by Allen Ivers
Suitably, the stone dragon cracked in half, shattering its many parts across what remained of the Martian surface like a hailstorm of alien bowels.
It would be decades if not centuries of research studying the shell of planet and monster, and predictions would rain in about the astrological implications of Mars being detonated in this fashion.
Earth’s year might not be the same length anymore.
Dr. Eliza Raines had a monstrous headache, partially related to overdosing on the anesthesia. The air filtration systems on the Murci had spared them, by increasing the oxygen flow to counter -- a computer somewhere buried in the hull had saved their lives. Only a pounding in her head and some fairly intensive flesh wounds pained her. Cramming two minds into one head might also have had something to do with her symptoms.
She had awoken to Jazmin passed out on top of her, blood dried on their skin like a thin cake batter. She spoke little, and preferred not to be touched, or even directly addressed. Compartmentalizing what she had experienced was going to take time, and a more careful hand than was available. Gateway would prepare what she needed. What they all needed.
Mathers had died of his wounds inside the quarantine cell, the nature of his prison keeping him separated from the free-flowing anesthesia. Most of his eight liters of blood were smeared along the plexiglass walls like a morbid finger painting.
Piotr and Locklear were the only other survivors, having been sealed in respective spaces. Their wounds were severe but not critical, as they lacked clear and obvious targets for their enmity. Attempts at self-harm were soon stunted by the destruction of their evil overlord.
Locklear in particular suffered a few broken bones consistent with defensive wounds, but the lacerations to his throat were of greater interest: he had tried to claw his own throat out.
Piotr had battered his forehead against a bulkhead, suffering a pretty serious concussion before he incidentally knocked himself unconscious. His skull was cracked, but he was a lucky man.
Each and every one of them… they had been powerless to stop this thing.
Raines pulled herself up into the bridge. They were circling Venus now and this was the best view on board. It may have been reasonably routine for this ship, but it was a once-in-a-lifetime moment for a passenger.
Piotr had settled back into his cockpit chair, an oversized leather throne for a man his stature. He peered at a fashion magazine, more out of habit than actual interest. He leafed through pages at regular intervals, hardly acknowledging the arrival of another person.
Raines looked out the small slatted windows, at the dusty cloud cover below, smooth and polished like a dusty pearl in the black.
“Don’t see that every day,” Piotr quipped without looking up.
Raines didn’t smile. “It’s not that thrilling, to be quite frank.”
“Yeah…” Piotr moaned, “Kinda lost its sparkle.” He turned another page, absorbing none of the imagery.
“How long till they come for us, you think?” Raines asked.
Piotr closed the magazine, gingerly floating it over his head like he was placing it on a shelf. He did so with the unmistakable frustration of a father done trying to avoid this conversation. When he spoke, he did so with a similarly insipid pablum. “What?”
She couldn’t tear her eyes from those clouds, wondering what might be lying underneath, “Leo sent out a distress call. That’s what he sent from your radio, wasn’t it?”
“I have no way of knowing,” Piotr enunciated, his patience with the conversation wearing thin.
“They’ll come here looking for war,” she said, talking out the problem, “They’ll come here, both species, and they’ll kill us all just trying to get to each other.”
Piotr shrugged. “When they come, we’ll be ready.”
“No,” Raines said, shaking her head, “We can prepare. We’ll never be ready.”