John Karr - Detonation Event

“Roger that, Cap,” she said, knowing Devans didn’t have to put the order in the form a question but appreciating it anyway. “I could hover near the peak and save you guys a distance jump.”

“You could probably make this baby pirouette on one fin, but I don’t want to risk getting glopped up with liquid rock.” He winked. “If you and Shannon would do radar and geo sweeps…”

Devans looked over at navigation and communications officer Shannon Burroughs, who was standing at her station, peering down at the sunken conference area. She noticed him looking and made as if she were checking readings on her console. He made a sour face.

“What?” Burroughs said. “Don’t you have a pirate broadcast to do or something?”

Devans laughed. He clapped a couple times to get the downed surfer’s attention. “Let’s go, TWags.”

The young man unhitched and leaped from the table to bound up the stairs. He was halted by Gwen’s boot.

“What up, sis?”

“Don’t go crazy out there, bro. Don’t go drone surfing into some ridiculous tunnel with a bomb at the bottom like last time.”

“Ha, that was a one-timer, far as I’m concerned.” He tugged on her leg, making her slide a trifle in the seat.

“Stay off the volcanoes,” Gwen said, punching him in the shoulder as he passed.

Trent high-fived Shannon Burroughs, their hands lingering with the touch, then followed Devans to the flight deck elevator, where they both vanished.

In the landing bay, security chief and engineer Alicia Hamilton was already suited and waiting for them at the control lectern.

“Nice of you ladies to stop by,” she said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Trent said, dropping to the bench and peeling off his boots and jumpsuit. He started to take off his boxer shorts.

“Uh, nobody needs you to go full commando, TWags,” Hamilton said.

“Just seeing if you’d notice.” He kept the undergarments on and reached for a space suit in his partitioned locker.

“The same way a mythical goddess of the forest might notice a young sapling among towering trees, I suppose.”

“Gawd, that took some doing,” Wagner replied. “You stay up late practicing?”

“If you mean did I stay up late reviewing the mission… then yeah, kelp head.”

Gwen Wagner’s voice came over the speakers to announce they were landing. They sat as the vessel slowed, then stood again after the soft bump. Tremors traveled up the landing pads and supports to shake the ship.

Hamilton checked the status of each suit, then returned to the console to decompress the landing bay. An outline of a square with rounded corners formed as the hatch receded three inches, then it vanished to the side to reveal muted daylight. Dust glittered inside the first few feet of the bay, along with darker flakes of ash.

Streaming clouds of ash and dust commanded the skies and allowed only glimpses of a half-size sun. That would have provided enough reason to pause, but the aerial tumult was merely the by-product of the real action.

They’d been to the planet far too often prior to Detonation Event to find much interest in ancient Martian deserts and wind-weary rock formations. And while they’d seen footage of the planetary resurrection, to witness with their own eyes and ears a roaring lava river getting bisected by the nearest column came with a sense of awe several degrees beyond that invoked by the streaming vids of the geo drones.

The river speed and depth fluctuated. Sometimes fast and steady, sometimes a series of waves would bully through to splatter the sides of the rock column and send huge glops over the rising banks. The bulk of it snaked for miles through the desert, vanishing into a distant basin and appearing once more as a glowing line headed for the horizon. Also new were miles-long fingers of dark lava tubes over the desert floor. In these, the surface had cooled, but the lava still flowed onward within.

Devans whistled in admiration, though he knew this was just the precursor. He rolled a finger over his shoulder and strode onto the extending landing ramp.

His move was met by a throat-clearing objection from his security chief back at the control lectern. Devans turned to see her look from him to Trent Wagner and back again. The young man also rode the steel board as it slowly descended.

“You wonder where he gets it from,” Hamilton said.

“Hell, I got it from him,” Devans returned.

One of the monitors behind her was linked to the galaxynet, now controlled by the Earth First Faction. On it, he saw a familiar face with the words “MOST WANTED” beneath. His temples throbbed and he gritted his teeth.

Hamilton turned to see what he was looking at, then joined him and Wagner on the ramp as it lowered, shaking with the Marsquakes. “The reward money’s better for you alive, but you’d be a helluva lot more compliant dead,” she said sweetly.

“You got an army in that backpack?” Devans said.

“Took you down twice on the mats,” she pointed out.

“My knee is a little reluctant to greet your lovely face.”

“Oh? I recall eating that overhand right a couple times.”

“Glove versus middle-aged bone. And then I’d have to deal with Deon. Even Nuro had trouble with your hubby.”

“Ha, I can tap out my man!” she laughed.

“When he lets you, yeah.”

“Not truth,” she said with a laugh.

“Let me know when the next match is. I’ll bring lab popcorn and that weak tea they’re passing off as beer.”

Trent Wagner cut in. “Oh, hey, Cap. Meant to tell ya back on MOS-1… Leash and I are going to split the reward money, so we’d appreciate if you didn’t take any unnecessary risks.” He wobbled and leaned and moved his arms.

Devans suspected young adult dance moves, but wasn’t certain.

“Uh-huh. You teach him this?” Devans said back at Hamilton.

“Do I look white to you?”

“Ouch,” Devans said. “That’s uncalled for, Senator.”

“What you get for violating ramp descent rules,” she replied.

Devans winked.

“Don’t look at me either,” Gwen Wagner said over the comm link from the flight pit. “Big sis can fly shuttles and dance.”

“Maybe it’s on your mom, then,” Devans said, and a crack of a smile crossed his scarred face at the thought of Dr. Karen Wagner registering his little dig.

“Somebody’s in trouble now,” Hamilton crooned.

“Yeah, bruh,” Trent said.

A crimson haze filled their face shields. White columns of carbon dioxide drifted by, which told Devans the shuttle stabilizers had to put some effort into it. The ramp halted, and his bent legs absorbed the easy impact. Face shield readings showed a line bar with small but noticeable spikes that corresponded to the tremors working their way through the soles of his space boots.

He left the ramp and strode several paces away from the towering ship. Ignoring the lava river and tubes, he watched the desert’s gravel-sized stones dance and red sand shift and spill. Dust rose and was carried away on the new winds that whooshed through his suit mics, accompanying the rumble and distant blasts.

“We won’t be pitching a tent here, space kiddies,” Devans said.

Hamilton had a holo projector strapped over her shoulder, and Trent Wagner held a camera and tripod. All three of them had space atomizer pistols holstered at their sides.

They eyed the weathered backbone of the mountain range. Devans pointed beyond the closer rock formations to the peaks north of center.

“That’s us,” he said.

Streams of blue appeared as Wagner and Hamilton initiated the ion jets of their backpacks, then flew off.

Devans watched them, then pressed two buttons on his chest and felt the surge build in his backpack. He goosed the release of the twin ion jets and launched into the thin Martian atmosphere that maybe someday could be termed “air.” He flew at speed, higher and higher, toward the others. Now that he was at elevation, more was revealed.