The Twentieth – World War 2.1.01, by Savo

The Twentieth – WORLD WAR 2.1.01, by Savo

Kevin Savage, 1st FanFic Festival entry posted July 1, 2006 at 1:11 AM

15 January 2021 01:10 GMT.   The first warning came when the medical telemetry began screaming.  The Mission Control doctor monitoring the panels reached up without really looking and pressed the reset/test button. Five seconds later, the time taken for the computers to self test, bounce the signal to the moon ordering a reset/self test on the astronaut’s neck implant and return, the monitor began screaming again.  Then another one started, and another, and another, quickly follow by more.  The doctor’s mouth hung open.  She blinked, but otherwise was frozen by what was happening.  Finally, fumbling for her mike, she called the Mission Controller. “Urgent, multiple medical emergencies.”  The Controller was only a few steps away, having begun wandering over when the first alarm sounded. “What’s happening?” he asked. She pointed to her screens, “They’re all dying,” came the stunned reply. A couple of quick flicks on the Controller’s flexipad brought up windowed visuals on the control room’s big screen.  What the control room saw would haunt the individuals forever.  The high definition cameras covering the entire Moon Exploration Camp, showed scene after scene of brutal carnage.  Of the four medical telemetries not flat lined, two showed nominal heart rates and metabolism, the other two were off the charts. The Controller isolated the visual feeds covering the two irregular panels. The control room saw a space suited figure with skeletal enhancements tearing at the head and chest of an overall clad woman.  Suddenly another medical monitor began screaming before the doctor silenced it.  On the big screen, the space suited figure threw aside the now limp and bloodied form. “Open all audio channels, Mission Control to MEC, Mission Control to MEC. Urgent. Urgent. Urgent.”  The big screen had isolated several windows showing visuals of the remaining astronauts.  Two showed the ponderous rolling gait of suit mounted cameras.  One of the windows, label ‘scott’, was showing an outside view of the MEC habitat. The day-glow orange colour of the habitat, stood out starkly against the black of the sky and grey of the regolith.  Just then the border changed colour to indicating a voice transmission, “Hey Zack enough is enough, no more playing hide and seek. Where the hell are you?” Heavy breathing came from the window showing an inside view of the MEC.  This window was labelled ‘escobar’. The two other camera views showed inside shots.  One, an infrared of someone the men’s john, the other, of a man, crouching, hiding in a storage area, armed with a power tool of some type. “Cut the public feed and notify the Director’s office.” ordered the Controller. The space suited figure stepped past the hiding place.  The hiding man, it was Sato, the medical tech/astronomer, stepped up and jammed the power tool into the side of the space suit, bouncing back with recoil.  The suit staggered but turned and swept an arm down against Sato, raking his head, neck and chest with the hardened steel claws of the add-on skeletal enhancement and dropping him to the ground.  The trade mark yellow and black of the Caterpillar produce was barely visible under the coating of blood. The space suit, it was Escobar, stepped over the still body of Sato began tearing and punching at the unyielding form.  The suit mounted camera was quickly covered with gore, and spared Mission Control from seeing the bloody work of the suit enhancements close up. —– “This is Scott, go ahead Mission Control.” The Controller directed the audio to Scott to be isolated, “Mission Control,” said the talker, “we have experienced a September event in the MEC.  Repeat a September event in the MEC.  All hands, bar one, lost.  Do you copy Scott.” The silence stretched much longer than the Earth Moon transmission lag. “Scott copies Mission Control.  What happened, who’s left?” “Mission Control, Escobar appears to have re-entered the MEC and has run amok, we have lost telemetry on all inside except him and Bakr.  Telemetry loss is terminal and confirmed.”  Why couldn’t I just say they were all dead thought the talker shaken to his core.  “Do not enter the MEC, make your way to the Landing Excursion Vehicle and await further orders.” “Scott copy, what about Bakr?” “Mission Control, I’m sorry Adam, he’s on his own.  Do not approach the building.” — Escobar stopped.  He stood swaying, tired and deeply pleased at the enormity of what he had done.  He shrugged off the power enhancements and stepped out of the rig.  I’ve got them all, except that playboy Scott, he thought, he’ll be critical for air soon enough.  He paused and smiled to himself, I even think like them now.  He looked around taking in Sato’s ruined corpse, then turned and walked back to the communications centre still using the rolling gait forced by the space suit. —- The Mission Controller saw Escobar stop and turn away from where Bakr was.  Figuring he was heading for the control room the controller order, “Lock the MEC out of medical monitoring and kill it’s access to video feed.” This was not a quick process and took the Earth side technicians minutes to accomplish. —- Escobar’s first job was to secure the habitat ‘s airlocks to ensure the death of Scott.  He saw Mission Control hadn’t isolated the MEC’s computer yet and set about shutting down the two airlocks.  It was then he found he was locked out of the video feed. He started praying.  The computerized translation of his Arabic was slightly complicated by the Spanish/Southern US accent, “I have atoned myself in the eyes of Allah, praise be His name. Over the years, I have watched as our struggling has continued unabated in all corners of the world against those that would defile the Holy Lands…” —- “Is the director getting this?” queried the Controller. “Full translation, yes sir,” came the reply. —- “We have shown time after time the unclean, the unbelievers, they cannot escape the sword.  I am Khalid bin Al-Waleed, the Sword of Allah” —- “It’s the director,” a technician handed the telephone to the Controller. “How the hell did this happen?” demanded NASA’s chief executive officer. “I don’t know we are working on it” “Who has done the killing.” “Sir, it’s Zack, Zachariah Escobar, the 43 year old Spaniard, astronomy specialist, mathematics and engineering.  He helped design the MEC.  He seemed like a gift from the EU,” explained the Controller. There was a lengthy pause. Then the Director said, “I am authorising Sanction 4 be invoked. Tell him he is going to die and kill him.” A coldness hit the Controller, “How?” he stammered. “That’s up to you, you know the systems better than anyone, there’s got to be a way” “What about Bakr?” asked the Controller. “Collateral,” came the reply as the Director hung up. — A short time later, after help from Life Support and Mission Safety, the Controller said, “Put this over the MEC’s intercom, just the intercom,” said the Mission Controller, “Mission Control to MEC. Urgent. Urgent. Urgent.  Emergency venting of habitat to commence in 30 seconds.  All staff into suits or emergency vacuum protection, this is not a drill. 20 seconds. Urgent, emergency venting about to commence 15seconds, this is not a drill, 10seconds, 9, 8 … — “Allah Akbar.  The Shari is law and I have atoned.”  Escobar’s prayer continued. — 3,2,1 “Is Bakr in?” demanded the Controller. “Zipping up now,” replied the Habitat Safety Officer “Scott?” “At the LEV.” “Vent it,” ordered the Controller. The computers recognized the heavily protected password, rechecked the command, then blew three panels at ground level out of the wall of the MEC, exposing the inside of the habitat to the near vacuum of the Moon’s surface. — “I was to have been the twentieth martyr.  I failed in faith and function but I have atoned.  I am bound for Paradise, I am Khalid bin Al-Waleed.  Your Sword.  I have not spoken with an Imam in these 20 years since I shamed myself, not boarding flight 93 with my brothers was unforgivable but I am prepared to meet You,  I was biding my time, waiting, watching the Caliphate grow in power, I am…” The air around Escobar suddenly condensed into a thick opaque fog, then moved rapidly, explosively out of the room.  Everything not bolted down moved with the roiling air.  The bodies of the crew shifted and turned, rolling in the violent storm before coming to their final resting places when all the air was gone. Bakr, in the scant safety of the vacuum bag felt the violence and heard the roar dwindle to a spectral whisper as the habitat’s air escaped into space. Scott saw a cloud of mist, dust and debris form then rapidly dissipate around the MEC. Most of the alarms and warning systems available to Mission Control sounded. — Escobar was thrown to the floor of the communications room by the violence of the storm, as the habitat’s air pressure equalized with that of the outside.  The tear in his suit let any air surrounding his torso arms and legs, burst out.  The suit’s neck seal stopped the air in the helmet escaping and him loosing consciousness immediately but the vacuum around his chest caused his lungs to expand and stopped him from breathing. “Mission Control to Escobar.  You have been found guilty of war crimes and have been sentenced to death, sentence to be carried out forthwith,” said the controller coldly, then with passion, “You traitor. You treacherous Laqeet. You murdered your friends and colleagues, for what! You will suffocate and die slowly.  Butcher.  You will never be allowed into your paradise, you will be unforgiven for eternity.  You deserve this for the enormity of your crimes.” The controller broke the audio connection and waited in silence, ignoring Bakr and Scotts’ pleas for information until eventually Escobar’s telemetry flat lined.