Beyond Mars Crimson Fleet Read online

  "So Trager, what have you to report about our Martian prey?" Selena inquired.

  Trager took a moment to compose himself and then began his report. "They're running, Admiral. They've beaten off our reserve fleet and all of the Martian transports have just lifted off. Your plan seems to be going smoothly. I've relayed a message to Earth Command about our progress."

  "Excellent!" Selena was pleased. "We should have this all wrapped up in a few days."

  "However, there is a minor problem, Admiral," Trager conceded. "Mars' largest volcano seems to be shaking the planet apart."

  Selena smirked. "As you said—a minor problem."

  "What about our civilian and military personnel stationed on Mars, Admiral? Shouldn't we at least try to evacuate them?" the man questioned.

  "Absolutely not!" she stated emphatically. "We simply don't have the time! And besides, those worthless idiots were given adequate warning to expect anything! They should have been able to stop those traitors by themselves! I am not going to jeopardize my plan just to save their miserable skins! Let them die on Mars!"

  "Yes, Admiral," Trager submitted to Darius' edict. There was no choice; Trager risked his life to the wrath of the unpredictable female cyborg in arguing the point.

  Suddenly, an electronic voice spoke from the walls of the bridge, "Admiral Darius, there is an incoming communication from the directorial council. Message origin: Chairman Armon Quinton, Ma’am."

  "Put it on immediately!" Selena ordered.

  "By your command," the electronic voice acknowledged.

  The floor in front of the woman cyborg soon rippled like water. The rippling grew into a small metallic round table, which rose from the deck almost instantly and directly in front of Selena's command chair. Underneath the table stretched a vertical metal ring from the floor. As the table ascended to a height of five feet before stopping, the vertical metal frame slowly transformed from an elliptical shape to a perfect circle. Once the platform had stopped, a small mist was sprayed from all inner edges of the hoop, aiming for the circle’s center. The mist filled the inner air surrounded by the metallic ring, suspended motionless as though stuck in time. Suddenly, a popping sound was heard, and arcs of energy then began to dance and crackled in the mist as an ion smell permeated each nostril. It took only a few moments, but the energy began to take shape in hues of color. Finally, a three dimensional bust of a balding elderly man in a slate gray “Mao” suit materialized.

  "Good morning, Selena," Quinton greeted. "I've just received your report on the Martian crisis. I take it that everything is going well."

  "Yes, Mr. Chairman," Selena answered with some humility in her voice. Everything is going exactly as planned. The Martians have beaten off the reserve fleet you sent, and should be entering hyperspace in just under an hour. And we'll be right behind them. It's a shame that Paladin decided to keep the location of Valamars a secret between him and a select few of his officers and crews. Otherwise, we could end this right now!"

  Quinton's lips became a crafty grin. "Patience, Admiral. It’s a game that we have to play. If it was too easy, they might have suspected a trap. Paladin is no fool. He knows that some sort leak was inevitable along with a reaction from us. But we will find their new world and eliminate it soon enough. It will present a splendid example to all our other colonies contemplating similar ideas," Quinton spoke with a positive outlook. "And you, my dear, will have what you so richly desire: a seat on the Supreme Defense Council itself!"

  Selena was mesmerized by the pledge. "I promise you, Mr. Chairman, I'll personally send you a report of our victory!"

  "Thank you, Admiral. I expect no less. Good day—and good hunting," Quinton signed off.

  As the hologram cut off and the plate sank back into the deck, Selena sat silently pondering the conversation. Suddenly, she rose majestically and walked to the main viewer followed closely by Trager. He could see that her eyes were fixed on the distant stars.

  For a moment, she stood riveted, contemplating her destiny. "Trager, move the fleet forward at flank speed at once!" she broke her silence. "It's time we begin our pursuit!"

  "Yes, Admiral," Trager replied. He began to turn, but then stopped. A frown filled his face and he turned back to Selena. "By the way, Ma’am, I went over all the evidence in Crewman Laura Jillian's trial. The chief engineer has located a redundant copy of both the missing log and video. After examination of both, he clearly states that it was equipment failure and not sabotage," he pointed out.

  Selena smirked. "Then have him erase the video and the log, and change his report to my findings."

  "But Admiral, the girl is innocent! She should be released!" Commander Trager pressed.

  The admiral slowly turned around to her insistent subordinate, radiating a smile nearly as wide as her face. "She was!" Selena stated in a happy, but assuring tone. Darius then cocked her head and flipped a palm-up opened hand towards the viewer, indicating for Trager to look.

  Trager's eyes quickly shot to viewer's projection of the space beyond the Quinton. His mouth dropped open, appalled by what he saw: the figure of a helpless woman crewman floating outside the safety of the ship less than fifty feet away. The image became familiar as he realized that he was witnessing the slow and agonizing death of Laura Jillian by spacing.

  For her punishment, the woman captive was callously shoved out of an airlock without the protection of a spacesuit; her demise guaranteed. Laura, however, still struggled vainly for life like a drowning swimmer. Her arms and legs flailed frantically about, trying in desperate movements to propel her somehow back to the ship. It was a morose and heart-wrenching sight.

  Suddenly, Laura’s body began quivering in uncontrollable convulsions, her choking face etched in the most frightened conveyance. Moments later, mercifully Laura’s body became still—and Trager knew she was dead.

  Trager took a deep breath while biting his lip. He bowed his head in respect. "Why, Admiral?” his voice was low and angered. “Why did you have to kill her?" he had to know the answer.

  Selena watched the body tumble slowly through space and away from the Quinton. "She was just too damn pretty!" Darius said with a certain mirthful glee in which to taunt her subordinate. "Now, get our fleet underway!" her mood radically transformed to temper.

  Trager looked up angrily. "Yes, Ma’am!" his incensed tone was clear. The junior officer then stiffly walked away.

  Within a few minutes, the hulls of the white ships of the Crimson Fleet began to glow as electromagnetic energy surged through them: at first to a pinkish tinge that soon became a deep neon red. This was the result of electrons emitting red photons as they absorbed and then discharged the energy while orbiting their atoms. But with this slow and steady colonization came the metamorphosis. The once sleek hulls began to transform, fluidly reshaping and growing appendages that looked like huge sharp daggers covered in fluorescent blood. Without any doubt, these were weapons. Finally, the glowing ships had mutated into their full battle mode and began moving forward.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 5: EKTOS

  The lights of Brussels, Belgium sparkled and glowed hypnotically against the winter's evening sky as the sun sank below the western horizon. As usual, the city was filled with the gaiety of a robust nightlife that was oblivious to all other notable events. This included the war that raged around the solar system’s fourth planet.

  In its colorful "red lamp" district, vast multitudes of boisterous and cheerful people wandered the streets in search of their own particular adventures and intimate passions. Guided and dazzled by worded neon signs, flashing beacons, holographic displays and vying tunes of popular music; the throngs of partygoers lived only for the moment. Shops that never closed, eateries that offered the most unusual cuisine, and nightclubs that afforded everything from the exotic to the erotic; all catered to this realm of illusion, fantasy, and self-indulgence. Truly, the nickname of "The Taboo
Bazaar" was well earned, where anything from the most sinister crime to the most outrageous fetish was had for a price. This was all made possible by the city’s bureaucracy, which was governed by a corrupt, bribable, and most indifferent authority.

  The Brussels of long ago no longer existed. It was a city that was forced to forsake its medieval architect, its colorful history, and its religious heritage for the ultra-modern, the trendy, the political, and the cardinal. When it was chosen as the seat of the Earth government, a vast transformation was required. It was to not only reflect its overwhelming grandeur to every being that experienced the city, but to display the dynamics of the human race itself.

  From once where buildings of antiquity and elaborate artistry stood, technological marvels of complex design and fabrication now resided. The ancient buildings were either removed or demolished to make way for this pre-arranged geometric “showcase” of plastic, metal alloys, and lattice crystals that were fitted together like some complex jigsaw puzzle. As these new structures altered permanently the skyline, Brussels slowly became not only a Mecca for the political bureaucracy, but a central hub for the Earth's corporate businesses, and a playground for the young, wealthy, and famous.

  But the immorality of Brussels held more than just scandalous affairs, tangled intrigues, and a thriving underground world of obsessive debauchery and crime. Beyond the normal politics and corruption, something else existed. It existed in shrouded passages and expansive chambers hidden beneath the streets. It existed beyond any legislated laws or control. It existed in whispered rumors between the more judicious members of the parliament and the directorial council. And in the obscurity of the unknown, it watched the population with a guarded hunger.

  From surveillance devices and scanners concealed in shiny metal globes that hovered like balloons over every fairway and street, to the “Smart Encoders” that were embedded into every human being, it entered every life that passed within the city. Shielded by its anonymity, it unendingly devoured all the personal information that databases gave it—and then swiftly acted without regard or ethics.

  * * * * *

  Armon Quinton sat at his desk in his huge and lavish office of Council Chairman, unaware of the lateness of time. Counter to his confident and stately public image, his brow was furlough and immersed in worry as he viewed a holographic report of missing persons. The report had become a dreaded daily chore, which he was forced to conceal from all levels of government. As the man's upper lip twitched in heightened nervousness, he continued to scroll through the names and faces.

  The famous and high profile now also punctuated the video ledger. A male stage actor and a female singer whom he had personally known were among this day's victims. But beyond this tragedy, the daughter of a powerful member of the council was also added to the infamous roster.

  Finally reaching the end of the report, Armon closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands. For a moment, he reposed quietly, not thinking at all and desperately trying to be somewhere else.

  "Computer, end transcripts," he called out to his machine servant.

  "Yes, Mr. Chairman," the machine responded. "Will there be anything else?"

  "Hold all incoming calls and allow no one access to this room," Quinton dropped his hands to his desk. "I am not to be disturbed for any reason."

  "As you command, Mr. Chairman," the machine responded again.

  Armon Quinton rose fatigue from his plush seat, his mind set in defeat. He took a deep breath and then shuffled to a framed body mirror that filled an entire section of wall. As Armon stopped before the looking glass, he gazed upon his own reflection. The man saw the wrinkles of stress and tiredness engraved in his own face that matched the burden he carried, one which he found heavier with each passing day.

  As he continued to stare at himself, he felt very much alone. However, the name of “Ektos” finally drifted into his mind and Armon's jaw locked while his eyes tightened in loathing.

  Ektos was the one in control. It was he who ran the government, not Quinton, and for that reason alone, Armon hated him. Yet, he hated Ektos more for the control he held over Armon. Implied innuendo and incrimination were strategically placed in messages of communication that were meant to be intercepted. Each served as a subtle reminder of encoded blackmail by his shadowy master whenever Quinton tried to restore his own authority in opposition to Ektos’ directives.

  It took Armon a lifetime to build the New World Order that was now the Earth. His hand guided every decision. All the bribes that were paid, all the lies that were told, and all the people that were either intimidated or eliminated, were of his doing. And it forever welded Quinton and the government together.

  If what remained of the free press every got hold of all the illicit deals, crimes, and government abuse Armon was apart of, it would be more than just he that would be finished. His New World Order would crumble with him into the dust of history, plunging the Earth possibly back into the realm of divided nationalism again. All that Armon had built would be gone, while his name would be forever linked to a legacy of deceit, vice, and murder.

  Armon Quinton would not allow this legacy at any cost. Until he could find a way to quietly remedy his partnership with Ektos, Armon would have to play the game a little more while biding his time. Only then would requital be swift and harsh.

  With self-resolve, Quinton calmed himself. Once he regained his composure, he placed a hand upon the mirror and held it there. Within moments, the glass he touched took on a neon green glow around his hand. It began to pulse brightly, moving from finger to finger, while also allowing his hand to slightly submerge within the silver material. Finally, the pulsating stopped. Quinton pulled his hand away to see a glowing green mold of his palm and fingers. Within seconds the imprint refilled itself and vanished. The glass of the mirror then began to ripple away from its center like water.

  "Identity confirmed!" an electronic voice announced as the glass parted, resonating to the rushing liquid tide. As the glass pulled back into its frame, it created an entrance into a darkened room.

  Without hesitation, Quinton stepped through the mirror and into the hidden chamber. Once he was on the other side, the glass in the mirror ruffled and flowed back together again, becoming solid once more.

  As Quinton stepped into the small room, the floor illuminated with a dull bluish glow. The man then stood completely still.

  "Down," he commanded.

  By Quinton's order, the floor slowly began to move downward to a slight whine. The lift then descended into the shaft, accelerating slightly as it did.

  For minutes, Armon felt his steady plunge into the bowels of the Earth, his weight seemingly falling slightly slower than the platform. His stomach became uneasy. It was as if being swallowed alive, not that each previous journey was any less disturbing. However, this time was so very different; it was if something terrible was waiting down below, and it made Armon afraid.

  About half way down, a vile stench similar to manure rose upwards and sullied the air with a languor that made it slightly difficult to breathe. But a cold and chilling breeze from nowhere suddenly blew it away. Armon shivered to the icy gust while his legs suddenly wobbled in an impulse of unsteadiness. Yet, sweat curiously formed on his the palms of his hands. Armon trembled as his anxiousness grew. His heart thumped hard to the growing fear, while something in his mind amplified the great evil that lurked within the catacombs he was descending into.

  Finally after the platform slowed to halt, he recomposed himself, burying his uneasiness into his political ego. Yet, caution tempered him as he surveyed two rows of tiny mounted floor lamps that gestured a pathway for him to travel. Once the elevator stopped, Armon hesitantly stepped off to the echoes of his shoes. He paused momentarily, desiring to return to the safety of his office, but he realized there was no other alternative but to follow the poorly lit road. Depressed, he slowly milled away from the lift between the rows of l
ights.

  Armon was in Ektos' lair now. No bomb, missile, or energy weapon was capable of touching the elusive being down here. In this realm, Ektos was supreme—and Armon Quinton a mere wayward pawn.

  Quinton walked for many minutes in the eerie damp and dimness with only the sporadic trickling of water and occasional splashing of puddles cascading against the silence of the dungeon that seemed to go on forever. To the sound of his footsteps reverberating back through the grandiose sewer, he eventually heard the faint rumble and clatter of heavy construction growing nearer. Bursts of illumination lit up in distance flashes—and as quickly vanished. It was as if a titanic storm was gathering on the horizon, assembling strength for its terrible emergence of destruction.

  The rumbling grew louder and more pronounced as he continued onwards. Eventually, the sound became deafening, while undulating the very ground beneath his feet in sedate vibration. Finally, the corridor ended, giving way to a great architecture that surpassed the grandeur of all man-made works.

  Here, great stone columns rose from their mountings inside a colossal chamber and stretched into the black recesses of the grottos. The massive supports held an invisible ceiling aloft along with a portion of the city above.

  The lamps ended with the corridor, but they pointed to a thin bridge that stretched and loomed above a huge, multi-shaped abyss. The abyss was cut from solid bedrock out of the Earth and formed in elaborate design. The stench of sulfur and other noxious fumes overflowed the cavern, accompanied by powdery soot. The contaminants rode heated updrafts of smoke from the gorge and filled Quinton's nostrils with their foulness while scattering fine particles of dirt over Armon’s clothes. The man covered his nose with a handkerchief to protect him from the chemical emissions, however; it barely reduced the smell.

  As Quinton moved onward, a dismal curiosity taunted and prodded him to gaze into the blackened chasm beneath him. Slowly peering over the edge with a failing nerve, the scene was beyond his imagination.