just burn up in the Martian atmosphere!”
“This is the only way to escape the patrol,” replied Cutler, while making several rapid adjustments to his flight controls. His voice was still calm, and he did not deviate from his course. “I will need you to stand ready to jump-start the main drives on my command.”
“What the hell are you going to do?” cried Griff, as the entry-warning indicators flashed up on his panel, followed by a low, strident alarm.
“If you want to survive, just do as I say,” snapped Cutler. “There’s no time to explain.”
Griff growled in reply, before pulling the engineering panel closer to his seat. He accessed the reactor and main drive controls, then waited. He was again a powerless spectator, at the mercy of whatever plan Cutler Wendell had devised.
The ship rocked and shimmied as it hit turbulence in the exosphere, but still Cutler didn’t deviate or slow down. The mercenary was watching his instruments with an almost trance-like focus. He then dove towards the planet more steeply and flames engulfed the view outside. Alarms rang out again, louder and more urgent than before.
“Too fast!” Griff yelled out, but he couldn’t hear his own voice over the din in the cockpit. He tried to cry out again, but although his mouth opened, and he could feel the vibrations shake his chest, his ears were deaf to any sounds he made.
Suddenly, the FS-31 emerged through the inferno, and Cutler yanked back on the controls to pull the nose up. There was a powerful jolt as the main drives kicked in, leveling them off. Then Griff saw the drive systems go offline on his panel, and he panicked. “They’ve hit the engines! They’re offline, we have to bail out!” he cried.
“I disabled the drives,” answered Cutler, his own voice now escalating as the shimmies through the deck plating intensified. “They’re targeting our drive signature. This will make us harder to hit.”
Griff stared at Cutler in disbelief; entering the Martian atmosphere without the main drives was suicide. However, he didn’t get an opportunity to protest, because suddenly the pressure in the cabin dropped sharply and another alarm rang out.
“Hull breach!” cried Cutler, veering hard to port using the thrusters. “Find it and seal it!”
Air rushed past Griff’s face as he craned his neck around the cockpit. Then he saw them - two punctures in the starboard hull, just in front of the rear bulkhead. Griff sprang into action, knowing he had less than a minute before the breach blew out the breathable air faster than the life support systems could replenish it. And if the breaches ruptured wider, there was a risk of the cockpit walls collapsing and both of them being blown out into the thin Martian atmosphere.
Griff grabbed the emergency seals and leaped towards the first breach, pressing the magnetized pad to the hull. The hiss of air vanished, but then the ship was rocked by another powerful shimmy, and he was thrown to his back.
“Griff, hurry!” he heard Cutler yell, his voice now lacking any of its normal composure.
Griff pushed himself to his knees and grabbed the back of his head. His fingers were wet with blood and his vision was blurred.
“Griff, seal that breach!” he heard Cutler yell again. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision, and saw the second breach sealing pad on the deck. He crawled towards it and looked up, trying to remember where the puncture in the hull was. The air felt thin and he was struggling to concentrate. He forced himself to stand, though the effort was agonizing, and staggered to the starboard wall. The pressure differential was increasing, pulling his straggly hair towards the opening. Drawing the backing off the pad, he thrust it at the breach, practically crashing against the wall in the process.
The next thing Griff knew, his face was pressed up against a console. Switches and buttons bit into his skin, like the pinch of a dozen tiny crab claws. The hiss of air escaping had stopped, but there was still a fierce roar inside the cabin.
“Griff!” he heard Cutler cry out. He pushed himself off the console, and saw the Martian landscape approaching rapidly through the cockpit glass. “Restart the drives!” Cutler yelled.
Griff lurched towards the second seat and fell into it, before hurriedly fastening his harness. A second later the ventral thrusters overheated, and the nose of the FS-31 dipped towards the red planet’s dusty surface. Griff screamed, jamming his feet against the console and digging his fingers into the armrest of the seat. However, his attempts to steel himself against the pressures that were acting on his body were futile, and the FS-31 was still dropping like a stone towards the Martian surface.
“Start the main drives!”
Cutler shouted over to Griff. “Five seconds or we’re dead!”
The thrusters fired again, and Cutler desperately tried to wrestle the ship into a more controlled descent, but it was as pointless as trying to move a bowling ball by blowing through a straw.
Griff reached for the drive control panel, but it felt like there was a weight attached to his arm, dragging it back. He cried out, using his last ounce of strength, and practically punched his finger through the panel. The roar in the cabin was now met by the rising whine of the main drives spinning back up. Griff’s effort had been just enough, and just in time.
“Drives online!” Griff called out, relaxing every muscle in his body, and submitting to the forces that had been fighting to overwhelm him.
They were now only seconds away from smashing into the red Martian surface. Again, powerless to affect his own fate, Griff watched as Cutler slammed the throttle forward, and hauled back on the controls. The forces on Griff’s body intensified further, so much so that he was unable even to cry out in pain. He closed his eyes, and almost blacked out, but then suddenly the pressure evaporated. He forced his eyes open and saw that they were hurtling towards a massive, flat-topped mountain.
“Did we make it?” wheezed Griff, still unsure whether the ordeal was over. “Are we safe?” His words came out weak and shaky.
There was an agonizing pause before Cutler finally answered, “Yes. For now.”
“Where are we going?” Griff added, scowling at the imposing feature of the Martian landscape as they approached it at speed.
“Arsia Mons,” replied Cutler, who now appeared to be fully in control again, though his voice was also breathless and unsteady.
Griff didn’t have the strength to question what Arsia Mons was, or why Cutler was heading there. He simply flopped back in his seat and watched the mountain approach. The alarms in the cockpit had mercifully fallen silent, and he could see on his monitors that the MP patrol ships were also nowhere to be seen.
Cutler’s crazy stunt had worked. He didn’t care how it had worked, only that it had. Griff realized that he should have perhaps trusted Cutler more readily, at least in terms of handling situations such as they had just experienced. Cutler Wendell had made a living out of surviving the seemingly unsurvivable. Though whether this was from luck or judgement, Griff was no longer certain.
Cutler began to climb up the slope of the mountain, before suddenly braking rapidly, and ducking inside a wide pit. The cockpit was thrown into a soothing darkness. Then there was a thud through the deck as the FS-31’s landing struts made contact with the Martian surface. Griff heard the engines wind down again, and saw on his panel that Cutler had disabled every non-critical system.
As hiding spots went, even Griff could tell that this was a good one. The shadowy pit would make them impossible to spot from the air, and with most off the systems offline, their power signature was too weak to detect. Unless a patrol craft literally flew directly over their position, they would not be found.
“You’ve hidden here before?” asked Griff, if only to break the sudden, eerie silence that had fallen over the cockpit.
“Yes,” answered Cutler, dimly. Though even with only the light from the cockpit panels illuminating him, Griff could see Cutler’s expression was weary and drawn.
Neither spoke for what seemed like several minutes. Griff’s muscles burned, and the hair on the back of his head was matted with blood. He was exhausted, dizzy, sore and nauseous – but at least he was alive.
“We must get rid of this ship,” said Cutler, eventually breaking the stillness. “The MP will not stop coming for us, because of what happened to the alien moon.”
“Then what?” said Griff. “If the MP has a warrant out for us then it’s a fair bet the CET does too.”
“Will your Superintendent Wash help us?” asked Cutler, but Griff simply shook his head. “The RGF will be blamed for what happened at the new portal world. Wash will deny being involved. Hell, the spiteful witch will probably just try to blame it all on me instead. I still have my RGF credentials, though, for now, at least. My inspector’s shield can unlock doors that would otherwise be closed.”
The mention of Griff’s inspector’s shield seemed to get Cutler’s attention, and he remained deep in thought for several more seconds.
“I know somewhere that we may be able to lay low,” said Cutler, again being the one to break the impasse. “But it will require selling everything we have. And we will need to rely on your RGF credentials to pass through border security, while bypassing the usual CET channels.”
Griff shot Cutler a curious glance, “Where do you have in mind?”
“We hide in plain sight,” said Cutler. “San Francisco.”
Griff laughed and shook his head, but he was too tired to argue. And it wasn’t like he had a choice, anymore. Like it or not, Cutler Wendell was now his only hope of escaping a cold, dark holding cell.
“So, where can we get rid of this ship and buy another? One that’s off the radar?” asked Griff, accepting his fate.
Cutler glanced back, raising his eyebrows, and Griff could tell he wasn’t going to like the answer.
“There is only one place on Mars where we can trade illicitly. Though the terms will not be favorable.”
Griff sighed wearily, and then asked, “Where?”
“The shipyards in the Gale Basin,” answered Cutler, tentatively.
Griff cursed and sat up, “Are you out of your damn mind?” he shouted. “The Gale Basin? The only place on Mars that’s pretty much run by the Council? Who, in case you’ve forgotten, are the ones trying to kill us!”
“Do you think I want to go there?” replied Cutler, his tongue taking on a sharper edge. “Like it or not, Inspector, the Gale Basin is the only place on Mars where we can trade a ship on the black market.”
Griff slumped back into his seat again, and peered up through the darkness into the Martian sky. He reached for a cigarette from the packet in his shirt pocket, but then realized his hands were shaking. Eventually, he managed to wrestle one from the packet and maneuver it to his mouth. It took him three attempts to light it.
How the hell has it come to this? Griff asked himself, drawing deeply on the cigarette. The rush from the nicotine hit gave Griff a sudden lucidity, and the answer presented itself, as clear as the alien crystal that had caused him so much trouble. Hudson Powell… he thought, blowing out a plume of smoke above his head, clouding his view of the Martian sky. There was only one person who could have turned him in to the authorities. It always comes back to Hudson Powell… he realized. He sucked on the cigarette again and then dug his fingers into the armrest of the chair. Except that this time it was out of rage, not fear. I’ll kill that bastard before this is over, Griff vowed in that moment, deep inside the Martian pit. Hudson Powell, Liberty Devan and any other piece of shit that follows him. I’ll kill them all…
CHAPTER 18
After the discovery of the Earth-like portal worlds, commercial and scientific interest in colonizing Mars disappeared almost overnight. Compared to the warm, breathable atmospheres of the portal worlds, and their Earth-normal gravity, Mars was simply too much effort. Its thin, carbon dioxide atmosphere and cold surface temperatures made it unappealing. However, there were still some on Earth that saw the possibilities of the red planet, not for its resources, but for its potential to start anew.
The rapid technological advancements and rich resources of the new portal worlds quickly made the pioneer explorers rich. From nothing, new mega-corporations quickly grew, based around the reverse-engineered technology from the alien hulks. Several of these powerful corporations then banded together, and applied their combined wealth and commercial expertise to the task of taming Mars. Despite the immense challenges, the advancements in technology, combined with near limitless spending power, allowed a consortium of these powerful business empires to establish the Martian Protectorate.
The new MP declared independence from Earth, sparking a lo
ng conflict, which eventually ended in a bitter stalemate. However, the deadlock essentially ensured the MP’s sovereignty, and also its claim over all portal worlds, accessed from inside the newly-designated Martian space. The wealth generated from these portal worlds made the consortia even more powerful. As such, Martian society became one where wealth was commonplace and necessary. Only the richest could afford to live there, and only the richest were permitted to. Its inhabitants considered themselves superior to their poor cousins on Earth, and looked down their noses at those from the portal worlds.
Consequently, with the exception of parts of Deimos Station, and the more remote MP portal worlds, Martian space was hostile to hunters, and it was certainly no place for mercenaries, like Cutler Wendell. Yet, for every rule there was always an exception. With a society so uptight and heavily regulated, there always had to be a release valve. A way for those on Mars with a taste for more Earthly decadences to indulge their baser desires. The Gale Basin was that place.
The MP authorities knew about the dealings that went on in the Basin, but they turned a blind eye. In part, this was because many of the Mars super-elite were its biggest customers. However, they also knew that the Basin was necessary, in order to keep any scandal away from polite society. Since none of these leading Martian figures could be associated with the establishments and dealings of the Basin, it was allowed to be run by the Council.
However, compared to the many and varied atrocities and debasements that occurred on places like New Providence, the Basin was a kindergarten. The MP authorities imposed strict restrictions on what the Council could get away with. This was partly down to their primmer sensibilities, but also because they were eager to control the pressure valve manually. A slow release of pressure was enough to maintain a healthy balance, but open the tap too wide, and things would quickly escalate out of control.