Just Another Dead Martian

By Volk Presmaren

An intelligence agent from Mars Security travels to Earth to thwart a revolution planned to coincide with an ancient doomsday prediction. It seems to vaguely mirror an attempted revolt some forty years before, but any connection to that earlier group seems tenuous.

The problem? It seems that the three leaders of the current revolt were killed ten years ago! And they were not look-alikes, the DNA is an exact match. While trying to make sense of the insanity, the agent discovers another death in the past: his own.

Aided by a newspaper woman on Earth, he culls the old records of the three cases and discovers that she, too, was killed some ten years before.

It is a race against time to stop the revolution and save their own skins, but he first has to uncover the traitor in the ranks of his own Intelligence Agency. And it seems to be someone who just happens to have a time machine.

And the person with the time machine seems to be staying one step ahead of them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Martian Publishing
• Release date: Apr 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301167630

Volk Presmaren

Science + Fantasy is what I love. All the trappings of science with a twist of fantasy thrown in. My first venture was a motion picture script ASSAULT OF HELL but it had no luck in the Hollywood market. After my first novel, JULY 57TH, I am now translating the motion picture script into a novel. After that, we'll just have to wait and see which realm calls to me.

Book preview

JUST ANOTHER

DEAD MARTIAN

By Volk Presmaren

MARTIAN PUBLISHING

Copyright © 2013 by Martian Publishing Company

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

No portion of this volume may

be reproduced in any format

without the express written

permission of the copyright holder.

This volume is a science fiction version of

the science fantasy tale published as July 57th.

This is a work of fiction.

Any resemblance to persons or

organizations, living or extinct,

is entirely coincidental.

CHAPTER ONE

To begin with, I had no idea I was dead.

In fact, the whole thing took me a little while to figure out. And that was after I shook off the initial shock. Then, of course, I had to find some way to get un-dead before the condition became permanent.

But I'm getting ahead of myself here. In the beginning, I was far from that enlightened; it seemed I was very much alive.

Oh, the simple joy of not knowing!

I was sitting at my desk when my busy-work was interrupted by a courier holding out a green memo. Marching orders. I chuckled to myself as I carried the memo to the Director's Assistant.

Hey, Peevie. I think I got someone else's go-do. I held it out.

The fellow looked at me quizzically before taking the offering. Like, I was trying to fritter his day. He gave it the once over and handed it back.

Nope. This one's yours, Daithin. There's no mistake.

I took the piece of paper back, barely able to conceal my grin. Well, just thought I'd check. I've still got to the end of the quarter, you know. And ever since that thing happened to Lourents last year…

The Assistant reddened only slightly. Precisely why we're taking more precautions. He leaned forward and tapped the green memo. Believe me, this one's legit. Then he grinned maliciously. If you'll notice the details, the assignment does not start until – if I read it correctly – the beginning of the next quarter.

Damn! I thought, and checked the memo again. Some provision like that could only mean an off-world assignment, and at least a month's acclimatization. And there it was, down near the bottom: gravitational adjustment for Earth.

Oh, okay. Thanks, Peevie. I turned, still staring at the note, not giving him the satisfaction of me seeing his satisfaction. Don't let 'em wallow in too much glory I always say.

Back in my cubicle, a carbon-copy of all the other cubicles in the warehouse-sized space they graced with the title the office, I gathered up my personal belongings and prepared to ship out. While gathering, a whiff of tropical perfume brought out a grin. I didn't turn.

Hello, Bronila, and what might you be needing on this fine morning? As if the office gossip ever needed anything newsworthy. She made the news, sometimes out of thin air.

Daithin, you should never sound annoyed this early in the day.

I grunted and continued my gathering. Like, they say, girl, it's three o'clock somewhere.

She leaned against the entry frame of the cubicle, crossed her arms, and watched me. That would be for happy hour, son, not for annoyances. But then I don't suppose we can regulate those near as well. She paused a moment. From the looks of things here, I'd say you had finally gotten fed up with the place and quit on us. Now that would be a juicy scoop. Want to share any of the more disturbing details?

I sat down, swiveling the chair to face her, and shook my head while trying to keep the grin off my kisser. Darling, I'm not leaving. At least not from my present gainful employment.

She uncrossed her arms. So what's all this packing for? Surely Mastrik didn't lose whatever grasp of reality he might ever have held and booted you upstairs.

I barked a laugh. Mastrik does not have the testicular fortitude to even suggest such a thing to me. I shook my head. Not that he hasn't hinted more than a couple of times…

I don't know, old boy. He had the balls to press for Dolliker's job.

That didn't take much, girl. I grunted. Everyone knew the old guy was ripe for retirement.

She chuckled. Yeah, everyone but Dolliker, you mean.

Didn't take long to convince him, though, now did it?

No, that's certainly true. She turned to look along the corridor between the cubicles before she ducked her head back again. Does he still call you 'Mate Junior'? She chuckled at my nod. Suddenly, as though slapped, her eyes widened and she put a hand to her mouth. You're going off-planet, aren't you? Everyone knows you can't be assigned for – what? – another month and a half, give or take. So, that would mean… You could watch the thought processes as they filed past her eyes. Earth! You're being assigned to Earth?

I nodded. She leaned back against the cubicle frame again.

And they're not even giving you any sort of an advance warning are they?

Laughing, I got to my feet. "Me? They're not giving you any advance warning, you mean. You'll have to forego the farewell luncheon and the rumors this time, my lovely. My marching orders are to report immediately."

She blanched. Not directly to Earth!?

No, I picked up the small box with my possessions. Garnthist is running the where-what in precisely five clicks, so I'd better get footing. I stepped past her.

I got about fifteen steps before Bronila recovered enough to call, Good luck!

My grin widened. Probably for the last time that day.

After each assignment, an agent gets a little enforced down time. The Agency tells us it does not have the funds to hire a full complement of supporting personnel so they use the unassigned agents to handle all the fact-finding, typing, filing… You know, all the usual very highly motivating menial tasks of such a government department.

Let's face it: none of us actually likes this part of our jobs, but sitting out for one quarter does make you sharp for the next assignment. After all that mountain of bore, any case is something we are truly joyful for so we can get back into action.

And like I mentioned, the go-do does not usually arrive until the last week of the down-quarter. Usually, the go-do precedes the where-what by a day or so and the present circumstances made this an interesting assignment. And that's even before I had a clue to what it was about. That was what Director Garnthist would reveal in the where-what, and after that I would be out of contact with all my bored colleagues in the office for several weeks while I got my body adjusted to Earth's heavier gravity.

I footed through the various glass-lined corridors before ascending the polished chrome steps leading up to the operations level. The brass liked to run operations from quarters that seemed almost antiseptically clean. Yeah, I wonder why.

Yo, Daithin, Hevins grinned as I approached his desk. He waved me past, pointing to his computer screen. Got you on my list.

Thanks. I nodded and continued through the vestibule down the hallway leading to the executive offices. On my right was the glass-lined conference room – empty at the present – and, just beyond, the door to the file room was closed sporting the ubiquitous Authorized Admittance Only sign. Like anyone would willingly go into the files for anything.

Then the space widened out on the left to reveal an open space. Making my way through the un-cubicled desks, I nodded a greeting to the members of the junior management team I knew. Several looked at me and my box with some curiosity.

From across the room, Liss rose and came across to cut me off. How's it going, Daithin?

I stopped and shifted the box under my arm. Pretty good. Just up to get my marching orders.

He leaned close and dropped his voice. Can you do me a favor? Getting nothing but a steady gaze, he continued, I was wondering if you could bring me back a few small souvenirs. Y'see, the kid's got a report to do and I thought…

I nodded and patted his shoulder with my free hand. Sure, no problem. Then speaking normally, Thanks for the advice, Liss. Much appreciated. He nodded in response and turned to weave his way back to his own desk. I shifted the box under my arm and looked around at the faces. Let anyone guess what had really transpired.

I continued toward the Director's office.

Daithin! You finally joining our ranks? Another grinning fool watched me pass.

Not just yet, Berno, I still got a few gallons left in the tank. After nodding in his direction, I continued on my way.

And I soon left the linoleum floor with its desks and stepped onto the carpeted entry to the Director's office. Before I got there, Diora had already used the intercom to inform Garnthist. My wait at her desk was only momentary.

Good luck, Daithin. Her famous dimples flashed. And I hope you don't sweat your cute little butt off.

Why, Miss Gidarra! I feigned shock. Are you making a pass at me?

She laughed, shook her dark curls, and waved me through. I shifted my box again, walked to the door that opened on my arrival, and stepped through. The Director was shuffling some papers on his desk. He scooped them up as he rose and indicated a table between us.

Taking my seat, I tried to glance at the papers he carried, but he held them turned the wrong way. I still had no clue about the mission but my interest had been piqued. The fact that so few on the management floor knew anything about it spoke volumes; normally, they were all in on the scoop. The fact that so few seemed to know why I was cruising their altitude with a box under my arm spoke the closeness – and the importance – of the mission.

As always, the fewer that knew, the more important the mission. And that meant this assignment was a breaker/maker. Pull it off and you're in the exclusive league. Fail and no one will ever know you existed. Literally! The agency would cut every possible tie with you and the actions you may or may not have done on the assignment – if such a thing had ever really existed, of course.

It was a sobering revelation: the degree of trust they put in such an agent was not done lightly. In the history of the agency, I think there were only a couple of agents who failed at this level. Not only were both killed in the line of duty, their memories remain only whispers in the back corridor.

The Director had set the papers face down on the table, clasped his hands together on top of them, and looked at me without betraying any emotion. What do you know about the Mid-Summer's Day predictions?

It was not a question I would have expected. Other than the fact that some ancient Earthlings seem to have predicted the end of the universe this year on that day, I shrugged, nothing.

I expected a grin, at least, but he just nodded and licked his lips. There are a lot of differing predictions. That is one of them. Some of the others speak of a change in direction for Mankind.

So? Is there some direct threat couched in the predictions or what?

He shifted in his chair. I don't really think the fate of the universe, regardless of the method, is of any importance to us or the Earthlings. It has come to our attention that someone is going to use the expectation of that date to create some monumental change. He shrugged. You know the story. They create upheaval and then claim it was what the ancients had been talking about. Gives some sort of credibility to their actions.

But why such short notice? The Mid-Summer's Day event has been prophesied for centuries. Sure, it's only started gaining publicity in the past few years, but why wait until the last minute like this? We've only got – what? – two months here. What if this thing is real and I can't prevent it?

The Director stared as though I had just spouted a line in primeval gallax. I do not care if you believe in this silly prophecy or not, Daithin, it's got nothing to do with the case. If the universe comes to a halt – like they are predicting, well some of the loonier ones – it doesn't matter. What does matter is the chatter we're getting surrounding that date. He stared down at the papers held down by his hands. There is a militant underground arm of the TGL that we have recently been tracking.

My jaw dropped. I thought the Terran Genesis League had been wiped out in the rebellion of '48. How could they possibly hide in a population that small?

But he was shaking his head. I seriously doubt this group has any connection to the former entity. We suspect they have taken that name to help in their recruiting efforts. You do realize, of course, that there are some who still glorify the TGL and its purpose.

I could have said a word or two against such insanity but it would have been like preaching to the choir. The Director had no love for the TGL or its purposes, stated or not. Then or now. I nodded and tried to stay on the same page. So what intel do we have?

He licked his lips carefully with the tip of his tongue and as carefully turned over the pile of pages before him on the table. He pushed three video stills toward me. As far as we can tell, these three are the leadership of the new TGL.

I nodded and memorized the headshots. They seem regular enough looking people to me. One might have expected gallant and dashing figures, but that's for the entertainment industry, not reality.

Regular, yeah, except for just one thing. The tongue coursed over his lips again. They are all dead. He pushed another page at me.

My eyes went from the new page to the stills again. Then someone…

You think our intel is incorrect? Of course! We thought so too. But the three people you see there, he pointed to the recent photos, have all been dead for a decade.

I scanned the page of data. But these were not anyone of importance. Why would they…

Of course you are thinking plastic surgery. He shook his head. We were very thorough with this crowd, Daithin. Fingerprints, lip prints, retinal scans, and even the full-blown DNA testing.

My eyebrows must have climbed up to my hairline. And they all match?

Another nod. And unless they have found some way to penetrate our own information databases, they are the dead ringers. Mastrik himself even went so far as to scan all the security cameras in the file room as well as our archive facilities to see if anyone could have tampered with the originals. He pursed his lips and shook his head, a sigh escaping as he looked down at the tabletop.

So, are we talking about clones, here, or reanimation? I knew the later was a current fave in the entertainment industry. However, I had never heard of a real case.

Actually, what we seem to have here is neither.

Holograms?

Nice try, Daithin, but we thought of that one too.

I scratched my head. So what does that leave us with? Some heretofore unknown technology?

He nodded and looked - if possible - even more grim. Unknown, but not unheard of.

Huh? I wracked my brain trying to figure out what in the world he was talking about. But my mind had not wandered nearly far enough into the lunatic fringe to arrive at his response:

Time travel.

It seemed a silent eternity while I waited for the other shoe to drop.

No such luck.

~~~~

CHAPTER TWO

After that bombshell, Garnthist sent me on my way. I had several weeks of adjustments to make and plenty of time to ponder the imponderables.

If anyone thinks this adjustment period was any sort of vacation, think again. Another working cubicle, though somewhat larger and a little more plush than my previous address, was set up in the orbiting high-grav complex. Yes, I continued with the paperwork only in a quieter, more lonely location.

I was not alone, however, as there were other agents preparing for other missions requiring the gravity adjustment. However, we did not talk much. Such a thing is frowned on by the brass and it makes sense not to push your luck while under constant surveillance. Besides, most of us were in different stages of the metamorphosis. We'd say good morning and such if we saw one another, but that was about it.

At least there was no Bronila thereabouts to pass along any gossip. The thought made me chuckle and I wondered how the Queen of Questions spent her time when thus closeted around the clock. And how did her other occupants survive?

I never figured out the answer to that conundrum.

Since this current mission did not allow for the leisurely time to slowly transition to the heavier gravity of Earth, I had to wear a gravmesh around the clock. A lot of folks think you can don one of these little beauties and walk right out onto Earth. Wrong. Dead wrong.

Sure the nano-hydraulics will hold you up and enforce what your muscles want to accomplish but that's only for your external activity. It cannot help your bowels when you swallow food that suddenly weighs twice as much as your intestines are accustomed to. And the added weight on your heart will certainly stop the music.

Six weeks to gradually increase the gravity stress on your internal organs is really a minimal timeframe. If I had the time, I would have taken twice that long. But that would have put me on Earth somewhat after the Mid-Summer's Day fireworks. And that would have made this exercise even more futile than I thought it would turn out to be, despite the uncertainty of Garnthist. Or rather his certainty about the presence of a time machine.

I'm not one to call the Director crazy, at least not to his face. No one had asked my opinion about the subject one way or another. But I thought, if these guys had found time travel for real, why bring three virtual nobodies into the mix? Why not bring some heroes of the past, some warriors who had fought for that losing endeavor before? Like the real historical leaders in the failed revolution.

Something rang false to my ears but exactly what part of the preposterous affair was out of kilter, I could not figure out. It would just have to wait until I could arrive on sight to make any meaningful analysis. I learned years ago that intel from a great distance was never a match for intel on the spot and I would just have to wait a few weeks to start gathering my own facts. Hopefully, they would make a shade more sense that I was left to work with until then.

During my free time between bouts with the paperwork or the turns on the workout equipment, I brushed up on my knowledge of those things current on Earth. It is true that change comes slower on Earth than here, probably due to the smaller population, but some things had probably changed a bit since my last visit some five years ago. This was only my fourth trip there and most of my previous knowledge had been dumped from my mind through non-use. I know some people can maintain possession and use of such knowledge for years but I'm not those people. Still I can regain knowledge faster than most. I've heard some say that proves I never really lost it but trying to call it up without the re-training puts false to that assessment. At least, for me.

I know some people have trouble remembering the structure of the Earthling's calendar. There is even a poem to help the problem. It's something like thirty days have September, March, June, tables and chairs, all the rest have thirty-one… You can tell I can't recall it off the top of my head either. It's almost like you have to remember which months do have thirty in order to say the thing right. It seems so strange to us because the year on Earth is quite a bit shorter than it is here on Mars. So the events I was studying from five Mars years ago were really about ten years ago in the Earth framework. I would