We share a laugh. Mrs. Henderson is the prototypical crabby old librarian, from the black horned-rim glasses to the frumpy cardigans, thick, ugly shoes, and harsh demands of silence. She also detests what she calls lowbrow fiction, considering anyone who reads it to be of minimal intelligence and lacking class.
I pull an extra copy of Alien Commander’s Bride from my purse and hand it to Bethany.
She smiles with glee as her fingers slide over the bare-chested man on the cover. "What do you think so far?"
"It's one of the hottest books in the series."
Bethany lets out an excited squeal, which earns a shush from Mrs. Henderson. The head librarian emerges from the library offices and hurries toward us. Her thick shoes squeak and squish with each step. As she draws near, her eyes scan the cover of Bethany's novel. They widen comically, and her wrinkly mouth tightens.
Mrs. Henderson shakes her head and grabs the library microphone. "The library closes in fifteen minutes," she announces over the loudspeaker.
"I'd better go," Bethany says.
The sound of shattering glass cuts through her words. The large windows that look out onto the dark quad beyond the library blast toward us. Screams and a low droning noise deafen me as the library fills with smoke.
Madeline Weber and Sophia Russo, the student gymnasts who are studying at one of the round tables, scramble to their feet. They cover their ears as they run away.
Bobby McKenzie emerges from the stacks, holding the handle of a mop as her eyes widen with fear. Bethany and I look at each other and then back at the smoke billowing through the broken window.
Mrs. Henderson grabs the library mobile phone and dials 911, storming toward the broken glass. "The whole window of the college library has been shattered. I know it was those skateboarders messing around here again. The sign outside clearly states No Skating!"
A figure straight out of a nightmare emerges from the smoke and steps into the library. Its chromatic green body reflects the fluorescent lights swinging from the ceiling, casting horrific undulating shadows on the broken glass below. The creature rubs its long arms together, instantly reminding me of a giant praying mantis. It chatters and waves its arm. A squadron of mantis beings holding what appear to be rifles swarm around him.
I scream. The sound rips from my throat and burns until my voice is gone. Bethany and I run to the front door as the mantis grabs Mrs. Henderson and tosses her out into the night. There is a scream followed by a crunching noise. They’ve eaten Mrs. Henderson!
I reach for the door handle, but laser fire shatters the glass, and more mantises pour through. Bethany and I grab each other's hands and run toward the back entrance. We stumble and trip over the custodial trolley. Bobby McKenzie swears loudly as we all fall in a tangle of limbs into a puddle of cold bleach water.
The monsters crush in from every direction, herding everyone into a tight circle. There are surprisingly few people in the library at ten o’clock on a Friday night. The only ones left are Madeline and Sophia, Bethany, Bobby McKenzie, and me.
We huddle together as the giant mantis beings close in. My voice is raw from screaming. The other girls are crying. We’re all going to share Mrs. Henderson’s fate.
The last thing I hear before I pass out is Madeline Weber saying, "Abigail was right all along. We aren't alone."
2
I stand at the helm of command ship Xojor, my fingers scrolling down the holographic diagnostic logs. Within the hour, we will depart Mars for the greatest mission in our planetary history. I pray to the God of War, for whom our planet was named, that we will succeed.
“Captain Noru,” starts First Lieutenant Martix Controi. “All systems are a go. We are ready for takeoff.” He wears the slick body-conforming uniform of the Martian Navy. Two gold bars on his red collar indicate his position as first mate. My own uniform is blue and white. My collar has four gold bars. The only higher position in this Martian Navy is Admiral, who wears yellow and has five gold bars on his collar.
The diagnostic logs and systems checks confirmed, I nod to my first mate. The timegate jump must happen now. We cannot wait any longer. If we postpone for a more ideal planetary alignment, our people may be out of time.
All our simulations suggest imminent total population collapse. This mission is our last chance to correct the ancient mistake of our ancestors.
“Prepare for ascent,” I command.
The bridge crew jumps into action. The pilot begins the launch sequence. The engine crew communicates vital acceleration information as the zero-point drive comes to full power. I take a seat in the captain’s chair, and Lieutenant Controi sits beside me. We lift off. Outside the bridge window, the planet descends below us.
A thousand years of meticulous terraforming and geoengineering have created a paradise. A paradise that will be lost if I do not succeed in bringing ancient Earth females back to our future on Mars.
The triangular ship turns nose up and accelerates through the Martian atmosphere. We burst into space, leaving the green forests and blue oceans below. The city of Cassini with its proud stone towers, cascading waterfalls, and anti-gravity transit system disappear from sight.
When our people first arrived ten centuries ago, all we had was a wish and a will to survive. A million times I’ve considered and discussed the choices we made back then. It always comes back to the fact that we had no choice. We never had a choice.
A thousand years ago, when the first ship escaped from a destroyed Earth and made it to Mars, our people had to find a way to survive. Our ancient scientists had already started the experiments that would lead to the eventual annihilation of our species. To survive the Mantis invasion and our resettlement on Mars, we had to adapt. But that adaptation has nearly destroyed us.
The Xojor shoots through the darkness of space, charging toward the distant golden sun at the center of our solar system. The planet we once called home, the planet from which all life on Mars originated, is now as dark and red as Mars had once been.
I’ve seen this sight numerous times. I’ve explored the ruined Earth for artifacts and signs of life. After the ancient Earthlings’ failed attempt to vanquish the Mantis invasion with nuclear bombs, Earth and all her beauty were destroyed.
We approach the solar coordinates and hover in space outside the golden ring of the timegate.
“Initiate timegate,” I command.
The technology to create the timegate has been within our power for decades. But the time to use it has only just arrived. Time travel comes with a slew of dangers, a time paradox being the most damaging.
It took years to calculate the exact moment in time to leave and when to arrive in the past. If we have made a mistake, our entire species could disappear from existence in the blink of an eye.
If there were any other option, no one would suggest time travel. Not King Damious, not the scientists, and certainly not me.
But the genetic price we paid for our survival has been the slow and painful loss of our women.
The genetic manipulations that made male Martians large and well-muscled with stamina, speed, and strength—superhuman to our Earthling ancestors—has eradicated our females.
After five hundred years on Mars, we turned it from a barren desert with no atmosphere to a garden planet with blue skies, oceans, and forests. But that was when the genetic manipulations of the past first started to reveal their side effects. Fewer and fewer females were fertile. At first, it was only a few percent who could not bear young, but that percentage quickly grew larger.