12 - Asteria Habitat: Illusions Under Glass

You are reading Scene 12 of Icarus, a novel unfolding within The Mars Chronicles—an epic story of the first human settlements on Mars.

Once imagined as a bold utopia, Asteria Habitat now clings to its glittering illusions. Nestled beneath the Martian sky, it still dazzles with domed gardens, luxury suites, and orbital arrivals worthy of opera. But behind the staged elegance, cracks have begun to show.

The tourists are different now—more desperate, more extreme. The investors are gone. The promises of a self-sustaining future hang by a thread of diplomacy, dwindling resources, and political gamesmanship.

At the center stands Emile Dufort—a charming survivor of fading dreams—doing what he does best: staging spectacles, making deals, and keeping the lights on long enough for one more arrival, one more illusion.

This is not the Mars of manifest destiny. It is the Mars of reinvention—or collapse.

So step inside the dome. The ships are landing. The orchestra is playing. And somewhere, behind the polished walls, the real story begins.

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A deep rumble swept through Asteria Spaceport as the interplanetary cruiser pierced the atmosphere. Its engines thundered like a symphony of precision and raw force. From a distance, it looked like a skyscraper tipped on its side—descending with practiced elegance. Its hull shimmered in iridescent gold, catching the ochre and rose tones of the Martian sky. Along its side, bold letters spelled: MS Vittoria, flanked by the star-studded flag of the European Union.

MS Vittoria

Every corner of the spaceport gleamed with cutting-edge tech. Landing lights blinked in a choreographed sequence, guiding the vessel to its docking platform. Below, sleek titanium docking arms stood ready to engage the hull the instant it touched down. Overhead, drones circled in tight orbits, live-streaming the descent onto the Asteria Habitat’s massive holoscreens—ensuring no one missed the show.

A hiss of compressed air and plasma marked the final braking phase. On the viewing terrace, onlookers watched as spiraling jets of vapor bloomed under the ship’s belly—pastel-colored vortices formed where searing exhaust met the thin Martian air. The sound peaked with an artillery-like boom, then softened into a low hum that rattled the floor beneath their feet.

At the center of the terrace stood Emile Dufort. He wore a tailored navy suit with gold trim and the confident posture of a man used to being admired. In his thirties, Dufort was equal parts mogul and showman—the architect behind Asteria’s glittering image.

Emile Dufort

Flanking him were two pristine Protocol Robots, snow-white with Asteria insignias etched across their frames. One carried a flag; the other, a silver tray bearing welcome gifts: embroidered handkerchiefs, Martian orchid seeds, and gleaming holographic brochures. Behind them, a row of sharply dressed staff stood at attention, ready for the ceremony.

Dufort raised his voice above the pulsing hum.

“Attention, ladies and gentlemen! Our returning guests are moments from arrival. Asteria welcomes them home with open arms!”

His voice echoed through the local comms network. At once, the staff and security units moved in perfect sync. The welcome sequence had been rehearsed down to the second: a short holographic light show would trace the ship’s contours as it docked, followed by a soft orchestral score swelling to grandeur as the boarding ramp extended.

This wasn’t an Earth-bound arrival. That was still months away. These were returning guests—around 1,200 tourists who had landed two years earlier, during the last Earth–Mars launch window. Such windows only occur every 26 months, when planetary alignment allows for the most fuel-efficient trip via the Hohmann transfer orbit.

The voyage back to Earth took four months and required extensive preparation. Before departure, the returning tourists—along with personnel from the Martian settlements—had spent several weeks in orbit, slowly reconditioning their bodies for the long journey ahead.

Emile Dufort knew the truth, even if no one said it out loud: the golden age of Asteria Habitat was over. Thirty years after the first Martian settlements, the Red Planet’s early promise had faded. Its allure—briefly radiant—had dulled into something far more utilitarian. In the public imagination, Mars had become a harsh, unstable mining outpost, not a world of dreams.

Asteria was never built for that. Conceived by the European Union as a beacon of progress, it began as a research and startup hub and later evolved into a sustainability-themed center for culture and entertainment. The vision was grand: a livable, thriving Mars built through innovation and optimism.

That future never materialized. While Asteria remained a hub for science and development, its social ambitions quietly unraveled. Colonization efforts lost momentum. People still came—for adventure, corporate deals, or lucrative contracts when Earth offered none—but Mars was no longer a destination of collective aspiration. It had become a last frontier, not a new beginning.

Even the recent waves of travelers reflected the shift. Gone were the wide-eyed pioneers and technocrats. Now they arrived as adventurers, digital nomads, hardy retirees, and refugees from Earth’s mounting crises. Their needs were unpredictable, their interests extreme. Emile and his staff worked constantly to keep pace—entertaining tastes that ranged from glamorous to borderline illicit.

But adaptation was Emile’s art form. He had rebranded Asteria’s image, revamped its casino floors, introduced high-risk sports, and discreetly turned a blind eye to certain activities. Property sales had slowed to a trickle, but tourist spending remained brisk—especially in bars, clubs, concerts, VR arenas, low-gravity gyms, and a constellation of distraction-driven attractions. For many, the Martian experience became content: documented, monetized, relived online.

At the edge of the landing zone, a ripple of blue and gold light swept across the ground, outlining the docking corridor. The MS Vittoria hovered in place for one last breathless moment, then descended onto its massive landing legs. Pneumatic pistons released with a sharp hiss. Hydraulic struts extended from the platform’s reinforced surface as the ship gently settled into place. Mechanical arms reached up and latched onto the hull with practiced precision. A deep, resonant thud echoed through the foundation—Vittoria had docked.

Mars had lost its shine. But the spectacle still sparkled. And Emile Dufort would make sure Asteria survived—if not by building the future, then by selling what was left of the dream.

A hushed silence fell over the plaza, broken only by the soft hiss of locking clamps. Robotic arms—massive, spider-like—extended from both sides of the platform, gripping the ship’s docking nodes with mechanical precision. Once every indicator on the pressure-seal system lit green, the port’s environmental regulator activated, scrubbing the entry corridor of Martian dust and equalizing the oxygen levels in preparation for disembarkation.

As the engines powered down, a final exhale of pressurized gas hissed from the vessel’s core. Then, with deliberate grace, the boarding ramp unfolded from the underbelly of the MS Vittoria. Ceremonial music swelled—Emile’s cue.

“Welcome back to Asteria Habitat, ladies and gentlemen!” he declared, his voice rich and theatrical.

Above the ramp, a vibrant holographic banner blinked to life: Bienvenue à Asteria—displayed in multiple languages. Along each side of the ramp, protocol robots stood in gleaming white casings, holding polished trays that offered vials of Martian rose tea and sleek brochures listing the week's events.

The first wave of disembarking passengers looked like a traveling gala—dressed in tailored suits and shimmering gowns, clapping and laughing as they stepped into the filtered sunlight. After two years on Mars, they moved easily in the low gravity. Others weren’t so graceful: a cluster of older returnees took slower, more cautious steps, eyes scanning their surroundings with fatigue and financial skepticism.

A particularly flashy group veered straight toward the nearest casino. A honeymooning couple lingered to admire the distant shimmer of the dome. But scattered among the crowd were quieter figures—travelers with hooded eyes and anonymous expressions. People who had come to Mars to disappear. Emile spotted them instantly. C’est la vie, he thought, his smile widening. The settlement needed patrons, no matter their motives.

Behind him, a sweeping digital display flickered on, cycling through highlights of the Habitat’s main attractions: luxury hotels, indoor gardens, levitating restaurants, VR concert domes, and zero-gravity ballet performances. The Asteria staff had spent weeks updating the event schedule and refreshing the core modules—made easier by the flexible, modular architecture standard on Mars.

The imagery did its job. Gasps rose from the crowd. Animated chatter followed. Some guests snapped photos; others pointed at the screens, already making plans. Emile watched with quiet satisfaction. The illusion of Martian luxury tourism had to hold—no matter what pressures brewed beneath the polished surface.

Nearby, local media drones buzzed through the air, capturing close-ups of guest reactions. Below the plaza, sleek transit capsules waited to carry the new arrivals into the core of Asteria—toward gravity-controlled lounges, climate-adjusted suites, and curated isolation from Mars’s harsher realities.

Emile stepped forward, arm sweeping wide in a practiced, elegant arc.

"My dear friends—welcome once again to the most extraordinary corner of the Red Planet!" Emile Dufort's voice rang out across the plaza, theatrical and warm. "This playground, now renewed, is yours once more: casinos, gardens, adventure parks—whatever you desire, you'll find it here at the Asteria Habitat!"

With that flourish, the procession began. Tourists, adventurers, fortune seekers, and wandering dreamers streamed across the gleaming concourse toward the maglev station. A new cycle at Asteria was underway—a restless carnival of eccentrics, drifters, and hopeful new beginnings beneath the domes of Mars. And at the center of it all stood Emile Dufort: smiling, bowing, and quietly resolved to keep Asteria’s lights burning bright, even as Earth’s future dimmed.

Hours later—still riding the adrenaline of the welcome ceremony—Emile moved briskly down a curved executive corridor. His silver shoes rang crisply against the cream-polished floor, every inch of the passage reflecting Asteria’s identity: elegant, deliberate, expensive.

Beyond the arched glass wall to his left, the central atrium buzzed with life. Returning guests flowed through the vast space, some dragging groggy children, others guiding smart-luggage that rolled obediently behind them. Immaculate security staff in white uniforms directed them to check-in terminals and maglev capsules waiting to ferry them into the heart of the habitat.

At the end of the hallway, two protocol robots stood guard beside a glass-paneled door, their chassis marked with the EU star emblem. As Emile approached, they stepped aside silently. The door whispered open. He adjusted his midnight-blue jacket—a signature flourish—and stepped inside.

The executive meeting room offered a panoramic view of the atrium below. Sunlight filtered in through the dome, casting diffuse shadows over the frosted glass table, which was rimmed in soft turquoise LEDs. Subtle floral notes hung in the air, part of Asteria’s curated “green luxury” ambiance. Around the table sat sleek, minimalist chairs—stylish, yet built for long hours of strategy and debate.

At the far end stood Freja Lindholm, tapping at a floating display. She wore a trim beige suit, her blonde hair swept into a precise bun. Calm, unflappable, she carried herself with the quiet strength of someone who’d held a fragile venture together more than once.

Freja Lindholm, President of the Asteria Habitat of the EU on Mars.

Across from her sat Dr. Grete Vogel, reviewing engineering schematics on a tablet. Tall and lean, in her forties, Grete wore her dark hair in a flawless twist. Her posture was perfect, her gaze sharp—every motion measured, no word or gesture wasted.

A few more colleagues were present: finance officers, an HR lead, and several note-taking bots feeding real-time updates into Asteria’s internal systems.

Grete looked up and offered a dry, professional nod."Quite the show you put on out there, Emile. Congratulations on the reception."

Emile offered a theatrical bow.“Merci, Freja! The Vittoria is a marvel—like a floating skyscraper. A spectacle every time she graces our little red planet.”

Grete Vogel

Grete powered down her display and folded her arms.“We used to welcome settlers and investors with real long-term plans. Now? Half the arrivals are party-happy students, thrill-seekers, or people whose backgrounds are best left unverified. Sure, they bring in some money—but nowhere near enough to fuel real growth. I reviewed this year’s registry. Nothing’s changed.”

Emile spread his arms in a dramatic shrug.“Exactly! Security costs are climbing. We’re constantly cleaning up after them. And that’s before you count the petty crimes—or worse.”

A soft throat-clear redirected the room’s focus. Freja Lindholm had set down her tablet, her eyes narrowing behind silver-rimmed glasses.

“Tourism won’t save us,” she said evenly. “The research division and startup ecosystem are still our best hope. We’re close to self-sustaining manufacturing. If we can produce high-tech components locally, we cut dependence on Earth—no more waiting months for shipments.”

Grete nodded, cool and precise.“But without serious investors expanding operations here, how do we fund new lines? EU subsidies only go so far—especially with Earth’s political climate in freefall. We’re already skirting the edge of a deficit.”

Silence settled like a pressure drop. Beyond the glass wall, tourists clustered beneath a massive holographic ad for Asteria’s zero-gravity lounge. Some shrieked in delight when they spotted themselves on the screen, rushing toward the maglev tracks that wove through the dome. Others just stood there, blinking in awe—or disorientation.

Emile exhaled, the edges of his charisma fraying.“Asteria was built on a promise: a growing community, pioneering science, and luxury tourism. Earth’s chaos broke that. Now we host bachelor parties, digital nomads, fortune chasers. They don’t buy property. They don’t build anything lasting. Most days, they’re more trouble than they’re worth.”

Freja leaned forward, her voice calm but firm.“We ride it out. If Earth stabilizes, the serious players will return. Until then, we hold the line with EU support and keep the lights on. Unless someone has a better plan?”

Grete’s jaw tightened. She flicked her tablet, dismissing the blueprints.“Without a growing population, manufacturing is a vanity project. We could build Mars’ most advanced tech—and no one would be here to use it.”

For a moment, the room fell completely silent. Even the note-taking bots seemed to pause, as if they too sensed the gravity of the moment.

Tension hung in the air, undercut only by the steady hum of Asteria Habitat’s environmental systems. Outside the glass wall, another wave of tourists poured through the atrium—already generating minor chaos that staff and maintenance drones scrambled to contain.

Freja tapped the table, guiding the conversation forward.“We need to talk about our position with the Russians. We’ve kept our distance, but now the Chinese are openly backing them. And there are whispers the Americans are doing the same—quietly building shelters along the transit corridors. If we stay on the sidelines much longer, we risk being shut out entirely.”

Across the table, Dr. Grete Vogel’s expression tightened.“I’ve reviewed the scout drone footage—there’s definite new construction. Some is clearly Chinese. The rest… hard to verify, but likely American. If the Russians regain their footing, and we’ve done nothing, we’ll have no leverage.”

Freja nodded.“We don’t have the capacity to build them a proper outpost—but silence isn’t an option. A modest humanitarian gesture might be enough to show goodwill. And it helps us maintain credibility with the rest of Mars.”

A thin, gray-haired finance officer cleared his throat but stayed silent. Grete flicked to another page on her tablet.“Basic supplies—medical kits, portable power cells—wouldn’t cripple us. We’d just need to be discreet. Sending a German or Swedish rep into Vostok could stir up bad memories, politically.”

Emile, who had been brooding over guest complaints, finally spoke up.“Then let me go,” he said, spreading his hands. “You know I can talk to anyone. A little je ne sais quoi might go a long way.”

A mischievous glint lit his eyes. Freja gave him a measured look.“Emile, are you going to turn this into another performance?”

He shrugged, completely unbothered.“Mais non. I’ll bring a small gift package, nothing flashy. If they’re the gambling sort, maybe we strike up a little friendly corridor... or a game of Russian roulette?” he added with a grin.

Freja raised an eyebrow.“I’m serious. I mean humanitarian support, not theatrics.”

Emile placed a hand over his heart, mock-offended.“Understood. I’ll behave. Discretion, diplomacy—my specialties, when required.”

Grete crossed her arms, giving a slow, skeptical nod.“We’ll prepare a basic support kit. Something symbolic but useful. A few engineers will go along—in case they need repairs or infrastructure support.”

Freja turned back to the view outside. She watched the crowd ebb and flow beneath the shimmering dome, then exhaled.“So be it. We remind the Russians they still have allies—even quiet ones. It might buy us more than goodwill. It might secure Asteria’s place in whatever comes next.”

Outside, Asteria still glowed like an oasis in the red wasteland—gleaming, fragile, and caught in the balance between survival and reinvention.

Asteria Habitat, Mars

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