Warning: Exposure will kill you in seconds. You must wear a Polyskin, even when inside.
The voice drew Sarah from her shallow sleep. She had shared one of the two survival pods with the engineer – she still didn’t know her name but learned that she was an Indonesian engineer who specialised in robotics. The pods were as sparing with space as they were with oxygen and the night had been cramped and stuffy. The engineer, at least, had already vacated the tiny capsule. Sarah secured her helmet and Polyskin and wormed her way through the crawl-space airlock. Milky sunlight crept into the sky, illuminating wispy blue clouds. An intense, white light pulsed from the Sparrowhawk’s envelope, flickering across the crater floor and reflecting off the walls.
‘What’s going on?’ said a voice. David Forbes had crawled out of the other pod to join James who stared at a point in the distance.
Someone was climbing the sloped face of the crater wall, crawling up the steep rise. ‘What is she playing at?’ David asked.
‘She’s fired the god damn beacon,’ Sarah said. ‘We’re lit up.’
‘How long?’
The Sparrowhawk was on-line now, and it linked with the PX device on Sarah’s wrist. ‘Over an hour ago,’ she said.
‘Hey!’ James called to the engineer who had reached the top of the crater. ‘We agreed not to fire the beacon.’
‘Nirma,’ David shouted to her by name. ‘Where are you going?’ He jogged forwards but stopped when he saw the woman frantically waving her arms. ‘Who is she waving to?’
Sarah gestured to the Sparrowhawk and it began to sluggishly rise.
‘What are you doing?’ James hissed at her.
‘We’ve got strong southerlies,’ Sarah replied glancing at her PX device, ‘we’re going.’
‘Will she lift?’
‘She will with one less passenger,’ said Sarah, already moving. ‘You heard me, go.’
‘What about Nirma?’ asked James.
‘To hell with her,’ said Sarah.
‘Here I’m inclined to agree. Forbes,’ James called as he turned and ran, ‘we’re leaving.’ The Sparrowhawk, still tethered crudely by its harpoon, hovered above the deck, rising gradually as it woke from its slumber and warm atmosphere filled its envelope. Sarah boarded and climbed into the pilot seat, David and James followed. She detached the tether and the Sparrowhawk rose keenly into the murky sky. The Sparrowhawk converted its last reserve of energy into heat, leaving none to propel it forward, but the wind vectors showing on the cockpit displays were promising. She needed only to wait for the wind to snatch them away to safety.
Something jolted the Sparrowhawk, shoving it forwards. Another crash sent it spinning out of Sarah's control. Her seat belt kept her fixed to her seat, and in the blur of vision, she caught sight of the pursuers. Two blimps, larger than the Sparrowhawk, hung in the eastern sky. The beacon had led them to the crater. They were armed, and they were firing. A third shot skimmed the envelope, its razor-edged tail fin slicing through the silk. Sarah, James, and David floated above their seats as the aircraft dived. The rocky ground, as if viewed through a zoom-lens, shot up to meet them. Every tooth in Sarah’s head clamped down as the blimp hit the turf.
The balloon, though ruptured and shrunken, absorbed the worst of the impact. The aircraft slid through gravel until it came to a stop. Sarah couldn’t move until the air bags retracted. She crawled up to the hatch – the cabin lay upside down – and climbed into the open. Her knees gave away as she dropped to the deck, but she recovered her footing and ran. The Sparrowhawk’s beacon had made an easy target for the enemy. The balloon’s light still pulsed as she ran. James and David called to her, imploring for her to stop, but she stumbled on like a punch-drunk boxer, too obtuse to understand she was beaten.
Cydonia City, Cydonia Mensae
A nameless impact crater, modestly proportioned compared to its neighbours, lies on the Cydonian plain. Like its neighbours, it boasts a central peak and terraced, stair-like sides that have collapsed inwards over millennia. Unlike its neighbours, it harbours a city. Cydonia City is the second largest city on Mars – the second largest extra-terrestrial city in existence. Its primary dome, three kilometres in diameter, stands proudly next to a smaller dome-like structure a third of its size. The citizens of this city call the lesser dome the “Old Town”, although for two decades, it was the only town. The Old Town hosts a collection of makeshift habitats organised into a grid-like system of row and lanes. A few of these habs were primitive, purpose-built structures, but most were old interplanetary crafts, cleverly refitted and pressed back into service at the end of their lives. Compared to civilised cities on Earth, or even the glossier settlements on Mars, the Old Town resembles a junk yard. But it is a working junk yard. Its double-hulled habitats home over 800 Cydonia Corporation employees and contractors.
Robert Pauly had taken residence in the old Town. The habitat which he shared with his wife Sarah was a single-voyage Spaniard whose construction had completed on Christmas Day 2025. La Natividad was a round, three-tiered pod designed to uncomfortably sleep four travellers for a six-month voyage. It stood on stilts at the end of a row of similar decommissioned vessels near the town’s eastern gate. An alarm, gentle at first and then insistent, woke Robert at 06:00AM. A soft voice greeted him when he sat up.
Warning: Exposure will kill you in seconds. You must wear a Polyskin, even when inside. It was a Martian Saturday, and he was already late. The Polyskin's weight matched Robert’s and would have crushed him in Earth-gravity. It clung to his limbs and torso, constricting as he sealed the neck, sleeves and ankles. The layers kept its wearer alive when outside and its burdensome mass prevented his muscles and bones wasting away in the languid gravity. There was no time for breakfast. He pulled on his boots and gloves, snatched up his helmet and hurried along the narrow lane to the east gate where Captain Markus Arundel waited.
‘We were to have been on the road by now,’ Markus said. He already wore his helmet.
‘Good morning to you too,’ Robert said.
‘I’m on duty later,’ said Markus, ‘I can’t be late.’
‘What do you do all day, Markus?’ Robert asked. ‘I could build another town with what we pay you.’
‘You’re not paying me for this,’ said Markus.
‘No,’ said Robert. ‘Thank you again, my friend. This is the last time I ask you for sure – for now.’
Markus relaxed as he always did when in his old friend’s company. ‘Am I to expect another of your interrogations?’
Robert was silent as he pulled on his helmet. His visor display, informed by a dozen sensors in his Polyskin, confirmed that it was safe to enter the airlock. The door hissed open and both men stepped into the chamber.
‘No,’ said Robert. ‘This is a meeting.’
‘And where is this meeting?’
‘Range Station Nine,’ said Robert. Feeling faint, Robert had to brace himself against a wall as the chamber lost pressure. His Polyskin tightened its grip, warming gradually against the freezing air. Robert felt, as always, like vomiting.
Markus didn’t flinch. ‘You have a meeting in a range station?’ He asked when his friend had recovered. ‘With whom?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Robert, stepping through airlock’s outer door as it opened. The sun hadn’t yet cleared the crater’s east wall and shadows hung over the valley.
‘You don’t know who you’re meeting?’ asked Markus.
‘They didn’t say,’ Robert shrugged, walking ahead.
‘They?’ Markus asked. ‘Just how did they invite you?’
‘I discovered a message on my desk,’ said Robert. ‘A hand-written note on a paper scrap – I haven’t seen paper or handwriting in years. I think a cleaning drone must have placed it.’ Robert led the way from the airlock to one of the out-buildings used for storing vehicles.
‘And you’re going?’ Markus asked. ‘You actually mean to attend?’
‘We mean to attend,’ said Robert.
‘Do you still have the note?’
‘No,’ said Robert, ‘the note instructed its own self-destruction, so I burnt it.’
Markus stopped. ‘Then I’ve heard enough. We’re not riding to an anonymous, isolated location a hundred kliks from anything friendly. I suppose this note also insisted you come alone? Why would you agree?’
‘I didn’t agree,' Robert grinned, 'I simply neglected to decline. I had no way of declining.’
‘All the same,’ said Markus, ‘come with me back to the city. We shall begin by tracing the drone that delivered the note.’
‘Don’t be dull,’ Robert said. ‘You keep telling me that I spend too much time inside. Range Station Nine is a one-hundred-kilometre ride – what better way to get out?’
‘You are meant to be the intelligent one,’ said Markus.
‘Curiosity is a sure marker for intelligence,’ said Robert. ‘But calm down. There’s an election coming soon – it’s probably a shifty board member trying to make a deal behind Mitchell’s back. We’re out here now and I’m not going back through that airlock now.’
‘You don’t require me to shield you against a board member,’ said Markus.
They walked on until they reached the “shed” which had been named a decade ago when it was merely a hastily assembled, temporary structure. Now, it was a warehouse that served as a hub for a fleet of trucks, cranes, diggers and light vehicles. A mining crew were already entering the shed through its only door. Robert jogged up the gangway that led to the door and ducked through it. He appeared a minute later, pushing a ciclon down the ramp. He mounted the two-wheeled, electric vehicle and pointed its front radial towards the road. The ciclon was a deep blue colour that matched Robert’s Polyskin and helmet. ‘Are you coming or not?’
Markus had left his tactical ciclon outside of the shed. Markus shook his head and mounted his vehicle which was a muscular, military, shape, patterned in the same camouflaged design as the Redbourn battle armour he wore. Robert couldn’t determine where the machine stopped, and the rider began.
‘We must be quick,’ Markus said, ‘We leave the moment I observe something I do not like. Try to keep up.’
The riders set off along a road that led eastwards, leaving the Old Town behind before cutting a sloping gash in the crater wall to lead out onto open plain. Here, the riders followed a northbound road that ran alongside the crater wherein stood Cydonia One, the big dome, lit from within by a galaxy of little lights in the shadowy crater. The ciclons bore the riders on, leaving the crater behind. The sun’s tiny disc had begun its ascent into the reddening sky, bathing the dusty, motionless turf that spread out before them. They rode in double file, leaving twin dust trails on the plain, the monstrous power contained within the ciclons devouring the distance in excellent time. There were no aircraft in the sky – there was nowhere to go this far north – but Markus noticed the first drones overhead as they drew within visible range of the station. A drone fixed to his ciclon’s rear inflated and detached as soon as it had it had enough lift in its miniature envelop. Quad rotors propelled it forwards. Markus signalled to Robert to slow his pace as the drone pulled ahead. Markus had slowed to almost a dead stop. Despite his ciclon’s broad radials, Robert had difficulty keeping upright.
It’s clear,’ Markus said as he finally increased speed again. ‘You go on ahead, I’ll follow.’
‘They must have seen us already,’ said Robert.
‘There are no tracks leading to the station from the south,’ said Markus, ‘but my drone has detected movement in the station.’
‘Perhaps they came from the north,’ Robert suggested.
‘There is nothing north,’ said Markus. He was correct. Cydonia Corporation – back when it was still the Mars Treaty Organisation – had built Range Station Nine during the Martian Discovery Phase. Cydonia lies close to the northern drop-off where the continental landmass gave way to an endless, water-less ocean. The Range Stations provide shelter to wilderness explorers caught too far from base too close to sunset.
Robert had no answer, but he sped ahead, eager to reach the station, and sensing Markus’ growing suspicion. Robert parked his ciclon next to the ageing station that had recently been fitted with a new airlock but was otherwise decrepit. Two house-sized domes, one a basic translucent geodesic, the other a turf mound, comprised the station. Robert dismounted and approached the airlock door in the turf dome. He pulled on the handle and hauled open the heavy door. He stepped through, pulling it shut behind him. The chamber filled with carbon dioxide then depressurised again to flush out the powdered dust. It filled with air again – this time with warm oxygen, the stuff for breathing. Robert looked back through the outer door, he couldn’t spot Markus. He hesitated but stepped into the station as the inner door opened. Lighting strips brightened the empty space. A contamination gauge glowed green above a stairwell that led underground to the radiation shelter. Robert pulled of his helmet.
A simple doorway led into the adjacent artificial dome.
‘You were told to come alone,’ said a man’s voice from behind that door.
Robert moved towards the door, squinting in the dim light. ‘Good morning,’ he responded. ‘Do I know you?’
‘You knew to come alone,’ replied the voice. Robert didn’t recognise it.
‘You wrote the note?’ asked Robert. ‘You left it in my office?’
‘Yes, and I see my trust in you was misplaced.’
‘Well,’ Robert said as he entered the other dome. ‘You shouldn’t trust someone you’ve never met – or someone not polite enough to not identify himself.’ This dome served as a greenhouse for hardy but forlorn plants. A man stood among the dark green leaves. He wore an old Polyskin over a tall, broad frame and a furious expression over an impressive Southeast Asian-featured face. He spoke with crisp, comfortable English.
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