10 - No Sleep Before the Run

You are reading Scene 10 of Icarus, a novel unfolding within The Mars Chronicles—an epic story of the first human settlements on Mars.

While political deals are struck in orbit and Earth’s power brokers weigh treaties and strategies, survival on the Martian frontier is a different kind of diplomacy—measured in steel, sweat, and dynamite.

In this scene, a convoy of American engineers arrives at an unfinished shelter near contested territory. It’s crude. Half-buried. Shared, unofficially, with the Chinese.

But there’s no time for second thoughts. Supplies are limited. The canyon race is looming. And tonight, if the bots don’t fail and the ceiling holds, there might just be room for everyone to sleep.

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After three days of relentless travel, the twenty-truck convoy led by Ian, Hawk, Ava, and Tank was caked in Martian dust. Orange sand scoured their boots, crept into the seams of their suits, and clung to every strand of hair. Still, the team remained in good spirits. Tired jokes crackled over the inter-vehicle radio as they neared the newest carved-out shelter—an unfinished outpost, not far from the Chinese sphere of influence and along the route to the Russian settlement.

Through the swirling haze, the rough entrance came into view—a squared-off tunnel gouged into the base of a rocky plateau. Fresh basalt rubble littered the ground, a clear sign that drilling had taken place recently. Even from a distance, it was obvious this site was cruder than the others. The walls were jagged, the edges uneven—like construction had been rushed or halted mid-task.

“We're almost there—rubble ahead. Hawk, Ava, Tank, spread out like usual. Park in a half-circle,” Ian said over the radio to the trailing trucks.

One by one, the engines powered down, and the dust began to settle. Drivers climbed out, suits rustling in the dry wind. Ava stretched her arms overhead, wincing as her shoulder pulled tight.

“I need a real bed,” she said with a grin.

Hawk was already fiddling with a dusty console in the cargo bay.

“Tonight we carve out a corner for ourselves,” she replied. “We’ll blast the base chamber, cut a nook for sleeping. One more day on the road and I’m sleeping behind the wheel.”

As the group gathered near the entrance, Tank swept his headlamp across the half-dug tunnel. Rock fragments from past detonations cluttered the floor.

“We’ll clear the rest of this debris,” he said. “Then brace the roof with metal rods—make sure it doesn’t collapse on us.”

Ian stepped into the passageway, scanning the unfinished walls. A faint metallic glint caught the beam of his light. He raised a hand to signal the others.

“Hey, come here,” he called, stepping toward a rocky alcove.

Pressed into the hollow was a row of storage crates, each marked with faded Chinese lettering. Nearby, a broken vehicle chassis lay on its side—an old, low-profile rover, still bearing weathered Sino markings. Beside it sat several neatly arranged medical kits and tightly rolled bandages.

“This… this definitely isn’t ours,” Hawk murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. She stared at the crates, unease flickering in her eyes. “Someone else is using these shelters.”

Ava crouched beside the crates, running her fingers over the worn labels.

“Basic meds, IV kits… half a generator,” she murmured. “Could’ve been a small Chinese rescue team. Or maybe they left it here on purpose.”

Her voice dropped even lower, as if she feared the original owners might still be nearby.

Tank ran his hand along the dented chassis of the abandoned rover.

“Probably broke down and got ditched… or they planned to come back for it. Hard to tell.”

Ian studied the scattered gear in silence before speaking.

“So there’s some kind of cooperation happening,” he said at last, a thoughtful edge to his tone. “Even if it’s silent.” A trace of cautious optimism crept into his voice. “Let’s not touch any of it. Stack our gear beside theirs—let them see we’re not a threat. But stay sharp. If they’re moving through here, they may not welcome guests.”

The others nodded quietly. This rough, barely usable shelter had already become a shared space—a crossroads between nations, intentions unspoken but undeniable. The tension hung in the air, but the team did what they always did: they worked. They stashed fresh supplies, blasted out a new corner for bunks, and upgraded just enough of the wiring and control systems to make the site usable later.

Even after three hard days on the road, they pressed on—driven by grit, duty, and the sense that they were part of something bigger than orders and maps. But first, they needed fuel—for both the machines and themselves.

At the shelter entrance, once they'd stabilized the power grid, they set up a makeshift mess area: two crates and a salvaged steel panel stretched into a rough dining surface. Ian tore open a ration pouch, poured hot water from a dented thermos, and stirred it absently. Hawk dropped onto a crate, downed half a liter of water in one gulp, and tore into an energy bar.

A few meters away, Ava and Tank were checking over the old construction bots they’d managed to bring back online. The machines were boxy, dust-choked, and fitted with drilling and blasting arms. Now they stood silent, worn paint peeling, joints creaking like arthritic limbs.

Tank tapped one with a wrench.

“This junker wheezes like a bronchitic donkey,” he muttered. “If we’re trusting it with explosives, I want to know it won’t blow us to hell.”

Ava nodded, scooping soup from a pouch as she kept one eye on the bot’s diagnostic panel.

“No argument here,” she said between bites. “The power connectors are corroded. No way I’m loading charges until I know it won’t short out.”

Ian stepped over, datapad in hand, scanning the readouts.

“Three charges,” Ian said. “One in the back corner to expand the sleeping area, two up front to clear a vehicle path. Work fast—but stay safe. Understood?”

“Safe, of course,” Hawk replied with a dry smirk. “Because obviously we’re not working with half-dead machines and decade-old schematics…”

Still, she set down her half-finished meal, wiped her hands on her dusty jumpsuit, and moved to the robot control console beside Tank. Together, they launched a diagnostics program—checking motor output, scanning sensors, recalibrating movement sequences.

In the shelter’s main chamber, half a dozen American crew members positioned floodlights, casting the jagged, unfinished rock in stark white. Steel braces were offloaded from one of the trucks and propped against raw basalt walls. Gravel crunched beneath their boots—a constant reminder of just how tenuous this underground haven really was.

Nearby, a few workers—some still half-suited—carried small explosive charges to the front, laying them beside a protruding basalt formation slated for removal. The goal: carve extra room for sleeping quarters and widen the corridor enough for a truck to pass.

“Heads up!” Ian called. “Three zones marked for charges. Once the bots finish inspection, they’ll trigger them—from a safe distance.”

But then a sharp crack split the air.

One of the drill bots sparked violently, spitting blue arcs as it shuddered and froze. Tank cursed, leaping backward. A robotic arm sagged uselessly to the floor.

“Kill the power! Now!” Ava shouted.

Hawk lunged for the side panel and slammed the emergency cutoff switch. The machine hissed as its actuators vented, collapsing onto its support legs with a metallic groan. Acrid smoke coiled into the air, stinging eyes and throats.

“Shit,” Tank muttered, panting. “No way we’re trusting this wreck with live charges. We either fix it or go old-school.”

Ian stepped in, flashlight in hand. He knelt beside the scorched housing and pried it open with a screwdriver. A blast of heat hit him as he exposed the damage—inside, a melted bundle of wiring glowed faintly, pulsing with residual energy.

“We can patch it,” he said. “If we swap the harness. Ava, do we have a spare?”

“On the flatbed, yeah,” Ava replied, already moving. “Hawk, let’s go—grab the kit.”

As Hawk sprinted toward the truck, Tank and Ian began tearing out the burnt wires, working quickly despite the sting of smoke and ozone. The scorched circuit board came free with a reluctant snap, sparks flickering as it disconnected. Around them, the rest of the crew stayed clear—busy calibrating the second bot and double-checking the explosive placements.

Frantic minutes ticked by under the pulsing floodlights as they rewired the system by hand. Ava snapped new connectors into place with practiced precision while Hawk held the panel steady. Finally, the robot gave a low, mechanical hum—it was alive again.

“Okay,” Ian exhaled. “Let’s try that again—gently.”

Hawk tapped the console. The robotic arm twitched, made a stuttering arc, then settled into a steady idle.

“Looks stable enough.”

“Then let’s move,” Tank said, already pushing to his feet. “Not sleeping in a half-collapsed cave.”

Working quickly but carefully, they positioned the robot at the marked detonation points. Charge indicators blinked green—ready for remote trigger. Everyone retreated behind a low barricade of basalt blocks and sealed their helmets, bracing for debris and dust.

“Three… two… one—igniting,” Ian called out over the radio.

A thunderous blast rocked the chamber, followed by two smaller detonations that echoed down the tunnel like rolling thunder. Stone clattered, dust swirled, and the overhead lights flickered. When the air finally began to settle, a wider, freshly blasted space stood before them—rubble-strewn but open.

Coughing into their helmets, the team regrouped around the soot-streaked robot. The heavy dark now felt a little less claustrophobic. Hawk and Ava exchanged tired grins. Tank gave the robot’s battered chassis a pat, like a job-well-done to an old dog.

“I think we just earned ourselves a new bunkroom,” Hawk said.

Ian lifted his visor, eyes stinging from the dust. “Few hours of rubble clearing, and we’re good. Nice work.”

They stood there—filthy, sweaty, disheveled—but with a quiet, unmistakable pride. They’d pulled off a night-time blast: risky, but necessary. And typical. This was how Mars was built—one stubborn, dangerous act at a time.

As they turned back to their tasks—clearing debris, rechecking circuits, tossing light jabs about the next day’s “Mad Max” run—the air shifted. Night thickened around the shelter, but no one felt defeated. Every charge they laid, every stubborn fix they made, brought shape to the raw planet around them.

Even if it took a little explosive persuasion.

The shelter wasn’t finished, but it was expanded enough. Gradually, the group quieted down. Everyone claimed a corner in the newly cleared passage. A few makeshift bedrolls, some thermal blankets—it wasn’t comfortable, but after three days on the road and a night of blasting rock, no one complained.

Ian dropped the last chunk of debris beside a support beam, wiped his forehead, and made his way to the bag he’d stashed in the corner. He paused, looking out across the chamber bathed in dim light. Hawk, Ava, and Tank were still gathered around a crate they’d turned into a table, laughter flickering between them as they half-joked, half-schemed about tomorrow’s “Mad Max” chaos.

“I’m crashing,” Ian muttered, drained. “Need a clear head for tomorrow.”

Ava, sipping the last of her “beer substitute”—more like lukewarm malt tea—arched a brow.

“Sleep tight, hotshot. We’ll try not to blow the place up while you’re gone.”

Tank clinked his cup against the others’, grinning. “We’ll keep it quiet... unless we decide to tune a few engines.”

Ian gave a tired smile, peeled off the top half of his suit, and rolled up his jacket for a pillow.

“Good night,” he mumbled, sinking onto a flattened thermal mat.

A few hours later

A metallic clang followed by a muffled curse yanked him from sleep. Disoriented, he sat up, instinctively reaching for his suit. The shelter was dark—just a few flickering lamps and the soft glow of the generator panel. Dust clung to his face, gritty under his fingers.

He pulled on his suit and stepped outside into the cold Martian night. Darkness pressed in from all sides, but a few portable floodlights cast sharp cones of light on a small gathering by the trucks.

Ava was crouched under a hood, sparks flaring as she welded a cracked manifold. Hawk rifled through a parts crate by her vehicle, and Tank hammered away at a stubborn gear. A few other drivers moved through the shadows, rummaging through toolboxes, focused and wide awake.

Ian, voice hoarse and still half-asleep: “What the hell... aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?”

Hawk turned, arms streaked with oil, and grinned like a kid caught breaking curfew.

“Are you kidding?”, he shot back. “If we crash now, those Mad Max maniacs’ll have their rides tuned before we blink. We’ll be eating their dust.”

Tank finally knocked loose a stubborn bolt and wiped the sweat from his brow.“Exactly. We’re already hacking up half the canyon—might as well make it worth it. No one’s beating us tomorrow.”

Nearby, Ava gave a support bracket a solid whack. It locked in with a satisfying clack.

“Sleep’s overrated, Ian. Our mission now is to accidentally rip the other team’s doors off.”

She looked up, eyes bright with that familiar rebellious spark.

Ian shook his head, half-laughing. These days were grueling enough—but this crew didn’t recognize limits when it came to gaining an edge.

“You’re all insane,” he muttered, resting a hand on Hawk’s truck, eyes half-closed.

“Let’s go with ‘committed,’” Hawk replied, tossing him a wink.“And no more fireworks, yeah? One explosion per night’s the quota.”

Tank grunted in approval, giving the newly installed belt a pat.

“If this thing blows again, we’ll fix it. Like that drill rig—what a beauty that was.”

He brushed phantom dust from his palms, mock-triumphant.

Something in Ian let go. The tight knot of worry in his chest loosened slightly. For all the chaos, the outpost had a rhythm—and these people were the pulse. He rubbed his gritty eyes, then let a smile slip through.

“All right... I’ll leave this band of lunatics to it. But you know what?”

He paused, making sure they heard him.

“I’m staying tomorrow. At least for the first run.”

A flicker of surprise passed over their faces. Ava straightened, brow raised. Hawk’s grin practically lit up the shelter. Tank gave a short, satisfied nod.

Ava pointed a wrench at him, mock-threatening.“That’s more like it. Don’t vanish too quick—we’ve got people dying to see if you actually drive like the rumors say.”

Ian smiled—wide and genuine. “Who knows, maybe I’ll get myself into trouble... Might even run a lap. Just don’t expect me to haul you out of the canyon when your axle snaps.”

Laughter echoed beneath the thin Martian sky. Out here, the hum of engines and the clatter of tools weren’t just noise—they were part of a rhythm, a midnight symphony made of grit, grease, and stubborn will. Ian gave one last wave, then turned and slipped into the shadows of the shelter.

He knew he’d need every minute of sleep before the real mission. But the sight of his crew—covered in dust, running on fumes, and still wired with energy—settled something deep inside him.

By the time he lay back down on his makeshift mat, the soft clinks and distant humming of tune-ups still drifted in from outside—steady, familiar, and strangely comforting.

No Sleep Before the Run

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