We were in the fourth month of our return trip from Mars when it manifested itself. Of course, we did not at that time have a clue as to what it was. We only knew we were in trouble.

My crew and I had spent two months on the angry red planet, conducting scientific experiments and exploring, and believed the mission had been a success. I am the ship's captain, Commander James Pate, of the space ship Invincible. My crew consisted of Co-captain Bill Hamil, Navigator Mark Russo, and Exobiologist Jill Peters. Generally, the mission was uneventful, and we had packed numerous soil samples for analysis. Two days before we were scheduled to leave, in an area near the Eberswalde Crater southwest of the Valles Marineris, Hamil and Russo fell into a sinkhole and ended up in some slimy green muck. In order to pull them up, Jill and I secured a rope and lowered ourselves into the green slime. Thus, inadvertently, we proved there was water on Mars.

Two-thirds into our return voyage, Hamil came down with a high fever. Nothing in our medical kit would bring it down, and Houston had no answer other than to keep researching it. Since Bill couldn't eat, Jill, who'd been a nurse, rigged an IV and fed him a nutritional supplement intravenously. He soon slipped into semi-consciousness, and with his constant gibbering and occasional terrified shrieks, kept us all on edge.

We tried to settle down to a normal routine, but that effort was short-lived. We were in zero gravity, floating about the ship in our t-shirts and shorts, when Mark and Jill began a running argument, the sniping at each other growing worse and worse. Mark told her she had no role in the mission except as “eye candy,” while she said he was a Neanderthal we should have left on Mars. I told them both to shut up; obviously, my patience was growing thin. We were all sweating profusely, and I felt angry all the time. I began to suspect that whatever Hamil had, we had contracted as well.

I reported our condition to Houston Control; their subdued orders were to assume a high orbit over earth when we approached home. Worried that none of us might be in condition to fly the ship, I programmed the navigational instructions into the ship's computer, and placed the Invincible on automatic pilot. For some reason, I loaded my .45 semi-automatic and tucked it into my shorts. Meanwhile, Mission Control assured us they would find a cure.

I became feverish, and began dozing at various intervals, only to become abruptly alert. I noticed we were all drinking a lot of water. Waking one morning, I grew aware of a strange silence. Hamil wasn't making a sound. I made my way to his recliner; his eyes were glassy, mouth contorted. I reached for his hand to check his pulse, but the flesh came off, revealing the bones of his fingers. Green bubbles engulfed the bones, and several fingers were already eaten away. He was dead.

We placed the astronaut in a body bag near the rear of the ship. I reported on what I had seen, and told Houston none of us left might be able to land the ship on Earth. Mission Control said they were preparing to launch a rescue vehicle that would lock with us in orbit. I breathed a sigh of relief; I didn't want to die in the frozen vastness of outer space.

We reached Earth and assumed orbit. I continued to drift off, and began to dream. At first, my dreams were of Earth: bright meadows and blue skies, sandy beaches, the warm smile of my wife, Melissa. Strange visions intervened: the red soil and butterscotch sky of Mars, green slimy liquid with long, one-celled flagellates swarming about—then, thoughts of rage, destruction, and death.

I awoke to sounds of thumping: whump…whump…whump. I glanced over, and Jill was naked, her short brown hair wet as an otter. She had Mark Russo pinned to his recliner, his shorts down at his ankles, and was pumping him like a jackhammer. She looked around and growled at me. Suddenly she seized Mark's head and snapped his neck, rotating his head 180 degrees.

“Why'd you kill him?”

“He was no further use to us,” Jill barked. “But you are. We finally have water and the biological clock is ticking. You're going to land this thing in the ocean. But, for now, take off your pants!”

“We earthlings like a little wine and mood music first,” I said. Weakly, I lifted the pistol and fired all nine bullets into her. She slumped back, and a green slime bubbled up from her mouth, consuming her face.

“Houston Control to Commander Pate...Pate?”

Then, I noticed the ship matching our orbit 200 kilometers from us. It was not a rescue shuttle, but the military's experimental space plane with a single pilot.

“No, no, no,” I groaned.

“I'm sorry, Commander,” the radio squawked. “Your ship is contaminated with an alien species. There is no cure. That species can never be introduced into Earth's biosphere.”

I watched in horror as the space plane's lower bay opened and two missiles fired and launched.

“Sorry...” was the last word I heard as the blast reverberated throughout my being. I was aware of burning and disintegrating. My mind seemed to be spread across a cloud of atoms, cells, and molecules. The cloud gathered itself up and drifted over to the space plane, surrounding it, coating it on all sides. I was aware of the plane as it re-entered Earth's atmosphere.

I was going home. I was happy.

The End