1 - When the Sky Turned Red – Vostok Station

Russian Outpost on Mars – Mars Year 73, Sol 117

Человек – это звучит гордо.

("Man – it's a proud-sounding word." Maxim Gorky – The Lower Depths)

A dull hum filled the cramped control module of the Vostok Station, the Russian Martian outpost that clung uncertainly to the dusty surface of the red planet. Flickering fluorescent lights barely illuminated the aging control panels and the chaotic tangle of patched-up wiring running along the walls. Several monitors—some cracked, others clumsily held together with epoxy and plastic sheeting—flickered with meteorological data. The air carried a faint scent of stale oxygen mixed with the bitter tang of burned circuitry.

The Martian dust was unlike anything on Earth—made of electrostatically charged, microscopic grains that slipped through seals, lodged in every crevice, and clung to surfaces like a living virus. Over decades, this dust had infiltrated the greenhouse’s polymer joints and aluminum struts, weakening them from the inside. Filters were overrun, insulation wore thin. And now, with the highest recorded particle density in Vostok's history, the structure stood like a paper dome against a sandblaster.

Elena Markova, the station’s lead engineer, leaned over the main meteorological panel. In her late thirties, her body bore the thin strength of someone shaped by years of hard work. Dark-blond hair was pinned back, though stubborn strands still curled loose around her ears.

Frowning, she jabbed at the sticky keyboard, trying to force a refresh on the sluggish display. Overhead, the lights flickered — a silent warning: one short circuit, and they’d be in darkness.

“Come on, you worthless heap... just load the next cycle,” she muttered under her breath.

A soft buzz followed, then the screen finally lit up with the Martian atmospheric dust index chart. At first, it looked like only a minor dust event was incoming. Then the numbers spiked—particle density and projected duration forming an almost vertical curve. Red alert blocks began crawling along the bottom of the screen, signaling that the storm could last for days, and visibility was dropping toward zero. Elena tapped a key to filter for potential errors, but the red bands only intensified.

Instinctively, she turned her head and looked out the dusty, scratched window. In the distant haze, behind the grayish-red veil, barely visible figures moved along the greenhouse wall. The workers—who had spent days reinforcing the structure, giving up every spare hour for it. This wasn’t maintenance anymore. The only reason the dome hadn’t collapsed already was because these people—elbows bandaged, lungs full of dust—were physically holding it together.

“It’s worse than we thought... bigger than the last one,” Elena whispered, her voice trembling.

Behind her, in a stained coverall, Pyotr Sokolov—the station’s software engineer—squinted at the secondary monitor. When it froze, he slammed a fist against it in frustration.

“This isn’t just bigger! It’s off the scale. If it hits us dead on, there’s zero margin for safety.”

She flipped a switch to pick up the signal from a backup meteorological satellite. The outdated unit spat out lines of data—dust density, temperature drops, atmospheric pressure—and in between them, bursts of static, strings of corrupted code.

“The old Chinese satellites are sending in a partially damaged feed. But from what we can make out... this storm could last for days.”

Elena wiped her forehead and muttered a quiet curse. She didn’t even check if Pyotr was listening — just said it loud enough:

“We don’t have enough energy cells to stay sealed off that long. The central battery’s already at half, and we’ve barely got any coolant left for the reactor.”

A warning tone blared inside the chamber, croaking out of the worn-out speaker. It wailed for a few seconds, then cut off—like the system itself couldn’t decide whether to raise the alarm or just give up entirely.

Misha Volkov, a young miner who had been studying a surface map, straightened up from a chair tucked in the corner, where reports and printouts lay scattered. The kind of hopeful optimism that used to give even the jaded veterans strength now wavered as the ominous data scrolled across the screen.

“If it’s as strong as the charts show…” he began, voice shaking. “Our greenhouse dome won’t hold. We never fully sealed it after last year’s cracks... just patched it with epoxy and duct tape.”

“The dust builds pressure inside the joints,” Misha added grimly. “It clogs the vents, traps heat, and the air inside expands unevenly. If the storm stresses the dome too fast - boom. It won’t crack, it’ll burst.”

Elena rubbed her forehead, visibly frustrated.

“We haven’t had new parts in four years,” she muttered, referring to the never-realized promises from Moscow. “We asked for reinforced supports, fresh polymer sheets... And what did we get? Bureaucratic garbage.”

Pyotr, the software engineer, gave a dry laugh.

“Cheaper to let us die out here.”

The nearby console gave a raspy beep, almost as if in agreement. The aging control system sluggishly printed more data across the display: devastating dust storms sweeping across Mars’s northern hemisphere. Radio signals from the other outposts were weak and crackling.

“If we lose the greenhouse, we lose our only source of fresh food,” Misha said quietly. “Our water supply’s already low... if the storm wipes the solar panels, the filtration system could shut down too.”

Elena shot him a hard look.

“We do what we can. We seal off the lower corridors, shut down all non-essential systems. And pray the reactors hold until the dust clogs them shut.”

She shoved aside a loose cable in frustration.

“This place is a death trap just waiting for the storm to hit full force.”

Pyotr switched to another display, checking the life-support system. The pressure regulators were flashing red.

“We might need to herd everyone into the main hangar. Or we can wait for Earth to fix our problem,” he added with a sarcastic shrug. “Yeah—good luck with that.”

The ceiling vent began to rattle, stirring the warm, recycled air through the cramped space.

“Temperature’s rising again in the vent tunnels,” Misha noted, glancing upward nervously. “Means the dust is clogging the intakes again. If we don’t seal it off soon, the filters will burn out.”

Elena slammed her hand against the console and turned to face the entire team.

“That’s enough! Pyotr, run every weather model we’ve still got in the system, even the outdated ones. Misha, get to the greenhouse—brace it with whatever you can find. Check every patch, every seal. If it collapses, we lose half our oxygen reserve.”

The lights flickered again — longer, deeper. Almost gone. Elena swore under her breath. When she spoke, her voice was low and locked.

“We keep moving. That’s all we’ve got left.”

Outside, the wind scraped against the station’s thin walls with a soft, metallic rattle. In the dim, narrow control module, the flashing warning lights cast jittery shadows across exhausted faces. The sense grew stronger with every second—something catastrophic was approaching, something that would change the fate of Vostok forever.

Still under the weight of the atmospheric read-outs, Elena Markova strode down the dark corridor toward Major Anatoly Ivanov’s office. The lights stuttered and dimmed, throwing fractured shadows across the corridor. Elena moved through them like someone walking through a dream too close to waking.

A tablet trembled in her arms, displaying the same terrible forecast she had just seen.

Ivanov’s office was little more than a repurposed module next to the former command center. A single round window looked out onto the reddish-brown Martian landscape. On the horizon, a pale, sepia-colored veil had already appeared—distant, spiraling dust clouds creeping into the sky.

When Elena entered, Anatoly Ivanov was leaning against the window frame. He was in his late fifties, tall but slightly stooped, with close-cropped gray hair and a sharply defined face that was furrowed by years of growing disappointment. The proud figure of the former astronaut had long been worn down by the endless frustration of managing a Martian outpost.

“So, our brilliant equipment confirms a massive storm is approaching,” he said dryly, without turning around. “Wonderful. We’d have never figured it out on our own, right?”

At last, he turned to face her, one eyebrow raised slightly. A battered spacesuit rested on a nearby chair, the outer layer scarred and dulled from repeated exposure. A reminder of Ivanov’s stubborn presence outside—always one step past safety.

Elena cleared her throat and held out the tablet, its display blinking ominously.

“Major, this isn’t just big... it’s catastrophic. The dust storm could last for days. The suspended particles are already clogging the sensors, and if it reaches the filters and solar panels, we’ll lose all power. The modules won’t withstand prolonged strain.”

Ivanov let out a cynical laugh.

“Then we’ll get to watch the whole thing collapse. The homeland’s proud Martian experiment becomes a dusty grave. Spectacular.”

Elena swallowed the reply caught in her throat. She handed him the tablet as dust concentration levels scrolled rapidly across the screen.

“We won’t be able to sustain life support if we lose the greenhouse. The corridor seals might hold... but only if we move everyone to the emergency hangar immediately. We’ll almost certainly lose the other modules.”

Ivanov nodded slowly as he studied the numbers. The collapse back on Earth had left him the leader of a dying outpost, with outdated tools and no help coming. But behind all his cynicism, buried in the lines at the corners of his eyes, was a stubborn sharpness that hadn’t given up.

He tossed the tablet onto his cluttered desk and grabbed his temporary suit—a slightly heavier model, designed to be worn for hours outside if necessary. The orange panels gleamed dully, a repaired crack running across the helmet’s visor, and the locking ring still clipped to the chest harness.

“All right, Elena,” he growled. “No time for whining. Get Pyotr, Misha... everyone. Every single soul gets moved to that damned hangar. Pile in food, water, every portable generator we can dig up. We may survive this like rats in a trap—but at least we’ll have air.”

Elena gave a tight nod, and for a brief moment, a flicker of relief passed across her face.

“Yes, Major,” Elena replied.

Then she paused, her eyes drifting to the swirling red haze beyond the window.

“We’ll begin the relocation immediately.”

Ivanov shoved an emergency tool kit into the side pocket of his suit, then yanked the half-opened garment over his shoulders. The straps strained across his broad back.

“Let’s move,” he said firmly, his voice cutting through the heavy air. “This outpost won’t fall—not on our watch.”

As he stepped out of the office, Elena following close behind, the corridor lights flickered again—just for a moment, they seemed to die completely, before stuttering back to life. If the storm really hit them with full force, this might be the last time they saw the modules in anything resembling normal condition.

But for now—despite cracked walls and blinking lights—Ivanov’s stubborn resolve seemed to ripple through the narrow hallway, sparking one last glimmer of hope in the struggling Vostok outpost.

Activity surged across the station as the threat of the oncoming storm grew heavier by the minute. Nearly a hundred settlers—some limping, others sagging under the weight of exhaustion—were now working to transfer every critical supply into the emergency hangar. The overhead lamps flickered in protest beneath the overloaded power grid, and beyond the round windows, the dimming sky signaled that the storm was nearly at their doorstep.

In the main chamber of the hangar, metal containers were being stacked into makeshift walls. Half-labeled boxes towered high—rations of dry food, medical kits, half-expired water purification cartridges. Elena Markova, hair damp with sweat, coordinated the chaos using a cracked handheld communicator. Voices and hurried footsteps echoed off the cold steel surfaces.

“Move those crates all the way to the far wall!” Elena shouted over the noise. “We need room in the middle for the generator line. The small corridor is sealed, so use the main airlock for all runs—and double-check every suit!”

Outside, through the narrow observation slit, two old welding bots clanked across the storm-ridden surface. Their plasma torches glowed a bluish-white, casting sparks as they patched up the battered exterior panels. Around their feet, steel beams lay ready—meant to reinforce the station’s weakened window frames. The wind had already begun coating the outer walls in dust. Every time the station trembled, Elena froze, her heart hammering in her throat.

Inside, a dozen aging cargo drones rumbled across the hangar floor. These clunky, slow machines had been around for over a decade, now dragging heavy generators and water dispensers. Meanwhile, the settlers carried smaller loads by hand: spare oxygen canisters, malfunctioning but salvageable batteries, coils of cable and wiring. If they had to stay inside the hangar for days—or even weeks—they couldn’t afford to leave anything behind.

Each time someone returned from the Martian surface, they had to pass through a tiny pressure equalization chamber, which hissed and groaned in its struggle to maintain proper atmospheric levels. Beyond that was the main entrance—still open for the last few incoming loads. But as the wind outside grew sharper, everyone knew: soon, even that final opening would be sealed, and they would be shut in—for the duration of the storm, at the very least.

The hangar interior was gradually transforming into something like a barracks. With nearly a hundred people to shelter, collapsible cots were lined up in rough squares, forming miniature “neighborhoods.” Plastic tarps hung to serve as makeshift walls, offering some degree of privacy for the station’s workers.

Misha Volkov, the back of his hands still dark with bruises from earlier rescue attempts, now helped arrange the sleeping areas. Deep circles sank beneath his eyes from fatigue.

“Leave at least two meters of space between the rows,” he murmured to another settler. “Elena said the corridors need to stay clear, in case the medics need to get through.”

The dull overhead lighting flickered again. In a corner nearby, two settlers were sorting through emergency suits by size. Some of the suits were covered in patches, the holes sealed with tape or resin. They hung from portable racks, ready in case the hangar’s walls were breached—ready to be clung to, quite literally, for every last breath.

In the corner of the makeshift command station, Major Anatoly Ivanov leaned over an outdated comms console, from which a nest of cracked wires spilled across the floor. His suit was half-unzipped, a faded naval undershirt peeking out through the opening—a clear signal that he was ready to run out at any moment, if the situation demanded it. Desperate signals flickered across the console: static-filled broadcasts from Earth, scattered pings from other Martian outposts. Ivanov had just finished transmitting a final distress call to Moscow.

“Let them witness the collapse,” he muttered, mostly to himself, slamming the switch down. “In the so-called ‘window year.’ If this doesn’t open their stockpiles, nothing will.”

He turned from the console, eyes drifting toward the far end of the hangar where settlers were still hauling the last supply crates. A bitter half-smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Maybe Vostok’s near-destruction would be the only thing that finally moved Earth to act. Cruel irony—but Ivanov was no stranger to that.

He raised his voice, toggling the internal broadcast line without sitting back down:

“All external units, seal up—now! The dust’s coming like a wall. Visibility will drop to zero within minutes. If you’re still outside, you won’t see the door from two meters. Everyone inside—move!”

The interior of the station went eerily still, as if the entire complex had drawn a collective breath, bracing for impact. Major Ivanov sprinted toward the inner panel of the hangar, ready to initiate the final outer door lockdown—when a shout from one of the technicians stopped him in his tracks.

“Major! They’re still outside!” came the fading cry over the radio. “The welders are still working on the dome!”

Warning lights flashed on the control panel: external units still active. Ivanov froze. They couldn’t seal the door. Not yet.

Elena Markova rushed to the entrance, stepping out from a service panel alcove and peering through the still-open outer maintenance hatch, where red dust was already swirling inward. Visibility was plummeting, but for a brief moment she saw it clearly: the greenhouse dome—its overloaded supports, the weight of dust accumulating on the outside, sudden pressure shifts, and thermal stress—began to fracture with a soundless shiver. She could almost hear the pressure inside the dome straining against the collapsing shell—like breath held too long inside a crushed chest. The seams couldn’t hold. Not anymore. The first strut buckled. Then the second. And finally, a single long, metallic groan echoed through the entire structure.

It collapsed like some exhausted, overburdened creature. The transparent polymer panels cracked, then fell in massive sheets onto the metal and soil below—onto the last remaining workers still trying to reinforce it. The falling segments crushed some of them. Other shards slammed into steel beams stored inside the dome for repairs—rebounding like deadly traps, spinning and flying out of control.

Elena screamed.

One welder—maybe Viktor—slipped as he tried to back away, and a strut’s edge sliced through his back in the next instant. Another worker ran, but lost balance in the dust, and a falling piece of the roof slammed him to the ground. The plasma cutters sparked for a moment more—then flickered out in the swirling red haze.

Ivanov clenched his fist. Elena, desperate, reached blindly into the cloud of dust through the maintenance door. She couldn’t see anything—only felt someone—and pulled them inside on instinct.

“Seal it—now!” Ivanov roared into the radio.

The heavy door closed slowly—behind it, nothing but dust, wreckage, and death.

The hangar’s automatic maintenance gate groaned loudly as its motors fought against the force of the storm. A nearby robot emitted a sharp alarm, declaring the external environment dangerously hostile. With one last mechanical thrust, the door slammed shut—as if trying to escape the grip of the storm itself.

Inside, the pressure regulators groaned, straining to maintain balance as the storm’s fury rattled the structure. The station’s lights immediately flickered, glowing pale and weak—like the system itself was hesitating, unsure how much longer it could endure.

A sudden silence fell over the emergency hangar.

The survivors lay sprawled across the floor or slumped half-conscious against pallets and crates, gasping for breath, wide-eyed, staring blankly in shock. A tall man’s helmet was cracked from a nearby impact; a trembling woman clutched her bleeding arm. The station’s medics and nurses moved tirelessly from one person to the next, helping wherever they could.

Elena collapsed to her knees and looked around the makeshift shelter that, from now on, would be their only refuge.

She began counting heads, dazed. Too many were missing.

And she feared what it meant—how many had been torn apart out there in the dust, in the steel, in the silence that now forever separated them from the rest.

“Oh God…” Elena whispered hoarsely, her voice trembling. “We lost half the greenhouse crew…”

Her words cut off as Major Ivanov stumbled into the hangar. His helmet was cracked. He tore it from his head, coughing harshly through dust-filled lungs, trying to breathe. His gaze drifted over the broken people—some still locked in shock, others whispering prayers under their breath.

Then a final, deafening crash rocked the hangar. And everything went black.

The power was gone for good.

Screams broke through the darkness—sharp, panicked sounds, as if fear itself had dropped from the ceiling.

A single emergency light flickered on, powered by a failing battery. It cast long, trembling shadows across the walls. Ivanov grabbed the lamp and raised it high, casting a dim glow that barely revealed Elena’s exhausted face in the gloom.

The once-bustling, once-proud Vosztok outpost now lay in ruins beneath the fury of the dust storm, while the survivors huddled in the improvised hangar—lights flickering, supplies scattered, and panic vibrating in every breath. In that darkness, the will to survive became the last fragile barrier against Mars’s wrath, which had come to bury them in dust.

This is the opening scene of Icarus, the first novel in The Mars Chronicles. If you’d like to be notified when new chapters are released, consider subscribing on the main page.

Prologue

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