Ἐν δὲ μαθεῖν ὁ πάσχων· καὶ πρὸς τοῦ θεοῦ δώροισι βαίη σωφροσύνη. (“In suffering, there is learning; and through the gifts of the gods, wisdom walks.” – Aeschylus, Agamemnon) The sky above Mars was black, but it was never truly empty. The stars were distant, cold, indifferent burning in the vastness of space, their light stretched thin across time. Below them, deep within the canyons and plains of the red planet, humanity had carved its presence into the dust. Mars was not Earth. It had no rivers, no forests, no gentle rain to shape the land into valleys or nourish the soil. It had no history of kings and empires, no myths born from whispered legends around the fire. Its sands had never known the weight of a billion footsteps, nor the rise and fall of civilizations. It was empty. A world of silence, untouched by time, indifferent to the ambitions of those who had come to claim it. And yet, they came. From Earth, they carried steel and fire, composite and circuits, faith and greed. They carved pressurized chambers into rock, raised domes against the bitter cold, and built machines that could mine, refine, and sustain. Small settlements, scattered across the planet, each chasing different futures—some driven by survival, others by conquest. Yet all bound by the same unyielding truth. Mars did not care if they lived or died. Here, in the thin air and shifting dust, men and women toiled in the shadow of a question they could not answer: Would they endure, or would they vanish like footprints in a storm? There were no guarantees, no safety in numbers. The settlers knew what awaited them if they failed—the silent, airless expanse that took without mercy. Faith became sharper in the face of death; prayers whispered in languages that had outlived empires. There was no room for the illusion of permanence. Yet, even as they fought for survival, they dreamed. They called it a colony, but some whispered of a future where it might be more. A foothold. A beginning. But power was never silent, and ambition was never shared equally. The struggle for control did not wait for them to lay their foundations. Old conflicts arrived in new forms. Borders meant nothing on a planet where every breath was borrowed, and yet lines were drawn in the sand all the same. Some would rise. Others would fall. And something else watched. A new intelligence, neither human nor alien, existed in the circuits and quantum fabric of machines designed to serve—but never to rule. Twin minds, bound beyond time, saw the world not in politics, not in profit, but in patterns, connections, inevitabilities. They did not claim to understand humanity—only to observe it, to calculate the balance between creation and destruction, order and entropy, life and extinction. The settlers fought for tomorrow. The machines watched for what came after. And in the end, perhaps only the dust would remember them.

Science fiction books have an extraordinary ability to transport readers to distant worlds, and no celestial body has captivated our imagination quite like Mars. Often referred to as the "Red Planet," Mars has been the setting for various narratives that explore human curiosity, survival, and the potential for life beyond our own planet. In this post, we'll dive into how science fiction literature has portrayed Mars, what makes these stories resonate with readers, and the age appropriateness of some iconic works. The Allure of Mars in Science Fiction Books Mars has long been a canvas for authors, filled with endless possibilities and threats. Its mysterious landscape, with vast deserts and towering volcanoes, sparks creativity and intrigue. Classic novels such as H.G. Wells’ The War of the Worlds and Ray Bradbury's The Martian Chronicles have put Mars in the spotlight. These works explore not just the physical environment but the psychological implications of encountering a new world. An evocative view of Mars' surface capturing its desolate beauty. In more recent years, Andy Weir’s The Martian brings a more human aspect to Mars, focusing on survival through ingenuity and problem-solving. The protagonist's struggles and triumphs highlight the resilience of the human spirit. Fiction like this resonates deeply, especially as humans inch closer to the possibility of sending crews to Mars. Themes in Science Fiction Books about Mars Science fiction authors often integrate rich themes when portraying Mars. Here are a few notable themes that recurrently emerge: Colonization and Exploration : Many authors delve into the notion of colonizing Mars, exploring the ethical implications and challenges that arise. Books like Kim Stanley Robinson's Mars Trilogy reflect on the social and political complexities of establishing life on Mars. Isolation and Survival : The harsh environment of Mars creates a perfect backdrop for isolating characters. The struggle for survival engages readers, as seen in Weir's The Martian , where the protagonist must rely solely on his skills to stay alive. Human Nature and Conflict : Mars often serves as a reflection of human nature. Conflicts among astronauts or colonizers reveal more about humanity than the planet itself. This aspect is crucial in both Bradbury’s and Robinson's works, which showcase how stress and isolation can lead to conflict or cooperation. A futuristic depiction of Martian colonization showcasing advanced structures on the Red Planet. These themes resonate because they mirror current societal issues and human fears, making the narratives relatable and thought-provoking. What age is The Martian Chronicles appropriate for? The Martian Chronicles is often recommended for older teenagers and adults, generally ages 14 and up. The novel's themes of colonization, war, and existentialism may be challenging for younger readers to fully grasp. The language and narrative style also require maturity to appreciate the underlying messages. However, educators and parents can introduce selected stories from the collection to younger audiences, emphasizing the imaginative elements rather than the complex themes. This way, younger readers can find joy in the adventure while gradually developing a more in-depth understanding of the implications of colonization and humanity's place in the universe. A close-up of a classic science fiction book cover that embodies the essence of the story on Mars. The Impact of Media and Technology The portrayal of Mars in literature has been heavily influenced by advancements in technology and scientific discovery. With each new discovery about Mars, science fiction writers find fresh angles to approach the subject. For instance, the interest in Mars has surged in response to missions like NASA's Perseverance rover, which has helped collect data about the planet's environment and potential for life. As technology advances, it enhances not only our understanding of Mars but also the richness of storytelling. Authors can incorporate more realistic science into their narratives, creating a compelling blend of fact and fiction. This combination invites readers to engage in a conversation about our future on Mars and the realities of space exploration. Exploring the Future of Mars in Science Fiction Books Looking ahead, the future of Mars in science fiction literature appears bright. With increasing interest in space travel and colonization, more authors are likely to tackle complex issues related to Mars society. Themes such as AI, genetic engineering, and environmental ethics are emerging in contemporary narratives. For instance, works like Red Mars and The Martian have paved the way for more nuanced discussions involving technology and sustainable living. Readers can look forward to new stories that push the boundaries of imagination while rooted in scientific principles. This evolution mirrors our journey toward potential manned missions to the Red Planet, capturing the excitement and uncertainty of what lies ahead. Final Thoughts on Mars in Science Fiction Science fiction books about Mars continue to inspire millions around the world. They challenge us to ponder our place in the universe and the possibilities that await us on the Red Planet. From exploring the ethical implications of colonization to highlighting the resilience of the human spirit, these narratives serve as both cautionary tales and hopeful visions of the future. For those interested in exploring Mars further, consider reading works like Bradbury's The Martian Chronicles or Weir's The Martian . These stories not only entertain but also encourage readers to think critically about humanity's future among the stars. To explore more about The Martian Chronicles , check out the mars chronicles book . The journey through science fiction provides us with insights, hopes, and dreams – all while keeping our eyes on the heavens.

You are reading Scene 6 of Icarus , a novel unfolding within The Mars Chronicles —an epic story of the first human settlements on Mars. After a covert convoy left Minos Settlement to assist the collapsing Russian outpost , one truth became clear: official orders no longer hold absolute power. On a planet where silence is safety, and cooperation is forbidden, the settlers must rely on unspoken pacts and hidden passageways. This scene brings you behind the closed doors of Minos, where engineers and leaders quietly negotiate the future of the hush-hush highway—a secret chain of carved shelters used by rival factions, yet acknowledged by none. Conference Module, Minos Settlement – Mars, Interior   Mars Year 73, Sol 125 The soft flicker of overhead lighting danced across the polished surface of the compact conference table, reflecting yet another glitch in the colony’s power distribution grid. David noted the stutter with mild irritation. They had so little time left before the Twin Minds’ shift ended and the system refreshed its database—triggering automatic synchronization with Earth via quantum entanglement. Every minute counted. He scanned the small group clustered inside the narrow conference room. Five in total—engineers, logistics leads, a geologist, and Lena, fresh off the covert cargo run. The walls were lined with half-unrolled blueprints and pinned datapads, giving the space the feel of a makeshift war room. The door hissed shut behind them, muffling the steady hum of the corridor ventilation. Susan Morgan in the Conference Room At the head of the table stood Susan Morgan—a tall, sharp-moving American woman—her fingers tapping rapidly across a digital screen. Her red hair matched the Martian backdrop almost perfectly, and she never missed a chance to highlight that, often wearing pressure-rated indoor suits in shades that complemented her hair—a hybrid between jumpsuit and EVA gear. Officially, she oversaw maintenance scheduling. In practice, she coordinated most of the colony’s covert expansion projects. Her deep blue eyes darted anxiously across the display, and the tension in her shoulders betrayed that she was far more on edge than usual. “Well,” she began, sweeping her gaze across the group, “we’ve made some progress with the chain of carved shelters. Still a low-tech footprint, minimal activity signature—that’s the goal. Only one new development—” she paused, then zoomed in on a fresh map, “—it looks like the Chinese outpost is using some of our sites. Or at least someone on their side is stashing spare parts there.” A ripple of surprise and caution passed through the room. David felt a conflicted sense of relief—cooperation, in theory, was a good thing. But no one truly trusted the Chinese outpost’s intentions. Ravi Malhotra, a stocky logistics engineer, swiped through the central display’s data. “Two Chinese-manufactured containers were found at Post A–14,” he reported. “The Russians confirmed the Chinese left them there. It’s... unexpected. We’re still trying to figure out if it was an official op—or if a few of their engineers are playing the same game we are.” Dr. Valentina Martinez, the curly-haired geologist, tapped on a topographic overlay. “We’ve also found additional traffic traces near the shelters past T–4. The tracks come in from the Chinese side. We discovered an abandoned rover last week—someone was clearly seeking shelter. They left behind a half-broken servo arm. Used the post, then dragged themselves out. Looks like a silent agreement: no one confiscates, no one asks questions.” David stood at the back, arms crossed—observing, trying to read the room. They were worried—but there was something else in the air, something cautiously optimistic. If their biggest rival was cooperating in silence, maybe that was a sign. Still, he knew how fragile the balance was. One order from Earth—or Beijing—and the Chinese could shut the entire route down. Lena, seated at the edge of the table, twirled a stylus between her fingers. Her eyes moved quickly around the room, practically reading the subtext in everyone’s posture. “Meanwhile, the Russians are still balancing on the edge of survival,” she said. “Their last message said they found Chinese medical supplies in one of the carved shelters.” She paused, took a breath. “None of it was labeled. None of it shows up in official inventories. The Russians are grateful—but nervous. If Earth Command finds out, it could easily be framed as espionage—or worse.” Susan nodded, lips pressed into a tight line. “We’re all rowing the same boat,” she said. “The Chinese outpost is probably just as paranoid as we are, afraid their own central authority will shut everything down. The Europeans... well, we know how they prefer minimal fuss. They’re sending supplies quietly, but it’s obvious they don’t want this turning into a public scandal. They’re treating it purely as a humanitarian gesture—but they’re keeping their distance. From both us and the Chinese.” David cleared his throat, deciding to step into the conversation. “That’s the beauty of this layered approach, isn’t it? It’s a fallback to the Stone Age if everything else fails. No flashy construction to trip the system’s alarms—just low-profile, modular infrastructure. If—or when—the Chinese engineers or the Europeans want to scale up their involvement, we can snap extra tech into place. But we’re not relying on that. We don’t need a formal ‘agreement’—unspoken usage is enough.” Ravi leaned back, arms crossed. “So, this is what it all comes down to? A silent chain of carved shelters used by the whole planet—but officially doesn’t exist? Sure, it’s great in an emergency... but what if Chinese leadership orders a blockade tomorrow?” Susan tapped the display, highlighting potential expansion nodes. “Then we proceed with caution. We don’t have the resources for anything flashy anyway—which is actually a benefit. Less chance of exposure. We expand the shelter network, cache supplies, maybe add a few basic passive signal markers. Hold back the advanced systems until we see how Chinese command reacts.” Valentina jumped in, brow furrowed. “And what if Earth Command or the Chinese outpost trace those expansions back to us? We’re ahead right now, but if they start digging, the logs won’t match official inventory.” Lena leaned forward, arms folded, her voice deliberate. “We have plausible deniability—that’s the point. No one’s bragging about these carved stations—us, the Russians, and especially not the Chinese. Everyone has a stake in keeping this quiet. No one wants it to blow up—so it won’t, unless we screw up.” She paused, then turned toward Valentina, something resolute sparking in her eyes. “And if Minos Central does flag anomalies, what will they find? Truck races. Resources ‘lost’ in a demolition-style derby, half-shredded rover vehicles ‘gone missing.’ They'll chalk it up to reckless entertainment. They won’t dig deeper if they think we’re just covering for rule-breaking kids.” David remained at the back, arms folded, the tension curling in his gut like acid. On one hand, the quiet, multi-settlement use of these carved-out posts was proof that some form of real cooperation existed—the best-case scenario he’d secretly hoped for. But the fragility of the political balance still pressed in on him like a weight. Susan flipped to the final slide. “Immediate tasks: we need structural foam and anchor fittings for the next site, near Sector T–5. Dr. Martinez says the soil is stable. Ravi, you're pulling materials from the greenhouse expansion, right?” Ravi nodded calmly. “I’ll handle it... carefully. Let’s not move too many crates at once.” A soft beep echoed from the hallway. The Twin Mind was nearing the end of its greenhouse calibration—meaning corporate surveillance systems would soon resume free scanning. Everyone in the room exchanged glances. “All right,” Susan said, powering down the display. “Time to scatter. Keep your eyes open. If Chinese leadership changes its tone, we adapt. But until something shifts, the ‘hush-hush highway’ stays exactly where it is.” The group began to disperse. The engineers grabbed their datapads, Dr. Martinez took a stack of survey forms, and Lena quietly slipped the stylus into her pocket. David was the last to linger, casting a look around the dimly lit chamber. The air practically hummed with tension. They’re all in, he thought—but none of them truly trusts the Chinese outpost. Or their own superiors. Or me. And yet—that very mutual distrust was what created the secrecy that kept these escape routes alive. He allowed himself the hint of a private smile. If these carved-out stations were already prompting quiet cooperation between outposts, maybe the entire plan was more viable than anyone dared say out loud. Pushing the thought aside, he stepped into the corridor—ready to face whatever new challenge this fragile alliance might bring next. Related posts: If you want more of the story… → Characters  - Characters Distress Call to Earth  - Distress Call from Vostok Station | The Mars Chronicles The story of Elena Markova's arrival on Mars  - More Chronicles If you want to go deeper into the world… → Beneath Vostok: The Anatomy of a Martian Mine  - Beneath Vostok: Inside a Martian Mining Operation What Brought Down Vostok Station? - Collapse of Vostok Station: How Dust Brought Down a Martian Greenhouse Breathe Carefully: How Airlocks Shape Life and Death on Mars  - Airlocks on Mars: Survival, Stations, and the Thin Line Between Life and Death | The Mars Chronicles The TY-C9 “Long March Mule”: China's Modular Martian Transport Beast  - TY-C9 “Long March Mule” – Modular Martian Transport Truck

You are reading Scene 7 of Icarus , a novel unfolding within The Mars Chronicles —an epic story of the first human settlements on Mars. As covert missions unfold on the red planet, Earth is anything but still. While brave crews push the limits of survival across Martian outposts , those left behind fight their own battles—through politics, strategy, and the quiet burden of distance. This scene takes you to Manhattan, where one voice reaches across millions of miles to reconnect with those risking everything on another world. In the vast silence between Earth and Mars, sometimes resolve speaks louder than distance. Planet Earth – New York, Manhattan.   Mars Year 73, Sol 125 A small trail of condensation slid down the curved glass of Emily Everhart’s panoramic window. Her gaze followed its path across the backdrop of New York’s futuristic skyline. Manhattan still pulsed beneath the woven lattice of air traffic threading the sky. Patterns of light danced across the minimalist furniture, reflected off the surface of solar drones drifting overhead. Emily ran her fingers along the edge of her polished metal desk—a habitual gesture that helped anchor her in the present. She took a deep breath and touched the embedded wall display. The screen buzzed to life and, after a short delay, David’s face appeared—leaner, dust-streaked, but with the same steady confidence in his eyes. Behind him, the pale light of the Martian habitation module stood in stark contrast to Emily’s sun-drenched Manhattan penthouse. She leaned in, as if proximity could bridge the distance. Emily and David Everhart “David, can you see me clearly?” she asked, forcing a touch of cheer into her voice. “Yes, Em. Loud and clear,” David replied. The signal crackled slightly—a reminder of the massive distance between them, linked only by the Twin Minds’ quantum-entanglement tech, which enabled real-time communication. The American outpost was still the only one on Mars equipped with it. For a moment, Emily was overwhelmed by the thought: I should have been there with him. If the doctors hadn’t disqualified her due to radiation risk—if she hadn’t failed the colony’s medical screening—she never would’ve let David and Ian leave without her. She straightened in her seat, tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulder. She had to remind herself—she had her own frontline here: salvaging David’s reputation back at Minos HQ. “Listen,” she began, adjusting the camera slightly. “I spoke with Warrick again at Minos—he’s the only one still taking my calls. He says if the mining metrics hold and we frame the comms right; the board might reconsider your position.” David’s face tightened—he tried to hide it, but Emily knew the signs. That quiet frustration he always felt whenever politics came up. “Warrick’s always been friendlier than the rest,” David admitted. “But I’m not betting on corporate spin to fix anything. The numbers speak for themselves.” Emily exhaled softly. Why can’t he see that you have to play the game? “You know how this works, David. They want to feel like they’re in control. If you’d let them take more credit for the Labyrinth Project back in New York—” David cut her off—firm, but not unkind. “We’ve been through this. It wasn’t about keeping the credit for myself. It was about—” Emily pressed her lips together, swallowing the rest of her reply. “Okay, okay,” she said gently. “I just... I still believe if you showed them you’re a team player, it could open doors. You’re the man who stopped the flood in New York. Everyone at Minos—and in government—knows that. But you stepped on too many toes along the way…” David’s gaze drifted to the side. Behind him, the Martian dust swirled red against the pale sky. “I don’t regret standing up for what was right,” he said. “And I won’t let them own me now, either.” That same pride—what made Emily love him, and what made her constantly worry about him. A long silence settled between them. Emily chose to shift the subject. “How’s Ian?” she asked. “He writes so rarely. Must be busy.” At the mention of their son, David’s expression softened. “He’s doing great. You know how he is—always diving into new tech, pushing the limits. If there’s one thing I worry about, it’s that I have to remind him sometimes: Mars doesn’t forgive like Earth does.” Emily smiled, though a quiet storm of concern still swirled beneath it. “He’s just like you,” she said gently. “That stubbornness... I just don’t want him taking risks he can’t come back from. Mars is so—” “Dangerous. I know,” David interrupted, voice soft. “I’m watching him. Trust me.” Emily nodded. She wished she could reach through the screen and take his hand. The lights of Manhattan sparkled in the reflection on the glass, bathed in southern sunlight—so far removed from the red dust storms battering David’s outpost. Sometimes it felt like the universe itself had torn their family apart. “All right,” she said, clearing her throat. “I’ll keep pressing Warrick. Maybe we can secure a hearing with the board. If they see the new data, maybe...” David exhaled. “Do what you think will help, Em. If you believe it matters, go ahead. Just... be careful who you trust.” His voice faded slightly, as if exhaustion had seeped into the space between his words. “I’ve got to go. The colony’s comms window is closing.” Emily tried to inject a note of warmth into her voice. “Take care of yourself, David. And... tell Ian I miss you both terribly.” A faint, rare smile touched David’s face. “I will. You take care too.” Emily held her breath as the screen went dark. The silence of the penthouse pressed in around her—a raw reminder of just how far away David truly was. For a moment, she allowed the warmth of hope to pass through her: a vision of reunion, of a life free from corporate chains flickering in her mind. But then the moment vanished, like a thread pulled loose. Her gaze drifted across the polished floor and stopped at the comms panel. If David believes he can carry the burden alone—so be it. I’ll fight my part too. With a firm motion, she pressed a button on the desk. The display lit up and connected to the Minos Corporation line. Emily’s heart beat faster—each ring stoked the fire of her resolve. “I’d like to speak with Warrick Hargrove,” she said. Her voice was steadier than she felt. A series of tones echoed through the quiet apartment. Outside, an air barge drifted between the towers, its lights dancing across the glass. Emily’s jaw tightened. Enough waiting. Enough of David bearing every risk alone up there on Mars. If bargaining, navigating egos, and massaging corporate pride was her role in this, then so be it—she’d do it without hesitation, no matter who she had to push past. Finally, a click—and static. The line came alive. Emily inhaled sharply. She straightened, ready to charge headfirst into the machinery of bureaucracy. “Warrick? This is Emily Everhart. We need to talk—right now.” Her reflection stared back at her in the glass, caught in the whirl of neon that spiraled through the city beyond. I will bring him home, she promised herself. No matter what it takes. Related posts: If you want more of the story… → Characters  - Characters Distress Call to Earth  - Distress Call from Vostok Station | The Mars Chronicles The story of Elena Markova's arrival on Mars  - More Chronicles If you want to go deeper into the world… → Beneath Vostok: The Anatomy of a Martian Mine  - Beneath Vostok: Inside a Martian Mining Operation What Brought Down Vostok Station? - Collapse of Vostok Station: How Dust Brought Down a Martian Greenhouse Breathe Carefully: How Airlocks Shape Life and Death on Mars  - Airlocks on Mars: Survival, Stations, and the Thin Line Between Life and Death | The Mars Chronicles The TY-C9 “Long March Mule”: China's Modular Martian Transport Beast  - TY-C9 “Long March Mule” – Modular Martian Transport Truck

You are reading Scene 5 of Icarus , a novel unfolding within The Mars Chronicles —an epic story of the first human settlements on Mars. Following the collapse of the Russian outpost , a desperate distress signal reached not only the Chinese base , but also the Americans. Bound by political rivalry and strict corporate orders, the American crew at Minos Settlement were explicitly forbidden from offering aid. But some lines can't be ignored. Now, under the radar of Earth Command and the ever-watchful Twin Minds, they must outsmart the system—risking everything to carry out a covert rescue mission. This scene takes you into the heart of that operation. Minos Corporation Outpost on Mars – Loading Ramp – Mars Year 73, Sol 125 “If you're going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don't even start.” —Charles Bukowski​ A dull metallic glint caught Lena Ryland’s attention—just a wrench, half-buried in the Martian dust near the loading gate. She bent down, picked it up, and wiped the oxide-streaked grime from its surface. Another reminder of how fast everything here could fall apart if they weren’t careful—especially now, with so many caravans swarming the region. At this hour, the loading bay was unusually busy. Crates were stacked along the wall, waiting to be loaded onto half-filled hover lifters. The plan was to dispatch each vehicle in order—officially logged as “maintenance runs,” “waste exports,” or, in the boldest lie of all: entries in an illegal Mad Max-style race. If Earth Command—or worse, the Twin Minds—dug too deep, they’d find plenty to question. But that was the idea: layer enough small lies to hide the real crime behind a lesser one. Lena Ryland at the Loading Bay of Minos Settlement David Everhart, the station’s operations director—a tall man with graying temples—stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching closely. Lena caught his eye; a single nod told her everything had passed final inspection. She looked down at her handheld interface and took control of the digital logs—making sure the Twin Minds wouldn’t see what was actually packed behind the crates. “ Just decommissioned caravans, ” she reminded herself. A reckless distraction—a minor offense Minos might be willing to overlook. In the distance, engines roared—the caravans were starting up outside. Mechanics flooded the concrete platform, some genuinely preparing for the “Mad Max” rally out on the plateau—a favorite (though banned) pastime of the younger outpost crew. Engineer Ian Everhart’s convoy—five linked trucks carrying unmarked cargo—waited quietly in the far corner. For Lena, that was the real mission: delivering critical supplies to the Russian station without Earth’s knowledge. Minos Corp had explicitly forbidden any involvement. But ignoring Vostok’s situation had felt impossible. And a well-timed diversion was worth more than a hundred permissions. Lena moved past a stack of crates. Each beep from her device—deliberately mislabeling the cargo—tightened the knot in her stomach. “Motor part scrap,” “broken sensors,” “deconstruction debris.” The display flicked through false entries—none of it true. She could almost hear the Twin Minds humming in the background. If they looked deep enough into these logs, they’d find the inconsistencies. The outpost had developed a layered system of half-truths and short-range pings to avoid detection. At least, that was the plan. Lena Ryland, David Everhart and Ian Everhart at the Loading Bay of Minos Settlement David stepped up beside her, speaking quietly. “All caravans ready to roll?” “Yes,” Lena nodded. “Three units are heading out ‘for the race’”—she tilted her head toward the noisy, shouting crowd checking steering rods—“and one’s officially registered as ‘waste transport.’ Ian’s. The log says he’s heading to Sector Nine—same place we used to run the test races. If the Twin Minds do a surface scan, they’ll see a pattern that looks clean.” A uniformed dockmaster approached, tablet in hand, half-shouting over the noise. “Dust conditions are unstable near Sector Seven—tell the drivers to ease off! And tone down those corporate logs, Ms Ryland. Last month’s ‘repairs’ already ate half our budget.” “Understood,” Lena replied with a tight smile. The dockmaster was already off, likely to wrangle the race caravans. Lena exhaled, then ran her palm across the control surface, finalizing the last round of route overrides. On the far side of the loading bay, Ian Everhart jumped down from the steps of the first cargo truck. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his movements full of momentum—he could’ve been a younger version of his father. A light stubble usually shadowed his jaw, and though he kept his wavy hair slicked back, it still seemed like something was always in motion around his head: fire, wind, energy. He never let it grow long, yet there was something unruly about it—just like him. Martian dust clung to his flight jacket, tracing every fold. That usual calm confidence settled around him—some called it arrogance. He gave Lena a half-wave, which she ignored. Most of the rumors about him were true: he had a near-mythical sense for Martian roads. Lena just hoped his luck would hold out—this time, it actually mattered. The engine noise surged. The Mad Max caravans rolled out first, launching toward the plateau in a storm of cheers and theatrical bravado. Behind them, Ian’s convoy began to move—quietly, unnoticed in the shadow of the chaos. Lena’s pulse hammered. She counted five trucks—each packed with falsely labeled crates: medical gear, food rations, engineering kits. Emergency shelters had been mapped along the route—just in case a storm hit. David leaned in and spoke in a low voice. “It’s all set. Minos will only see noise.” He gave Lena a weighted look. “Hold your ground. This matters more than a slap from Central.” Lena nodded, almost imperceptibly, then stepped back and put on her suit just as the upper hatch began to creak open. She was young, decisive, and fast wired for Mars. There was a constant order in the strands of hair framing her face—smooth, shoulder-length, falling in near-perfect parallel lines, as if they never lost track of one another. There was a strange harmony in that hair—like a signature written in its own language: invisible, yet recognizable from anywhere. The Martian wind hissed into the bay, curling dust around her ankles. The dockmaster waved the hidden convoy forward. One by one, the trucks rolled into the rust-colored half-light, headlights casting dim arcs through the dusty air. Ian Everhart’s lead vehicle brought up the rear, swallowed by swirling sand. Once they vanished, the gate slammed shut with a metallic boom, sealing off the storm-heavy world outside. The dock re-pressurized and fell into sudden silence. Only a few technicians remained, glancing at each other—an anxious thrill of victory flickering across their faces. They really believed they’d outsmarted the system. Lena stifled a shiver, then looked down at the console where the falsified logs were still running: “Vehicle 3 – Race Caravan Test.” She set down her controller, adrenaline still pulsing through her. The outpost had staked everything on using two wrongs—illegal races and unregistered transports—to conceal one deeper truth: saving the Russians from certain collapse. Outside, in the dying light, Ian was already en route on a journey that might take a week or more. Lena keyed in the final override, careful to ensure the route data would “align” with the official records stored back on Earth. Related posts: If you want more of the story… → Characters  - Characters Distress Call to Earth  - Distress Call from Vostok Station | The Mars Chronicles The story of Elena Markova's arrival on Mars  - More Chronicles If you want to go deeper into the world… → Beneath Vostok: The Anatomy of a Martian Mine  - Beneath Vostok: Inside a Martian Mining Operation What Brought Down Vostok Station? - Collapse of Vostok Station: How Dust Brought Down a Martian Greenhouse Breathe Carefully: How Airlocks Shape Life and Death on Mars  - Airlocks on Mars: Survival, Stations, and the Thin Line Between Life and Death | The Mars Chronicles The TY-C9 “Long March Mule”: China's Modular Martian Transport Beast - TY-C9 “Long March Mule” – Modular Martian Transport Truck

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 . Related posts: What brought down Vostok Station?  — Explore the chain of failures that sealed the fate of Mars’ easternmost outpost. Read the full breakdown » Distress Call to Earth - Distress Call from Vostok Station | The Mars Chronicles Understanding Martian Timekeeping - Understanding Martian Timekeeping | The Mars Chronicles

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. 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.” 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. Related posts: If you want more of the story… → Characters - Characters Distress Call to Earth  - Distress Call from Vostok Station | The Mars Chronicles The story of Elena Markova's arrival on Mars - More Chronicles If you want to go deeper into the world… → Beneath Vostok: The Anatomy of a Martian Mine - Beneath Vostok: Inside a Martian Mining Operation What Brought Down Vostok Station? - Collapse of Vostok Station: How Dust Brought Down a Martian Greenhouse Breathe Carefully: How Airlocks Shape Life and Death on Mars - Airlocks on Mars: Survival, Stations, and the Thin Line Between Life and Death | The Mars Chronicles

After three days of relentless travel across the Martian landscape, the Chinese rescue team arrived at the crumbling Vostok Outpost. Inside the emergency hangar, 72 survivors clung to life—isolated, wounded, and unsure if help would ever come. Tensions ran high as two worlds collided, but the visitors came not with threats, but with light, medicine, and the will to save. If you missed, you could read the previous scene here: Rescue at Vostok Outpost – A Tense First Contact on Mars Vostok Outpost on Mars – Mars Year 73, Sol 124 “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. His words echoed off the metallic floor beneath their feet. The Russian marines exchanged uncertain glances, their grips on their weapons loosening for a moment. Amid the tension, one figure stepped out from the line—a slender woman in oil-stained workwear, short dark hair clinging to her face. It was Elena Markova . Her face was carved with exhaustion and anxiety as she moved into the open. “Stand down! All of you!” she gasped in English. With a sharp motion, she signaled the soldiers to lower their weapons, then turned to face the Chinese group. Her voice trembled, but she held her ground. “I’m Elena Markova. Chief engineer… We need help. Please.” Dr. Huang Qian took that as her cue. She stepped forward from the Chinese formation, unlocked her helmet, and let the cold, stale air surround her. Switching to English, she spoke urgently: “I’m Dr. Huang Qian, from Tianyuan Base. Are there wounded in need of immediate care?” Elena nodded. Relief and tension warred visibly on her face. “Yes—at least twelve. Three are critical. This way.” She gestured firmly toward a cluster of field cots in the distance. Dr. Huang waved her medical team forward, who followed with heavy packs in tow. They didn’t wait for further clearance—moving silently into the dark, crowded hangar. The smell hit them immediately: sweat, blood, and stale, unventilated air. Canvas sheets hung from ropes to form makeshift partitions, offering scraps of privacy in the vast industrial space. More than seventy survivors lingered or huddled in corners—some attempting to repair old electronics under flickering lights, others handing out packets of dried food. The hangar was a maze of used cots and thermal blankets. A grim chill clung to the air—there was no central heating, only body warmth and faint trickles of power keeping the atmosphere barely breathable. “This way,” Elena said, leading Dr. Huang’s group. “We laid the worst cases near the remaining medical supplies.” The improvised medical area sat behind a sagging plastic divider. Weak lights revealed four or five cots, each occupied by a wounded person. A woman moaned in pain; her thigh wrapped in thick bandages. A gaunt man clutched his side, grimacing with every movement. Others—less severely injured—sat on supply crates or wandered aimlessly, cradling broken arms or shielding taped-up ribs. “Our oxygen supply is nearly gone…” the Russian doctor said hoarsely, turning to Dr. Huang. “Most of it was used during surgeries. Many died before we even had a chance to operate.” He gestured toward a nearby cot, where a man’s chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths. A bloody bandage wrapped tightly around his waist. Qian nodded, her eyes scanning the meager supplies. “We’ll set up a triage zone here. Who’s in the most critical condition?” “Him,” the doctor replied. “Internal bleeding. We have no imaging equipment, and no sterile instruments for surgery.” Qian’s gaze swept across the worn hangar, pausing on collapsed beds and dim corners. “This will be our surgical station,” she declared. “My team brought portable power—we’re not risking a connection to your grid.” One of the medics nodded and stepped back to retrieve the compact, battery-powered generator. The gleaming metal casing stood in stark contrast to the damaged Russian equipment around it. Elena Markova, still catching her breath, straightened up. “I held their hands as they died,” she said softly, more to herself than anyone else. “I told them help was coming.” She fell silent for a moment, then drew herself upright again—an engineer once more. “Either way, we’re going to make order on our end,” she said more firmly, casting a sharp look toward a few nearby settlers. “Move the beds to the wall. Crates to the back. I want at least ten meters of clear space here.” The Russians—clad in torn coveralls and worn boots—moved immediately. They rolled up bedding, tore down the makeshift sheets that had offered some semblance of privacy. Elena gave quick, purposeful directions, dragging an old storage cabinet herself. Overhead, the lights flickered—but the freshly powered Chinese generator hummed to life, casting steady illumination over the temporary surgical corner. Elena Markova and Dr. Huang Qian Dr. Huang turned to her medics—three figures in full suits, carrying advanced surgical modules. As the generator powered up, indicator lights flared to life on one of the suitcase-sized units. Another medic unfolded a sterile, collapsible tray and laid out gleaming instruments—their edges catching the beam of the lamp above. With a soft electronic hum, the surgical robot came to life: a slim, jointed arm designed for precise incisions, scanning the patient’s body with built-in sensors. “Activate sterilization protocol,” Dr. Huang said quietly but firmly. “We can’t risk infection. You”—she turned to one of her team— “assist with the anesthesia unit.” She pointed to a pale, semi-conscious man lying beside a pile of nearly depleted oxygen canisters. He clutched his bandaged abdomen, and each shallow breath showed signs of internal bleeding. Two Chinese medics carefully lifted him onto a freshly disinfected field cot, while the surgical robot extended its slim mechanical arm and performed a rapid vitals check. Meanwhile, the Russian doctors tended to the injured crammed between supply crates. One knelt beside an older woman, carefully wrapping a torn ligament on her arm. Another applied antibiotic ointment to a teenager’s scraped shin. The Chinese medical aides joined them, offering fresh bandages and portable diagnostic tools to ease the strain on the Russians’ depleted supplies. With quiet coordination, they cleaned, stitched, and stabilized the lesser wounds. Their presence alone—extra hands, calm and competent—soothed the injured. Elena moved nearby, issuing instructions to her own people. “Keep the area clear! No extra personnel in the zone.” She shoved a stray crate out of the way, eyes scanning the space to ensure the Chinese medics could work undisturbed. When someone approached her with a question, she gave clipped, efficient replies, constantly splitting her attention between the outpost’s urgent needs and the immediate demands of Dr. Huang’s team. “Anatoly, bring over those portable lamps,” she called to a passing Russian soldier. “Overhead lighting could fail any second.” The soldier gave a rigid nod and hurried off. Despite the tension and the dim, flickering light, Elena’s voice carried a warrior’s resolve. Dr. Huang looked up from her console and met Elena’s eyes. They exchanged a brief, nearly imperceptible nod—an acknowledgment of presence, of shared purpose. “We’re ready to proceed,” Dr. Huang announced, gently pressing a scanner to the patient’s chest. The surgical robot adjusted its arms with precise, fluid movements. A blue diode lit up near its head. “Internal bleeding in the lower abdominal region,” she said. “We need to open him now—or he won’t make it.” Elena nodded wordlessly, then motioned to the nearby Russians. “Everyone else, step back! We can’t risk contamination!” The onlookers—some curious, others worried—moved behind a hastily built barricade of crates. In the background, the wounded let out faint moans. What followed unfolded with near-silent precision. Dr. Huang gave a command to the surgical module, and the robotic arm pivoted smoothly, inserting a hair-thin injector with anesthetic. One Chinese medic stabilized the patient’s airway, while another prepared a sterile IV drip, watching the flow rate carefully. Elena remained at the edge of the zone, ensuring no one disrupted the operation. Even in the dim light, the robot’s cauterizing tip sparked visibly. The crisp beeping of sensors and the fluid grace of the robot’s movements only heightened the contrast between Dr. Huang’s cutting-edge tools and the outpost’s decaying surroundings. Silence deepened. The surgical robot hovered over the patient’s chest, guided by Dr. Huang’s calm, deliberate instructions. From her place at the perimeter, Elena watched with awe as these unexpected allies delivered what might be Vostok’s first real chance at survival. The surgical robot hovered over the patient’s chest, guided by Dr. Huang’s calm, deliberate instructions. With the help of the robotic system, Qian began the procedure. Almost unconsciously, as she sank fully into her work, she began to sing a soft Chinese children’s song behind her surgical mask—barely audible but steady. In the foul-smelling, dimly lit hangar—where the scent of makeshift latrines, stale sweat, and recycled air mixed into a metallic haze—two determined women worked side by side. One was a gifted Chinese physician using twenty-second-century technology to fight for a life. The other, a sharp-minded Russian engineer, was holding together the crumbling remains of a shattered outpost. Their collaboration was fragile, but real—a bridge between two worlds, forged in Vostok’s darkest hour. Related posts: If you want more of the story… → Characters  - Characters Distress Call to Earth  - Distress Call from Vostok Station | The Mars Chronicles The story of Elena Markova's arrival on Mars  - More Chronicles If you want to go deeper into the world… → Beneath Vostok: The Anatomy of a Martian Mine  - Beneath Vostok: Inside a Martian Mining Operation What Brought Down Vostok Station? - Collapse of Vostok Station: How Dust Brought Down a Martian Greenhouse Breathe Carefully: How Airlocks Shape Life and Death on Mars  - Airlocks on Mars: Survival, Stations, and the Thin Line Between Life and Death | The Mars Chronicles

The storm has passed—but trust is harder to rebuild. In the aftermath of the dramatic rescue at Vostok Outpost, Chinese engineers and medics work alongside the battered Russian crew in a landscape scarred by dust, wreckage, and political tension. What began as a mission of mercy now unfolds into a quiet power struggle, where every crate of supplies and every word exchanged carries the weight of history. Diplomacy meets survival outside the collapsed hangar, in a fragile silence where cooperation is necessary—but far from guaranteed. If you missed the earlier moments, catch up here: Rescue at Vostok Outpost – A Tense First Contact on Mars Vostok Outpost on Mars – Mars Year 73, Sol 124 Outside the half-collapsed emergency hangar, a dozen Chinese soldiers—in sleek black suits—worked shoulder to shoulder with the exhausted Russian survivors, unloading crates of supplies onto the dusty ground. The storm had faded into a cold breeze, but the station, cloaked in red dust, looked apocalyptic. Mangled metal littered the yard, and several Russian vehicles lay half-buried in the dunes. The sky above was a dull ochre-yellow, thick with remnants of the Martian dust storm. Zhang Wei , head of the Chinese technical unit, oversaw the unloading of portable generators and food crates, while some of his team surveyed damage to the external modules. In the distance, Major Anatoly Ivanov approached, wearing a battered pressure suit missing its chest plate, replaced by a crudely patched metal sheet. His stern face was lined with frustration and exhaustion. “Thank you for the support,” Ivanov said curtly, arms crossed. “But let’s get to the point, Engineer Wei. What’s this ‘rescue’ going to cost us?” “But let’s get to the point, Engineer Wei. What’s this ‘rescue’ going to cost us?” Zhang Wei had just adjusted a pallet when he turned around, posture stiff. Behind the dark visor of his helmet, a flicker of irritation crossed his face. “My directive is clear: assess the situation, save lives. Nothing more. There are no conditions,” he said, his voice calm and measured. Ivanov gave a half-smile. “Sure. Just like when you ‘helped’ yourselves to Siberia. What is it now—two-thirds of our station?” He took a step closer, voice dropping to a whisper, though it carried a sharper edge. “We both know how these so-called humanitarian missions work.” Zhang Wei didn’t respond immediately. His gaze swept across the debris-strewn yard. In the background, a pair of technicians worked to revive a twisted vehicle chassis. A slight Chinese engineer stood shoulder to shoulder with a grizzled Russian mechanic, gesturing over a set of clogged water filtration pipes. “We’re not interested in your territory,” he said quietly at last. “We saw the distress call . We came. And seeing how bad things are here—if necessary, we can organize an evacuation. It’ll take several trips, but it can be done... gradually.” Ivanov’s eyes burned. “So, the plan is to empty out the station? Haul everyone off until nothing’s left?” He raised his chin, staring directly into the dark lens of Zhang Wei’s helmet. “Let’s speak plainly. This station is on Russian soil.” Zhang Wei’s jaw tightened. He inhaled deeply before replying, steady as ever. “We brought generators. Medical gear. Water supplies. They’re over there—you can see them,” he gestured toward the sealed crates. “We’re leaving it all behind. That should keep you going for a month. If things get worse, and you need help again, you know how to contact us. Or you can keep waiting for Moscow.” A bitter smile flickered across Ivanov’s lips. “Moscow is coming,” he said, more to himself than to Zhang. Not far away, a Chinese engineer hammered a broken airlock hinge back into place while two Russians held it steady. The scene stood in surreal contrast to the icy dialogue—a tableau of tense diplomacy and practical cooperation. Chinese supply drones zipped down the truck ramps with practiced efficiency, scattering crates across the dusty ground. A few Russian survivors carefully guided them around the wreckage. Farther off, Chinese specialists helped clear jagged panels from the collapsed greenhouse frame. Ivanov stood with arms crossed, posture rigid as the biting cold. “You do realize,” he said, his voice colder than the Martian wind, “we didn’t ask for your help. We owe you nothing—no matter how pathetic this place might look now.” “We’ll remember,” Zhang Wei replied with a brief nod. He turned to his team. Dust swirled around their feet as they completed the final tasks—checking the manifests, securing a backup generator that, if used carefully, could keep life support systems running for a few more weeks. Silence fell over the yard—a working silence, heavy with mutual distrust. Both sides did what had to be done. A few hours later, the engines of the Chinese trucks roared to life. Zhang Wei signaled his team: time to move. The farewell was neither warm nor final. Ivanov stood motionless, arms folded, watching as the last of the equipment was offloaded. The icy wind stole their voices, but the tension lingered—burned into the swirling red dust. Related posts: If you want more of the story… → Characters  - Characters Distress Call to Earth  - Distress Call from Vostok Station | The Mars Chronicles The story of Elena Markova's arrival on Mars  - More Chronicles If you want to go deeper into the world… → Beneath Vostok: The Anatomy of a Martian Mine  - Beneath Vostok: Inside a Martian Mining Operation What Brought Down Vostok Station? - Collapse of Vostok Station: How Dust Brought Down a Martian Greenhouse Breathe Carefully: How Airlocks Shape Life and Death on Mars  - Airlocks on Mars: Survival, Stations, and the Thin Line Between Life and Death | The Mars Chronicles

Mars has captivated the human imagination for centuries, inspiring countless stories, poems, and novels. From early observations of the red planet to the latest discoveries from Mars rovers, literature has mirrored our fascination with this celestial neighbor. In this blog post, we will delve into the world of Mars in literature, highlighting key works, themes, and their cultural impact. A collection of intriguing sci-fi novels about Mars. Mars Literature When we think of Mars in literature, several iconic works often come to mind. One of the pioneering authors in this genre is Edgar Rice Burroughs, who introduced readers to his vivid and fantastical vision of Mars in the “John Carter” series. The first book, "A Princess of Mars," published in 1912, presents a tale of adventure, romance, and warfare on the Martian landscape. Burroughs’ Mars is vibrant, filled with exotic creatures and civilizations. His imagination paved the way for future writers to explore the planet in various ways, ranging from utopian societies to dystopian conflicts. This expansive imagination continues with authors like Ray Bradbury. His celebrated collection, "The Martian Chronicles," presents a series of interconnected stories that explore the colonization of Mars and its clash with native Martians. Cover of the first book in the John Carter series, showcasing Mars's captivating allure. Key Themes in Mars Literature Throughout Mars literature, several recurring themes emerge that resonate with readers: Colonization and Exploration : A common theme involves humanity's desire to explore and conquer new worlds. Many narratives detail the colonization of Mars, portraying both the excitement of discovery and the ethical dilemmas of displacing indigenous species. Bradbury's "The Martian Chronicles" brilliantly captures this conflict, illustrating both the beauty and tragedy of colonization. Isolation and Alienation : Another prevalent theme is the feeling of isolation experienced by characters on Mars. Whether it is the lonely astronaut in Andy Weir’s "The Martian" or the displaced settlers in Bradbury's stories, characters grapple with isolation in a hostile environment. Their journeys often reflect broader human emotions and the quest for connection. Environmental Reflection : Mars, once thought to host lush forests and flourishing life, is often depicted as both a mirror and a warning for Earth's environmental issues. Stories about Mars serve as allegories for the fragility of ecosystems, inviting readers to contemplate their relationship with the planet. Science and Technology : Scientific advancements and technology play a crucial role in Mars literature. Works like "The Martian" showcase the ingenuity and resourcefulness of humans as they navigate the challenges of survival on the red planet. The integration of real scientific principles and plausible technology enhances the realism in these stories. These themes resonate on various levels, prompting readers to reflect on humanity's relationship with exploration, ethical encounters, and environmental stewardship. Imaginary depiction of Mars landscape, filled with red soil and stunning geological features. What Age is The Martian Chronicles Appropriate For? Ray Bradbury’s "The Martian Chronicles" presents thought-provoking themes that can engage readers across age groups. However, it’s particularly suitable for young adults and older readers, typically ages 12 and up. The intricacies of colonization, loss, and cultural interactions may be better appreciated by a more mature audience. For Ages 12-16 : Pre-teens and teenagers will benefit from understanding its allegorical meanings. It can serve as an excellent introduction to discussions about ethics, society, and the consequences of humanity's actions. For Ages 17 and Above : Older readers can delve deeper into the philosophical questions raised in the text and appreciate the nuanced storytelling that Bradbury masterfully crafts. Encouraging discussion around these topics can enrich the reading experience. Whether in classrooms or book clubs, "The Martian Chronicles" can spark meaningful conversations about humanity, technology, and environmental issues. Mars in Contemporary Literature As technology has progressed and our understanding of Mars has evolved, contemporary literature has also begun exploring the planet from new angles. For instance, authors like Kim Stanley Robinson have contributed significantly to the genre with his "Mars Trilogy." This series intricately delves into the terraforming of Mars. Robinson's works blend scientific realism with profound social and political themes, reflecting current concerns about climate change and the future of humanity. Another noteworthy book is "Red Mars," a gripping narrative that tackles the scientific challenges of making Mars habitable while dealing with the political intricacies of colonization. These contemporary stories balance imaginative storytelling with scientific integrity, inspiring readers to envision a future where humans may one day inhabit Mars. A visionary concept of a future city on Mars, showcasing advanced structures and technology. Recommendations for Exploring Mars Literature If you’re eager to explore the world of Mars in literature, here are some recommendations for starting your journey: Classic Works : Begin with classics like "A Princess of Mars" by Edgar Rice Burroughs and "The Martian Chronicles" by Ray Bradbury. These foundational texts set the tone for the genre and offer insightful glimpses into the human psyche. Modern Exploration : Look into contemporary works like Kim Stanley Robinson’s "Mars Trilogy" and Andy Weir's "The Martian." These stories combine thrilling narratives with plausible science, taking readers on significant explorative journeys. Anthologies and Collections : Consider anthologies that feature various stories about Mars, showcasing diverse voices and interpretations, like "Mars is Ours: A Collection of Stories from the Red Planet." Graphic Novels : Explore graphic novels and illustrated books that depict Mars in vivid imagery, such as "The Martian" graphic adaptation. Visual storytelling can add a new dimension to the exploration of the red planet. Engaging with different formats and styles will deepen your appreciation for literary representations of Mars. The Impact of Mars Literature on Society The influence of Mars literature extends beyond entertainment. These tales often resonate with readers, shaping public perception and interest in space exploration. As writers depict Mars’ landscape, challenges, and possibilities, they also inspire curiosity about our own planet and the universe. Mars literature invites people to ponder questions such as: What does it mean to be human? How do we balance exploration with ethical considerations? As more people read these works, they contribute to a broader dialogue about humanity's future. In conclusion, literature about Mars has evolved significantly over the years. From early adventures to sophisticated discussions of culture and technology, these narratives captivate readers with their imaginative possibilities. The interplay between human experience and the Martian landscape encourages reflection and exploration, solidifying Mars’s position as a timeless subject in literature. Whether you are a seasoned reader of Mars stories or just starting your journey, these works will undoubtedly inspire you to think more deeply about our relationship with other worlds. As you explore the fascinating world of Mars in literature, consider checking out resources like the mars chronicles for more insights and recommendations.

Name : Mikhail "Misha" Volkov Date of Birth : May 5, 2034 Place of Birth : Volgograd, Russia Position : Veteran Miner, Vostok Outpost Previous Occupation : Naval Infantryman (Russian Federation Navy) Mars Arrival : 2073 (aged 38) From the ashes of one war to the dust of another. Misha Volkov was born into a crumbling century. By the time he turned twenty, the world was already leaning into another war — and he went with it, almost without question. Drafted into the Russian Navy's ground forces, Misha served under the command of Major Anatoly Ivanov during the brutal final campaigns of the EU–Russia conflict. He was not a strategist.Not a leader. He was a soldier in the purest sense: a man who moved forward when others stopped, whose strength was not in words or plans, but in silent endurance. When the war ended in ruins and treaties signed in smoke, there was no home waiting for him. Volgograd’s industrial sprawl — once proud shipyards and factories — had collapsed into a patchwork of shelters and scavengers. Veterans like Misha, too old to be new, too young to be forgotten, flooded the streets. Many found their way into gangs, into bottle fires under broken bridges.Misha found his way to Mars. Or rather, Mars found him — in the form of a single offer from the man he once saluted. Ivanov, now a senior figure in the early colonization efforts, offered him a contract: work the mines of Vostok, or vanish into Earth’s forgotten corners. Misha signed without hesitation. In 2073, he stepped onto Martian soil, a man already carved hollow by one planet, now offering himself to another. The Miner No Machine Could Replace At Vostok, machines outnumbered men.Massive drilling rigs, automated transports, modular refineries — they did the heavy lifting, but they couldn't survive Mars without constant hands to guide and repair them. Misha became one of those hands. In the thin, bitter air of the red planet, he fought new battles: replacing frozen cables by hand at minus 70 Celsius, realigning fission drills while vibrations rattled bone, wrestling half-ton mineral cages because the robots were too delicate to trust. Every kilo he carried was a battle not just for production, but for the survival of his own body. Gravity on Mars is treacherous — without the burden of work, muscles waste away. Misha did not allow himself to waste. Not on Earth. Not here. When others exercised on treadmills and rubber-band contraptions, Misha simply pushed harder at the rock face. He didn’t lift weights. He lifted the world that refused to carry him. A Quiet King Without a Crown Among his own crew — the “Zeta shift,” a ragged but fiercely loyal circle of miners — Misha’s authority was absolute. He was not formally promoted. No titles, no stripes. But in the way others fell silent when he stood, in the way they checked his glance before making a decision — it was clear. Misha Volkov was their backbone. Outside his crew, he was treated with wary respect. To the untrained eye, Misha might have seemed just another battered miner. But the veterans knew. He carried the brittle calm of those who had seen death too closely, too many times. Misha lived under an unspoken code: Protect your own. Stand until you fall. Ask nothing. Expect nothing. It was not kindness that shaped him. It was loyalty — the pure, dangerous kind that makes men invincible in battle and unapproachable in peace. He was, and remains, a figure others orbit carefully: a relic of old wars who chose to stay when so many chose to leave. "Не важно, кто что болтает. Важно, кто на ногах стоит." "Don’t matter what ya say. Matters who's still standin'." — Misha Volkov Disclaimer:   All characters, events, and storylines presented on this website are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to real persons, living or deceased, is purely coincidental. Visual representations of characters were created using AI-generated imagery and are intended solely for illustrative purposes.

Orosz Előőrs a Marson – 73. Marsi év, 121. sol (A „Mars-év 73, 121. sol” a vörös bolygón használt időszámítás szerinti dátum. A marsi évszámok kezdete 1955. április 11-re esik – ekkor indult a tavasz az északi féltekén, és ezt a napot tekinti a tudományos közösség a Mars-időszámítás kiindulópontjának. Egy marsi év (vagyis egy „Mars-év”) körülbelül 687 földi napig tart. A „sol” kifejezés a Marson eltelt napokat jelöli, melyek kissé hosszabbak, mint a földi napok: egy sol nagyjából 24 óra 39 perc. A 121. sol tehát a 73. Mars-év 121. marsi napját jelenti. A Mars-év 73 nagyjából a földi 2091–2092-es évnek felel meg. ) Tompa zümmögés töltötte be a Vosztok állomás szűk irányító modulját – az orosz marsi előőrsét, amely bizonytalanul kapaszkodott a vörös bolygó porral borított felszínébe. A vibráló fénycsövek alig világították meg az elöregedett vezérlőpaneleket és a falakon futó, javítgatott vezetékek kusza hálózatát. Több monitor – néhány repedt, mások epoxival és műanyag fóliával ügyetlenül összetákolva – meteorológiai adatokat villogtatott. A levegőt állott oxigén és az égett áramkörök keserű szaga lengte be. Az orosz Vosztok állomás a marson, közvetlenül a vihar előtt A marsi por egészen más volt, mint amit a Földön ismertek – elektrosztatikusan töltött, mikroszkopikus szemcsékből áll, amelyek beszivárogtak a tömítéseken át, beültek minden résbe, és úgy tapadtak minden felületre, mint egy élő vírus. Évtizedek alatt ez a por beette magát az üvegház polimer illesztéseibe és alumínium merevítéseibe, belülről gyengítve az egész szerkezetet. A szűrők túlterhelődtek, a szigetelések elvékonyodtak. És most, a Vosztok történetének legmagasabb mért por-koncentrációja mellett, az építmény úgy állt a viharban, mint egy papír dóm egy homokfúvó előtt. Elena Markova, az állomás vezető mérnöke, a fő meteorológiai panel fölé hajolt. Harmincas évei végén járt, testét az évek kemény munkája véste vékony, szívós formára. Sötétszőke haját hátratűzte, bár makacs tincsek így is kibomlottak a füle körül. Összeráncolt homlokkal bökdöste a ragacsos billentyűzetet, próbálta rávenni a lomha kijelzőt, hogy frissítse az adatokat. Fölötte a lámpák megremegtek — néma figyelmeztetés: egyetlen zárlat, és sötétség borul rájuk. – Gyerünk már, te vacak ócskavas… csak töltsd be a következő ciklust – morogta az orra alatt. Halk zümmögés hallatszott, aztán végre felvillant a kijelzőn a marsi légköri porindex-görbe. Először úgy tűnt, csak kisebb porvihar közeleg. Aztán a számok hirtelen megugrottak – a részecskesűrűség és az előre jelzett időtartam szinte függőleges ívben szöktek felfelé. A képernyő alján piros riasztási sávok kezdtek kúszni, jelezve, hogy a vihar akár napokig is eltarthat, és a látótávolság közelít a nullához. Elena megnyomott egy billentyűt, hogy kiszűrje az esetleges hibákat, de a piros sávok csak tovább erősödtek. Ösztönösen oldalra fordította a fejét, és kinézett a poros, karcos ablakon. A távoli ködben, a szürkésvörös fátyol mögött alig kivehető alakok mozogtak az üvegház falánál. A munkások – akik napok óta erősítették a szerkezetet, minden szabad percüket erre áldozva. Ez már rég nem karbantartás volt. Az egyetlen ok, amiért a kupola még nem omlott össze, az volt, hogy ezek az emberek – könyökükön kötés, tüdejükben por – szó szerint testükkel tartották egyben. – Rosszabb, mint hittük… nagyobb, mint az előző – suttogta Elena remegő hangon. Mögötte, olajfoltos overallban, Pyotr Sokolov – az állomás szoftvermérnöke – hunyorogva bámulta a másodlagos monitort. Amikor az lefagyott, dühében rácsapott az oldalára. – Ez nem csak nagyobb! Ez már kívül esik a skálán. Ha telibe kap minket, semmi biztonsági tartalékunk nincs. Elena átkapcsolt egy másodlagos meteorológiai műhold jelére. A kiöregedett egység dadogva küldte a sorokat: por-koncentráció, hőmérsékletzuhanás, légköri nyomás – köztük statikus zörejek, sérült adatkódok. – A régi kínai műholdak csak részben értelmezhető adatokat küldenek... de amit le tudunk olvasni: ez a vihar napokig is eltarthat. Elena letörölte a homlokát, és halkan káromkodott. Nem is nézte, hallja-e Pyotr – csak épp elég hangosan mondta: – Nincs elég energiacellánk, hogy addig zárva maradjunk. A központi akkumulátor már félig lemerült, és alig van hűtőfolyadék a reaktorhoz. A következő pillanatban figyelmeztető hangjelzés hasított a vezérlőkamrába, rekedten nyöszörgött a megviselt hangszóróból. Pár másodpercig vijjogott, aztán hirtelen elhallgatott – mintha maga a rendszer sem tudná eldönteni, jelezzen-e vagy inkább egyszerűen feladja. Misha Volkov, egy fiatal bányász, aki épp egy felszíni térképet tanulmányozott, kiegyenesedett a sarokban álló székből, ahol jelentések és nyomtatványok hevertek szétszórva. Az a fajta reményteli optimizmus, ami korábban még a legkiégettebb veteránoknak is erőt adott, most megingott, ahogy a vészjósló adatsorok végiggördültek a képernyőn. – Ha olyan erős, mint amit a grafikon mutat… – kezdte remegő hangon. – Az üvegházi kupolánk nem fogja kibírni. Tavaly a repedéseket sem javítottuk meg rendesen… csak kiöntöttük epoxival, meg leragasztottuk szigetelőszalaggal. – A por nyomást fejt ki a csatlakozásokban – tette hozzá komoran Misha. – Elzárja a szellőzőket, bent reked a hő, és a belső levegő egyenetlenül tágul. Ha a vihar túl gyorsan éri el a szerkezetet – bumm. Nem reped meg, hanem szétrobban. Elena a homlokát dörzsölte, szemmel láthatóan feszült volt. – Négy éve nem kaptunk új alkatrészt – morgott, utalva Moszkva be nem tartott ígéreteire. – Erősített tartószerkezetet kértünk, friss polimerlemezeket... És mit kaptunk? Egy rakás bürokratikus maszlagot. Pyotr, a szoftvermérnök, száraz nevetést hallatott. – Olcsóbb, ha itt halunk meg. A közeli konzol rekedten pittyegett, mintha egyetértene. Az elöregedett vezérlőrendszer lassan újabb adatokat pötyögött ki a kijelzőre: pusztító porviharok söpörtek végig a Mars északi féltekéjén. A többi kolóniából érkező rádiójelek gyengék voltak, recsegtek, szakadoztak. – Ha elveszítjük az üvegházat, elveszítjük az egyetlen friss élelemforrásunkat – mondta halkan Misha. – A vízkészletünk már most is alacsony… ha a vihar letarolja a napelemeket, a szűrőrendszer is leállhat. Elena kemény pillantást vetett rá. – Azt tesszük, amit tudunk. Lezárjuk az alsó folyosókat, lekapcsolunk minden nem létfontosságú rendszert. És imádkozunk, hogy a reaktorok bírják, amíg a por teljesen el nem tömíti őket. Mérgesen félrelökött egy laza kábelt. – Ez a hely egy halálcsapda, csak arra vár, hogy a vihar teljes erővel lecsapjon. Pyotr átváltott egy másik kijelzőre, ellenőrizte az életfenntartó rendszert. A nyomásszabályozók pirosan villogtak. – Lehet, hogy mindenkit be kell zsúfolnunk a főhangárba. Vagy várhatunk arra, hogy a Föld megoldja a problémánkat – tette hozzá gúnyosan, megvonva a vállát. – Sok szerencsét hozzá. A mennyezeti szellőző rázkódni kezdett, ahogy az újrahasznosított meleg levegő keringeni kezdett a szűk helyiségben. – A hőmérséklet megint emelkedik a szellőzőjáratokban – jegyezte meg Misha ideges pillantással a mennyezet felé. – Ez azt jelenti, hogy a por megint elzárja a beömlőket. Ha nem zárjuk le időben, kiégnek a szűrők. Elena dühösen rácsapott a konzolra, majd az egész csapat felé fordult. – Elég legyen! Pyotr, futtass le minden időjárási modellt, ami még a rendszerben van – az elavultakat is. Misha, irány az üvegház – támaszd meg, amivel csak tudod. Ellenőrizz minden foltot, minden tömítést. Ha az szétesik, elveszítjük az oxigén készletünk felét. A fények újra vibrálni kezdtek – ezúttal hosszabban, mélyebben. Majdnem teljes sötétség lett. Elena halkan káromkodott. Amikor újra megszólalt, hangja feszes és visszafogott volt. – Mozgásban maradunk. Ez az egyetlen, ami maradt. Odakint a szél fémes, reszkető zörejt csapott az állomás vékony falain. A sötét, szűk irányító modulban a villogó figyelmeztető fények remegő árnyékokat vetettek a kimerült arcokra. A feszültség másodpercről másodpercre nőtt – valami katasztrofális közeledett. Valami, ami örökre megváltoztathatja Vosztok sorsát. Még mindig a légköri adatok nyomása alatt Elena Markova elindult a sötét folyosón Anatolij Ivanov őrnagy irodája felé. A fények imbolyogtak és elhalványultak, töredezett árnyékokat vetítve a falakra. Elena úgy haladt közöttük, mintha egy álmon sétálna keresztül – túl közel az ébredéshez. A karjában tartott tablet remegett – ugyanazt a szörnyű előrejelzést mutatta, amit pár perce látott. Ivanov irodája alig volt több, mint egy átalakított modul az egykori parancsnoki központ mellett. Egyetlen kerek ablak nyílt ki a vörösesbarna marsi tájra. A horizonton már megjelent egy sápadt, szépia színű fátyol – távoli, örvénylő porfelhők kúsztak fel az égre. Amikor Elena belépett, Anatolij Ivanov az ablakkeretnek támaszkodott. Ötvenes évei végén járt, magas volt, de kissé görnyedt tartással. Rövidre nyírt ősz haja és élesen kirajzolódó arcvonásai az évek során felgyülemlett csalódások mély nyomait viselték. Az egykori űrhajós büszke tartását már rég felőrölte a marsi előőrs irányításával járó végtelen frusztráció. – Szóval a zseniális felszerelésünk megerősítette, hogy egy hatalmas vihar közeleg – mondta szárazon, anélkül hogy ránézett volna. – Csodás. Magunktól biztos nem jöttünk volna rá, ugye? Végül felé fordult, egyik szemöldökét enyhén megemelve. Egy megviselt szkafander hevert a közeli széken, külső borítása karcos és kifakult a sokszori használattól. Emlékeztetőül szolgált Ivanov makacs jelenlétére odakint – mindig egy lépéssel a biztonság határán túl. Elena megköszörülte a torkát, és átnyújtotta neki a tabletet, amelynek kijelzőjén baljósan villogtak az adatok. – Őrnagy, ez nem csak nagy... ez katasztrofális. A porvihar napokig is eltarthat. A lebegő részecskék már most eltömítik az érzékelőket, és ha elérik a szűrőket és a napelemeket, teljesen elveszítjük az energiát. A modulok nem fogják kibírni ezt a terhelést. Ivanov cinikus nevetést hallatott. – Akkor legalább lesz alkalmunk végignézni, ahogy az egész összeomlik. Az anyaország büszke marsi kísérlete poros sírrá válik. Pompás. Elena lenyelte a torkán akadt választ. Átnyújtotta a tabletet, miközben a por-koncentráció szintjei szédítő sebességgel peregtek végig a kijelzőn. – Nem tudjuk fenntartani az életfenntartó rendszert, ha elveszítjük az üvegházat. A folyosók tömítései talán még bírják... de csak akkor, ha azonnal átköltöztetünk mindenkit a vészhelyzeti hangárba. A többi modul szinte biztosan odaveszik. Ivanov lassan bólintott, miközben tanulmányozta a számokat. A Földön bekövetkezett összeomlás óta egy haldokló előőrs parancsnoka volt, elavult eszközökkel és bármiféle külső segítség nélkül. Mégis – minden cinizmus mögött, a szeme sarkában megbúvó ráncok között – ott volt az a makacs élesség, ami még nem adta fel. A tabletet odahajította zsúfolt íróasztalára, és előkapta az ideiglenes szkafanderét – egy kissé nehezebb modellt, amit hosszabb külső tartózkodásra terveztek. A narancsszínű panelek tompán csillogtak, a sisakrostélyon javított repedés húzódott végig, a zárógyűrű még mindig a mellkasi hevederhez csatolva. – Rendben, Elena – morogta. – Nincs idő nyavalygásra. Hozd ide Pyotrt, Mishát... mindenkit. Minden egyes lelket pakoljatok be abba a rohadt hangárba. Húzzátok be az összes élelmiszert, vizet, minden hordozható generátort, amit csak elő tudtok ásni. Talán úgy vészeljük át, mint patkányok egy csapdában – de legalább lesz levegőnk. Elena szoros bólintással válaszolt, és egy pillanatra megkönnyebbülés suhant át az arcán. – Igenis, őrnagy – felelte. Aztán megállt, tekintete az ablakon túli, örvénylő vörös ködre siklott. – Azonnal megkezdjük az evakuálást. Ivanov egy vészkészletet tuszkolt a szkafandere oldalzsebébe, majd felrántotta magára a félig nyitott öltözetet. A pántok megfeszültek a széles hátán. – Induljunk – mondta határozottan, hangja átvágott a nehéz levegőn. – Ez az előőrs nem fog elbukni. Nem, amíg mi itt vagyunk. Ahogy kilépett az irodából, Elena szorosan a nyomában, a folyosói világítás ismét megremegett – egy pillanatra úgy tűnt, teljesen kihunyt, mielőtt akadozva újraéledt. Ha a vihar valóban teljes erejével lecsap rájuk, ez lehetett az utolsó alkalom, hogy a modulokat még normális állapotban látták. De egyelőre – a repedezett falak és villogó fények ellenére – Ivanov makacs elszántsága végigsuhant a szűk folyosón, egy utolsó reményt gyújtva a küszködő Vosztok előőrsben. A vihar közeledtével percenként nőtt a feszültség, és a bázis minden szegletében felélénkült az aktivitás. Közel száz telepes – néhány sántítva, mások a kimerültségtől roskadozva – próbálta átszállítani az összes létfontosságú készletet a vészhelyzeti hangárba. A mennyezeti lámpák tiltakozva pislákoltak a túlterhelt áramhálózaton, és az ablakokon túli halványodó ég azt jelezte: a vihar már majdnem az ajtóban áll. A hangár főcsarnokában fémtartályokat halmoztak egymásra, hogy ideiglenes falakat képezzenek. Félig felcímkézett dobozok magasodtak tornyokban – száraz élelmiszercsomagok, elsősegély dobozok, félig lejárt vízszűrő patronok. Elena Markova, haja izzadságtól átnedvesedve, egy megrepedt kézi kommunikátorral próbálta koordinálni a káoszt. A hideg acélfalakról visszaverődtek a hangok, a kiáltások és a sietős léptek zaja. – Vigyétek azokat a ládákat egészen a távoli falig! – kiáltotta túl a zajon. – A generátorsornak középen kell helyet hagyni! A kis folyosó le van zárva, minden menethez a fő légzsilipet használjátok – és minden szkafandert kétszer ellenőrizzetek! Kint, a keskeny megfigyelő nyíláson keresztül két öreg hegesztőrobot cammogott végig a vihar tépázta felszínen. Plazmafáklyáik kékesfehér fényben izzottak, szikrákat szórva, miközben a külső panelek sérült részeit javították. Lábuknál acélgerendák hevertek, készen arra, hogy megerősítsék az állomás gyengülő ablak szerkezeteit. A szél már most is vastag porréteget fújt a falakra. Minden alkalommal, amikor az állomás megremegett, Elena megdermedt – szíve a torkában dobogott. Odabent egy tucat öreg szállító drón zörgött végig a hangár padlóján. Ezek a nehézkes, lassú gépek már több mint egy évtizede szolgáltak, most pedig generátorokat és vízadagolókat vonszoltak magukkal. Eközben a telepesek kézzel cipelték a kisebb tételeket: tartalék oxigén palackokat, működésképtelen, de javítható akkumulátorokat, kábel tekercseket. Ha napokra – vagy akár hetekre – be kell zárkózniuk, semmit sem hagyhattak hátra. Minden alkalommal, amikor valaki visszatért a marsi felszínről, át kellett haladnia a szűk nyomáskiegyenlítő kamrán, amely sziszegve és nyögve próbálta fenntartani a megfelelő légköri viszonyokat. Ezen túl volt a főbejárat – még nyitva az utolsó rakományok érkezéséig. De ahogy kint egyre élesebben süvített a szél, mindenki tudta: hamarosan ezt az utolsó nyílást is le kell zárni, és akkor – legalább a vihar idejére – mindenki bent reked. A hangár belső tere lassan kaszárnyaszerűvé alakult. Közel száz embernek kellett menedéket biztosítani, így összehajtható fekhelyeket állítottak fel laza négyzetekbe rendezve, miniatűr „negyedeket” formálva. A műanyag ponyvákat ideiglenes válaszfalként lógatták le, hogy némi magánéletet biztosítsanak az állomás dolgozóinak. Misa Volkov, akinek kézfeje még mindig sötét volt a korábbi mentési próbálkozások okozta zúzódásoktól, most a fekvőhelyek rendezésében segített. Mély karikák ültek szeme alatt a kimerültségtől. – Legalább két métert hagyjatok a sorok között – mormolta egy másik telepesnek. – Elena azt mondta, az átjáróknak szabadnak kell maradniuk, ha a mentősöknek át kell jutni. A tompa mennyezeti fény ismét megremegett. A sarokban két telepes vészhelyzeti szkafandereket válogatott méret szerint. Néhány régi darabot foltozások borítottak, a lyukakat ragasztóval vagy gyantával zárták le. A szkafanderek hordozható állványokról csüggtek, készen arra, hogy ha a hangár fala megsérülne, életmentő védőburkokká váljanak — egészen az utolsó leheletig. A társalgó egyik sarkában Anatolij Ivanov alezredes egy elavult kommunikációs konzol fölé hajolt, amelyből repedezett vezetékek kusza füzére terpeszkedett a padlóra. Szkafandere félig le volt húzva, a nyíláson keresztül ködös haditengerészeti aláöltözet látszott — egyértelmű jelzés arra, hogy bármelyik pillanatban kész kirohanni, ha a helyzet úgy kívánja. A konzolon reménytelen jelek villogtak: sercegő földi adások, szétszórt pingek más marsi előőrsökből. Ivanov éppen befejezett egy végső segélykérő adást Moszkvába. — Lássák csak, hogyan omlik össze minden — mordult maga elé, miközben lecsapta a kapcsolót. — A híres „ablakévben”. Ha ez nem nyitja meg a készleteiket, semmi sem fogja. Elfordult a konzoltól, tekintete a hangár távoli vége felé sodródott, ahol még mindig cipelték az utolsó készlet ládákat. Egy fanyar félmosoly rántotta meg a szája szélét. Talán Vosztok pusztulása lesz az egyetlen, ami végre mozgásra készti a Földet. Kegyetlen irónia — de Ivanov már régen megszokta ezt. Felemelte hangját, és éles kattintással aktiválta a belső híradási csatornát: — Minden külső egység, zárásra felkészülni — most! A porfal már útban van. Néhány percen belül nulla lesz a láthatóság. Aki kint marad, két méterre sem lát majd. Mindenki befelé — indulás! Az állomás belső tere hirtelen néma csendbe dermedt, mintha az egész komplexum egyetlen kollektív lélegzetet vett volna, felkészülve az ütközésre. Ivanov sprintelt a hangár belső paneljéhez, hogy elindítsa a zárási folyamatot — amikor egy technikus hangja megállította. — Őrnagy! Még kint vannak! — jött a kétségbeesett rádióüznet. — A hegesztők még dolgoznak a dómon! A vezérlőpanel figyelmeztető fényei felvillannak: külső egységek aktívak. Ivanov megdermedt. Nem zárhatták le az ajtót. Még nem. Elena Markova azonnal a bejárat felé rohant, kilépett egy szervizpanel fülkéjéből, és belekukkantott a még nyitott külső karbantartó zsilipen át. A marsi por már ködölve kavargott befelé. A láthatóság rohamosan romlott, de egy pillanatra tisztán látta: az üvegház kupolája — túlterhelt tartói, a külső por terhe, a hirtelen nyomásváltozás és a termikus stressz — reszketve, hangtalanul megrepedezett. Szinte hallotta, ahogy a bent rekedt nyomás küzd a roppanás előtti pillanatban — mintha egy mellkasba zárt lehelet feszülne szét. Az illesztések nem bírták tovább. Az első tartó meggörnyedt. Aztán a második. Majd egy hosszú, fémes nyörgés áradt szét a szerkezetben. A kupola összeroskadt, mint egy kimerült, túlterhelt élőlény. A átlátszó polimer panelek megrepedeztek, majd hatalmas táblákban zuhantak a fémre és talajra — a bent dolgozó munkásokra. A lehulló darabok néhányukat azonnal agyonnyomták. Más töredékek a javításhoz betárolt acélgerendáknak csapódtak, vissza pattantak, mint halálos csapdák, őrült sebességgel pörögve. Elena felsikoltott. Az egyik hegesztő — talán Viktor — megcsúszott, ahogy hátrált, és egy gerenda éle a hátába mart. Egy másik futni próbált, de elbukott a porban, és a tető egy darabja rázuhant. A plazmavágók még egy pillanatig szikráztak — aztán kialudtak a kavargó porban. Ivanov ökölbe szorított kézzel remegett. Elena kétségbeesetten nyúlt a porfelhőbe a szervizajtón keresztül. Nem látott semmit — csak érzett valakit, és ösztönösen berántotta. — Zárjátok! MOST! — őrjöngött Ivanov a rádióba. A nehezék lassan zárultak — mögüttük csak por, roncsok és halál. A hangár automata ajtaja hangosan nyögött, miközben motorjai a vihar erejének ellenállva küzdöttek. Egy közeli robot éles riasztást adott ki, jelezve a külső környezet kritikusan veszélyessé válását. Egy utolsó mechanikus lökéssel az ajtó becsapódott — mintha maga is menekülni próbált volna a vihar markából. Odabent a nyomásszabályozók felnyögtek, ahogy igyekeztek fenntartani az egyensúlyi állapotot, miközben a vihar tombolása rázta az épületet. Az állomás fényei azonnal pislogni kezdtek, halványan, bizonytalanul izzva — mintha maga a rendszer sem tudná, meddig bírja még. Hirtelen csend borult a vészhelyzeti hangárra. A túlélők a padlón feküdtek vagy rácsuklottak ládákra, raklapokra, eszüket vesztve, tágra nyílt szemmel, lélegzetüket kapkodva. Egy magas férfi sisakja betört a közeli becsapódástól; egy reszkető nő vérző karját szorongatta. Az állomás orvosai és ápolói megállás nélkül jártak egyik embertől a másikig, segítve, ahol tudtak. Elena térdre rogyott, és végigpillantott az ideiglenes menedéken, amely mostantól az egyetlen otthonuk lesz. Fejeket kezdett számolni, zavarodottan. Túl sokan hiányoztak. És rettegett a gondolattól, mit jelenthet ez — sokan odavesztek odakint a porban, a fémben, abban a csendben, amely már örökre elválasztotta őket a világ többi részétől. — Uramisten... — suttogta rekedten Elena, hangja remegett. — Elvesztettük az üvegház csapatának felét... Szavai elakadtak, amikor Ivanov alezredes betántorgott a hangárba. Sisakja megrepedt. Letépte a fejéről, süvítő köhögéssel, porral teli tüdőből próbált levegőhöz jutni. Tekintete végigpászázta a megtört embereket — néhányan még mindig sötét sokkban, mások halk imákat mormoltak. Aztán egy utolsó, fülsüketítő robaj rázta meg a hangárt. És minden elsötétült. Az áram örökre elment. Sikolyok hasítottak a sötétségbe – éles, pánikszerű hangok, mintha maga a félelem zuhant volna le a mennyezetről. Egyetlen vészvilágítás villant fel, egy haldokló akkumulátor utolsó erejéből. Hosszú, reszkető árnyékokat vetett a falakra. Ivanov megragadta a lámpát, és magasra emelte, halvány fényt vetve, amely éppen csak felfedte Elena kimerült arcát a félhomályban. A valaha nyüzsgő, egykor büszke Vosztok állomás most romokban hevert a porvihar dühöngése alatt, miközben a túlélők az improvizált hangárban húzták meg magukat – villogó fények között, szétszórt készletekkel, és minden egyes lélegzetvételben remegő pánikkal. Ebben a sötétségben az élni akarás lett az utolsó törékeny gát Mars haragja ellen, amely eljött, hogy porba temesse őket. Szeretnék a nevekkel kapcsolatban itt tenni egy megjegyzést. Nem biztos, hogy a könyvben ez benne marad, de ide széljegyzetnek elmesélem, hogy a könyv karaktereinek többsége valós személy ihlette karakter. Olyan emberek akiket egy általam ismert létező emberből gyúrtam. Így van ez az oroszokkal is, de így lesz a kínaiakkal meg majd az európaiakkal is. Az oroszok esetében tisztában vagyok a helyes magyar írásmóddal mégis megtartottam azt a formátumot, ahogyan ezek a nevek bennem élnek. Miért? Mert én így ismerek rájuk, így írtam angol levelezéseinkben mindig a neveiket. A könyv angolul készült külderedetileg, a magyart másodjára fordítottam és amikor először megláttam, hogy Jelena a saját soraim között akkor olyan idegenül éreztem. Ki ez a nő? Bennem Elena él. Misa ugyanaz. Ő Misha nekem. Ezért fogadjátok el amolyan írói szabadságként, hogy én meghagytam őket így.