//------------------------------//
// Chapter Eight (Part three) 
// Story: Star Trek: Equestrian Rescue 
// by Blake Skies 
//------------------------------//


Chapter Eight Part three: Earth Under Mars and the Strange reading.


After most of the guests within attendance finished their meals, which surprisingly enough took little more than an hour, Quells once again walked from the Admiral’s table towards the stage. The orchestra and band had received their own rest and food while dinning with the ships guests. Particularly two ponies were very interested in the instruments they played and the sounds they created one grey and one white pony. But they were ushered off the stage as Quells stepped up. 
All conversation had come to an end as she cleared her throat. “I hope you all enjoyed tonight’s meal as much as we have had enjoyed making it for you.” She said, “But I’m sure you’re all very eager to see the conclusion of our story and the fate of both Earth and Mars.”
A soft applause was her response.
“Before we begin however, a word of warning: the next images you will see are not for the fate of heart, if any of you have weak constitutions you are allowed to leave. No one would think less of you.” She warned.
Both Twilight and Rainbow Dash looked at Fluttershy, and while she blushed at their concern; the yellow Pegasus waved them off. “Oh don’t worry, I’ve seen far worst…. Thanks to Pinkie’s Nightmare Night movie marathon a few years back.” She said.
“Again I’m very sorry about that….” Pinkie sighed.
After waiting a few moments, Quells smiled, “And so without further a due, we continue our story with Part 2: Earth under the Martians!”
The entire mess hall erupted with applause as the lights once again went dim. When the screen blinked on, a soft static echoed through the speakers, a static that was interrupted by a series of beats. Beats that was akin to a heart beating with tension. It added to the mood and suspense many ponies had felt since the climatic ending to Part One. Then a whistling tune came through as well as the same three chimes as before with a mix of piano.  
The whole music brought an alien feel as a single dot of light appeared on what was before a black screen. The journalist walked out what seemed to be his shelter for the night onto a very strange world. He had no longer been in London, driven to the countryside with a sea of people trying to find another way out. But he became lost in a small town and took refuge there for the night.
The Bolian who had been playing the journalist walked to the podium, “Next day, the dawn was a brilliant fiery red and I wandered through the weird and lurid landscape of another planet; for the vegetation which gives Mars its red appearance had taken root on Earth. As Man had succumbed to the Martians, so our land now succumbed to the Red Weed.”
Chimes and flutes began to play. The screen panned back showing a world of red. The music added to the alien feel. Close ups were seen of the red weed, a three leaf plant with no flower and thick roots, as it spread across fields, over streams, up trees, and around houses. Fluttershy watched in awe as the weed choked out all the green on the fields of England. Anything that wasn’t moving had been buried by this weed. Synthesizers played a deep, electronic tune as Tripods could be seen walking over the captured lands. 
“Wherever there was a stream, the Red Weed clung and grew with frightening voraciousness, its claw-like fronds choking the movement of the water, and then it began to creep like a slimy red animal across the land, covering field and ditch and tree and hedgerow with living scarlet feelers, crawling, crawling!” the Journalist described.
It was a very…surreal sight. While the screen continued to show the Journalist as he hiked his way through burned down towns and villages to get back to London, it seemed like the whole world had succumbed to Mars. As the images focused to the Journalist, the music changed to an electric guitar playing a tragic song. The world around him seemed…majestic if not very disturbing.
Then the Journalist spotted something, “I suddenly noticed the body of a parson, lying on the ground in a ruined churchyard. I felt unable to leave him to the mercy of the Red Weed and I decided to bury him decently.”
“Nathanial! Nathanial!” cried a female singer.
A pop/techno beat began to play, increasing the mood of the story. The journalist then described, “The parson's eyes flickered open. He was alive!”
On the screen, the previously dead man’s eyes opened in shock and he waved the Journalist away. When the woman approached, she threw her arms around him, “Nathaniel! I saw the church burst in to flame! Are you all right?”
“Don’t touch me,” shouted the man playing the Curate.
“But it’s me Beth, your wife!” Beth exclaimed.
The curate was obviously delirious from the Martian invasion. Despite both the Journalist and his wife trying to snap him out of it, he would not budge. Suddenly black smoke began to walk its way through the valley forcing the trio to run. Finally the Journalist spotted a house up ahead and the trio moved there. As they scrimmaged inside, the curate finally lost it.
“Listen, do you hear them drawing near, in their search for the sinners? Feeding on the power of our fear and the evil within us. Incarnation of Satan's creation of all that we dread. When the demons arrive those alive would be better off dead!” the curate sang.
“There must be something worth living for. There must be something worth trying for. Even some things worth dying for. And if one man could stand tall, there would be hope for us all. Somewhere, somewhere in the spirit of man.” His wife sang. 
It became a back and forth, the curate spouting religious reasons why the Earth is doomed and grieving that mankind never listened. His wife explaining that life was better to live for. She sang a line that made the ponies cheer with agreement, “People loved you and trusted you, came to you for help. Their love is what kept you alive.”
But the curate shot that down, “Tell me what kind of weapon is love when it comes to the fight? And just how much protection is truth against all Satan's might?”
The song continued in its back and forth motion. One the voice of reason, the other the voice of insanity. All the while the journalist sat there, listening, knowing not what do next. Suddenly a green light began to fill the room as the song wound down. The journalist stood up and asked, “It can’t be midday yet…what that is…?”
An explosion cut off the song and blacked the screen. When rays of sunlight came through, the Curate was digging at rubble while the Journalist remained unharmed. But the wife.
“Dear God! A cylinder's landed on the house! And we're underneath it - in the pit!” the Curate shouted, “Beth! She's dead! Buried under the rubble! Why? Satan! Why did you take one of your own? There is a curse on Mankind, we may as well be resigned, to let the devil, the devil take the spirit of man.”
The journalist crawled over to a hole in which he could see outside to the crater. What he saw horrified everyone. “The Martians spent the night making a new machine. It was a squat, metallic spider with huge, articulated claws. But it too had a hood in which a Martian sat. I watched it pursuing some people across a field. It caught them nimbly and tossed them in to a great metal basket upon its back.” He explained.
Then the screen shifted to the two survivors sitting in the ruins, the Journalist and the curate. It had been at least a day since their imprisonment, “As time passed in our dark and dusty prison, the parson wrestled endlessly with his doubts. His outcries invited death for us both - and yet I pitied him.”
Finally after a few screen changes signifying the passage of days, the two raggedy men looked through the hole. The music died down to a somber and tragic harps, flutes, and drums. The alien music that was the theme to the red weed started again, this time it was darker than before. 
“Then, on the ninth day, we saw the Martians eating.” The Journalist described. The screen shifted to a Martian within the spider, lifting an alive human towards its jaws. A machine appeared with two prongs out of its mouth as it bit the human in the stomach. As he screamed, the Martian began to suck the very blood from his body. “Inside the hood of their new machine they were draining the fresh, living blood of men and women and injecting it into their own veins.” The Journalist continued.
Screams of horror could be heard throughout the mess hall. This was the scene Quells had warned about. Even Rainbow Dash turned green at this sight. 
“Oh my…” Princess Celestia whispered, raising a hoof to her mouth. She and the rest of the ponies now saw, the horror that was The War of the Worlds. But surprisingly no one left. The story had gripped them all so well that none dared miss what comes next. 
It was the curate, who had finally snapped. On the screen his 3d counterpart turned around and headed for the kitchen to grab a weapon. When he came back, he roared, “It's a sign! I've been given a sign! They must be cast out and I have been chosen to do it! I must confront them now!”
“No curate no!” cried the journalist.
“Those machines are just demons in another form! I shall destroy them with my prayers! I shall burn them with my Holy Cross! I shall…” His speech was cut off by the Journalist striking him in the back of the head. 
But it was too late, “The curious eye of a Martian appeared at the window-slit, and a menacing claw explored the room. I dragged the curate down to the coal cellar. I heard the Martian fumbling at the latch. In the darkness I could see the claw touching things, walls; coal, wood - and then it touch my boot! I almost shouted!” he described as on screen, a tendril chased the Journalist from the wall and towards a corner.
Everyone held their breath with fear and horror. Twilight and Trixie’s hooves held each other tightly. Even Pinkie pie walked over to Fluttershy and held her tightly, despite Fluttershy not blinking from the horror she was watching. 
“For a time it was still and then, with a click, it gripped something. The curate! With slow, deliberate movements, his unconscious body was dragged away... and there was nothing I could do to prevent It.” the journalist continued. The Curate’s body was dragged out and a scream heard before the screen went black
Everyone watched in silence. The guitars and pianos played a tragic but powerful tune as days passed on screen. Finally the Journalist decided it was high time to leave again, to find his wife. The Red Weed theme played its tone now very somber and sad. “I crept to the blocked window-slit and peered through the creeper. The Martians, and all their machinery, had gone! Trembling, I dug my way out and clambered to the top of the mound. Not a Martian in sight! The day seemed dazzling bright after my imprisonment and the sky a glowing blue. Red Weed covered every scrap of ground but a gentle breeze kept it swaying, and oh! The sweetness of the air!” the journalist described. 
A sun lens flair allowed for a screen change as the Journalist moved across the ground towards London. As the theme continued, it gained an adventure like feel that comforted many of the scared ponies. But as the story progressed, there was a hanging feeling of dread, as if no hope was left. The three chimes dug that feeling in. 
“Again, I was on my way to London, through towns and villages that were blackened ruins, totally silent, desolated, and deserted. Man's empire had passed away, taken swiftly and without error by these creatures who were composed entirely of brain. Unhampered by the complex systems which make up man, they made and used different bodies according to their needs. They never tired, never slept, and never suffered, having long since eliminated from their planet the bacteria which cause all fevers and other morbidities.” The Journalist continued. 

Soon he had run into his old friend, the Artilleryman again. The Artilleryman had a dream for the future of man under the Martians that while ambitious, the journalist did not share. Within no time at all the journalist reached London. But it had been far from the city first seen in the Eve of War. No this city was black, covered by a red sky, and nothing was moving within it. London was dead.
A static undertone hung in the speakers, vibrating everyone back into a sense of suspense and horror. The music was tragic, violins and violas playing to deepen the tone. A tragic tune of the Eve was played on synthesizer as scenes of Dead London were shone.  
The Journalist walked his way among the dead, describing what he saw. “There were a dozen dead bodies in the Euston road, their outlines softened by the black dust. All was still, houses locked and empty, shops closed but looters had helped themselves to wine and food, and outside a jeweler some gold chains and a watch were scattered on the pavement.” He said.
Just then a sound screamed through. It was the Martian chant, “Ulla!” But unlike before, it wasn’t triumphant, dominate, or confident. No this time it was weak, high pitched, sounding as if it was being scrapped across metal, and ailing. 
“I stopped, staring toward to sound. It seemed as if that mighty desert of house had found a voice for its fear and solitude.” The journalist explained.
The sound came again, making everyone jump.
“The desolating cry worked upon my mind. The wailing took possession of me. I was intensely weary, footsore, hungry and thirsty. Why was I wandering alone in this city of the dead? Why was I alive, when London in state in its black shroud? I felt intolerably lonely, drifting from street to Empty Street, drawn inexorably towards that cry.” The journalist explained. 
Another dying chant.
“I saw, over the trees on Primrose hill, the fighting machine from which the howling came. I crossed Regents Canal. There stood a second machine, upright, but as still as the first.”
The chant began again. After it finished its first scream, it attempted to cry again. But then it stopped, as did the music, and the sound. No sound was made, an emptiness left with voice.
“Abruptly, the sound ceased. Suddenly, the desolation, the solitude, became unendurable. While that voice sounded, London had still seemed alive. Now, suddenly, there was a change, the passing of something and all that remained was this gaunt quiet.” The journalist spoke against nothing.
On the screen, the weary and beaten journalist panted as he looked at the empty sentential. Finally he seemed resolved and determined, but this was because he had given up. The guitars and sound began again, playing a rock tune that added to the beat as the man began to walk towards the sentential, he was determined now to die. The violins played the same beat at the start of the war. The journalist broke into a full run towards the titan. 
The journalist described his march every step and every footfall “I marched recklessly towards the titan and saw a multitude of black birds was circling and clustering about the hood. I began running along the road, I felt no fear, only a wild trembling exultation, as I ran up the hill towards the motionless monster. Out of the hood hung red shreds, at which the hungry birds now pecked and tore.”
I scrambled up to the crest of Primrose Hill, and the Martians camp was below me. A mighty space it was, and scattered about it, in their overturned machines, were the Martians….” He paused suddenly. On the screen, the 3D journalist gasped with shock. Everyone watched and waited to see what was so stunning. Then the image spun around to look down on a fallen Martian, its eyes pecked out from crows. The Journalist then looked up at another dead Martian, the one who had been crying earlier, slumped over the lip of the Tripod hood.
“…dead... slain, after all man's devices had failed, by the humblest things upon the Earth, Bacteria. Minute, invisible bacteria! Directly the invaders arrived and drank and fed, our microscopic allies attacked them. From that moment they were doomed!” The Journalist described. 
There were no cheers at first, no applause, no rowdy cry. The ponies and the token few crew who had never read this story before, were all stunned. This was the warning… this was the sense of fear that H. G. Wells foretold. The Martians, big as they were in machine and manpower, failed to realize that Earth had diseases, bacteria that Humans had become accustomed to long ago. They had assumed too much, and it cost them dearly.
The journalist finished the story by describing the return of civilization to England, and his reunion with his wife. The story ended with the credits and a stirring ovation.

“Well Admiral, I must say that that was the greatest music performance I have ever witnessed.” Princess Celestia admired as she, Luna, and Twilight walked back to the transporter room with Admiral Johnson.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Blaze smiled.
“What will you do now?” Princess Luna asked.
“We’ll be in the area for a few more days to study the anomalies and how this system works. Once we’re done we’ll resume our previous heading. But this will not be the last you hear from us, a diplomatic vessel will be arriving within two weeks.” Blaze explained ushering the trio into the transporter.
All of the ponies who had been on the Evans had beamed back down to the planet for the night. These three were all that was left. 
“Well I do hope you stop by Ponyville before you go, we’d love to return the favor you provided.” Twilight said.
“Oh don’t worry, we will. Good night.” Blaze smiled.
The three ponies nodded and then were beamed down to the planet. Blaze took a deep breath and unscrewed his smile after they vanished. But just before he was about to leave, Tran chimed in, [Admiral we’re receiving the signal again.]
“I’m on my way,” Blaze sighed.

“Ah don’t know about this Scoots, you remember the last time we came through here.” Applebloom whimpered as she, Sweetie Belle, and Scootaloo walked through the Everfree forest. “Ah mean testing that paper airplane was fun and all, but ah don’t think aviation is in our future.”
Scootaloo sighed, “Look I know that paper airplane didn’t land to far up ahead. We’ll find it before everyone gets back I promise.”
“But what about the stories,” Sweetie Belle began.
“Oh you guys are big babies, there’s nothing out here that can hurt us. We’re not that deep in the Everfree forest.” Scootaloo told them.
“So say you…” Applebloom sighed.
The trio leapt over a series of roots before all three fell down a ramp into a cave. After groaning and getting to their hooves, the trio looked around. “Now look what’cha did!” Applebloom snapped.
“Oh stop it,” Scootaloo shot back angrily.
“Uh guys, I don’t think were alone here!” Sweetie belle whimpered.
Just then, the door opening the cave slammed shut as the three fillies screamed and cried to escape. When they realized that it was useless, they figured it be best to walk into the cave to find an alternate exit. That became a huge mistake as three dark figures appeared out of the darkness, sucking them in despite their extremely loud screams with terror.

By the time Blaze reached the bridge, Sul’Vin, Seren, and Tran were looking over the sensor data. “What do you got,” Blaze asked walking in.
“Unknown Admiral,” Sul’Vin said.
“It’s technology of some kind, but none in which we have ever examined before.” Seren continued. 
“Where’s it located?” Blaze asked.
“Right here, fifteen clicks into the… Everfree forest.” Sul’Vin responded trying to not show his disgust over the seemingly illogical name.
Blaze looked at the panel, “Well it’s defiantly something. Assemble a team for the morning and let me know.”
“You plan on going down there?” Sul’Vin asked.
“Of course, wouldn’t you?” Blaze smiled as he turned and walked back to the turbo lift.
Sul’Vin raised an eye brow at his friend, but said nothing further.