Wrath
Martian justice is not merciful.
The maiden launch of the research ship Science was quite the surprise to the people of the gray coastal area of Mars (and not just because they objected to the use of the term “maiden”, believing virginity to be an outdated social construct). A plume of fire rose from the test site, not far from the rainy streets of New Portland, leaving many standing slack-jawed at the ascent.
On its way, the ship only barely missed an object in low orbit, an ancient vehicle which had been circling the planet for almost 5 centuries. A slim, slight figure standing at one of the windows giggled a bit, as the ship’s thrust pulled the lonely satellite out of orbit, and sent it falling toward the surface.
“Oh $#!+,” the youthful figure mumbled, “I forgot all about that #$%& thang. Sorry Gemma.” More giggling ensued, as the old Scythian motorcycle shrank from sight, plummeting toward the edge of the desert.
About ten minutes later, the research ship, known by the ridiculous and slightly smug title of “Science”, was captured and practically swallowed by a larger vessel, violated on her maiden voyage. It would be an easy payday for the pirates, a ship and a whole crew of mine slaves, even if they were soft androgynous grays. “Grays” was the common nickname for the city dwellers from the cloudy coastal parts of Mars, particularly used as a slur by the desert-dwelling “reds”.
Grays weren’t great workers, but they always did as they were told, unlike the hard miners the pirates had been snatching from out in the Red. The grays would fetch a decent price at the mine on Little Deimos.
“Ferrins, izatchall’s back already?” Luc laughed over the coms, hailing the approaching pirate vessel.
“Yup,” a voice replied, through a wall of static. The vessel continued its approach, toward the illegal mine’s control tower.
“Dang son, yo coms sound like azz,” Luc spoke again. “Hope yall brung some mo labor. Dang las’ bunch jus’ wanna’ fight.”
“Gots grays,” the broken voice replied.
“Hot dang!” Luc whooped. “Them don’t work too much, but them plenty good fer other stuff.”
The mining operation was a bit lacking for entertainment. It was crewed by only twelve overseers, mostly “dead men”- outlaws from Mars, some from Earth. Most legitimate mining operations used automated machinery, but many of the scab rigs, like this one, scattered all over the system, used slaves. Slaves were cheaper to replace or abandon, if need be.
Luc keyed the mic on his small radio. “Hey, Shel, Ferrins be back already. He gots a bunch a grays if we wants em’. Whatcha’ think?”
“Bring em on, we can pay,” replied Sheldon. They had hit a major silver vein that very morning, so there would be plenty to trade. “I’m bout ready to toss these redders in the meat processor anyways, stubborn rats. A smooth little gray or two’d be fun time.”
Grays wouldn’t last long in a place like this, and they would be used for more than just mine labor by the scum that ran it, especially Sheldon, who already faced a death warrant on Mars for such behavior.
“Bring it on down, man,” Luc almost sung into the mic, giving the craft the go-ahead to land.
No sooner than the words left Luc’s mouth, there was a thump across the top of the tower. Luc stared out in horror, as a face, twisted in agony, slid down the angled window. Then, another, and another. The slave ship was dropping its cargo right on Luc’s head.
I took a few seconds for Luc to realize, these weren’t grays, a fact that was confirmed when he saw the face of the pirate boss, Ferrins, tumble slowly to the ground below, clawing at his own throat as he choked to death in the thin atmosphere. There were about 10 of them, all bouncing almost comically in the low gravity of the little moon, faces purple as they expired in agony.
“We brought it on down, man,” a cracked raspy voice laughed over the coms. It was the last thing Luc ever heard, as an unseen blast tore the control tower to shreds.
The craft set down abruptly, and 7 figures in red camo suits and helmets scrambled from the open door. In seconds, they had blown open the airlock to the main facility, and streamed inside, the last of them setting up an odd device in the breach, re-sealing the facility.
They were met almost as quickly, by Sheldon and the other inhabitants of the mine, with guns drawn. It was a desperate, but futile defense. The 7 seemed almost indestructible, dodging or even simply absorbing every shot by the miners. In the center of the fray stood the slim figure, a wicked grin on her face as she waded into the oncoming fire like Wyatt Earp at Iron Creek.
Through the chaos, a distant blast rang out from the back of the facility. Moments later, 23 ragged mine slaves entered the fray, now heavily armed, thanks to one of the invaders who had slipped past the slavers with a bag full of goodies. The slavers fell, one by one, like dead trees in a wind storm. By the time it was over, they lay in a pile in the middle of the mine entrance, as the slaves kicked and spit on their corpses.
It took some time for things to calm down, as the slaves celebrated and thanked their liberators. Eventually, the slim woman spoke, in her raspy discordant voice, a wicked grin on her face like someone had just told her a dirty joke.
“When you boys are done $#!++ in’ on their &#$% corpses, yall ready to go home?” she said. “I mean, yall can stay and keep the mine, if ya really want to.”
No one spoke up. It was clear that none of them wanted to stay in this tomb, this hell, far away from the blue open skies of the red Martian desert. Many of them would have rather seen the entire moon blown to hell than to ever even think of the place again.
A stray shot rang out, followed by the sound of scrambling and rocks falling. One of the overseers was still alive, though only by dumb luck, as the weary former slave who spotted him only missed him by inches. It was Sheldon.
He tumbled down the steep bank on one side of the big room, landing almost at the feet of the man who had shot at him. Sheldon grabbed the man’s gun, but it did him no good, as the weapon jumped from his hand like a scared rabbit, torn away by a round from a big antique revolver.
“Claim jumpin’ burr rats! I kills ya!” Sheldon yelled in broken Barsoom dialect. He ran directly at the thin short-haired woman in the center of the room.
She side-stepped his attack, and he crashed to the rocky floor with a thud. The weary, but still angry slaves began to move in on him, but the woman waved them back, still grinning like a Cheshire cat.
“Yall can have this piece of $#!+ when I’m done,” she giggled, “yall gotta let me have some fun…”
Sheldon sized up his opponent. He was at least twice her size, and more than a head taller than her. He smiled at the thought of the things he would have done to a skinny tomboy like her, back on Mars. He would snap her like a twig. His confidence was shaken a bit, when she drew a large knife from her belt, and tossed it to him. She was either crazy, or he had no chance whatsoever against her.
Sheldon charged at her, the big knife turned upward in his hand. It was clear that he knew what to do with the thing. It didn’t matter. His opponent moved almost inconceivably fast, as the mine slaves stared on with slack jaws. Only the six men in red stood stoically, knowing exactly how this would end.
Sheldon charged wildly, again and again, unable to even scratch the smiling woman in red. He stumbled back, and clutched his face, as blood ran down his cheek. His left eye was gone. The woman grinned, and held up a bloody straight razor. She was toying with him, as a cat would toy with a captured mouse. Sheldon would have been better off using the big knife to slice his own throat.
The next few minutes felt like hours to the outlaw, as his opponent played her gory game, taking piece after piece from him, until he was utterly unrecognizable. Finally, Sheldon fell to the floor, staring in horror at his missing appendages, unable to play this game of subtraction any longer. What was left of him could have been a display in a Victorian era freak show.
“Who, why?…” he was able to barely gasp, through the wide grin that had been carved on his face.
The woman pulled back her red jacket, and something shiny flashed from underneath. Sheldon saw it with his remaining eye. A badge. Everyone in the room, except the woman’s six companions, gasped.
There was only one badge in existence like this one, and few who had ever seen it lived to tell the tale. These were no claim jumpers or pirates, this was the Chief Constable of Mars, and six of her deputies. Sheldon was almost relieved. His death, he assumed, would likely come quickly now.
“Sorry it took us a while to get here, amigos,” the Chief said, addressing the former slaves, “we had to commandeer a vessel, so we could sneak up on these $#!+-eatin’ f^&*-sticks.” Her archaic swearing was a bit confusing, but it was like sweet music to those poor souls who had just been liberated, even after the grim display before them.
“As for you…” she turned to Sheldon and cocked her pistol, “there’s a warrant for you on Mars, for murder, rape, grand theft, kidnapping, torture, and… hell, I forget the rest. Anyway, the sentence is death.”
She lowered the hammer on the big stainless revolver, and put it back in its holster. “Cept… we ain’t on Mars,” she said coldly.
The slaves and their liberators loaded up what they could, including anything of value from the mine, and re-sealed the airlock before departing. The Chief Constable returned what was left of the research vessel Science, to a field near New Portland, leaving no explanation of who took it or why.
There are many legends on Mars about things that have passed since the first settlements over 400 years ago, legends about strange creatures and dark artifacts, legends of a cult that watches over the crypt of a great warrior from Earth’s distant past.
But the legend most Martians fear and respect, is that of the Chief Constable. Many say the Chief is over a century old, is 7 feet tall, and bulletproof. Others say the Chief is a ghost, who can appear anywhere to exact justice. Many others believe the Chief doesn’t even exist, that it’s a story made up by the Constables to scare would-be criminals.
To those who found the abandoned mine on Little Deimos, the Chief is very real, and very frightening, as is the warning that was left by her:
“Be warned, scum. Respect the lives and liberty of the free peoples of Mars, or meet with my wrath, just like this trash. - J. Wilson, Chief Constable”
The message was found just inside the mine entrance, near the corpses of its former overseers. In front of the pile lay a ghastly mangled body still holding the mic of his communicator with the few fingers he had left, as the overhead speakers replayed his last barely intelligible transmission over and over:
“Please… don’t leave me like this… please… kill me… please…”
Hey, hope yall like this one. I’m laid up for a bit, after an unfortunate accident, and was inspired by a prompt over on ironage.media to write a little something, set in the Song of Grace universe. Those of you who have read the draft of Like Sunshine may recognize a few things. Those who haven’t, don’t fret, it’s coming out soon.
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