A pair of brown eyes slowly blinked open. The sky was a rich pink. Fearless couldn’t hear a thing. Just the wind. Softly tickling his ear. He had expected that if he woke, it would be auditory chaos. People screaming as they searched for missing limbs and a fire raging as fuel leaked all over the place. But it was calm. Eerily so. He took a deep breath. Slowly exhaled. As his lips curled to a satisfied smile.
“I’m fucking dead.”
When, suddenly a long, foreboding shadow cast over him. It was a man. He was silhouetted by the sun. But Fearless knew who He was. He was sure of it. “God?”
“To some people, maybe.” Vicious snickered. His clothes were tattered. His face bruised, battered and bloodied from the crash landing.
“Oh. It’s you.” Fearless sighed. “I thought I was dead. I was so happy.”
Vicious helped Fearless to his feet. About thirty feet away stood what was left of the moon jumper, now an unrecognizable twisted heap of metal and glass. They were on the edge. Not just the edge of town, but seemingly, the world. The atmosphere generators towered over them, spewing vapor thousands of feet into the air in order to make this godforsaken planet a place where human beings could actually live without suffocating.
That was because the most difficult part of terraforming a planet was regulating the atmosphere to make it habitable. Mars, although it was always considered the “closest” planet to Earth in terms of habitability, had a radically different atmosphere. Comprised almost entirely of carbon dioxide, a bit of nitrogen and a splash of argon, Mars’s atmosphere was also incredibly thin. And in order to start building the next great metropolis in all of the universe, the terraformers couldn’t just transform the atmosphere’s composition. They were going to have to create an entirely new atmosphere altogether. And thus, the atmosphere generator was born. A chimney-shaped pipe the size of the Eiffel Tower that spewed a vapor rich with nitrogen, oxygen, and a bit of argon thousands of feet in the air. They called them the stacks. But in order to recreate Earth’s atmosphere on Mars, they needed hundreds of them.
The only problem was the sound. A deep, grating hum that if exposed to it for long periods of time would drive any well balanced person off a cerebral cliff. There were reports that a dozen or so workers tasked with building these stacks had inexplicably leaped to their deaths. No one really knew how many. They said the sound didn’t reach Tharsis City, but the rumor was that if you laid still in the middle of the night while the world slept and listened closely, you could hear the stacks rattle.
Fearless took in the moon jumper wreckage and cringed. “What about Scotty?”
“He died before we even landed. Remember?”
“For a second I thought he was faking it. I guess not,” Fearless replied as he took a look around. “I’ve never been this close to the stacks.”
“Me either,” Vicious replied. “Don’t these things give you cancer if you stand too close to them?”
Fearless shrugged. “Only one way to find out.”
They were miles away from anything. The Tharsis City skyline lingered in the distance, but the buildings were enveloped in a thick haze. A sign that they were farther away than either of them could possibly comprehend—and then some.
“The fuck are we supposed to do now?” Fearless asked.
Vicious motioned to the wreckage. “I was thinking we could use what’s left of the ship to make a shelter and the remaining canister of fuel to keep us warm while we try and signal any departing ships that pass by.”
Fearless rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, sure, we could do that. If you definitely want to die, that is.”
Vicious crossed his arms with a huff. He didn’t appreciate Fearless’s condescending tone. “And why’s that?”
Fearless pointed towards the sky where they could see the faint outline of a ring hovering in Mars orbit. “That’s the astral gate way the fuck over there. Which means that’s where any passing ships are going. No one is flying out here. Unless, you know, they too steal a ship and force a pilot to fly it who dies mid-flight. Then they will totally fly by us. And also crash.”
“Then what do you suggest we do, jackass?”
Fearless grinned. “I’m glad you asked. Look, someone has to perform maintenance on these stacks, right? I mean, not every day, obviously, because we’re in the middle of fucking nowhere, but when something breaks down, someone has to come out here and fix it.”
Vicious sighed. “Sure.”
“Well, then we force someone to come to us. I figure we could use that canister of fuel and some of the metal plane scraps to make a bomb, plant it inside one of the stacks, detonate it, and voila, someone is here to check out what happened and we’re our way home.”
“Let me get this straight,” Vicious said as he scratched his head. “You shat on my idea of making shelter for the night and creating a smoke signal—because you think that building a bomb and blowing up a stack is a better one?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“Do you even know how to build a bomb?”
“Of course I don’t. But how hard can it be? A little fuel, a little fire, put it in a bomb-shaped metal thingy, set it off. Badabing, bada boom!” Fearless replied, as he made a child-like explosion noise with his mouth while he used his hands to mimic the bomb’s explosive radius.
Vicious didn’t reply. He just stood there with his arms crossed. Not uttering even a word.
“I take it that you don’t like the bomb idea,” Fearless observed after thirty seconds of silence—or as near silence as there ever could be near the stacks.
“No,” Vicious replied. “Let’s just walk towards the skyline. In any scenario, it sounds like we’re going to die. And the longer we wait here, the quicker it will happen. So we might as well take our chances and just walk.”
Fearless clapped his hands together. “Good enough for me.”
* * *
It was even hotter than either of them could have possibly imagined. The incessant hum of the stacks was unrelenting, but the heat the generators produced was somehow worse. The daytime sun on Mars was sweltering to begin with. But this was like being stranded in the desert in a car with a space heater strapped to your chest. Fearless dabbed his forehead with his shirt sleeve, but there wasn’t moisture to absorb. He was long past sweating. Vicious wasn’t faring much better. The bullet wound in his shoulder had turned black. It was still bleeding, but the blood would dry immediately as soon it dripped out.
Fearless turned to Vicious. “How long you think we’ve been walking?”
“I don’t know. Five, six hours maybe,” Vicious replied.
“That’s impossible,” Fearless said as he motioned to the sun. It was beginning to set over the horizon. The sky slowly beginning to turn from its daytime pink to a dark purplish hue. “The sun’s setting. It’s almost night.”
Vicious took in the horizon ahead. He looked surprised to see the sun falling. He feverishly rubbed his ears. “Maybe it’s… been longer than we thought. I don’t know. That hum. From the stacks. It’s beginning to fuck with my head. To be honest, I’m not sure of anything right now.”
“Wait—” Fearless said with urgency. He grabbed Vicious by the arm. And motioned to a shallow crater nearby. “Do you see that?”
Vicious turned toward where he was pointing. The edges seemed to flicker with light. At first bright, then dark. Then bright again. It was a random pattern. Never once repeated. But something new. Over and over again.
“Fire,” he whispered.
They turned and immediately headed toward the crater. At first slowly, then their feet quickly picking up the pace. Like children running down the stairs on Christmas morning. Brimming with excitement, but unsure what they would find as they rounded the corner into the living room. Fearless and Vicious reached the edge of the crater. And looked down into it, to find:
A roaring fire. A pot dangling above the flames that bubbled with an intoxicating brew. Beside it, a stack of freshly laundered woven blankets warmed. A few small animal carcasses, skinned and placed on skewers, waited to be cooked. Suddenly, a warm voice called out to them.
“Come, join me.”
The voice belonged to an elderly Native American nomad. He wore his hair in long, traditional braids. He wore a blue patterned shawl and an animal fur draped over his neck. He shuffled toward the fire and gave the pot a stir.
Fearless and Vicious traded a glance. There was no way this could possibly be happening, could it?
“Do not doubt your reality. Trust in your mind,” the nomad said as he waved them down from the crater’s ridge. “Now please, join me.”
* * *
Night had fallen over Mars. Fearless and Vicious sat around the fire with the nomad, the woven blankets wrapped around their shoulders as they feasted on the freshly cooked animal meat. The Martian desert was a terribly cold place to be at night, with temperatures dropping below freezing. But with the nomad and his fire, they were warm. Without him, they surely would have died.
“What is this? Syn-Rabbit? It’s delicious,” Fearless asked, his mouth full of the meat of unknown origin. He ate ravenously. As if they had been lost in the desert for days. Maybe they had been. At this point, it felt like anything was possible.
“The animal is the Earth. Here for us to consume. It is his role. Just as we have our roles. But his is for us to no longer feel hungry. And for that I am grateful to him,” the nomad replied.
Fearless shrugged. “Whatever you say.”
The nomad placed a ladle into the pot above the fire and scooped a brown liquid into a couple handmade ceramic bowls. He handed one each to Fearless and Vicious.
Fearless gave it a deep sniff. “This smells… incredible. What is this? A bone broth? Or some kind of fermented hooch? God, that smells so good.”
“You ask too many questions.” The nomad smiled, then turned to Vicious. “You don’t ask enough.”
Vicious slowly slipped the brown liquid. “How long have you been out here?”
“Many years,” the nomad said as he continued to stir the pot. “I don’t remember when I arrived. Or how I came. Just that I am here. My purpose is to help wayward travelers find their way.”
“Wait, so you live out here, all the time, on the chance that someone might pass?” Vicious asked.
“Not chance. Destiny,” the nomad explained. “The people who wander this desert, they are here for a reason.”
Vicious chuckled at the absurdity of the nomad’s words. “Oh yeah? And for what reason would destiny have me aboard a ship that crashed in the middle of the desert?”
“To have me fix the hole in your shoulder,” the man replied, matter-of-fact. “After you speak to your mother, of course.”
Vicious’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell does that mean?”
“See for yourself.” The nomad motioned to the sitting area besides Vicious.
Vicious slowly turned to his left—only to find his mother sitting beside him. She was wearing a plain sweater and slacks. Her hair greying. She was simple. And warm. Unlike her husband. The firelight flickered off her face as she smiled at Vicious.
“Hi, hon.”
Vicious did a double take. For a moment he thought he might be hallucinating. Or maybe he was dead. Either option would make more sense than his mother materializing out of thin air in the middle of the desert.
“Mom?”
“It’s been a long time, I know,” she said.
Vicious swallowed back the tears. His lip quivered. “This isn’t possible. You’re…”
“Dead?” She shrugged, finishing his sentence. “In one way, yes. But in another, no. Unfortunately, I didn’t learn what this was until it was all over for me. I wish I had known before I made my choice. I would’ve stuck around a little longer. For you.”
“I miss you so much, Mom,” Vicious said, the tears streaming down his face.
“I know you do, honey. You’re in a pretty tough spot, aren’t you?”
Vicious nodded, ashamed. “Yeah, I am.”
“It’s not your fault,” his mother reassured him. “You take things too far, yes. And you’ve made mistakes. But who you are, deep down, is my fault. I should never have let you go to that place. But your father, he insisted. And I was too weak. I was fighting my own battle I couldn’t win. But I should’ve fought, my son. I should have fought for you. I wish I could make it up to you.”
Vicious took in her words. He had waited so long to hear them. But then, something occurred to him. “Maybe you can. Can I ask you a question?”
“Anything, sweetheart.”
Vicious took her by the hand. “A man tried to have me killed. He said it was because of who I am. Do you know what that means?”
His mother took a deep breath. Then exhaled. “Unfortunately, I can’t answer that question. That’s between you and your father.”
Vicious squeezed her hand tight. “Me and Dad? What does that mean? Mom, please. I need to know. My life depends on it.”
She stared into the fire. Her eyes welled up with tears and melancholy. “I wish I had been there for the picture. It was the only time I ever saw him smile. It should have been the four of us. Not three.”
“Picture? Of who? You said there were three people?” Vicious frantically asked.
She placed her hand on his cheek. “I love you, sweetie. I wish there was more I could do.”
And slowly, she faded away, vanishing into the desert air. Vicious could hardly believe his eyes. Or his mind. He slowly turned back to Fearless and the nomad, who were still sitting around the fire.
“What is this? Syn-Rabbit? It’s delicious,” Fearless asked with his mouth full of the meat of unknown origin.
Vicious cocked his head sideways. Fearless had already asked that question. And he knew exactly what the nomad would say back to him. He mouthed the words along with him. “The animal is the Earth. Here for us to consume. It is his role. Just as we have our roles. But his is for us to no longer feel hungry. And for that I am grateful to him.”
Thoroughly spooked, Vicious interrupted them. “Did you guys see that?”
Fearless continued to eat ravenously. “See what?”
“My mom, she’s right—” Vicious motioned to the empty seat next to him. “I mean, she was. She was here.”
“Your mom was… where?” Fearless asked. His eyes narrowed. He was getting a little concerned about his friend.
Vicious stared at the empty spot where she just sat. “Here. I swear.”
Fearless traded a glance with the nomad. “I think you’ve been out in the sun a little too long today, buddy. Maybe you should try and get some rest. We’ve got a long way to walk tomorrow.”
Vicious slowly nodded. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. I’m just going to lay down here. Just for a few minutes.”
Vicious slowly laid back. He pulled the woven blanket tight over himself. And glanced up at the sky. And in that moment, shooting stars burned bright across the sky. Vicious softly smiled.
“Hi, Mom…”
And drifted off to sleep.
* * *
“Hey. Hey buddy. Wake up. Hey. Pal,” a voice said.
Vicious’s eyes slowly fluttered open. He shielded his eyes as he squinted into the morning desert sun. A man stood above him. His voice, like his skin, was coarse and dehydrated. Beside him was a storage hovercraft that looked like a shopping cart. It was filled to the brim with scraps of metal and discarded electronics. He was a junkman, a scavenger who roamed the desert in search of discarded trash.
“Where… uh… Where am I?” Vicious asked.
“Your ship crashed,” the junkman said as he motioned to the moon jumper. “You’re lucky you’re alive. I ain’t never seen anyone survive a crash like that.”
Vicious sat up, frantic. The moon jumper was still smoking and leaking fuel. About thirty yards away, Fearless lay on the ground. Just like he had found him.
“Impossible…” Vicious whispered.
“No, no. I watched your ship crash. Flew right over me. Took me all night to get here. You don’t mind if I take a look inside the ship for salvageables, do ya?”
“No, I uh, no. Go ahead,” Vicious replied as he scrambled to his feet. He ran over to Fearless, who was beginning to stir awake on the sand. He stood above him, casting a shadow over his face.
“I’m fucking dead,” Fearless said with a wry grin.
“No. No,” Vicious said, frantic. “That’s what you said yesterday.”
Fearless stared at him sideways. “What do you mean, yesterday? We were on the plane yesterday. And it crashed. But you’re alive. Which means I am too, which is a colossal bummer.”
Vicious tried to remind him, to stoke his memory. “What about the nomad? You remember him, right? He made us food. And tea!”
Fearless stared back at him, concerned about his friend’s mental well being. “Do you have any idea how insane you sound right now? How much blood have you lost from that fucking bullet hole?”
Vicious placed his hand inside his shirt over the wound. His face twisted in surprise. He quickly pulled back his shirt and exposed his shoulder to reveal the wound had been cleaned and stitched up. He looked to Fearless, eyes wide.
Fearless returned the look, as spooked as his friend. “OK, now how the fuck is that possible?”
“I told you, the nomad,” Vicious replied, as he shouted for the junkman. “Hey, old man! Can you give us a lift out of here?”
The junkman stuck his head out of what remained of the plane’s fuselage. He held a radio in his hand. “Sure. I can give you a ride. But only if I get to keep this radio.”
Vicious shrugged, annoyed. “Sure. Whatever.”
The junkman grinned. He didn’t have any teeth. “Where to?”
Vicious looked to Fearless. Then back to the junkman.
“East Tharsis.”
* * *
The junkman’s pickup sputtered to a stop in front of the old dry cleaner. Fearless and Vicious hopped out of the truck’s bed and onto the broken asphalt. They gave the bumper a slap and the junkman drove off in a plume of exhaust fumes.
Fearless took in the dry cleaner. The windows were broken and half boarded up. By the looks of it, it had been years since anyone had been there. To get their shirts pressed, or to watch a fight at the Pits.
“I hate East Tharsis,” Fearless muttered. “Want to explain to me what the hell we're doing here, again?”
“It’s just a feeling I have. I can’t explain it more than that. Come on.” Vicious headed towards the dry cleaner’s entrance. He motioned for Fearless to follow.
“Oh, great. A feeling. Why didn’t you say so?” Fearless muttered as he reluctantly followed.
Vicious led the way through the dry cleaner. It was dark inside. The air smelled damp. What remained of the dry cleaning equipment was covered in drop cloths to keep the cobwebs at bay. He approached the vault door and blew the dust off the keypad. He slowly entered the code. 1-2-3-4.
SHUNK! The vault door unlocked.
“1-2-3-4.” Fearless chuckled as he shook his head. “That’s Humpty for you.”
Vicious slowly pulled the vault door open and flipped a light switch that illuminated the staircase below.
“You ready?” he asked Fearless.
“No,” Fearless replied. “But I get the sense that I don’t have a choice.”
Vicious headed down the stairs with Fearless close behind. They slowly walked the long tunnel. It was covered in graffiti, the work of teenagers that had broken in. And as they reached the end of the tunnel they saw it—the fighting pits. They were covered in litter and beer bottles. The risers that surrounded them, the ones where Tharsis’s wealthy elite once sat while they chanted for blood, were splintered and broken. It was as if what they had endured as boys was all a bad dream. And what remained was a place where teenagers came to drink beer and empty a can of spray paint.
“This place used to seem so big,” Fearless said with a hint of deranged nostalgia. “It felt like every fight was the most important fight of your life.”
“That’s because they were,” Vicious replied. “Come on.”
Vicious led the way through the dim corridors, past the locker room and the sleeping quarters, until he found what he was looking for—a green door with one of those frosted windows on the top half like a private investigator always had in old movies. On the glass a word was etched in gold letters. PRIVATE.
Fearless looked to Vicious. “We came all the way here to sneak into Humpty’s office?”
Vicious nodded. And turned the knob. It didn’t budge. Locked. He grumbled as he tried to turn it. “Come on. Come on.”
Fearless sighed. “Move, will you?”
Vicious stepped back. And Fearless stepped forward. He sat back on his heels, then delivered a powerful kick—and blew the door off its hinges.
They tiptoed as they entered into Humpty’s office. Even though they had been gone from this place for years, it still felt like they were doing something wrong. Fearless made his way around Humpty’s old steel desk. He opened one of the drawers. A pair of rosary beads sat inside. Fearless held them up. The cross dangled before him.
“I found it,” Vicious said from the other side of the office.
Fearless quickly shoved the rosary in his pocket and approached Vicious who was standing before a wall of photos of fighters past. In each of them, Humpty stood with the fighter who had been named the champion that year.
In the center of the wall was a photo of Vicious, his white hair buzzed short. His face swollen and battered. On either side of him was his father, Caliban, and Lucky. They stood in the center of the ring together. Each of them smiling.
“You came here to show me that photo?” Fearless queried.
“No,” Vicious said as he pulled the photo off the wall and held it to Fearless. “I came here to show you this.”
Fearless took the photo in, but it wasn’t quite tracking. He was lost.
“My father’s ring on his pinky,” Vicious pointed out. “Recognize it?”
Fearless recoiled in shock at the small, almost insignificant piece of jewelry. “That’s impossible. That’s a Bloodstone… Which would mean…”
Vicious took a deep breath. A weight simultaneously lifted and crushed his shoulders at the exact same time. However farfetched, it all made too much sense. His father’s mysterious business affairs. The money. The clothes. The limousine that would survive a nuclear blast.
Vicious exhaled. And for the first time, uttered the truth about his father.