2 - This Is a Rescue Mission

Icarus
Mar 19
6 min read

Updated: May 10

You are reading Scene 2 of Icarus, a novel unfolding within The Mars Chronicles—an epic story of the first human settlements on Mars.

When the Russian outpost fell silent, a desperate distress signal was sent across the planet. It didn’t reach the Chinese base immediately—and by the time it did, nearly three sols had passed. Now, a search team is en route. But on a world as unforgiving as Mars, even a short delay can mean the difference between rescue and ruin. Will they still find anyone alive?

Vostok Outpost on Mars – Mars Year 73, Sol 124

A sharp clatter of gravel echoed off the lead truck in the Tianyuan Base rescue convoy as it crested the final ridge. In the driver’s seat, Zhang Wei, the engineer in charge of the operation, squinted out through the reinforced windshield. Three days had passed since the Russian distress call—three days across dusty plains and half-buried rock fields in an exhausting push forward. Now, at last, they had reached Vostok Station—and the state they found it in was somehow even worse than expected.

Carved into the rock wall behind the outpost was a dark fissure—a shallow cave gouged into rust-colored stone. At its shadowed entrance, freshly dug graves were lined up, barely visible, marked with bent metal scraps and improvised plaques.

Dr. Huang Qian saw them first.

Two Chinese astronauts inside a Mars rover spot graves near a cave at the edge of Vostok Outpost.

She fell silent, her helmet’s magnification feature focusing on the crude cemetery. She said nothing—just reached out and touched Zhang Wei’s arm, pointing.

Zhang followed her gaze.

For a moment, neither spoke. The graves stood there, sharp and undeniable: for many, they had come too late. And the survivors—those who remained—would carry that weight with every breath.

“Looks like half the modules got buried…” Zhang muttered, his voice crackling over the comms. “Dr. Huang, do you see any life-support systems active outside the main hangar?”

Dr. Huang Qian, the station’s chief medical officer, was scrolling through a vibrating screen on a handheld console. In her thirties, she had been on Mars for four years. She looked far younger than her age. She’d been wearing her helmet since they neared the outpost, bracing for whatever they might find. Her deep brown eyes stayed on the tablet in her lap as her other hand gripped the door handle against the rough terrain. The faceplate of her helmet was transparent—standard for medics and health personnel during rescue missions, where unspoken communication often moved faster than words, and the sight of a human face meant more than anything to the injured.

Her shoulders tensed as the sensor grid registered faint life signs.

“No,” she replied quietly, but with certainty. “The main outpost is practically offline—only minimal power is coming from the emergency hangar. If anyone’s alive, that’s where they are.”

They parked at the station’s edge, stirring up a fine red cloud of dust. Beneath the rust-dark sky, Vostok presented a gut-wrenching sight: jagged steel beams jutted out at unnatural angles, half the once-functional modules now buried beneath Martian sand. The rusted sign marked “ВОСТОК” lay collapsed against a bent support structure. One entire module had caved in—likely the greenhouse dome. Now, only a shattered skeleton of polymer and torn scaffolding remained.

Everywhere, the scars of improvised engineering told a story—machines kept running through ingenuity alone, battered by storm after storm, and worn down further by years of missing resources.

Zhang Wei jumped down from the truck’s pressurized cabin. His modern Chinese pressure suit adjusted seamlessly to the planet’s thin atmosphere. Its surface was smooth, black composite, with glowing status bars running along the forearms. Two accompanying assistant bots—slim, spider-like machines marked with TIANYUAN—sprang from the cargo hold and immediately began scanning the wreckage for structural hazards.

“Fan out,” Zhang said calmly, raising the communicator on his helmet. “Watch for fallen beams or sealed pockets where survivors might be trapped. And be careful with the wiring—these old cables can still hit hard if parts of the grid are live.”

Chinese rescue team surveys the ruins of a collapsed greenhouse dome at Vostok Outpost on Mars, unloading medical equipment from futuristic trucks.

Dr. Huang approached on foot, a slim medical pack strapped across her back. Her suit was just as advanced, her visor reflecting Mars’s pale sunlight. She crouched to inspect a twisted doorway, lips tightening when she caught sight of a faded Russian star emblem.

“Years of neglect…” she said quietly. “This base was likely falling apart long before the storm hit.”

They both stared at a bleak pile of debris—silent, crushing. It might have hidden bodies beneath. A scratched service cart with a shattered wheel. An entire corridor half-buried in sand and fractured tiles. The contrast between Tianyuan’s polished tech and these heavy, battered remnants was stark.

The Chinese spider robot gently tapped one of the damaged sensor panels, its mechanical arms deftly clearing away smaller debris. A soft beep indicated that the inner airlock was partially functional, although the outer panels showed significant damage. Not far from it stood the main emergency hangar—a rust-brown module, once a storage unit, later converted into a makeshift shelter. A battered sign (СКЛАД 1) still marked it as a former warehouse, now repurposed.

Zhang Wei raised the communicator on his arm and sent a short, standard transmission to the base.

“This is the Tianyuan Base rescue team. We are initiating contact. Do you copy?”

For a long moment, only static answers. Then a distorted, weary voice crackled through.

"Vostok Outpost... copy. Weapons depot–?" The transmission broke up. Zhang Wei couldn't follow it clearly. He glanced questioningly at Qian.

Qian nodded, checking for radiation spikes and air leaks. The display showed levels below critical thresholds — but they still kept their heavy suits on.

Two more rescue vehicles rolled up, their engines rumbling faintly in the thin Martian air. They carried doctors and engineers.

Zhang Wei pointed toward the half-buried emergency entrance. It was passable for individuals but would require clearing dangerous debris to move larger supplies inside.

"Clear the path," he ordered.

Robots and automated lifts moved quickly: laser cutters slicing through bent metal, sparks flying in the dusty red light. Dr. Huang glanced at her display.

"Minimal oxygen and power inside," she said quietly. "We’ll need rapid intervention if we want to stabilize the situation."

As they approached, the outer airlock door slowly creaked open. After one final groan and screech, it gave way, allowing the Chinese team to step into the airlock chamber.

Following standard protocol, they waited for pressure equalization. The seals hissed and groaned; the narrow space pulsed under the dim emergency lights. The last flickers of life from the station struggled to hold on.

When the final alert faded, the inner door grudgingly opened.

Inside, tired, hollow-eyed faces stared back at them. Soldiers, engineers, doctors—all clad in dust-covered, worn suits, silent and wary.

Zhang Wei took a deep breath inside his helmet. After three relentless days of travel, they had finally reached Vostok Outpost—a place still alive, but only just.

Inside, stale, freezing air hit them, tinged with the metallic scent of burnt wiring and old machinery. The Chinese soldiers—dressed in matte-black suits, carrying compact firearms—secured the area methodically. Behind them, Dr. Huang Qian moved cautiously forward, her medical kit rattling at her side.

They immediately faced a Russian marine phalanx. Six men and women stood in a tight arc, battered body armor worn over exhausted bodies, weapons raised. Their breaths misted visibly in the freezing air—a sign of how cold it still was inside.

The entire scene vibrated with tension: the battered Russians stared distrustfully at the advancing Chinese team.

Dr. Huang instinctively fell back, letting the armed soldiers take point. She could see it in the Russians’ faces: one wrong move, and violence would explode.

Then Zhang Wei suddenly stepped forward, raising both hands in a peaceful gesture, and called out in surprisingly fluent Russian:

“Это спасательная миссия! Мы не являемся вашей угрозой!”

“This is a rescue mission! We are not your enemy!” he repeated, his voice firm but calm.