John Karr - Detonation Event

“We defend,” they all said.

Later, Will Norquist strode into the living quarters of the small apartment. In his arms was the blanketed form of a crying baby. The sound burrowed into Gwen’s brain. She smiled and held her arms out.

“Our little Martian is hungry?”

“No, I just fed her.” He handed the child to her mother. “Besides, we’re all Martians now. Even on Earth. No human lives without the second microbe Ry Devans encountered here.”

Gwen sat her daughter on her thigh and hugged her. Tears streamed down both their faces. The words echoed beyond the baby’s quieting cries.

We’re all Martians now.

2235 AD

This ain’t your great-great-great granddaddy’s Mars.

The thought hit Ry Devans again as he glanced at the angry orb. The words looped annoyingly, the way a familiar but not necessarily welcome tune will sometimes do. Once or twice would have been okay, but a few rogue synapses weren’t letting it go. Yeah, there was some real upheaval going on, but he and his crew didn’t bug out of Mars Orbiter One on a sightseeing mission, no matter how compelling their looming destination had become. This Synch Event was to buy them the one thing they needed almost as much as air and water and food.

Devans checked the digital countdown clock on his pilot console and noted the two-hour mark was closing fast. He ran another carbon feed query for the nuclear engine and got the same results as Alicia Hamilton had down at the engine room. That killed a few minutes before his gaze strayed to the New Red Planet again.

This ain’t your…

Stow it, old man.

Maybe it wasn’t his most stellar idea to have Burroughs dangle the holo in the aisle between his console and that of his new copilot, Gwen Wagner. The gutsy young mother and astrobiologist glanced at it more than he did. And why not? They were closing fast. Done were the power and air system checks, nuclear fusion queries and carbon feeds for the engine, shield readiness, and potential flight path hazards. The results were solid, expected, and redundant.

The pissed-off planet they were racing toward was anything but.

The images were historic, but not super fresh. The artificial moon they depended on for their existence had been playing satellite footage on all the public monitors for close to a year now. You couldn’t work at any of the processing pods, walk or run the corridors of any of the twenty decks, take a break in the nature parks, work out at the gyms, or eat outside of your living quarters without seeing Mars in its new state of existence.

He figured the compulsive looks at the hanging holo were about context. It’s always one thing to gaze from a safe distance, another to be in the crap. As in, he and his crew were about to get down with the planet resurrection and all the chaos down there. Naturally, they had plotted course for one of the more hellish regions to broadcast images back to mother Earth, where an entirely different upheaval had taken place. Devans could almost hear the Marsquakes rumble and crash and form a godlike voice.

Look what you organics have wrought.

Well, it really was a group effort, Devans countered silently. Plus you almost killed my crew. Not to mention a forty-something pilot that looks an awful like the one occupying this seat. Look. At. Me!

Well, yeah. There have been a few developments…

Networks of erupting volcanoes thrust through the Martian crust like a geological case of the shingles. Devans wondered if it was as painful for the planet as the shingles virus had been to humans prior to M274S34; only there was no healing-slash– Homo sapiens -extinguishing Martian microbe solution for the resurrected planet. Entire regions shuddered, shook, spewed, heaved, gushed, and flowed. Some areas were constantly in the throes, others dwindled into relative silence, and still other areas were unpredictable.

Hey, you were dead. Now you’re not. You’re welcome.

A warning tone sounded, drawing his attention away from his imaginary dialog with a planet. The digital countdown clock on his console alternately faded and brightened.

1:58.

Less than two hours until Synch Event. It was within schedule range, but he’d rather set up and wait than cut it tight. Although waiting down there was bound to come with challenges.

He spoke over his shoulder. “Shannon, would you hit the buckle-up sequence for the band?”

“You got it,” Burroughs said.

No one asked for more time. He gave everyone an extra minute to brace, including the space surfer down in the sunken conference area at the tip of the V-shaped vessel’s apex. Then he wrapped a scarred hand around the control stick and pushed forward and down several degrees. The shuttle responded instantly, causing the flight pit seats to add nitrous oxide as a countermeasure against the additional thrust. New bright lights lit up the control panels.

“Pressure warnings, Cap,” Gwen said.

“Just courtesy calls,” Devans replied. “Let me know if they go red.”

Trent Wagner, the young astrophysicist, let out a whoop. Strapped in with a makeshift harness, he balanced with legs bent and braced down on the conference table. The translucent panes around the entire flight pit made it appear as if he were surfing in space, and headed directly for the rapidly growing Mars, also visible on surrounding monitors around the table. Devans felt a stab of envy at the kid’s exuberance, even as a slight smile pulled at the scar that extended from his brow to cheek.

“Twenty minutes until Martian atmosphere. Shields?” Gwen said.

“Yes,” Devans replied. Then he addressed her brother. “Gotta use the monitors, kid.”

PS-13 soon rocked and shuddered, heat shields fighting the entry friction. Satellite images showed the shuttle with its belly aglow, practically on fire, and one human-made moon lit up by the sun, six thousand miles in the background.

The ship had penetrated deep into the thin Martian atmosphere when Devans reversed the lion’s share of thrust. Trent was tossed headlong from the table toward the wall. The harness straps snapped out and back in conjunction with his body.

“Wipe out!” he yelled. He hovered, then dropped to the table with a thud.

Devans pressed a sequence of holo keys, and the shields withdrew from around the flight deck. There wasn’t much to see as they descended through layers of dark ash and red dust. Had they had time to notice, they may have noticed tiny water droplets in the mix, some of which clung to the clear panes and traveled across before speed and friction whisked them away.

Across the aisle, Gwen Wagner turned toward Ry and nodded in appreciation. Her faux-leather sleeveless vest and pants creaked just a little as she peeled herself forward in her seat.

“Didn’t know we could ignore the warnings,” she said.

“That’s war for ya,” Devans said, unbuckling and pushing the pilot seat away with the backs of his legs. It receded along guided tracks.

Devans performed a series of squats and twists that came with a decent number of moans and creaks. He shrugged and rolled his head, took several deep breaths, bugged his eyes and closed them a few times. Then he settled, stone still. Ready.

“We’re suiting up in the landing bay,” he told Gwen. “What do you think about picking a good landing zone maybe a mile from the outer formations? Ham and TWags and yours truly will use the suit jets to get closer the cauldron, but not too close.”