RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.9 RETURN TO THE SPACEPORT

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.9 - RETURN TO THE SPACEPORT

By RaShelle Workman

“Well King . . . Janitor, this is all really, really amazing, but I’m just the accountant.”

He nods and you watch the disappointment creep over his face. For a moment you feel a spasm of guilt at letting him down, but it passes. He steeples his many fingers above the desk in front of him and his disappointment changes into a sad smile.

“You are one tough pzange to crack.”

“Pzange?”

“It’s similar to a chicken egg on your planet.”

“Oh,” you laugh. “Wait, why do you say that?” you ask, confused.

“There are many reasons Wallace. Are you sure you won’t change your mind? I think ruling our planet would suit you.”

“Yeah . . . no can do, your Janitorship,” you say, setting the Rubik's-cube-looking-thing on his desk and standing. “Would you just take me back out to the lobby? I should probably look for the basketball players. Charles Barclay is married to the president’s daughter, you know?”

Momentarily you worry that you might’ve said too much.

“But of course. Why do you think Team Earth is staying in this hotel?”

“Oh,” you say again and wonder how he thinks you could make a good leader.

“No worries young Wallace. I can get you a room right next to the players, if you’d like. Come here. I’d like to show you something first.” He stands and walks over to a wall.

Relieved, you walk over. “Sure. Thanks.”

He quickly presses his fingers on the wall, making music with an invisible device. When his fingers stop moving a part of the wall slides away, revealing a room. In the room is your fondest dream.

There is a beach, the white sand lined against a Caribbean blue ocean for as far as you can see, the Earth’s sun setting on the horizon. A wave rolls toward the shore and crashes a few feet in front of you. Some of the water hits your face. With a hand, you reach up and touch the wetness then press the finger to your tongue. It tastes of salt. The smell of the ocean air enters your nose and the sound of seagulls in the distance reaches your ears.

You take a step forward, ready to run into the surf, but remember where you are and look back. “How . . .?” you ask.

“I can make anything possible,” he says, smiling, but with a note of seriousness in his tone.

You know your face is filled with wonder. --And that you should be getting back. But just a few minutes on the beach won’t hurt, you think.

“Why don’t you go? In ten minutes I’ll bring you back.” He waves you forward, encouraging you.

Knowing you may never get this chance again, you say, “Okay.”

As soon as you step across the threshold, the wall slides closed, but you don’t care. You run to the water’s edge, removing shoes and socks as you go.

From behind there is a clicking sound, but you’re paying it no mind. You are so close to the water—the ocean you’ve dreamed of. Excitedly, you stick your feet into the water, ready for the crisp coolness you’ve always heard about.

It’s strange though. It seems slimier than you expected . . .but you smile at fulfilling your dream and say, “The ocean.”

“The ocean.” You hear hundreds of whispers from behind, copying your words over and over.

Surprised, you turn around and the room goes black.

Except for hundreds of blood red eyes.

“What’s going on? King?”

You feel tiny pin pricks all over your body.

“King.” Hundreds of whispers parrot the word from every direction. And the eyes are dancing everywhere. You smell something too: putrefied flesh.

“Please,” you beg, wishing you’d decided to be king or had chosen to join the marine biologists on planet Zarthus --but you can’t do anything about it. You suddenly fall backward to the ground and can’t get up.

You’re paralyzed.

The blood red eyes swarm you. You can feel jagged little claws and hairy bodies scurrying all over your body, hear the ripping and tearing away of your clothing, and all the while they are whispering secrets -- about Malloy, about the president, about your family, about Earth, and about what really happened the night you hit your head. They know everything.

And then the clicking sound starts again. You have no idea what is making it, but the whispering has stopped. The furry bodies have frozen where they stand.

They seem to be waiting for something, and finally it comes: a voice so beautiful, it sends hot tears to yours eyes. “Feed, my children.”

When the first one takes a bite, it’s from your arm. It stings, but of course you can’t scream. By the hundredth bite, you would have thought you’d be numb. Not so. You feel it all. The flesh tearing. The muscles ripping from the bone. The tendons and sinews breaking and snapping. It’s as though something has been done to keep you awake—to keep you conscious—to allow you to experience every ounce of pain and drop of blood that leaves your body.

They keep you alive for what seems like a long time. Could be hours, or maybe days.

When they finally allow you to die, they say as one, “Good-bye, Wallace.”

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 9

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.8 FOLLOW THE PLAYERS AS PLANNED

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.8 - FOLLOW THE PLAYERS AS PLANNED

By Steven Novak

Taking a second to consider everything the former “king” of Mars has just told you, very quickly you come to the realization that he’s either a liar or an idiot. Maybe both. He’s a janitor, not a king. The idea that he could have gone from ruling an entire planet to wiping poop stains from the jet toilets in the bathroom outside the Mars-A-Bon seems so idiotic you can scarcely believe you even took the time to listen to him babble.

You need to focus on the task at hand –the assassination of President Womack and how you can prevent it. This is all that matters. Milling around in the crapper with a lowly janitor isn’t going to accomplish anything.

Off in the distance you watch as members of Team Earth step into a spacious Transporavator, lean forward and press the button for the sixty-third floor.

Your body moves before your brain can even complete the thought, and suddenly you’re running full speed in their direction, “Waitaminute! Hold that door!”

Charles Barclay wedges his rather sizable body between the slowly closing doors, keeping them open just long enough for you to slide inside. A bit out of breath, you thank Charles and move toward Michael Jardin and Patrick Pewing near the rear of the glass enclosure.

“No problemo.” Barclay answers back before stepping inside and allowing the doors to close. “What floor?”

“Ummm…sixty-third?”

“Hey no kiddin'? Guess that makes us neighbors. Hope we don’t keep you up too late tonight.”

Leaning back, Charles playfully elbows the comically large afro of Julius “Dr. P” Perving and chuckles heartily, “I know it’s turrible but we party as hard as we play, and Julius here didn’t get his nickname just because his last name is Perving…if you know what I mean.”

Julius sends a confusing wink in your direction. Immediately you try to pretend it never happened.

A moment later the crystalline glass surrounding you begins to glow. A thousand colors emerge from the nothingness, swirling, twisting, and slowly moving from the panes containing them and into the crowd of players. You look down and watch as an orange band of light whips around your leg like the tail of a cat before quickly spreading upward. Within a matter of seconds the glowing shapes have engulfed you completely. A second after that you no longer exist. All that remains of you now are a series of microscopic particles traveling sixty-three stories upward at the speed of light. It’s an admittedly odd sensation that you don’t particularly enjoy.

Stupid Transportavators – you’ve always hated them.

When the particles arrive at their intended destination the Transportavator pieces you together once again, and the mass of swirling lights retreat into the surrounding glass. The moment the doors in front of you open, you leap through, lean against a nearby wall and begin to gag.

Stupid Transportavators – such a dumb invention.

“Hey, you gonna be okay?” Barclay asks while patting you stiffly in the center of the back and chuckling just a bit at your reaction to what is essentially a rather common piece of technology.

While wiping hot bile from your lips, you manage to nod in his direction.

“Hey, when you’re feeling better why don’t you join us at the party tonight? We’re in room 6012…Penthouse suite…real swank and stuff…real classy. It’s got one of them new holographic hot tubs. Them things are great when your back is feelin' turrible after a hard game…” He nudges you in the ribs playfully and adds, “…among other things.”

Looking up you notice that Barclay is winking at you the same way Julius did moments ago. You aren’t sure what to make of it, and not sure you want to make anything of it.

He could lead you to Womack though, and it’s because of this fact that you agree.

You need to save Womack. The life of Womack is all that matters.

Plus you’ve always wanted to see a holographic hot tub.

Thanks to the copious amounts of highly illegal Martian Ale the team makes available to you, the rest of the night is sort of a blur. At some point Martian prostitutes of all three Martian sexes become involved. You don’t think you did anything with them, but you’re one-hundred percent positive Barclay didn’t share your reservations. You think there might have been an alligator involved somehow – even though that doesn’t seem plausible. At one point you can clearly recall a drunken “Dr. P” shaving his afro, gluing the mass of hair to his groin, and asking you to comb it for him.

When Barclay said they liked to party hard, he wasn’t kidding.

When you finally wake up the room is a disheveled mess of liquor stains, overturned tables, and unconscious prostitutes. Even the holographic water in the holographic hot tub has managed to spill onto the tile – which makes no sense.

There’s a Telescreen on the opposite end of the room that was left on, and a newscaster is reporting about the assassination of President Womack at the Earth Vs. Mars game earlier in the day.

Apparently a war has broken out as a result.

Outside you hear an explosion, which is followed almost instantly by a terrifying set of screams.

Nice job, dipshit.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 8

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.8 THE PLAZA-BILITIES ARE ENDLESS

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.8 - THE PLAZA-BILITIES ARE ENDLESS

By R.A. Hunter

The Plaza, that’s your best bet. If Charles Barclay has an in with the president, then he’s your ticket. He proved himself to be a nice – and somewhat gullible – guy when he gave you the 100 enloms, and you’re pretty sure you can convince him to help you save President Womack.

You wait nervously until you come to the appropriate stop, then jump out ahead of the crowd. You run into the Plaza to find the lobby surprisingly deserted. You expected a throng of Team Earth fans to be milling about, trying to get a glimpse of their B-ball heroes, but all you find is a single clerk behind the desk shuffling receipts and a Martian janitor buffing the floor in the corner.

You run up to that desk and slap your hand on it quickly to get the clerk’s attention.

“Yes?” he says in a bored voice without looking up at you.

“Can you tell me what rooms Team Earth is staying in?” you ask.

“Of course, it’s our policy to give out information regarding our high profile guests to anyone who walks in off of the street,” he says.

You gasp for a second not believing your luck -- until you realize there’s a reason you shouldn’t believe it. “You’re being sarcastic, aren’t you?” you ask.

“Give the man a cigar,” the clerk says, shuffling another receipt.

“Would it help if I told you it was vitally important that I speak with the team?” you ask.

“What do you think?”
“Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of.”

You turn and walk slowly from the desk. You kick yourself for not realizing how difficult it would be to speak with the team.

Suddenly, you perk up. The smell of warm gooey cinnamon slaps at your nostrils. Over there near the far wall is a Mars-A-Bon stand. You pat your pocket and feel the cash left over from the 100 Barclay gave you. You may not be able to save the president, but at least you won’t starve to death.

You walk toward the stand, but stop when the janitor shuts off his floor buffer and says, “Big fan of the team?”

“Huh?” you say. “Oh, they’re all right I guess.”

“If you aren’t a big fan, why did you want to see them so badly?”

“Oh, well, I’m trying to stop an assassination attempt on President Womack and I thought that the team could help me. Particularly Charles Barclay, as he is the man’s son-in-law.”

The janitor sighs. “I was afraid that might have something to do with it,” he says.

You look at him, shocked, the gooey treats temporarily forgotten. “You know about the assassination?”

“Yes, it was me who ordered it.”

Now you’re really lost. Why would a Martian want to impede the peace treaty? After all, it meant that Earth could really step in and show them the proper way to govern.

“You’re confused,” the janitor says. “Please, let me explain. For years you have studied our planet, trying to unlock the secrets within. What you did not know was that for millennia we have watched you evolve…”

“Really? You’ve been able to watch us for that long?”
“Oh, indeed. We have capabilities which you neither know of nor could

understand. Yours was only one of a number of planets which we have studied intently.”

You gape unabashedly.

“We were hesitant to let you know of our presence. We have seen how your people have a tendency of… influencing other cultures whether they would like the influence or not. When we realized you had developed the technology to take photographs of us, it was really a simple matter of sending you the images we wanted you to have -- that of a barren desert -- in the hopes that you would give us up for a lost cause.

“Of course, that could only last until the first manned exploration, at which point we chose to greet you with open arms, for, after all, you are our celestial neighbor. That was twenty five years ago, and already we stand on the cusp of losing all that once made us who we are.”

“What do you mean?”

“We are in a hotel fashioned upon those on Earth, we are standing near a kiosk which is an obvious rip off of a successful Earth franchise. This entire conversation has been held in an Earth tongue. There is very little Mars left on Mars -- which, by the way, is your name for our planet, not ours.”
You think for a moment. “Yes, all right, but surely you aren’t willing to assassinate a man because of a few cosmetic changes to your planet.”

“It goes far deeper than the cosmetic, sir. We are speaking of the eradication of not one but hundreds of cultures simply because they are not your own. I think preserving those is more than compensation for the life of one self-important man.”

You look the janitor up and down. “Who are you really?”

“I was once the king of the land on which you are standing. I was a firm but just ruler and my people wanted for nothing. Your people, though, decided that was an improper way of conducting government and rallied my citizens to overthrow me.”

“Ah,” you say. “So it’s revenge, then. You want to kill the president and regain your crown.”

“My crown is forfeit. Even if the kingdom is reinstated, no one would have a man who’d been once overthrown for their ruler. What I do I do solely for my people.”

“You realize the breaking of the treaty would mean open war.”

“We are more than capable of defending our planet, I assure you, sir.” The janitor turned and walked toward a door recessed into the wall. “Step into my office. I think I have something which will prove to you that I speak the truth.”

You consider following but stop yourself. It could be a trap.

The smell of the Mars-A-Bun grabs you again and pulls at your aching empty stomach.

The doors to the lobby burst open and in walk Team Earth. They are all abuzz about the upcoming game.

“We are going to kick some Martian ass,” Michael Jardin says.

“I know, I want it so much I can taste it,” Shaquille O’Neil agrees.

“Let us not be hasty. Remember, Oscar Wilde said, ‘The two great tragedies in life: not getting what one wants and getting it,’” Charles Barclay says.

“Huh?” the entire team says in unison.

“Um, I mean it’s going to be turrible how bad we beat them Martians . . . just turrible.”

WILL YOU...

A. Follow the janitor/king into his office??

B. Get yourself a Mars-A-Bon?

C. Catch up with the team as you originally planned?