Beyond Mars Crimson Fleet
However, Richard’s eyes narrowed in response. “Like your last ex-boy friend. You know who I mean, the successful VP of Bathgar Corporation; the one who beat the hell out of you on a weekly basis.”
Rhianna’s jaw dropped in shock. “How did you find out about that?”
“I been keeping tabs,” Richard became as steel once more. “And between you and me, he didn’t spend those weeks in the hospital as the victim of a botched robbery attempt either! He’s very lucky I didn’t kill him! But I guess that’s just the Boy Scout in me.”
An uneasy silence settled over the couple from the verbal exchange. Wakinyan’s heart, however, grew softer again. He knew he still loved her.
“Rhianna,” Richard called her name in a gentle tone once more. “We’re headed to a brand new world, and a brand new life. The past is behind us now, and our futures are being re-written. Maybe if we both tried a little harder and get to understand each other better—maybe we could still have something good together,” he offered. “Rhianna, I still love you!” Richard’s voice trembled to almost a whisper. “I still love you!”
Rhianna closed her eyes and retreated into herself, as a welling of past emotions flooded back in. Her face seemed to soften as a single tear rolled down her cheek. For a brief moment, the wall separating them crumbled away and two lovers again gently touched. Wakinyan sensed this and that she still held a special place within her heart for him. Then suddenly her face winced momentarily in extreme pain, and her expression stiffened and twisted.
Rhianna’s eyes open in a hardened stare. She rose slowly from the table, picking up her tray as she did. Richard watched not knowing what to expect as she stood, his heart began to pound within his chest.
Rhianna looked at him with a chilling coldness. “What makes you think that I really want to live on Valamars, or for that matter—ever be with you again?” she meant her words to offend and hurt.
The woman then turned and leisurely strolled away, leaving Wakinyan dumbfounded. He sat for several minutes, quiescent and fixed. Suddenly, he jumped up holding his food tray, and slammed it into a wall in an outburst of temper. Wakinyan then stormed out of the mess hall.
He marched quickstep down a corridor towards his cabin. Wakinyan reached it in record time, but he slowed to enter. As the hatch locked behind him, his steps became shorter as his legs grew suddenly heavier. He finally reached his bunk and plopped down on the edge. His chin then dropped to his chest, while disgust and loneliness filled him once more with their ache.
Wakinyan spied a bloody bandage that lay between his feet. No doubt a souvenir left by a wounded marine or crewman that had previously occupied his rack. Richard reached down and picked it up.
For a moment, he gazed hypnotically at it. Finally, Richard let out a rush of breath and placed it on a nightstand next to his bed. He pondered who was more luckless, himself or the owner of the bandage.
“Lights out,” he ordered out as he lowered himself all the way down on the firm mattress.
Richard closed his eyes and took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He did this several times and gradually he began to relax. He lay on the bunk for several minutes in the darkness as the calm of drowsiness began to take hold. His mind then began to wander the many paths he had walked in his life, becoming a theater play of tragedy and struggle. From one battle to next, there was no end to the conflict—no rest to be had.
However, sleep slowly took Wakinyan, and in the twilight that fills the void between reality and dreams, his mind slipped back into the realm of the past. Back it slid as far as he could remember, back to a nameless orphanage in Mars City so many years ago.
* * * * *
At age seven, there was no one who could explain to Wakinyan why his parents had tragically died in a shootout between Earth security forces and Martian rebels. To him it didn’t matter. Regardless of who was right or who was wrong, his parents were still dead and his life—shattered. Each passing day was now filled with the hurtful mourning of loss. But even more so, a particular dread settled into his new realm of loneliness: the forced ordeal of daily survival.
Competition at the orphanage in all things was fierce between the bigger boys and Wakinyan. Confrontation was a daily ritual of torment and abuse. As always, it ended in either Richard’s humiliation—or a physical beating. It was the price Richard paid for being smaller, different, innocent—and alone.
Eventually, Richard spoke up about the injustices and injuries he suffered, but no one listened. Even the geek of a headmaster turned a blind eye to Richard’s suffering.
“They’re all really good boys. It’s just youthful display and antics,” he excused the bullies’ bad behavior and ill-discipline with his noninterventionist ethics and attitude. “Perhaps you’re provoking them,” was his only offering to a solution.
But Richard knew there was no truth to that. His bruises and black eyes were the confirmation of their brutality. And as the months passed, Richard drifted further into despair and depression, as his life formed a mere existence around the self-indulging cruelty and twisted pleasure of others.
However, things were about to change, for two mortal guardian angels had newly arrived on Mars. From a distant, they watched and recorded the boy’s endured persecutions while they tried to legally petition a court for his adoption. As the government dragged its feet, however, the bureaucratic quagmire drew the ire of both of them, but especially the man who held a starfarer’s master certificate. They then planned a little miracle to be performed, one that bypassed the stupidity, failings, and dawdling of an unconcerned state administration.
This miracle came shortly in the middle of one extraordinary night. Aroused from sleep, three men stood at Richard’s bedside one evening, which at first scared the boy.
The first man’s arm was twisted painfully behind his back while his head was pushed solidly against a wall. His face was also bruised and cut as well, with some blood trickling from his lips. Also, two pronounced swollen black eyes added to his disheveled appearance. All of these injuries were given in retribution of Richard’s observed mistreatment and lack of care. Richard recognized the subdued man as the geek headmaster. However, the shorter, muscular man who held him was completely unknown.
The third man stood well hidden within the shadows, but there was something familiar about him, something that was comforting. As this man slowly stepped into the vague light to reveal himself, his face held a striking resemblance to Richard’s dead father.
“Richard,” the man called in a loving tone. “I’m your Uncle Nathan—and today will be a good day!” Nathan’s voice was filled with a tranquil happiness and the promise of a better tomorrow. “It’s time for you to come home, Little Wolf!” he declared with a smile.
Nathan then gently scooped Richard up in his arms and carried him out of the room. The two of them accompanied by the short muscular man hurriedly left the building and journeyed to a spaceport. They traveled stealthily through darkened streets, dim corridors, and places where great trailers of cargo were stacked or being loaded onto spaceships.
Among one pile of containers, however, a hidden space shuttle awaited. An alien female stood at its entry hatch and waved for then to hasten. As they boarded, the shuttle’s engines throttled up, blowing dust and debris about in the spent exhaust fumes of ignited rocket fuel.
Within a minute, the hatches were sealed and they were strapped into their seats. Then with a sudden mighty roar, the vehicle lifted off and headed skywards.
The shuttle was maneuvered expertly next to a departing ship, just under its enormous wing-like structure. Keeping pace with the vessel only a few yards away, the shuttle was effectively hidden from scanners. The two crafts then departed Mars through a series of massive air locks that eventually led to them leaving the planet.
Richard marveled at the view, as Mars grew smaller and the stars grew bigger. Finally, they veered away from the ship and towar
ds another. The new ship was a huge orbiting freighter, painted with the image of a flying bird—a great white eagle with its wings outstretched. The hatch to its shuttle bay was open wide, while blinking interior lights beckoned the smaller vehicle in.
With a quick burst of speed, the shuttle entered the freighter and landed. The hatch to the bay was then closed, encasing all within the darkened chamber. The freighter christened Soaring Eagle then quickly turned and headed to the jump-gate, finally to vanish into the swirling fields of hyperspace, heralding a new chapter in Richard’s life.
At first, Richard was astounded at how fast things had changed for the better. Yet, he was quite willing to accept it. Life aboard the Soaring Eagle was filled with hard work, the challenges of learning as well as fun. Richard wholly embraced his new surroundings with the utmost joy, along with the discipline and training required of all starfarers. He found a new worth and satisfaction within himself through the camaraderie of his new shipmates and the love of his uncle.
There was O’lan-te-ahh, the alien female with the large cat’s eyes, finely scaled green skin, and large hairless head. She was the ship’s chief navigator and pilot. She was also one of the last members of the dying Mag-guinin Race, whose skills in star navigation and advance mathematics were unmatched.
Then there was Julius Bard, the chief engineer. Nicknamed “Old Bard” by the crew because of his balding white hair, his reputation and thirst for rum and wild women preceded him. Yet, given a few tools and a small amount of time, his imagination and improvisation remedied or repaired every problem the ship sustained.
Jonathan Plumose was the man Wakinyan first saw holding the headmaster against the wall. He was the ship’s first mate, gunner, and a former member of the elite Terran Two Scouts. He became Richard’s instructor in weapons, fighting tactics, and martial arts as well as one of Richard’s closest friends.
Finally, there was his uncle, Nathan Wakinyan. He was an ageless man who valued his honor, his starfaring, and his freedom more than anything else. He rarely earned more than a small profit in operating his ship, but he was the master of his own life, and proud of that. Richard smiled as he thought back on the memory of his beloved uncle.
It was Nathan that Richard took the majority of his philosophy of life from, as well as a love of American Indian legends and lore. From ancient language to tribal customs, Nathan became Richard’s teacher. However, Nathan truly enjoyed reminiscing about the tales of old and past heroes most of all. Nathan favored one above the rest—the bravest Lakota warrior ever known and who had fought at the Battle of the Little Bighorn. It was this Sioux war chief that both Nathan and Richard were directly descended from.
But Nathan possessed a physical link to this renowned warrior. In his cabin, something resided that was passed down through the many generations: the knife that the ancient Sioux chief once carried into every battle. And this knife was a part of a legend that spoke of the Sioux chief rising from the grave and grasping it once more to rid the lands of all evil. And forever, his deeds were to be told around campfires and his name always spoken with reverence and pride. Richard delighted in the wonderment of such tales.
Over time, the young boy was transformed into a man. Eventually, Richard became a modern-day Lakota warrior of the stars, honing his skills and strength through the challenges of serving aboard the Soaring Eagle. He even took on some of the dress of an ancient warrior, which included boot moccasins he received on his seventeenth birthday. His uncle said that they would bring Richard good fortune. At that thought, Richard became filled with anguish.
Richard only wore those boots when he felt he needed a little extra luck, but they had always taken a long time to lace up. Because of this, they had saved his life. But in that same moment, all his friends and shipmates had died, and his world again had forever changed.
On the day the Arris attacked, it was Richard’s first time out on the hull alone, making necessary repairs to the communication antennas that were damaged from a small chunk of rock that had somehow penetrated the shields. A little uneasy about the repairs, he decided to put his good luck charms on.
It had taken a long time to get into his space suit because of them. It had slowed the repairs he made to the damaged antennas on the hull. And it had delayed him from re-entering the ship.
Suddenly, Wakinyan’s mind drifted into the nightmare that he had lived so many times. Still safe within his spacesuit, he had just re-entered the ship when the hull was ripped open by several laser blasts. He felt the vibration and watched the failure of the air lock to pressurize.
Richard shuttered in his bed as beads of cold sweat formed on his face.
He manually forced the air lock to finally open, but his suit’s instruments indicated that the ship had totally lost its atmosphere. Richard then franticly made his way through darken corridors and over debris—and bodies—to the bridge. What he saw, however, he never spoke of.
The Arris were quick in boarding the stricken vessel. They first invaded the armory, next the engineering room, and then the bridge. Because of all the bodies they found, they thought the entire crew was dead, but this became their fatal mistake; Richard Wakinyan still lived.
Richard retrieved the only weapon he could get to—the ancient warrior’s knife. Filled with a terrible resolve, Richard began hunting down the alien enemy. And as he came upon each of the black clad aliens, they swiftly succumbed to the slicing and stabbing of his blade. Only the last four Arris on the bridge, did he fight as a group. Even though they were armed with plasma weapons, the black bug-like figures were no match for the fierce and skillful Lakota warrior or his unforgiving rage. Wakinyan killed all of them mercilessly in a swirling dance of death with the steel edged weapon.
* * * * *
Wakinyan yelled a determined cry of battle as he jumped up on his bed and thrust the great knife into empty air. He awakened from his nightmare and was alone in his cabin once again. Still for a moment, his eyes were locked on enemies that were long since dead. The trance, however, was quickly broken. He finally looked around and realized where he was.
Richard’s left hand came to his face to rub away the reoccurring nightmare once more. He then sheathed his knife and looked at his chronometer. He was only a sleep for a little more than an hour.
Wakinyan lay back down and turned on his side to get comfortable. But he was somewhat afraid to go back to sleep, lest the nightmare repeat itself again. Still he tried to rest.
Yet, his mind refused to let go of the past. But although it drifted back in time again, it went beyond the tragedy: onward to the Martian Military Academy and life there.
He had graduated with honors at the head of his class. However, the majority of other cadets had always held him in contempt. The years of experience and training that Wakinyan accumulated had bested his classmates at every turn. It also had exposed their frailness of ego, lack of skill, and failed attempts at coercion. Wakinyan wasn’t seven anymore, but a warrior of twenty-three—and someone to be feared.
Throughout school, Richard never allowed himself to be intimidated again. This intimidation was usually settled off campus. And regardless of their numbers, it was the bullies that took the beatings and suffered humiliation. Besides, he was the only cadet to ever be awarded the Martian Naval Cross for heroism, articulating his part in the Arris War.
At graduation, his abilities and accomplishments were well recognized by the Martian Military High Command, and he was given something that was completely unheard of before or since: captain’s rank and his own ship to command. Wakinyan accepted both with pride to the jealousy and envy of his peers. The vessel he received was the last of the Dolphin class destroyers ever produced. Capable of fighting in space, gaseous atmosphere or fluid environment, Number 2911 stood ready for her new captain and crew.
The ship, however, had never seen action, had never served in any fleet, nor had even been formally commissioned. Inste
ad, she had been mothballed almost immediately with no name, just her serial number.
Eventually, she was turned over to the Martian fleet, and then to Wakinyan who then pondered a worthy title of her. As it was tradition to name Martian destroyers after great warriors and heroes, Wakinyan, inspired by his beloved uncle as well as the old war knife he carried, chose a most deserving one.
On the 30th day of October 2239, old Earth calendar, the ship proudly rose up from her berth and headed into the cosmos for space trials. However, she was now more than Destroyer Number 2911 painted in Martian colors, she was the Crazy Horse. The ancient prophecies had come true. The Lakota chief had indeed arisen from the grave to fight again.
* * * * *
Interrupting Richard from returning to sleep, his communicator began to beep with urgency. “Bridge to Deputy Commander Wakinyan,” Randall’s voice called.
“For once, can’t you leave me be?” he questioned the empty room as he lay on his bunk.
“Bridge to Deputy Commander Wakinyan,” Randall’s voice called from the device again. “Rich, do you read me?”
Richard, still groggy from his brief slumber, shakily touched a button on his communicator. “Wakinyan here, go,” the man mechanically answered.
“Commander,” Randall’s voice was near alarm,” we got a real bad situation here! You’re needed on the bridge immediately!”
Wakinyan frowned wearily, but then quickly shrugged it off. “I’m on the way,” the man responded as he sprung from his bed and headed for the hatch.
Sprinting the entire distance down corridors and passing crewmen, Wakinyan reached the bridge in record time. As he entered, he heard the sounds of a space battle coming over the loud speaker system.
“RIGHT GUARD, CAN YOU HEAR ME? THEY’RE THROUGH OUR DEFENSES!” Captain Tara Nargis’ cried at a hysterical level. WE’RE STARTING TO TAKE HITS! DO YOU HEAR ME?”
“Nargis, calm down. It doesn’t help the situation by panicking,” Randall tried to reassure the woman.