RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.6 SHUTTLE TO CYDONIA

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH. 6 - THE SHUTTLE TO CYDONIA

By R.A. Hunter

You decide that, no matter what, the president must be protected. You run to the shuttle ticket office. “One to Cydonia,” you say.

“That’ll be Greel Pinlax,” the ticket agent, a Martian woman who resembled Earth women save for her gray-tinged translucent skin and complete lack of hair, said.

“Come again?” you ask.

“I didn’t come the first time,” she says.

“In English.”

“I don’t know why I should speak English; this planet doesn’t even have an England.”

“You’re saying everything else in English.”

“That’s because you wouldn’t understand that I was intentionally ignoring you if I said everything in Galflorn."

“What’s Galflorn?”

“My native language.”

“I thought that was Martian.”

“Yeah, it’s Martian. Just like you speak Earthenese.”

You take a deep breath and try a different tactic. “Look, I’m sure you get a lot of demanding tourists here who expect you to cater to them without even bothering to learn basic… what was that, Gandalfish?”

“Yeah, sometimes people don’t even know what the language is called,” she says with an eye roll. “Some people actually think it’s just called Martian.”

You sigh a little. “Okay, that’s fair. I apologize. But I’m not a tourist. It’s very important that I get to Cydonia.”

She stares at you, blankly, her sarcasm entirely vanished. “Why is it so important that you get to Cydonia?” she asks coolly.

Suddenly you realize that this lady may be more than just a pain in the ass. You decide to proceed very carefully.

“I’m… meeting someone there,” you say.

“Oh, all right,” the ticket lady says. The cold edge melts from her voice and you tentatively breathe again and she turns her attention to her keyboard on which she begins typing. “But I hear traffic is being tied up over some big wig or something staying there.”

“Yeah, it’s President Womack,” you say without thinking. You bite on your lip but it doesn’t bring back the words.

The ticket lady looks up at you quickly. “I didn’t know anyone knew about that,” she says, striking a final key which produces a bright red ticket.

She tears the ticket from the dispenser slides it under the divider separating the two of you. “That’ll be twenty Zircons.”

You pay her quickly without making eye contact and cross to the line forming at the shuttle door. You watch as the customers board one by one handing their tickets -- which you can’t help but notice are white – to the conductor as they do so.

You glance at the red ticket in your hand. She gave me the wrong one. You think but just as you realize this you are shoved to the front of the line where the conductor takes it from you.

“Ah, sir,” he says after glancing at it. “You want the next car.”

He points to the second car of the two-car shuttle craft and you walk in that direction. You stick your head inside but no one is there to accept your ticket. You look back at the conductor who is now speaking with the other customers.

You shrug, assume someone will be by shortly to take your ticket and sit in the seat which looks most comfortable. You can do this because there is no one else on board this car.

You pull a magazine from the back of the seat in front of you and become engrossed in an article on mustard-based diets. You don’t realize how much time has passed until the shuttle’s engines growl and you feel it lift of the ground.

You drop your magazine onto the seat beside you and look out the window. You’re already sixty feet in the air; these new shuttles aren’t short on pick-me-up.

You look at the people milling about on the ground. You can’t be sure but you think you see Malloy standing just below the shuttle. He’s standing there and he’s… he’s waving… at you.

Suddenly you here the unmistakable sound of your car unlocking from the rest of the shuttle train just before the shuttle blasts off to Cydonia -- and you plummet right back down to the unforgiving terrain.

THE END.

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 6

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.5 ENJOY THE HILTON

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.5 - ENJOY YOUR STAY AT THE HILTON

By Nina Bau

You watch as Bob disappears into the men’s room. The temptation to run is strong, but you’re not sure where you’d run to. You don’t have any evidence and you don’t even know who the target is in Malloy’s plan. You decide to play along a little longer, and if you get to soak in one of the Cydonia Hilton’s massive massage tubs in the process, so be it.

Bob ambles out of the restroom and wordlessly heads towards the shuttle station.

“What about that drink?” you ask.

“We can order something at the hotel. Saleen will be expecting to hear that we’ve checked in, and you know how she is when she’s kept waiting.”

You nod, mustering up your best been-there, that-bitch-sure-is-crazy look.

The shuttle ride through the city is pretty uneventful. Bob drums his fingers against his leg, occasionally allowing them to morph into a taffy-like consistency and stick to his pants. No one but you seems to notice. The other passengers are busy drinking in the sleek buildings and seductive lights of downtown Cydonia, Mars’ largest city.

The lobby of the Cydonia Hilton looks like it was dipped in gold. A night’s stay in a place like this would cost you a month’s salary in zircons.

“Be right back,” Bob mumbles, and heads in the direction of the public restrooms.

This guy has a bladder like your 95-year-old grandfather.

Moments later, a buxom redhead sidles up to you and slips her arm around your waist. She’s wearing an emerald green slip dress and matching, impossibly high, heels. You’re confused, but going with the flow has kept you alive this long.

“Let’s go, love.”

She gently steers you in the direction of the registration desk. The young clerk behind the counter does a classic double-take at your new companion. You glance over your shoulder, looking for Bob. He’s still in the bathroom.

“Welcome to the Cydonia Hilton.”

“Reservation for the Blanks.”

The clerk types on a keyboard, consults the monitor and then he smiles.

“Ah, yes. The honeymoon suite. Top floor. Do you need assistance with your bags?”

“No,” the redhead purrs. “They’ll be arriving later. Show them up when they do.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The clerk slides your… spouse?… a room keycard.

“And please make sure we’re not disturbed otherwise.”

The redhead grabs the back of your neck and pulls you in for a long wet kiss.

The clerk gives you a salacious wink.

In the elevator, you ask, “Where’s Bob?”

The redhead morphs into Bob.

“Right here.”

Vomit gathers in the back of your throat.

Once in the suite, you can barely appreciate the plush carpet, fully-stocked bar, and dazzling view.

“Was that kiss necessary?!”

You wipe the back of your hand against your tongue.

“Yes,” Bob replies, grabbing a bottle of champagne from a bucket of ice and brushing aside rose petals to plop down on the king-size bed. “The devil is in the details, my friend.”

Bob gives you the once-over.

“You know, you sure don’t act like any assassin I’ve ever worked with.”

Oh, crap.

“Well, I just don’t like things sprung on me, is all. I’m a professional, you know. And that was all… very… unprofessional.”

“Uh huh. I’m wondering if maybe Saleen and Malloy made a mistake.”

You’re starting to take all of this doubt personally.

“Listen, I can get the job done! I’m going to assassinate the shit out of… um… him…”

“Her.”

Gulp.

“Right. I meant her… and then we’ll see who’s the mistake. I’m an assassin for God’s sake. Don’t question me!”

You’re raising your voice, but you don’t care. You start waving your arms around to let him know you mean business. Bob looks both suspicious and amused.

“Fine. I won’t question you…”

You relax. Acting like a crazy person worked. No one likes to fuck with a crazy person…

“… after you lay out the plan. I need to know you can handle this. My ass is on the line if you can’t.”

… except Bob. Apparently, Bob likes to poke crazy with a stick.

“If you insist, Bob!” You sneer, giving him a look that says you’re offended, but you’ll tolerate his little game.

“We don’t want this peace treaty signed. And I’m going to assassinate her to make it look as if the aliens’ supreme leader did it… and then… I’m… we’re….”

Before you can come up with any more, the door to the suite blasts open and half a dozen heavily armed men enter. The letters G.B.I. are in white reflective letters across their bulletproof vests. Quicker than you can say, “Oh shit,” one of the men aims a large black pistol at Bob and fires.

Bob stiffens and then goes limp, champagne bottle still gripped in his hand.

The agent that fired the shot speaks into his wrist.

“The shifter is down. I repeat, the shifter is down.”

“Don’t move!” Another G.B.I agent shouts at you, but it wasn’t necessary. Your hands have been frozen in the air from the moment they burst into the room.

The clerk from the front desk saunters into the room. He has a gold shield hanging from a chain around his neck.

“You’re a cop?”

Thank, God! You’re saved.

“Special Agent Tudeski, actually. And we heard everything, Blank. We’ve been waiting a long time to catch the elusive Shadow Assassin. Not quite what we expected though.”

You’re almost offended.

“Oh. No. There’s a mistake. I’m not an assassin!”

Tudeski reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small item that looks like a garage door opener and presses a button. Your own voice fills the room.

Listen, I can get the job done! I’m going to assassinate the shit out of… um… him…

We don’t want this peace treaty signed. And I’m going to assassinate her to make it look as if the aliens’ supreme leader did it… and then… I’m… we’re….

“I can explain!”

Reflexively, you reach for your identification, forgetting that you’re not carrying any. The agents take this as a sign of aggression. They fire simultaneously.

Your body is filled with hot searing pain. Your bowels release. And then you die.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 5

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.5 JUST RUN!

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.5 - NO PLAN, JUST RUN!

By Steven Novak

You watch as Bob waddles his way through the bustling crowd of locals, tourists and foreign dignitaries flown in from Earth that have crowded the concourse of the Cydonia Mensae docking station. He comes to a stop at the entrance to the male restroom, and looks over his shoulder to see if anyone is watching him. Ducking behind a pylon, his body molds and twists itself, transforming into something more resembling a lump of shiny, partially transparent clay. A moment later the newly formed blob of sparkly goo morphs itself yet again into a rather leggy blonde with a set of obscenely large breasts shoved into a top so skimpy it might as well not exist at all.

Big-Boob Bob chuckles into his hand and slides into the female restroom unnoticed.

You’d shudder at the grossness of the situation if you had the time – which you don’t.

There are bigger problems at hand than Bob’s pervert tendencies. You need to get as far away from Bob’s oversized chest balloons as you can. You need to tell someone about Malloy, and Saleen, and Richardson and whatever it is they all have planned. You need to warn someone – anyone – of what’s going on.

You may not know the details, but you know someone if going to die and you can’t let that happen.

You need to get away.

You need to run.

You need to run right now.

Your feet don’t wait for your brain, and before you know it you’re barreling full speed through the crowd. You slam full force into an elderly couple doing a bit of window-shopping at a tiny store specializing in an even tinier array of useless Martian trinkets. The old woman’s face mashes against the glass with a fleshy-wet thud. Her teeth pop from her gums like they were shot from a cannon and shoot onto steel walkway below.

To no one in particular you scream out, “There’s going to be an assassination!”

Common sense and reason has long since become a thing of the past for you. People need to know what’s going to happen, and the best way you can think to tell them is to yell it at the top of your lungs.

So what if that doesn’t make sense? You aren’t thinking straight and you honestly don’t care.

You aren’t cut out for this sort of nonsense. That much is painfully obvious at this point. Perverts named Bob that can turn to silvery piles of goo . . . Malloy and his gray-haired dangly bits . . . it’s all become far too much for you to handle.

You’ve only been to Mars once in your life – just after the first Mars/Earth War – and it smells pretty much the same. You never forgot this smell. You’ve always hated it. It’s like an acidy burp after a belly filling night of Mexican food – like guacamole dipped in piss and left in the sun.

You hate this place and you want to go home.

After busting through a group of women and smacking one with your forearm, you knock over a crippled man in a hover chair then grab a ten-year-old boy by the collar of his shirt and hoist him into the air so violently his boots fall off.

Pulling him so close to your face that your spittle begins to puddle on his light brown flesh you scream into his flared nostrils, “SOMEONE’S GOING TO DIE KID! DO YOU HEAR ME? THERE’S GOING TO BE AN ASSASSINATION!”

Staring into your wild eyes and your sweat covered face the boy is instantly reduced to a jittering, sobbing mass.

Someone yells something at you from the left. Another person curses at you from the right. The cripple you knocked over whips his suitcase in your general direction. The father of the child you’re swinging like a sack of potatoes rushes in and tries to pry you loose from his son.

When that fails, he punches you in the face.

Within moments a mob of people has swarmed you, grabbing and clawing and kicking, all while screaming for someone to call the police. Through the wild mess of legs and torsos you spot leggy Bob and his massive jugs watching you from across the concourse and shaking his/her head in disbelief.

You try to point in his direction but no one is listening. Someone steps on your hand and snaps your finger like a stick of space jerky. The crowd is far more interested in beating on you, and they’re doing a mighty fine job of it to boot.

The next few hours are a blur really. Someone’s shoe connected with your temple and rattled your gray matter – after that everything seems hazy and disjointed. You can recall the police arriving – you think. You were cuffed – maybe.

Did Bob mash his boobs in your face and tell you to blow?

No, that couldn’t have happened.

There was a hover ship of some sort. Then you were scanned. At least you think it was a scan. It could have been any number of things really.

Eventually things begin at last to sharpen up and you find yourself lying face down on a steel bench. You’re dressed in a crunchy-stiff one-piece jumpsuit. A nagging pain has managed to settle the curve of your lower back, and getting yourself into an upright position again proves to be a difficult task. Across from you a set of four-inch thick laser bars are humming softly, sparking occasionally with blue-tinted twinges of electricity.

You’re in jail.

A rather beefy Martian emerges from the shadows to your left with a dangerously serious grin stretched across the leathery, gray toned contours of its face.

Reaching up with one of its boney, freakishly long fingers it begins unzipping the orange jumpsuit it’s stuffed into that’s clearly a good three sizes too small.

In a monotone voice it says only four words, “Take. Your. Clothes. Off.”

For a moment, your heart stops.

The alien then adds on two more, “Bend. Over.”

You’re in for an awfully long night.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 5

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.4 MAKE UP AN EXCUSE TO USE THE BATHROOM

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.4 - MAKE UP AN EXCUSE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM

By MJ Heiser

Looking into Malloy's face again was not something you wanted to do right now. Despite the fact that this time he would be clothed (and you would therefore be saved the sight of his naked nastiness), there's little doubt he will recognize you, and having both him and Saleen the Overwhelming Amazon united against you wasn't a pleasant thought.

"I -- I have to go," you stammer. You clap your hands over your stomach and work hard at making your face turn green and queasy.

"What?" Saleen asks.

You don't give her even a second to object. The security system beeps, giving Malloy clearance to enter Saleen's quarters. You scramble in your best impression of a diarrhea-addled duck walk towards the bathroom. You let the door whisper shut behind you, and let out the breath that had been growing stale in your lungs.

From the main chamber of the living quarters, you hear Malloy's entrance.

"Saleen."

"Malloy."

"I thought I heard another voice."

"Er . . .yes. In the bathroom."

"Ah."

"Is everything ready?"

"Of course. Our spies are set."

"Their disguises and credentials are immaculate."

"A little self-praise, Saleen?"

"Perhaps."

You realize you've put yourself in the unique position to get to the bottom of this mystery. You almost wish you could see them as they talked and conspired about offing someone important.

"It's deserved, I suppose. So, what about the person in your bathroom?"

Uh oh.

"I checked the security clearance. There was no native error."

"Did you check your own intuition?"

"What are you implying, Malloy?"

"Saleen, my trip to the infirmary was due to sabotage. I have a General Alert issued for the person responsible."

Saleen doesn't sound impressed. "Unless you waited until five minutes ago to issue the General Alert, the security clearance would have caught it."

Malloy's voice takes on the measured tones of someone speaking to a mental deficient. "I. Was. In. The. Infirmary."

Damn it.

Several seconds tick by in pure silence, and once again, you forget to breathe. You wonder what's going on out there. Are they typing communications into their wrist sets? Are they creeping up on the door to the bathroom, laser pistols drawn? Or maybe -- please -- have they shrugged it off and decided they should just sit down and watch some 5D space tube?

"Hey in there," booms Malloy's voice from the other side of the bathroom door.

Nope, not watching space tube.

"Hey," you say, trying to bury your voice in a groan of defecatory effort.

"You've been in there a long time, friend," he growls. You can tell he's trying to be playful. The thought of Malloy being playful is as ludicrous as the thought of a slug being swift.

"Oh, yeah," you say, deciding to play this to the hilt. No telling what madness drives you to whip down your pants and sit on the can. "I'm sure it was the cafeteria grub today."

"I think you should open this door so I can, you know, check you out, make sure you're okay."

"No, no, I'll be fine -- you two should just go on." --With your devious plan for assassination.

"I don't think so. Either open the door or I'm going to blast it in."

"Wait, wait!" you stammer, only now realizing just how bad an idea it was to pull your pants down. You rise to your feet and try to pull them up, but your hands are trembling too badly to get a good grip.

"Three . . .two . . ."

"Hold on a sec!" you grunt.

"One!" Malloy crows triumphantly, and with a loud laser shriek, the mechanism keeping the bathroom door locked becomes simply inoperable. The door is wrenched open, and soon Malloy fills the space with his considerable -- but fortunately, clothed -- bulk.

He arches an eyebrow at you. You're standing in front of the toilet with your pants around your ankles. The security shirt Saleen had given you doesn't cover you anywhere near enough. "Well hello, sweetheart," he says, gazing fondly at the place south of your navel before bringing his gun to level with your face.

Your last thought is: Huh. I die with Malloy staring at MY junk.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 4

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.4 LET SALEEN OPEN THE DOOR

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.4 - LET SALEEN OPEN THE DOOR

By Richard "RJ" James

Before the door is even fully open, you can smell the stench of Malloy and his sweaty junk. Thankfully, he is fully clothed this time around, but that does little to calm the nerves you feel seeing him again in such a cramped space.

Saleen snaps to attention, throwing in a salute for good measure, as Malloy enters the room.

“Are we ready for the operation?” Malloy’s voice is full of arrogance and male pride. Mayhap that would quickly change if Saleen knew that, when kicked in the giblets, he hit the floor as if he had dropped a sandwich.

Malloy catches your eye and the smug smile slips from his face as if it was greased.

“You!” He wheezes, and even at this distance, you catch a whiff of garlic. In fact, the smell seems to be emanating from the man in general.

As fast as you can, you whip out your laser pistol and fire a warning shot that goes just a little awry. Actually, the blast from your laser pistol comes within a hair’s breadth of castrating Malloy. Wafting over the top of the garlic aroma pouring into the room from Malloy, there is the scent of singed pubic hair.

“Right. Now that I have you attention, I want you to listen to me.” The words are having a hard time coming out of your mouth. You are still in a state of shock that the laser pistol worked.

Malloy sidles into the room. Both his hands are covering his crotch, which is still slightly smoking. Saleen crosses her arms over her considerable cleavage and looks down at you with disdain.

“I know what you’re planning and I’m not going to let you get away with it. I’ll hand you over the GBI and let them deal with you.”

“PAH!” spits Malloy, and not just in the figurative meaning either; he actually clears his throat and spits a wad of greenish phlegm at you. The wet lumpy mass splats across your face. As you wipe your face with your arm, you realize that you made a mistake almost as big as being held up with a finger, with or without the PEW sound.

Sure enough you feel a quick flash of heat and the arm that’s holding your laser pistol is now wriggling on the floor. You look down at you arm in shock. Malloy’s voice sounds again, but you miss most of what is said; all you know is it included the words “Galactic Swirly.” Knowing that this cannot possibly be good you turn to run, but Saleen’s strong arms lift you effortlessly from the floor. She drags you toward the bathroom, where you see the fate that awaits you.

The toilet doesn’t look like it’s been cleaned out in a while and again you can taste the after effects of the chicken curry from last night. Your head is forced under the murky water. You can feel the merciless boot of the Amazonian Saleen on the back of your neck.

You struggle with all your one-armed might but to no avail; with the taste of pre-owned chicken curry in your mouth and within kissing distance of a floater lurking round the U-bend you expire and pass from the galaxy… which is really for the best when you think about it. If you could think about it. But you can’t, because you’re dead… in a toilet.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 4

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.3 USE THE LADDER

OPTION B - WHAT YOU DIDN'T CHOOSE - USE THE LADDER TO THE SERVICE HATCH

By Tomara Armstrong

As an accountant for NOSSA, you aren’t the sharpest with a firearm, but you have watched plenty of television. You know you must first flip the safety on before shoving the barrel into your pants. You shove a little farther than is comfortable, to ensure zero slippage while scaling the ladder up to the service hatch.

The rungs are a bit sticky, sending a wave of nausea over you. You can’t help but notice the air is thicker above the lake of waste, and attempt to hold your breath as you continue to ascend.

At the top of the ladder, you wiggle the latch and slowly push the door open a crack. The room above is fairly large, and appears to be empty. Feeling safe to proceed, you flip the door open and climb through the hatch.

You carefully lower the hatch door and lock it. When you turn around, you’re surprised to see two small children dressed in school uniforms standing side by side. They are studying you, tilting their heads. “I see you,” they say in unison.

You back away slowly, trying not to trip over your feet. There is something strange about these kids, but you just can’t put your finger on it.

“Do you want to play with me?”

As they move closer to you, their faces ripple and pulse; their eyes flicker. You continue to step backwards as they move toward you. “I’m kind of busy right now.”

“Do you not like me?”

“Um… “ You scan the room looking for a quick out. “I’m sure you’re great kids and all, but I really must be going.”

“I’m not a kid.”

You watch as the children meld together into a revolting blob and quickly ooze into the form of your naked friend, Captain Harper Malloy.

“Crap!” You should have known it was a shape shifter. All those weeks of taking Possible Threats and Extermination in Academy could have really paid off… if you hadn’t slept through the class. Way to go, you.

Though you are disgusted, you are also surprised at how the shape shifter mimics Malloy’s dangling bits with complete accuracy.

“Is this better?” he asks.

“Not at all.” You frown.

Irritation sweeps over the face in front of you, and the shape shifter quickly changes into a topless cheerleader holding pom-poms. “Better?”

“Not really.” You shrug, eyeing her breasts. “Obviously not real… they could be bigger.”

Her head begins to smoke, and the shape shifter begins to flip through different objects trying to impress you; man, beast, and monster.

You remember the gun delicately wedged between your butt cheeks, and attempt to dig it out without drawing attention.

“Surely you are impressed now,” the shape shifter asks as it takes on the shape of a towering dragon with flashing orange and blue scales. Its gaze is drawn to the pistol you are holding out in front of you.

You shake your head, irritated, and unlock the safety. “Why are you even here?”

“Silly human,“ it says, laughing at you.

The laughing strikes a nerve and you fire a blast from your pistol. It clips the wing of the shape shifter’s current form.

“I AM THE SECRET WEAPON!” he booms.

You are so impressed, you wet your pants. Your hands are shaking and the pistol is growing heavier; it falls to the floor and fires again, ricocheting off the metal in the room and braising your ear.

You clutch your misshapen head and fall to the floor. Tears and snot slide down your face as the dragon hovers over you, his steamy breath pushing your hair into and out of your face.

He waits for you to stop crying, to look him in the eye, but you don’t allow him that. You sit and cry in the puddle you’ve created.

As he descends upon you, you will your body to be tough and gristly. You vow, as the dragon wraps his slick lips around you and swallows you whole, to be the greatest cause of indigestion this shape shifter has ever experienced.

*Burrrpp*

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 3

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.3 RUSH THE DOOR

REDPLANET STOWAWAY CH.3 - RUSH THE DOOR WITH YOUR LASER PISTOL

By John Elrod III


Following your instincts, you point your new toy at the door and pull the trigger; nothing happens. You turn the laser pistol over in your hand several times, looking it over as if you had any idea of its inner workings. Throwing in a couple whacks and a few more trigger pulls, even one with the pistol precariously pointed at your face -- lucky for you, a small, unseen LCD screen on the pistol's grip reads, "Unrecognized DNA -- Pistol locked" -- you come to the frustrating conclusion that you will have to figure it out as you go.

"I will have to figure it out as I go,” you say aloud, to nobody in particular. You're acting peculiarly; first, almost lasering your face off, and now, speaking in narratives to the wind. Strange.

You rush to the door, damned pistol in hand, with an unexpected smile on your face. You flash back to summer days spent playing Cops and Robbers in the backyard with your little sister. She always got to be the Cops because your parents insisted you let her win. "She's a girl, and your sister," they said. Though you enjoyed being the bad guy, their condescension still infuriated you. In fact, it's the basis for your entire being, if you think about it -- which you do, quite often. "She's so smart,” they said. "She's class president."She's valedictorian.” "She's going to college." "She didn't wreck the family sedan." "Where did we go wrong with you?" These were all building blocks to the foundation of your current predicament, really. Her unwavering success is what drove you to take that night course in accounting -- why else would you? The constant comparison to her annoying perfection is why you applied so many years ago for the lousy temp job at NOSSA, that you knew you would never get. Who cares if they only hired you because nobody else applied and the last guy committed suicide by self-inflicted headblows from a calculator? That's all ether now. Look, where have you made it? That's right, Mars. I guess you showed them who the real moron is -- it's her -- even though the process has likely doomed you. Where's she, huh? Stuck back on Earth, in some dead-end job -- Assistant D.A.? Pssh -- and a loveless marriage with two little bast--

WAIT -- stop flashing back, you moron!

Shaking your jowls to the point of dizziness, you snap back to reality, or something like it, and realize you've somehow missed the door and are headed down a corridor, toward an electrical station. You struggle to halt your legs' motion, but they're unresponsive.

"What's happening to me?" you can barely think, as you glimpse a neon green, diamond-shaped sign.

"CAUTION: Methane gas. Gas mask required in this zone," it reads, but you're too bleary-eyed to make it out.

You're exhibiting the symptoms of methane gas poisoning. Slowly, the methane has deprived your brain of oxygen. Your cognitive faculties are all out of whack, your mind is having difficulties deciphering your environment, I'm pretty sure your hair wasn't on fire earlier, and worse yet, you're charging directly into thousands of volts of pain.

"Is that a dinosaur?" you can't help but ask yourself, "No, it isn't... well... this is Mars; so, maybe it could be. Stop! Focus on the matter at hand!" you whisper, as you've lost the ability to control your vocal volume.

Either the length of this corridor is uncanny, or you're not exactly moving nearly as fast as it feels. Nevertheless, you're desperate to stop. You spot a low-hanging chain and grab for it.

"Got it! -- shit, a snake!"

Powering through your delirium to realize a moment too late the absurdity of that thought, you're unable to grasp onto the chain once more. Your backwards momentum carries you, finally, through a thinly-paned sliding glass door and, forcefully, you crash into a wall of fuses, circuits, and a bunch of those little knobs that go "click-click-click" when they're turned too fast. An obscene amount of electricity coursing through your veins, you can think only of that dinosaur, or was it a sofa? A sofa? On Mars? Definitely a dinosaur. Definitely.

Meanwhile, a group of perplexed men in gas masks -- who moments before were doubled-over in laughter watching you slowly meander the ten foot corridor to your death -- are now dodging sporadic lasers from the overheated pistol still lodged in your crisping grip.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 3

RED PLANET STOWAWAY - CH.2 TAKE THE LADDER TO NOWHERE

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.2 - TAKE THE LADDER TO NOWHERE

By R.A. HUNTER

Malloy’s voice booms from behind you, you can’t understand what he’s saying but that really isn’t your concern now. You consider the door to your right. With all of that noise there might be something heavy in there that you could use for a weapon but there are almost certainly grinding gears into which Malloy could easily chuck you if he so desired. You don’t even want to think about the room to your left.

You choose the ladder.

You close the distance in seconds jumping up onto the third rung of the ladder and not pausing to think before you begin your climb. You look up at the circular opening five rungs above you. You still can’t make out where it leads; all you can see is a sea of white.

You pop your head through the opening but don’t stop until the rest of you is through as well. At last you step off of the ladder and turn to look around. You discover you are in a large, round room painted a sterile white, unblemished saved for several cans strewn about the floor and surrounded by dots.

You walk carefully over to one of the dots and crouch to examine it. It appears to be a bean. Timidly, you reach out and pluck the dot from the floor. Indeed it is a bean and it is cool to the touch. It is a cool bean. You are surrounded by hundreds of cool beans.

Actually, you’d go as far as to say that they are cold beans. Very cold.

Well, you think to yourself, I suppose this goes a long way toward explaining the stench downstairs, but what’s the deal with all of these beans?

You step over to a can. No surprise, it once contained beans. You pick it up but drop it immediately when it is so cold that it burns you. It shatters to the floor.

“There you are,” Malloy’s voice growls from behind you.

You turn and see his head poking up through the opening. You can tell by his bare shoulders that he hasn’t bothered with a shirt and you wonder for a moment what the view is like from below.

“What’s up with the beans, Malloy?” you ask, forgetting for a moment that you are running for your life from this man.

“You didn’t expect us to just sit up here unprotected because the president wants to make nice with the grays, did ya?”

“So you froze a bunch of beans for protection?”

Malloy sneers. Good God, that must be what he looks like when he’s happy.

“The beans were just target practice,” he says. “But now we’ve got something much better.” Malloy offers one last sneer before turning and climbing back down the ladder.

For a long moment you are alone in the room. Suddenly, there is a whine of a hidden motor and a dozen doors open in the wall. Twelve men step into the room. They’re wearing helmets and goggles, which hide their identities, and are carrying white, bulbous rifles with blue streaks swirled on them.

The first man sneers so much like Malloy he could be his son. The thought of that man reproducing sends a chill down your spine.

“Do us a favor,” the sneering man says. “We’ve had nothing to shoot but bean cans. Run around a little, make it interesting.”

You stand dumbly. Your brain can’t process what your ears are hearing.

“Suit yourself,” he says with a shrug. He nods at the guy next to him who hoist his rifle to his shoulder and fires.

A beam -- the same color blue as the swipe on the rifle -- flies out of the barrel and hits you in the left arm. You scream as cold fire swallows up you left side. The force of the blast pushes you against the back wall. Colliding against it, the appendage you once used to write with and, on certain nights, used to relieve a little tension, shatters.

You gape at the cavity which was once your shoulder. Since the initial burning faded to numbness, there is no feeling. No physical feeling anyway. Inside you feel violated and betrayed -- but a surprisingly large part of you wants to yell, “That was awesome!”

Before you can do anything, though, another blasts freezes your leg. It shatters under your own weight, sending you careening through the ladder opening and crashing in a heap on the floor below.

“Good, I was hoping to get at least one in,” Mallow growls from somewhere to your right.

You turn your head and immediately wish you hadn’t when you discover the shirt isn’t the only piece of clothing Malloy decided not to bother with.

Your last thought as Malloy raises his own rifle is, Why does his junk have to be the last thing I ever see?

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 2