11 - Mad Max race

You are reading Scene 11 of Icarus, a novel unfolding within The Mars Chronicles—an epic story of the first human settlements on Mars.

Most days on the red frontier are a grind of code, cables, and dust. But not today.

Today, the canyon becomes a racetrack. Fifteen stripped-down cargo trucks—battered, modified, and barely holding together—line up for a run no one will forget. The stakes? Bragging rights. Camaraderie. And maybe a glimpse of freedom in a world built from pressure seals and survival routines.

It’s not official. It’s not safe. And it’s definitely not smart.

But out here, with oxygen thin and futures uncertain, this Canyon Chaos Madness is the closest thing they’ve got to joy.

So strap in. The Martian sun is rising—and the dust is already flying.

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Dawn swept across the plateau in rusty and lavender hues, washing the Martian sky in its muted palette. Sunrise here wasn’t like Earth—it didn’t burst; it crept. Through the thin atmosphere, the light came gentler, dimmer, painting the world in long shadows rather than blazing it awake. It lingered.

Ava Kalogrias

The cold still bit as Hawk, Ava, and Tank stood beside their idling trucks, facing east. The sun’s first rays touched the jagged cliff edges and stirred the red dust into slow motion. The plateau stretched for kilometers—scarred with loose rock and shallow ridges. Farther out, a brutal stone spine cut across the land, perfect for slalom runs that would test nerves and suspension systems alike. That ridge would be the day’s proving ground: a 100-kilometer loop—50 km out, a tight pass through the hazards, then 50 km back to the carved-out shelter.

Sleep-deprived but wired with anticipation, the American crew readied for the morning dash. Most had spent the night tuning engines, adjusting suspensions, and wrestling with calibration software. Now, in the pale light, they clustered around a crude “starting line”—just a scuffed patch of dirt where fifteen battered trucks had lined up in a crooked row.

The new shelter loomed nearby, cut into the cliffside like a half-buried memory. Of the original twenty trucks, most had already offloaded. Fifteen now sat stripped and souped up for the race. The last five—still loaded with gear for the Russian settlement—remained untouched in the shade. Ian wasn’t about to risk them.

Instead, he stood beside a different ride—a beat-up old training rig, once Ava’s. Its dented frame and jury-rigged wiring weren’t exactly confidence-inspiring, but Ian trusted it more than anything shiny.

Ava spotted him fiddling with the door and called out, half-laughing, “Need a last-minute radiator check, hotshot? If that thing seizes, I’m not towing your sorry ass back.”

Ian grinned, sheepish in the morning light.“It’ll hold. You tightened half the bolts yourself, remember?”

Hawk passed by, adjusting the chestplate of her suit. Full pressure gear wasn’t required inside the cabs, but everyone wore partial kits—just in case a collision or dust storm got serious.

“We’ll see if that junk heap can keep up,” she teased. “No cargo means the others are gonna fly.”

Tank appeared with a wrench in hand, tapping his wheel lugs one final time.“Some of us plan to hit the ridge flat-out. Are you in for the full loop, or turning back halfway?”

Ian gave his trademark crooked grin.“I’m just here to kick things off, watch you all blow your tires, and disappear like a gentleman. Curious who’ll make it back with all four wheels.”

Off to the side, a crowd of mechanics and off-duty staff huddled around old rovers converted into makeshift judge stands. From one roof, a drone operator launched two quadcopters into the sky. The machines floated up silently, projecting thin beams of light across the terrain to mark the route.

The operator’s voice crackled over the comms:“Route markers up for the first fifty kilometers. Slalom checkpoints are live. Miss a beam, you're out.”

A portable speaker near the line blared to life, mimicking a sports announcer’s tone:“Welcome to the Annual Canyon Chaos Madness! Temperature: minus fifteen. Air: thin. Trucks: prehistoric. Conditions: perfect for mechanical disaster!”

Laughter rippled through the small crowd.

As the sun climbed, the sky shifted from deep violet to a soft, dusty peach. The air glowed faintly, dust swirling in the rising light. It wasn’t Earth. It wasn’t familiar. But it was beautiful in its own strange, dangerous way—like the day ahead.

Ian leaned against the truck door and closed his eyes for a moment, letting it all sink in. Then he caught Ava’s gaze across the row—he gave her a nod, equal parts challenge and camaraderie. She answered with a sly grin and tapped the fuel gauge like it was a starting pistol.

All fifteen trucks came to life, engines revving in unison. In the cockpits, wide grins clashed with dead-serious focus. Some drivers slapped their dashboards like a superstitious ritual; others traded last-second jokes over short-range comms.

“Hey! Somebody keep my coffee warm, alright? I’ll be back in an hour,” Hawk shouted, waving to a bystander.

Tank slapped the hood of his truck and leaned out, yelling at the driver beside him.“If you beat my time, you're buying the next crate of supplies!”

The other driver laughed and shouted something back, but the words were lost in the rising thunder. On Mars, sound behaved strangely—thin air dulled the sharp edges, but the low-end frequencies carried well. The guttural roar of fifteen souped-up vehicles—artificial engine noise and all—rattled through the dust-heavy air.

None of the trucks ran on combustion. They were powered by electric cells or hydrogen packs. But nearly every driver had modded their rig with amplified engine simulations. For some, it was tradition. For others, it was theater. The result was the same: the ground felt like it was humming.

Ava gripped the wheel, gloves creaking against the worn grip. She winked at Ian.“Try to keep up, hero.”

Ian snorted, climbing into his own driver’s seat.“One lap. Then I’m out. Don’t cry when I blow past you on the ridge.”

A drone operator standing on the roof of a rover flashed a thumbs-up.

The speaker crackled again.

The announcer’s voice rang out over the comms:“Drivers! Engines to idle. Start on my mark—in thirty seconds!”

Tension rippled down the line. No more chatter. Just breath, nerves, and vibration.

The Martian sun had finally breached the horizon, pouring rose-gold light across the plateau. Steel frames glinted. Dust hung suspended. The trucks inched forward into loose formation, each one poised like a predator waiting for the signal.

Ian gripped the wheel, heart pounding. Adrenaline surged through him—pure, electric. The thrill of the race, the raw Martian morning, the taste of unfiltered freedom.

The announcer's voice counted down:“Five... four... three...” Engines roared. Dust coiled beneath spinning wheels.

Then—“Go!”

The trucks launched forward, thundering across the plateau like a stampede. Arcs of golden dust spiraled into the thin air, lit by the newborn Martian sun. Ian felt the force in his spine as his rig surged ahead, the horizon flashing like a blade.

Behind him, Hawk whooped over the comms, Ava’s laugh rang wild and sharp, and Tank bellowed a war cry that echoed through the canyon like thunder.

For a moment, nothing else existed. Just velocity, grit, and the pulse of comrades forging a future on the red frontier.

Back near the starting line, a cluster of spectators—mechanics, off-duty engineers, route techs—watched intently as drones streamed the race overhead. Their feeds caught every detail: dirt kicked up in crescents, metal frames glinting, the streak of motion across barren land.

Ian's pulse hammered in time with the engines. He tightened the last buckle of his harness, mind replaying the route: fifty kilometers straight out, a hazardous slalom through the ridge, and fifty back to base. It looked simple. But on Mars, nothing ever was.

Speed wasn’t everything. Fuel counted. Push too hard too early, and you’d sputter before the return leg.

From the drone’s vantage, it looked like a cavalry charge sweeping across a blood-red battlefield. The trucks spread wide, jostling for position. Hawk veered hard to the right flank, her rust-streaked rig hugging the terrain. Tank, massive and deliberate, rolled left with momentum on his side. Ian held center—not the fastest start, but the most strategic. He knew this ground.

The first ten kilometers flew by—flat, open, forgiving. A warm-up stretch. The fastest rigs—modded to hell overnight—blazed ahead. Their drivers whooped into the comms, high on speed and dust.

One truck—number twelve, piloted by a mechanic with more guts than restraint—snatched the lead, kicking up a comet tail of dirt behind him.

Hawk stayed close, tailing him by just a few lengths.

Ian felt the strain in the engine as he climbed gears. The acceleration hit—but so did the warning. His fuel gauge dipped into the yellow.

Don’t be stupid, he thought, easing back slightly. This isn’t won in the first leg.

From above, the drones streamed a breathtaking view: long ribbons of dust etched across the plateau, with swirling devils dancing in their wake. Spectators back at the shelter cheered, tracking the live feeds on their tablets and helmets.

Around the twenty-fifth kilometer, the terrain shifted. Jagged rocks jutted from the ground like broken teeth, narrowing the route into tight lanes. Speed alone wasn’t enough anymore—this was where strategy took over. Trucks bunched up, jostling for position, bumpers nearly brushing as drivers fought for the cleanest lines through the chaos.

Ian Everhart

Ian tightened his grip on the wheel. Ahead, a slalom run cut through a tight field of narrow stone pillars. Most drivers braked, cautious. Ian didn’t. He exhaled, eyes sharp, and made his move—threading through the pillars with only inches to spare.

Hawk’s voice cracked over the radio:“You lunatic… Watch that left rock, you—!”

He yanked the wheel just in time, dust spraying in his wake. The drones caught every second: Ian darted past two slower rigs, climbing from mid-pack to near the front in a single, blistering maneuver. His truck wasn’t the fastest on the flats, but here—where precision mattered—he owned the course.

Then a voice broke through the comms, shaky and alarmed:“Guys, check your consumption! I’m halfway and already down to a quarter tank!”

Swearing followed. Several drivers had pushed their systems too hard early on, and now the math was turning on them. One by one, trucks dialed back power, shifting from speed to survival.

Ian, who’d paced himself from the start, kept steady. He had fuel in reserve—and a clear shot through the rough zone.

Then—A sudden blast of dust. A wrenching, metallic screech.

Ava’s truck—neck and neck with Hawk—had clipped a hidden rock at speed. It pitched violently, rose onto two wheels, then slammed sideways into a boulder with a bone-jarring crash.

The comms fell dead silent.

Drone footage caught it all: the truck tipping, metal grinding across stone, then Ava ejecting at the last second. Her suit wasn’t fully sealed. She hit the dust hard, rolled, and came to a stop against a jagged outcrop.

“Ava! Ava, do you copy?!” Hawk’s voice cracked, panic rising.

Ian’s breath caught. He’d just cleared the slalom, momentum still pushing him forward—until instinct kicked in. He slowed, shoved the race out of his mind, and scanned the ridge.

More voices hit the comms—rushed, scared, overlapping.

The race was still unfolding, but for Ian, the finish line had just shifted. Ava was down. And nothing—no trophy, no bragging rights—mattered more than getting to her in time.

“I’m close to her,” Tank gasped. “Hang on!”

The dust thinned, revealing the wreck—Ava’s truck overturned, parts of its frame torn open. Amid the debris, a figure rose slowly. Ava. Her suit was dented and caked in red dust, but intact. She staggered, testing her leg. It buckled slightly—but she stayed on her feet.

“I’m... I’m okay,” she croaked over the radio. “Everyone chill.”

Relieved exhales swept through the comms. A few drivers—including Ian—had stopped cold, pulses hammering in their ears.

“Why are you stopping?!” Ava snapped—not angry, but brimming with raw emotion. “Go! Someone from our chain has to win!”

Ian hit the mic, still catching his breath. “Ava, we—”

“Don’t you dare quit because of me, you idiot,” she cut in, her voice sharp and unwavering. “Win it. For me. Go!”

She let out a shaky laugh—half defiance, half relief. Her suit was cracked, but holding. One of the nearby racers had already reached her, helping her limp to safety.

Ian watched until he was sure she was clear. Then, finally, he exhaled. “Crazy woman,” he muttered, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.

He slammed the throttle.

The truck surged forward, rejoining a cluster of racers who’d also slowed during the chaos. A glance at his dashboard—he still had fuel to burn. With clean, calculated aggression, Ian tore through the last stretch of broken terrain. His hands danced on the controls, weaving through boulders and washouts with practiced ease. The others—shaken or running on fumes—couldn’t match his pace.

The ground flattened. The last ridge fell behind him. Ian poured everything into the final sprint.

From above, the drones caught it all: a lone truck punching through a curtain of dust, breaking away in a clean, decisive arc. The finish line loomed—and Ian’s rig was first across.

“We have our winner!” the announcer blared over the comms. “Ian Everhart takes the first run—a stunning comeback from mid-pack!”

Cheers erupted. Laughter crackled through the radio as the rest of the trucks rolled in behind him—some limping, some nearly silent with depleted reserves. Tank pulled in soon after, throwing Ian a half-salute and a proud grin. Hawk rolled in not long after, shaking her head with mock exasperation.

“Fine,” she said, smirking. “One point for the golden boy.”

Ian killed the engine. The battered machine wheezed once, then fell silent. His heart was still pounding in his throat. Somehow, he’d crossed the finish line first—on fumes, wheels half-ruined, but the win was his. He let out a long, shaky breath as the adrenaline began to drain.

A voice crackled in his helmet.

“That was insane, man,” Tank said, stepping down from his truck a few vehicles away and tossing Ian a distant air-five.

And then he saw her.

Ava—dust-caked, bruised, but upright. Her suit was scraped and dented, visor cracked like spiderweb glass but still sealed. She was limping slightly, but her eyes were clear, bright, and lit with relief.

“That was for you, Ava,” Ian whispered into the private channel. “Wouldn’t have pulled it off without you. That tuning you did last night? Made it possible.”

Ava didn’t answer right away. She just stepped forward and wrapped him in a hug, suits and all. Their helmets bumped together with a soft, hollow thud. Through the static, a low laugh slipped over the comms.

“Lucky you’ve got that helmet on,” she murmured. “Otherwise I’d kiss you right now.”

They leaned into each other, visors pressed—a Martian version of a victory kiss. Sunlight broke through the haze, and red dust floated in lazy spirals around them. For a moment, the noise faded. It was just them, sealed in a silence that said everything.

Around them, the crew watched—smiling, clapping, exhaling the tension they hadn’t even realized they were holding. Ava was alive. Ian had won. That was enough.

Hawk, still riding the high of the race, gave a few slow claps.

“Don’t steal the spotlight, girl,” she said, grinning. “Crash like a maniac and still manage to come out the hero.”

Ava snorted, laughing and wincing in the same breath. Tank wandered over, leaning against his scuffed truck.

“I’ve seen a lot of races,” he said, shaking his head. “Never seen one end like that. You two nearly killed me.”

There was pride in his voice, undercut with genuine relief. The dust began to settle again, blanketing the ground in a fine red film. Overhead, the drones hovered silently, catching every moment. The Martian sun crept higher, casting long shadows across the plateau.

The race had been a spectacle, a distraction—but the camaraderie it revealed was real. Every laugh, every risk, every reckless charge through the dust had stitched them tighter together.

Ian looked east, toward the jagged ridge. Soon, the convoy would split, and he’d head into unknown territory. But for now, with Ava’s arm still draped over his shoulder and the morning still golden with victory, he let himself hold onto it—the thrill, the connection, the fragile spark of hope burning bright against the red horizon.

Want to keep reading?

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