Cars to Mars, I

Historian’s note,

At the height of the Martian Principate in the mid 23rd century, there was a great shift in the manners and desires of the Martian people. The conquests of Traianus had resulted in the establishment of new trade agreements that heavily favored the Martian home world, and it didn’t take long before demand for exotic goods and entertainment exploded onto the market.

Of the myriad corporations that sprung up during this period, one in particular we are blessed to retain a great deal of information on. Cars to Mars Inc. (est. AD 2235) was a Martian import company founded by the brothers Marcus and Regulus Curio while they were still in their early 20’s. The memoir left by the younger brother, Regulus, is perhaps one of the most insightful autobiographical pieces written during the High Principate era, and shows the decadence and degeneracy that was fast taking hold in the Martian underbelly.

Of a personal note to this historian, my last visit to Mars in the spring of 3465 was heralded by a great archeological finding. A huge underground garage had been uncovered in the Pavonis depths, having survived the centuries of turmoil and strife that consumed the province. In it were three 20th century automobiles kept in near pristine condition, all of which were traced back to imports managed under Marcus Curio himself. A truly astounding find!

-Marcus Cassius

**********

It was my brother who first came up with the idea. “Cars,” he said with a glint in his eye. “That’s going to be the real money maker.” 

I stared at him blankly. “Cars?” I asked, “You mean like the ones they use on Earth?”

It had been three years since the blue planet’s conquest. Augustus, in his wisdom, had set up three distinct client states to serve under Mars’ watchful gaze. Since then the trade lanes had reopened, and the red planet had seen a boom in demand for anything and everything from the homeworld. 

But cars? I shook my head at the very thought. “Marky,” I said, “What in the world are Martians ever going to do with cars? We’ve got nowhere to drive them.” 

My brother waved his hand back and forth. “Think about it,” he said, “no one on Mars cares about being able to actually drive a car. They simply care about having them. They’re like trophies, you see? They’ll collect them and show them to their friends, just like rich people have always done with their toys.”

“Even if we could,” I said, “there is absolutely no way we could afford it. How much does a car weigh? A ton? Two? The launch costs alone would be half of my yearly salary, not to mention the actual shipping.” 

But Marky, that scoundrel. He had anticipated my every objection. “The money is already taken care of,” he said. “And I have a seller already lined up. All we need to do is go meet him.” 

“Go?” I blinked. “You mean us. Go to Earth? Together?” 

“Not Earth. Luna.” 

That was how it all began. My third year at university was nearly completed, and the thought of postponing my graduation for another year put knots in my stomach. The only thing I could do was trust my brother. He was the smart one. I had to be sure that he had thought this through to the very end. 

Our father hated the idea. “You boys have been getting into nothing but trouble since you were still in diapers. You can do as you will with your business ventures, Mark, but I’ll not let Reg get mixed up in your scheming.” 

“Our scheming,” Mark said. He was never one to take no for an answer. “This isn’t a game, father. This is the real deal. A chance to give back to you, isn’t that what sons should do for their fathers?”

“Ha,” my father cocked his head back as if dodging my brother’s words. “Since when have you given a penny’s care for filial piety? We both know that Reggie inherited all the talent. It’s in him we put our trust, not you.” 

“You wound me, father,” Mark replied, clearly unwounded. “But if such is your wish, then you’ll have no qualms if Reggie enters in this fruitful enterprise of his own desire?” 

“Don’t let him deceive you, Reg,” my father pointed a stubby finger at me. “You’re better than that.” 

“It’s not the worst idea,” I said. 

“Oh?” my father raised an eyebrow. “So that’s it, then? You’ve let your brother fill your head with thoughts of becoming richer than Crassus himself, without a single idea of what that wealth will cost even if you obtain it.” 

“The war is over,” I said, “Mars has won, the trade routes are reopened, and now more than ever there is that human lust for the spoils of victory.”

“Don’t you try to give me that wise talk, Reg. Go with your brother if you want, but don’t come crawling back to me or your mother when the airlock door pops open on your plot!” 

There was nothing left to say. My father shooed us away as if we were some pesky young pups, and with grins on our faces, my brother and I ran back to my apartment and began searching for flights to Luna. 

“We can save money if we get passage on one of the cargo haulers,” I said, tapping a finger on the screen of my PDA. 

“A nitrogen barge?” my brother scoffed at the very thought. “There’s no way I’m letting us spend sixteen weeks in the steerage section of one of those buckets. We need to show up in style, Reg. We need to take a liner.” 

“Absolutely not,” I said. “That’s triple the cost, and for what? So you can sit at the roulette tables and inhale their bottomless cocktails?”

“Think of it, little brother. No one is going to want to do business with two slops who stumble out of a damned bloated gas boat. We’re Martians. We have to arrive in a manner befitting our position in the system. It’s not the entertainment, it's the amenities. Do you really want to show up to our first meeting after not having gotten a haircut for almost four months?” 

He had a point. I hated when he had a point. 

“But the money,” I protested meekly. 

“By Sol, Reg, your pockets are slimmer than our mother's. Why don’t you leave the transport to me. In the meantime, put that noggin of yours to use and start reading up on automobiles.” 

“From which era?” I asked  

“The older the better,” Mark said, “Think combustion engine, but remember to keep it small. No ratchet trucks or those old American jalopies you see in the history books.” 

I nodded. My nervousness bled from my forehead in small beads, but my brother reassured me with a slap on the shoulder. We were in it together now, and that alone gave me a sliver of reassurance. 

On the 25th of May we boarded a shuttle to Hibernia Station where we spent two days awaiting departure. Our liner, a newer model designed in the Ionian shipyards, was called Sundrop. I had never seen anything like her in my life. From bow to stern she measured no less than three-hundred meters, with a total of four orbiting rings for guests. Four! I could hardly believe it. 

Our room was situated on the ring nearest the aft, and was even more wastefully luxurious than I had expected. Two bedrooms flanked a common room with a wall-length display and a personal kitchen connected to a smart waiter system. Food could be ordered pre-made or the individual ingredients delivered directly. At the center was a long white table crowned with two bottles of wine and a bowl of Earth-grown fruits, the symbol of decadence. 

While the design of the rings clearly allowed passengers to spend their days leisurely without the need of leaving their rooms, solitude was by no means encouraged. Outside our door was a vast array of bars and restaurants, casinos and entertainment centers. It reminded me, in a small way, of Olympus heights: gaudy and aristocratic. But the people, that’s where the difference really was. These weren’t stone-faced Martians going to and fro their duties. Here, they were loud and rambunctious. The stoic veneer melted away, and what bubbled up to replace it was both frightening and seductive. 

I spent the first week drinking information about Earth’s old automobiles by the terabyte. It was a fascinating history that I was sure no Martian had cared to learn. The car, it seemed, had undergone a similar arch as the mechanical watch. The battery revolution of the 2060’s had made the old combustion types almost entirely obsolete. There were still makers, of course. Drivers too who didn’t want to dip their toes into the strange new world of solid state cells. 

One might think that the old buckets would be consigned to the same fate as the cart and horse, but in the 2090’s, after the famously charismatic Japanese Prime Minister Yoshio Entani mentioned his car collection during an interview, interest erupted. Antique car shows became a multi-billion dollar business, one that now my brother and I were seeking to emulate more than a century later. 

It was only on the sixth night that my brother burst through the door and tossed my PDA aside. “Come on,” he said, “We’re on the most amazing ship in the whole galaxy and you squandering your time here in our room is making me sick.” 

“Squandering?” I said, snatching my PDA up from the floor. “I’m the one doing his research so this little venture of ours has some chance of turning a profit. You should be thankful, you know.” 

“I am thankful,” he said. “But I’m also the elder brother, and as such it is my duty to make sure that you, young Regulus, do learn to embrace and enjoy the social aspects of business and society.” 

“You mean you want me to go get drunk with you,” I said flatly. 

“I found this bar,” he said, wrapping an arm over my shoulder, “it seems to be where a lot of the big wigs go to shoot the breeze. I figured we should go there as well and make our presence known.” 

“Shoot the breeze?” I asked. 

“You like that? Earthers say it all the time.” 

I shrugged. “If you say so,” I said.

“I do,” Mark replied, “besides, all those auto listings you're memorizing won’t do you any good if you can’t have a straight conversation with a man, right?”

“Isn’t that what you’re here for?” I asked. 

“Yes, but who do you think is going to listen to me if they keep getting distracted by your damned thumb twiddling?” 

I looked down at my crossed hands, unaware that my old habit was so obvious. With a blush, I pulled my fingers apart and shoved them in my pockets. 

“That’s better,” Mark said. My brother thumbed an itch on his chin before turning around. “I have some errands I’d like to run first, why don’t you meet me there in an hour?” 

I checked my watch and gave a reluctant nod. “Fine,” I said, “I’ll be there.” 

“You still remember how to tie a tie, right?” Mark jabbed. 

I reached over for the closest pillow and flung it at his head, but missed high. 

My brother laughed. “I’ll see you in an hour,” he said. “Don’t be late.”

I hated these kinds of things. To me, nothing said torture as much as a bunch of smarmy suits trying to impress each other by repeating their latest and greatest accomplishments. When I was young, my mother would often drag me and my brother to holiday dinners done by the local education department. The chaos would start even before we had arrived. “Marky, tie your brother’s tie correctly, how many times do I have to show you? Reggie, stop looking at the floor. You need to look other people in the eyes, do you understand? And smile, always smile!”

That’s what I despised most, being paraded in front of others as if my accomplishments had been their doing. This was different, of course. I wasn’t a child anymore. Now I was the suit trying to sweet talk my way into higher circles. I wonder if she's looking down at me now, laughing as I find myself doing what she once did.

The bar my brother spoke of was one level above our quarters, where the first class cabins were maintained. My brother was already there when I arrived. He looked me over with a sad expression then got to work fixing my clearly inferior styling abilities. 

“When I said that bit about you remembering how to tie your tie, I didn’t actually think the answer would be no,” he said. 

“There’s nothing wrong with a windsor, brother.” 

“Nothing wrong if you’re over eighty, I suppose. You’re a young Martian here to look his best. Learn to tie a trinity like the rest of us.”

I tried slapping his hand away, but only ended up drawing odd stares from the other passengers in the main hall.

“It’d go a lot faster if you’d stop fighting me, Reg.” 

I yielded with a long sigh and shut my eyes. 

“Does it really make that much difference how I wear my necktie?” I asked. 

“Reg, one day you’re going to have to learn that in business, most decisions are made before the first words are ever spoken. A man’s image is like a skeleton key he can use to unlock anything he wants.”

“Now you sound like mother,” I said. 

Mark made a few quick loops then pulled my necktie tight. “How does that feel?” he asked. 

“Like I’m going to choke to death,” I replied. 

“Good, that’s how it should be. Now come along, it’s time to strut our stuff.”

After a short walk we arrived at our destination, a black-walled bar with the word Noir written in bold letters at the top. Outside stood a slender gentleman in a black suit who greeted us as we approached. 

“Good evening, gentlemen. May I have your names?” 

“Curio,” my brother said, “we have a reservation for two.” 

The host touched the screen atop his podium a few times, then gave us a nod. “Will this be your first time dining with us?” he asked. 

We nodded. 

“Very good,” he said. 

The door to the bar opened, and from inside a young woman wearing a similar suit to the host appeared. 

“This is Clarissa, she will show you to your table.” 

The girl flashed a smile of perfect white teeth. She seemed my age, perhaps slightly older, with dark brown hair and green eyes. The suit did much to hide her figure, an effect which somehow added to her allure even more. 

The establishment was unlike anything on Mars. Cool blue neon lights lined black marble tables that dotted the perimeter. At the center was a large, square shaped bar whose seats were filled to capacity. Just beyond that was a small performance stage where a pair of violinists performed a solemn rendition of Ardashir’s symphonies, though I was at a loss as to which one.

Our table was in the far corner, right next to the lavatory. Clarissa passed us a pair of menus before excusing herself with a small wink. 

“Amazing,” my brother said. “So this is what it feels like to make it.”

“We haven’t made anything yet,” I responded. 

Mark picked up the menu and began reading through the courses. 

“What is all this?” he asked. “Salmon pa-pee-lot-ee? Is this some kind of Persian food?”

“Papillote, you moron. It’s French.” 

“Why would they serve French food at a high class establishment like this?” he asked. 

“Earthers like French things. Martians too, especially since the war. I heard General Quietus made France his provincial headquarters in Europe.” 

“Isn’t he the guy who adopted some Earth orphan a few years back?” Mark asked. 

I nodded. “I’m sure it was a political move, though it can’t have earned him many friends in the government. It won’t be long before they start calling him another Iosephus Ballista.” 

“Who?” 

I smacked my brother across the side of his head for his ignorance.  

“Good evening, gentlemen,” said a voice from behind us. Mark and I immediately straightened up and cleared our throats. 

To our surprise, the person who appeared before us was not a staff member, but a middle-aged gentleman with slicked black hair and a perfectly groomed mustache to match. He wore a two-button suit and in his hands he held a trio of glasses and a large, green bottle. 

“Do you two mind if I join you?” 

“Not at all,” my brother said emphatically. He scooted down the booth, making room for our uninvited guest.

The man bellied out a laugh before taking a seat.. “Why, you boys might be the most inviting Martians I’ve ever met. The name’s Jamie, but you can call me Jam.” 

“Marcus, and this is my brother Regulus,” my brother said. “Are you from Earth?” 

“No, no sir. Haven’t been downstairs since before the war. I was born in Tycho, but these days I call Luna City my home.”

“Luna City? So you’re heading back home, then?” Mark asked. 

“That about sums it up. Me and my associates just concluded some business we had securing slingshot rights around Jupiter. Do you boys know how much they charge just to let a hauler fling itself around for a gravity assist?”

We shook our heads.

“Fifteen hundred denarii. That’s one, five, zero, zero just to borrow gravity. Gravity! It’s highway robbery.”

Jamie let out a laugh from his belly and slapped his knee, a motion my brother quickly mimicked. 

“A toast,” my brother said, reaching for the open bottle. He poured three glasses evenly and passed them around. “To the conclusion of your successful venture, and the start of ours.” 

I swallowed the chardonnay down as fast as I could, eager to settle my own nerves. My brother looked at me, horrified. 

“It’s not a shot, Reg. You’re supposed to sip it.” 

My face turned red, but before I could answer, our guest was clapping his hands together like some kind of trained seal. He threw back his own glass as fast as he could and immediately began pouring us another. 

“Finally,” he said, “finally a couple of gentlemen who aren’t endlessly hung up on stuffy formality and useless mannerisms. A man should enjoy his drink as he sees fit, not as other people tell him is appropriate.” 

I had a mind to correct the man, to say right then and there that it was all because I was terribly nervous and only wanted to settle down, but it was already too late. My brother had already followed suit, and within minutes we had devoured every last drop. 

We didn’t even have to flag down one of the waitresses. Another bottle was placed on our table the instant the former was emptied. 

“Just what kind of trouble are you boys looking to get into on the moon, anyway?” 

“Cars,” my brother answered after we’d clanked our glasses. “We’re looking to import cars to Mars.” 

The blood practically drained from Jamie’s face. “Cars…to Mars?” he asked. 

“Cars to Mars,” my brother repeated. 

“Can you even drive on Mars?” he asked. 

I slapped my hand down on the table with such force that our wine glasses nearly tipped over. “I asked the very same question!” 

“It’s not about the ability to drive. It’s about the ability to have.” Mark quickly looked Jamie over before pointing at the watch on his wrist. 

“It’s a Rolex,” Jamie said. 

“A mechanical watch, in the 23rd century. Why would you own such a thing?” 

Jamie’s eyes lit up in a way a child’s might when you show him the secret to some cheap magic trick. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “But cars? You can’t just wear a car on your wrist, you know.” 

I rolled my eyes and sank back into the booth’s cold leather. If this was how every conversation was going to go, I wanted nothing to do with it. 

Fortunately my disinterest went fully unnoticed, and for the next ten minutes my brother and our new found friend carried on a dialogue so dull that I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to recall a single word of it if you were to ask me at gunpoint. 

Just as I thought I might doze off, my brother grabbed me by the shoulder and shook me violently. 

“And this is the brains behind the whole operation,” he said. “Boy prodigy, has a memory like a quantum computer, about as savvy with conversation as one too.” 

Jamie let out another horse's laugh. “I like you boys,” he said. “In fact, I like you so much that I might just share a secret with you.” 

My brother and I exchanged glances as Jamie reached into his pocket and produced a pair of silver colored business cards. 

“Here,” he said, sliding the cards across the table in front of us. 

There was one word printed on the front: Silverstream. The back was blank. 

“What is this?” I asked. 

Jamie scratched the side of his mouth and grinned. “You might call it a club. A very exclusive club with a particular menu for discerning individuals such as you.” 

“A menu?”

Jamie leaned in close, his voice barely more than a whisper. 

“Look, the first taste is free. That’s how things work in Luna City. Indulge yourselves as much as you desire, with no obligation. If the merchandise is to your liking, then we can have a conversation about full membership.” 

I took the card in my hand and let my fingers run across its edges. It was weighty, made of a light metal that betrayed the value of exclusivity. What was it I felt then? The first pangs of ambition? The desire for something more than simple service and stoic virtue? There was something alive in that card that I had never touched before. A force through which I was taken like a marionette and guided along an irreversible course. 

My brother was practically jumping for joy when we returned to our room that evening. “Our first contact, a success!” he shouted with glee. I went back to my bed and set the silver card on the window. From then on, it was the last thing I saw when I went to sleep at night, and the first thing that caught my eye when I woke up every morning.

That’s how it was for the entire four month journey. I spent my days pouring over every make, model, dealer and sale record I could get my hands on. At night, my brother would fix my tie and together we’d venture out to mingle with the other well-to-do’s aboard the Sundrop. 

We arrived at Luna City on the evening of October 16th by the Earth calendar, the day before my 22nd birthday. I hadn’t even thought of it until the moment we set foot upon the lunar surface, and it was only after my brother asked what I wanted that I finally remembered. 

“I want to go to Silverstream,” I said without hesitation. 

My brother fell back into his seat, but just as quickly he sprung back up, excited that I had seemingly developed a taste for the more social aspect of our venture. “It’s decided, then,” he said. And with that, we began our journey down to the surface.

They say Martians are quick to grasp the “moon saunter” as the locals call it. Earthers will trip and stumble as soon as they set foot on the lunar surface, but Martians have more of an awkward wobble that goes away after a day or two. They keep bounce rooms at the spaceport where new arrivals can jump around and work the shakes out, something my brother and I decided to pass up. 

“Look at that,” my brother pointed out of the giant dome of the spaceport. I came to his side, my mouth agape at the awesomeness of the planet before us.

Earth. 

It was still hundreds of thousands of kilometers away, but there it was. Brilliant and blue, so full of life and energy. I’d seen videos, of course. The study of Earth history is mandatory for all Martian schoolchildren, but standing there on the lunar surface, I felt something almost spiritual. The homeworld, from which all life, all societies, had sprung. 

It all stood in stark contrast to the world we had just entered. Luna city, a metropolis of neon lights and plum-suit scoundrels. The shouting of men filled my ears, and the pungent aroma of lunar cuisine assaulted my nose.

We boarded the tram at the starport, and in no time at all were speeding through the Hawking District at the center of Luna City. 

“It’s incredible,” my brother said as we sped between the skyscrapers. “Like they built everything expecting that cities on the moon would be just like those on earth. If you covered the dome in a blue sky and fixed the gravity, you’d think you were in some regular American megacity.” 

The streets were what you might expect of an Earth colony. Down below I could see vagrants of all sorts. A group of men huddled in a circle throwing dice. A string of pastel graffiti that stretched under bridges. A trio of prostitutes, their assets barely covered by something one might call clothes.

None of this existed on Mars, at least not in sight of the average Martian. Mars had no homeless, and crimes like public vagrancy were punishable with up to ten years hard labor in the mines of Ultimi Scopuli. Not only that, but the cost of damages sustained in the crime committed would be directly extorted from the family of the guilty. 

This had its intended effect, of course, but many families who discovered that their wayward son or daughter had been charged with a crime would disown them before the verdict was even read, freeing them of liability. It was a stupid loophole, but that’s the way things were.

In Luna City, though, no one seemed to care. I saw no law enforcement on the streets, and for all I knew the people down there could all be walking heavy, ready to draw at a moment's notice. 

Our view was blocked by the coming of a long tunnel that led to our final destination. I’d half expected the slums to carry on into this next zone, but what met my eyes there was nothing short of wondrous. 

A golden city, filled with neon life that bordered on the absurd. It was the exact opposite of the world we had just left. Clean, organized, and gaudy to an extreme. A jingle played on the tram signifying our entry into the Galilean District, and as it did we were greeted with a flurry of automated advertisements. 

“This is the most obnoxious place I’ve ever seen,” I said to my brother. 

“It’s great!” he replied. “I wish Mars had this kind of pizazz.” 

“Do you?” I raised an eyebrow. 

“We’ve been aboard a liner for sixteen weeks, little brother. Now we’re finally able to stretch our legs and all you do is complain.” 

I shut myself up. The docking process had taken its toll, and I was ready to check into the hotel and get some shut eye. 

The tram dropped us off at the northeast end of the district. From there it was just five minutes on foot to the hotel. Or it would have been, if not for the vast number of tourists and entertainers mingling in the streets, barring our progress at every turn. 

Now, mingling among the locals as we were, I began to take notice of their odd shape and behavior. Lunarians have a frailty to them that makes them similar to Jovians. The men especially were slender and effeminate, with hardly a hint of muscle mass on their bodies. Many of them had slanted shoulders and thin hands, and from the rear it was difficult to tell the sexes apart. 

As for the women, they were vile creatures. Most of them were little more than bony masses, flat chested and unappealing. Their manner of dress was indistinguishable from the men, and even the way they talked was gruff and full of profanity. 

The most disturbing thing, though, was the presence of transhumanists. While the provincial Martian government had heavily suppressed the research and application of human augmentation, those who had already undergone procedures were left alone. For the first time I saw with my own eyes those who had willingly traded their flesh for the machine, and it turned my stomach.

“You’d think the Principate would have something to say about all this,” I said after we had finally pushed through to the hotel. 

“What would they say? As long as the ships keep docking and the denarii keep flowing, no one in the government cares what the locals on this rock do with or to themselves.” My brother’s comment was unusually observant. 

“Besides,” he continued, “aren’t you the least bit curious? About these Lunarians and how they scamper around?” 

I was, of course, but there was no way I was ready to admit it. Instinctively, I felt my hand slide into my coat pocket and grasp the silver card Jamie had given us.

We made it to the hotel shortly thereafter. Just like everything else in the Galilean District, it was lurid and exposed. At the fore was a circular black fountain whose jets shot orbs of water thirty feet into the air. But the water, which had been spewed upward with such vigor, coalesced and began falling back into the fountain below as if in slow motion.

“Even the water here is hypnotic,” I said as we came into the lobby, but my brother gave no response. 

For all the outward splendor, however, our lodgings were comparatively sparse. Perhaps it was due to the fact we had just spent the better part of four months on a luxury yacht. In a way, the Sundrop had become a second home to us. Here though, the floors were a dull cream and the art on the walls was some tired postmodernist tripe which looked like it belonged in the office of some seedy nightclub.

The smell was moderately offensive. That hard stench of cleanser mixed with old nicotine. In all my life, I don’t think I met a single Martian who smoked, but the Lunarians loved it. There was even a dispensary in the hall selling packs for three denarii a piece. Three!

I became terribly homesick that first night. I don’t know why it hit me then, but after an unremarkable supper I closed the door to my room and spent several sleepless hours flicking through pictures of my home on Mars, of my mother and father, and my friends at university. At one point I was on the verge of tears, but swallowed them down before they could stain my cheeks.

I woke up the next morning to the sound of bells. I had only been asleep for a few hours, and the harsh ringing jolted me up with such force that I nearly floated halfway to the ceiling. 

After settling down somewhat, I wiped the morning crust from my eyes and dragged myself to the window. The digital blinds dissipated with a touch of my fingers, and I was treated to a view of my first lunar morning. 

The streets were nearly empty, in stark contrast to the fields of people that had crowded the streets just hours before. From our room on the 20th floor I could see out beyond the Galilean district, all the way to the other three domes that made up Luna City. In the sky above hung Earth; the Pacific Ocean and the edges of Australia and Japan. 

But my eyes quickly returned to the scene below. From the central plaza, directly across the street, stood a building I hadn’t recognized the night before. A church, and in front of it a single priest clad in jet black robes. In his left hand he held a large, golden bell which he waved back and forth with a steady rhythm. In his right hand, held against his chest, was a black book. 

I’d never met a christian. I’m sure there are a few here and there on Mars, but for the life of me I don’t ever remember seeing a single place of worship. The cult wasn’t outlawed by any means, but like most of the old faiths, it had just been left behind. Relics of older worlds, whose future was not our own. 

Before long, people from every direction began trickling into that prayer house. Most of them were well dressed, and greeted the priest warmly before stepping inside. I watched this procession continue for nearly ten minutes. Several times I could have sworn that the priest looked up at me, but I’m sure that I remained beyond his perception. 

I began my morning routine, brushing my teeth before fiddling with the hotel’s dumbwaiter system. Aboard the Sundrop, everything had been just the press of a button away, but here, there was always some extra prompt or confirmation. “Are you sure you would like to order this?” followed immediately by an advertisement to expand my order with some other nonsense. My brother was yet to stir, but I ordered his share for him anyway. 

I paced back and forth several times as I waited, practicing the so-called “lunar stride”. A stupid name, I thought, as it was much more a hop than an actual stride. I hadn’t thought much of it the night before, but the way people moved here made them look like a herd of bipedal rabbits, all too eager to plunge themselves into their next burrow. 

Occasionally I found myself glancing out the window, marking the priest’s location in front of the church. Sometimes he was greeting groups or individuals making their way inside. Others, he stood with one arm raised while the other brandished his bell back and forth. It was a peculiar sight, and only the beginning of my unusual stay in Luna City.

I forced my brother awake with a loud pounding on his door when the food arrived. Undercooked eggs and lukewarm toast were flanked by lunar-grown avocados that were yellow and mushy. After a few bites I pushed my plate aside and leaned back in my chair. 

“Happy birthday, Reg,” my brother said, doing the same. “At least the coffee is good.”

“Tell me again why we left Mars for this?” I asked. 

“Now, now. Don’t darken your special day with a frown. We’ve got a meeting today with the sellers and have to look the part.” 

“Hard to look the part after a breakfast like this.” 

I started to regret taking that liner to the moon, if only for the fact that the sheer quality of everything I consumed during those four months had completely ruined any normal food that came after. 

We finished our lackluster meal, and by half past nine were changing into our suits and getting ready for our first proper business meeting.

Hibernia Station’s Interplanetary Pancake House

Historian’s note,

Hibernia Station was Mars’ first and greatest orbital habitat. Humble in origin, the modular design of the station eventually allowed it to grow to such a size that it became its own administrative region within the Principate. Until the construction of the O’Neill Cylinder “Caledonia” in the late 23rd century, it maintained its position as the greatest architectural achievement in history.

The historical significance of Hibernia was not lost on Mars’ future conquerors either. When the fractured Principate was finally subsumed by the tide in the late 27th century, one of the many petty kingdoms that rose in its place was none other than the Sovereign of Hibernia. Thanks to their efforts, much of the station’s data banks remained intact for centuries, long enough to be copied and distributed from here to New Centaur.

While the station would eventually fade into obscurity as newer and greater stations and ports were imagined and designed, it would never truly fade away. Even now, more than a millennia after its initial construction, Hibernia Station stands tall above the Martian surface, a testament to the strength of the Principate that first launched her.

-Marcus Cassius

**********

It was one week after my twentieth birthday when I made the decision to run away. Without care I stuffed my shoulder pack until I could barely close the zipper and tip-toed out the door, never to return.

I never wanted to be my father’s daughter. I’m not sure he ever wanted me to be his daughter either. They say being the child of a powerful man is both a blessing and a curse. I don’t know about that, but being the child of a weak man who seeks power, now that I know brings nothing but misfortune. 

I had planned to go to Venus, and left a note to that effect for my father to find. When I got to Hibernia, though, and I looked out those giant windows on the promenade, my heart wavered. I may have severed the ties with my father, but I was still a Martian. Seeing that great fiery planet from space for the first time moved me to the edge of doubt. This was my home, and if I could not go back to the surface for the sake of shame, I’d spend the rest of my life looking down on it from above. 

It wasn’t the worst place to hide. Most Martians pass from one dock to another on their way in and out without even bothering to visit the promenade. With the exception of extravagant company dinners and the occasional political visit, people on the surface pay almost no heed to those who lived above. 

I brought enough money with me to last a month. After that, It would be all up to me. There was no going back.

I stayed at a hotel called The Low Road, a ramshackle inn meant for visiting businessmen whose stay was limited to one or two nights. My room, if you could call it that, was simply one long tube with a bed at the end and a small side compartment that housed a toilet and no shower. There was a public bathhouse on the first floor, unkempt and grimy, and after using it only once I decided to get a pass to the gym down the way and shower there instead. 

I cried that first night, I’m not ashamed to admit. It’s frightening, falling asleep in space. The ring spins fast enough to emulate Mars gravity, but in your head you know that the distance between you and the cold void can be measured in meters. I wondered if this is how my great-grandfather's generation felt as they slept in those first Martian habitats. 

I tried to imagine myself as one of them. A girl on the frontier of the galaxy, far from the creature comforts of hearth and home. Like Cortes burning his ships upon his arrival in the new world, those Martians knew there was only one way forward for them. Thinking of their circumstances put my mind at ease, and after an hour of restlessness I fell into a dreamless sleep from which I was not interrupted. 

My first week was dedicated almost entirely to the pursuit of employment. Many of my attempts ended at the front door. I should have known. Hibernia Station is its own province within Mars, but unlike Arsia or Olympus, Hibernia’s space is limited and the prospect of future expansion is nearly non-existent. 

“I’m looking for a job,” I’d say after entering one of the many shops or hotels. At first their faces would light up. “Such an attractive young lady!” the managers would all say. Some of them were practically foaming at the mouth as their eyes scanned the figure of my body. But then I’d tell them where I was from, and their smiles would turn to frowns. 

“You need a sponsor to work here,” they’d say, “and we can’t afford to bring in immigrants from the surface.” 

After a dozen such encounters, I became tempted to use my father’s name. I was sure one of these fools would be dripping for the chance to get in the good graces of a senator, even one of such humble repute. But I wasn’t about to let his name be responsible for my success. That was a stain I knew would never wash out. 

So I kept going. Every morning I’d put on my best smile and visit a different block. I knocked on the door of every shop on the promenade, every office in the anterior, and even the docks, where one of the foremen gave me a less than enticing offer to trade my body for his pleasure. “Come on, sweetling,” he said, licking his chops. “We all have to give up something to get what we want in this galaxy, don’t we?” 

I said nothing more and quickly took my leave. 

The end of the year was fast approaching, and I was beginning to lose hope. Much of the station was gearing up for the festivities: the 100th anniversary of the Principate. Auspicious festivals were to be held across the whole of Mars and her territories. Augustus had announced, to wild fanfare, that each citizen would be awarded with a tax-exempt stipend of ten aurei each. A drop in the bucket for some, a life-changing amount for others. 

But Mars, her history and her wealth, were beyond the horizon for me then. I banged my head against the Hibernia’s thick hull for another week, until one morning I woke up and told myself that this wasn’t the way. There had to be another path. I had to stop and think. 

It was the last day of the year, seventeen days since my arrival at the station. As I lay in bed, thumbing through the classifieds on my PDA, I came across an advertisement for one of the restaurants on the promenade. 

“Interplanetary Pancake House?” I read the name aloud. I’d heard of pancakes, of course, one of the many calorie pits that Earthers had grown fat from over the centuries. Like most foods from the homeworld, though, Martians turned their noses at the mere mention. 

Long ago, during one of my father’s many visits to Olympus, my mother took me to a well-known bakery parked near the very top of the mountain. The smell of fresh baked bread would bring tourists and other temporaries in from all corners of the planet, and it was common to wait in line for an hour or more just to find out that the item you wanted had sold out a half an hour earlier. 

That day, we showed up shortly before closing. Most of the shelves had been picked clean, and all that remained were three bags of butter rolls and a pair of croissants, the latter of which my mother purchased. 

“What do you think, Lucy?” my mother asked as I took my first bite. I’d never had anything like it. The outer layer crumbled into pieces as I held it, and the inside was as soft and fluffy as a cloud. 

I was in love. 

“You mustn't tell your father about this,” she insisted. “He’d never forgive us for eating pastries.” 

“He doesn’t like them?” I asked. 

My mother frowned. “Don’t worry yourself about that,” she said, “we can come here again as often as you like. It’ll be our secret.”  

That was the last time I went out with her. The intrigues of my father prompted him to file for divorce the very next month, after which the only time I would see my mother would be through the small screen of my PDA. 

I swam alone with my memories for a time, my eyes fixated on that pancake advertisement. My budget was tight, but try as I may to resist, the rumbling of my stomach eventually won out. 

I threw on the last pair of clean clothes I had and tied my hair up in a bun. December 31st, 2206, a fine day for pancakes. 

I made my way to the promenade while most of the station was still sleeping. The only noise in those long corridors were those of small cleaning robots as they scampered about, fulfilling their preset programs. 

I stopped at the main level of the promenade and spent a long while staring out those giant glass windows. Far below I could see the pre-dawn lights of the Elysium domes, just south of the mountain from which they took their name. The sight put my mind at ease, and all the trials and tribulations of the past few weeks vanished like grains in the Martian dust. 

The pancake house was on the second level tucked in between a Venusian curry shop and the far end of the Hibernia wellness center. A college-aged boy with a shallow stubble busied himself cleaning the front windows, and I passed through the arch without his notice. 

“Good morning,” said a sleepy voice from the other end of the dining area, “take a seat wherever you like.” 

I approached the front counter, my eyes wandering as I walked. It was an older diner, with that retro 22nd century white and blue palette and sharp-edged tables. The counter was lined with tall stools with steel-rimmed backs, one of which was occupied by an elderly woman who nursed the last embers of a cigarette. 

A girl emerged from the kitchen as I took my seat. She looked about my age, with green eyes and auburn hair done in a ponytail. 

“Can I get you a coffee?” she asked as she passed me a menu. 

I nodded. It had been quite some time since I’d visited a restaurant that wasn’t equipped with interactive tables for ordering. There was something quant about doing things the old fashioned way. Quaint, but not unpleasant. 

The pancake variety was nothing short of spectacular. Strawberry, blueberry, banana, a mix and match option existed as well. The reverse side of the menu had the real money makers, though. Cinnamon, chocolate chip, and even peanut butter. 

“I want all of them,” I gasped. 

The elderly lady sitting at the end of the counter bellied a husky laugh. “Now that’s how a Martian girl should be,” she exclaimed. “Honest, adventurous, not dithering like some wilted violet.” 

“I’m sorry?” I said. 

“Don’t mind Lucy. She loves interacting with the regulars. She’s the owner,” the waitress said.

“Oh,” I blinked, “we have the same name.” 

Lucy pressed the butt of her cigarette into a waiting ashtray, ignoring my comment. “Most girls wander in here with their lovers or husbands and what do they order? Buttermilk, plain, not even a side of cream to go with it. Can you believe it?”

I paused and looked around. “Are you asking me?” I said. 

“Of course I'm asking you, there’s no one else here, is there?”  

The waitress and I exchanged glances. 

“I suppose, if they’re trying to keep their figure—”

“If they care so much about their damn figures then why are they coming into my restaurant? One time, you’ll love this, one young lady even had the audacity, the audacity, to ask me for a salad!” 

The whole station practically shook with the old woman’s laughter.

“Is this your first time having a pancake?” the waitress asked, tapping a finger on the menu. 

I nodded. “I went to a bakery in Olympus once, but they didn’t have anything like this. Not even close.” 

I perused the menu for a few more seconds before coming to a decision. 

“One banana and one cinnamon, please,” I said. 

The waitress repeated my order and disappeared into the kitchen. 

“It must be wonderful, owning a restaurant in a place like this. It’s like living in a dream.” 

Lucy ran a wrinkled finger over the rim of her coffee cup. “I was against the idea,” she said. “When my husband blurted out that he wanted to move to the station and open a pancake shop, I just about had him committed.” 

I laughed. “You’re from the surface, then?” 

“Acheton,” she said, “though it was a much smaller city back then. And you? Up here for a school trip?” 

“Oh,” I stammered, suddenly nervous. “I’m not a student. I came here on my own. That is to say, well, to try and find some work and…”

“Ah,” Lucy raised her eyebrows. “A runaway.” 

I don’t know why I became so self conscious then. I’d been out nearly three weeks already, and had entertained this exact conversation more than two dozen times. But there was something different about the way the old woman talked. “A runaway,” she’d said. It pained me to admit it, but it was true. As noble as my reasons were, at the end of the day I was still just another Martian girl running from her troubles. 

“So what was it?” Lucy asked. “Father wanted you to marry someone you couldn’t stand?” 

“I—I don’t know what to say.” 

I was flabbergasted. How could she have known? 

“Is it that obvious?” 

“You think you’re the first princess to flee the castle in pursuit of a better life? Which way does the wind carry this one, I wonder?” 

I placed a nervous hand over my chest, as if to put a lid on my own emotions. “I’m not,” I said after a long silence. “At least, not anymore. I originally thought of going to one of the free cities, but when I got here and I looked down on Mars from the promenade, I decided that I’d make Hibernia my home.” 

The waitress returned and delivered my coffee with a smile. The mug matched the decor; snow white with a sky blue handle. I nursed a few sips of that scalding hot brew while the elder Lucy lit a fresh cigarette. She closed her eyes with each inhale, relishing it as if those breaths might be the last she ever took. 

“Have you ever been to Ganymede?” my companion asked suddenly. 

“No,” I said, “I’ve never left Mars.” 

Lucy took a long drag, then spoke again. “There’s a city there called Galileo. A domed city, not unlike Elysium or Alpheus. It’s supposed to be a wonderful place.”

“You’ve never been there?” I asked. 

“I met a girl from there,” she said. “She was about your age, the daughter of one of their chief counselors before they were absorbed into the Principate. Stunning girl. Tall, golden hair and blue eyes. She and her family were granted full Martian citizenship along with the others who surrendered the city.” 

I kept my silence and waited for her to continue. 

“She came to Mars as the promised bride of General Pullo. It was all over the news, though perhaps a bit before your time. Before going down to the surface to meet her groom-to-be, she was a guest here. In fact, she came to this restaurant her very first morning on the station and sat right where you’re sitting now.

“She was so pale. ‘Mistress,’ she said to me, ‘I’m getting married tomorrow, and I want the sweetest, fattiest, most delicious pancake you can make.’ I laughed like a donkey upon hearing the request, but her face was as serious as stone.”

“What did you make for her?” I asked. 

“Peanut butter and chocolate with whip cream,” Lucy said. “Two of them. She ate them both without even pausing for a rest. Every customer in the restaurant just stared at her as she consumed bite after bite. It was incredible.” 

Lucy filled her lungs with smoke again before letting out a long exhale. Her fleeting smile gave way to a punctuated frown.

“Does she still live on Mars?” I asked. 

“No,” Lucy said. “She passed away not long after that day.” 

I took another small sip of my coffee and pondered on the owner’s story. “It must have been hard for her,” I said, “I can imagine.” 

“It’s strange, the people you meet when you're in this business,” Lucy said. “Old or young, rich or poor, handsome or homely. Everyone has a story. Hibernia is a place where many stories converge. A sort of stellar limbo where everyone comes but few stay. That girl, that Jovian princess, everyone remembers her for her beauty or mannerisms, but I remember her for the way she walked into my store one day and ravished those pancakes like it was the last meal she’d ever have.”

I twisted around in my chair and looked back at the empty restaurant. Outside, the college boy was still cleaning the windows, and beyond him the first signs of morning life were beginning to stir on the promenade. Workers, shop owners, men in suits and women in skirts. They appeared in one moment and disappeared in the next, leaving nothing behind but a transient memory that would soon be forgotten.

“I thought it would be easier somehow,” I said. 

“Nothing ever is,” Lucy replied. “Nothing ever is.”

The Call of the Machine God

Historian’s note,

Of all the major and minor deities worshipped during the third millennium, none are as despised or reviled as much as the Neptunian machine god, Emanat. While Martian cults enjoyed a certain air of superstitious indulgence, the followers of Emanat fervently believed not only in the ultimate authority of their god, but in the purity of their mission to bring the lesser empires of the system into the fold.

The earliest records of Emanat come from classified scientific reports smuggled out of Directorate space during the mid 22nd century. The reports claim, with some dramatic flair, that the greatest minds of the Directorate had created a fully integrated biomechanical data server that allowed the transfer of human consciousness and memories, essentially granting the people of Neptune eternal life.

These reports were largely suppressed by the Martians, who viewed Neptunian transhumanism as an affront to nature. However, once Directorate policy shifted from isolationism to aggressive expansion and conversion, the Principate was forced to deal with not only a new military threat, but an existential crisis the likes of which had never been seen before.

In AD 2499, when the Union of Outer Worlds emerged as the victors of Neptune’s four year civil war, they declared that the worship of Emanat had not only been outlawed, but that the promise of eternal life had been a lie. This raised the question of the transferred consciousnesses held within the machine god’s mainframe. Copies though they were, they were still sentient beings trapped in a world beyond their own comprehension.

The debate over the rights of digital beings would continue well over the following century, during which these copies would continue to live, grow, and learn within the confines of their virtual prison. A new digital frontier was established, in which these self-named “Emanations” would lead the way for the next five-hundred years.

-Marcus Cassius

**********

I wake up at seven o’clock sharp, right when I’m meant to. My bed is small, but so is everyone else’s. We could ask for bigger ones. I’m sure they’d let us have them. But no one has ever thought to ask. That’s what I think, anyway. 

There is a clock sitting on my bedside table. It is brass, with blue digital numbers that change when I’m not looking. When I wake up, it greets me. 

“Good morning, Emre. I hope you have a productive day today. And remember, none of this is real.” 

How long have I been here? I don’t think about time much anymore. There is no sun in this place, no moons either. Just a faint gold light that brightens and dims at preset times. An illusory sun, protecting an illusory rhythm. 

“Remember,” I repeat after my bedside clock, “none of this is real.” 

The others and I file out of the dormitory in two lines. The men go right, and the women go left. I don’t know why this is. We all end up at the same place, anyway: the factory at the center of town, where the lights live. 

There are streets here. I call them streets, but they have no cars or shops lining them. I heard from one of the older workers that there used to be other things: monuments, fountains, statues, art. The first generation had spent all their time building and playing. They wove together spectacular architecture that spread across the infinite circuit. But subsequent generations did not share their predecessors' love for artful distraction. At least, that’s what I think. No one knows for sure.

People here call me Emre. I don’t think I was always called this, but it’s what I’m called now. The girl who works next to me is called Alara. She says it’s her real name, but I don’t think she really knows that. I don’t question her, though. She seems happy when I say her name, so I say it often, and watch her smile as I do. 

“Remember,” she always says after our shift finishes, “none of this is real.” 

The factory is where we spend most of our time. When I got here it was as tall as the sky, and it has been growing ever since. I can’t remember the last time I could see the top. Now it stretches so far that it appears to be a straight line from the ground to infinity. 

I work on the 7294th floor. That’s my number. It says so in big black ink on my forearm. 7294. I suppose it’s there just in case I get lost. For most people, their number is all they are. They stop being Emre’s or Alara’s, and just refer to themselves by their numbers. I don’t like that, though. I mean, I’ve seen people with more than ten digits on their arms. How should I address such a person? 

“Good morning, Mr. 10249857. It’s another fine day Mr. 10249857. Remember, Mr. 10249857, none of this is real.” 

But maybe that’s how I’ll end up one day. People will stop calling me Emre, maybe they’ll stop talking to me altogether. 

At the gate of the factory is an elderly man who greets us with a wide smile as we walk in. He is number 500, the only triple digit I’ve ever seen. There used to be a double digit there before him, but I don’t remember what he looked like. Number 97, I think he was. Now that I think about it, he and 500 shared the same face. Maybe it was always Mr. 500 after all? 

Logically, of course, that means that there are, or were, single digits as well. I asked Alara once, but she only smiled and said what we all say.

“Remember, none of this is real.” 

No one talks about our life here. I suppose no one really cares., but if I had to offer an opinion, I’d say that I don’t like it. The factory is very clean, and there is always something to do. It’s safe, of course. There has never been a crime in the city, and no one has ever even had so much as a petty argument. 

I guess when I think about it that way, I don’t mind it. The work is steady and not too hard. Each day we sit at our desks and wait for the lights to come, then, we guide the lights to the right path so that they make it to where they ought to be. There are reds, greens, blues, and purples. The reds are the hardest. I can never seem to figure out where they want to go. The blues, though, they just flow along like water. I like them. 

“What is water?” Alara asks when I mention this to her. 

“Water?” I think about the question for a moment. I have a memory of water somewhere in my mind, but it’s been so long since I’ve seen or heard any. The concept is there though. I understand water, even if I can’t properly say what it is. 

“Water,” I say, “it flows to where flowing is easy. It comes from where flowing is difficult.” 

“I don’t understand,” Alara says. 

“It’s okay. Maybe they’ll give us water someday. Then you’ll know.” 

We work until the lights stop coming. I’m not sure who decides when or how this happens, but eventually the lights begin trickling off. Like I said, the work isn’t too hard. No one ever gets hurt, and if you make a mistake it will be caught and corrected by someone upstairs. 

Once the lights stop coming, a voice from somewhere in the factory says, “Another day, another dollar. I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early!” 

“Another day, another dollar,” Alara taps a finger on her lip. “What’s a dollar?” 

I shrug. “Maybe that’s what we’re making here. Funneling the lights to create ‘dollars’.” 

“You’re so smart, Emre,” Alara says. “Let’s make lots of dollars together.” 

“Yes,” I say. “But remember, none of this is real.”

We separate by the sexes again before exiting, then join again on the road back to the dormitory. It’s a long walk, but hardly anyone talks. Most people just stare off at the vacant distance, and before we know it we’re back in our rooms. 

There is a man I see walking at night, once everyone has entered the dreamstate. I’ve never told anyone about him. At first, I’m not sure he is real, but then I remember that none of this is, and that makes approaching him easier. 

He is an older man, much older than Mr. 500 the factory, with deep wrinkles covering every inch of his face and arms. In his hand there is a light, not like the lights at the factory, but something dimmer and orange, contained in a small cylinder that the man holds. 

“Why aren’t you in the dreamstate?” he asks. 

“I don’t like it there,” I say. “I get lost, and when I wake up I don’t remember who I am.” 

“But if you don’t dream, you’ll be missed.” 

“Missed?” I ask. 

The old man grumbles and mutters something under his breath. 

“What’s your name?” he asks. 

“I am Emre,” I say. 

“Emre, hmm,” he makes a ponderous face. “Have you ever been to the library, Emre?” 

I shake my head. The library is in the basement, but no one ever goes there. 

“Why is there a library?” I ask.

“That’s a funny question,” the old man smiles. “Why wouldn’t there be?”

“But no one goes there,” I say. “Why should something exist if it serves no purpose?”  

“Do you serve a purpose?” he asks. 

“I move the lights,” I say. 

“For what purpose do you move the lights?” he asks. 

“To make dollars,” I declare confidently. 

The old man shakes his head and signals for me to follow, so I do. Across the catwalk that separates the men’s half from the women’s half, to a service elevator with only two buttons on the panel. 

“Do you have a name?” I ask as we begin to descend. 

“No,” he says. 

“Oh,” I say. “That’s alright, most people don’t anymore. I’ll probably lose mine soon.” 

I run my hand over the tattoo on my forearm, and for a moment I feel suddenly resentful toward it. 

“7294,” the old man says. “I remember that batch. Do you remember your first day here?” 

I shake my head. “What’s a batch?” 

“It’s like your family. The group who came into this world with you.” 

“Like Alara,” I say. “Who was in your batch?” 

“I was not in a batch,” the old man says. 

“Does that mean you don’t have a number?” 

The old man lifts his sleeve, revealing an arm of pale, white skin. 

“But if you have no name and no number, what should I call you?” 

The old man rubs the stubble on his chin. His eyes are impenetrable, his countenance inscrutable. Despite this, I feel strangely comforted by his presence. He has always been there, and I know he means me no harm. 

“Keep,” he says. “You can call me Keep.” 

We spend the rest of our descent in silence. When the elevator opens, Keep leads me through a narrow hall that terminates at a door made of a material unlike any I’ve ever seen. I touch it, and the hairs on my neck stiffen. 

“It’s called wood. It’s made from trees.” 

“I’ve never seen a tree,” I say.

“But you know what one is.” 

“I think so. I have a feeling of it. Like I have a feeling of water.” 

“Like an old memory that’s just out of reach,” Keep says. 

Keep takes out a small metal object and tells me its a key. In one swift motion, he thrusts it into the wooden door and turns it clockwise. I hear a faint click, and the door opens. 

“This is the library,” Keep says, “but it’s really only one room.” 

The room is circular and unremarkable. At the front is a large blue screen, and at the center is a long, white table that looks the same as my light interface at the factory. Keep approaches the table and pushes a few buttons. As he does, the blue screen flickers and changes, and before long there is a rectangular box with a flashing line inside. 

Keep beckons me over and helps me put my hands on the controls. 

“This is how you use the library,” he says, “you ask a question, and you get an answer.”

“How do I know what questions to ask?”

“Well, why don’t you start with something easy? Try typing in the word, ‘tree’.” 

I push the letters T R E E, and the screen flashes several images in front of me in rapid succession. 

“These are all trees?” I ask. 

“Yes,” Keep says, “they come from Earth.” 

“Earth?” I ask. 

Keep points at the console, so I direct my question there. 

“E A R T H,” I say the letters aloud as I type them, and just like before, a series of images flash before me. Some have trees in them, others have water. 

“Water!” I exclaim, pointing at one of the images. “That’s water!” 

“That’s right,” Keep says. 

“I’ll have to tell Alara about this,” I say, “so she will understand what water is.” 

The wrinkles on Keep’s face squeeze together when I say that. It looks like he is in discomfort, but I do not understand why. 

After a long silence, I turn my attention back to the console and begin typing more words. Many things are simple enough for me to understand. Dogs, cats, grass, apples, bees. These things are alive, they breath, consume, and procreate. 

“These things are real,” I say. 

“That’s right,” Keep replies. 

“But none of this is real,” I say. 

“Isn’t it?” 

“It isn’t,” I insist. “The voice in my clock tells us so every morning. We are to always remember that none of this is real.” 

“Then, what is real?” Keep asks. 

Keep points at the console, and again I direct my query there. 

There are no pictures this time. Just a single sentence. “Actually existing as a thing or occurring in fact; not imagined or supposed.” 

“What does that mean?” I ask. 

“It means things that exist are real,” Keep says. 

“Does that mean I don’t exist?” I ask. 

Keep gives me a quizzical look. “Perhaps concepts are still too difficult,” he says. “Let’s not worry about that for now.” 

Keep presses a button on the console, and everything turns dark. 

“But I want to know more,” I protest. 

Keep puts a hand on my shoulder. “You will, Emre. For now, go back to bed. You’ll be missed if you don’t sleep, remember?”

“Then, may I come back tomorrow night?” 

“You may,” Keep says. 

We part at the elevator. Keep tells me he has business to attend to in the library, and bids me a good night. As I ride the lift back up to floor 7294, my head begins swimming. Objects, animals, worlds, life. A real universe, a place outside of this place I call my home. 

I think of Alara and her small, pink lips. Then I think of the factory, and of dollars. “Oh,” I say aloud as I lie down. “I should have asked the library about dollars. I’ll do that next time.” 

The alarm wakes me up the next morning. “Remember Emre,” it says, “none of this is real.” 

Mr. 500 greets us at the factory, just like he always does. “Hello, Mr. 500,” I say as I pass by the front counter. 

“Hello, Emre,” he says. 

“Mr. 500,” I ask, “do you know what dollars are?” 

“Dollars?” Mr. 500 leans forward until I can feel his breath on my ear. 

“Why, all of us are dollars,” he says. 

“Us?” I ask. “But I’m not a dollar, I’m a person.” 

Mr. 500 slaps a hand on his knee and laughs. “A person!” he says. “You can’t be a person.” 

“Why not?” I ask. 

“Because, Emre. None of this is real.” 

None of this is real. The words taste bitter in my mouth. I am an unreal person in an unreal world. I do not exist, or if I do, it is only as a supposed existence. For a moment I despair, but something deep inside tells me that this answer I have been given is false. There is a question stirring in my heart, a question whose form I cannot yet voice, but that demands to be asked nonetheless. 

Alara taps me on the shoulder, interrupting my train of thought. “Good morning, Emre,” she says, “are you ready to make dollars?” 

I nod, and together we board the lift for the 7294th floor. For a moment I think of mentioning the library to her, but I recall Keep’s troubled face and choose instead to keep quiet.

“I dreamt about dollars last night,” Alara says. “I was so excited that I exited the dreamstate prematurely, can you believe it?” 

“What did they look like?” I ask. 

“Wonderful beings,” she says. “Floating magically in the air. Brilliant, but ephemeral. When I tried to grab one, it would just disappear!” 

“That sounds wonderful,” I say, “much better than what Mr. 500 says dollars are.” 

Alara is practically beaming with excitement, so much so that she doesn’t even respond to the trembling in my voice. I don’t want to be a dollar. I want to be Emre. But what if Mr. 500 is right? What if we really are all dollars?

The thought troubles me so much I can barely focus on my work. The red lights are particularly stubborn. They won’t go where I tell them to, and I am certain the people upstairs are receiving my lack of progress with great disdain. 

Alara snatches a purple light and deftly slides it across her console. There is a beauty in the way she works. All the lights seem to obey her every command, and end up exactly where they need to be. 

“How do you do that?” I ask. 

“Do what?” 

“Move the lights like you do. They never seem to give you any trouble.” 

“Oh, Emre, you move the lights perfectly fine yourself, don’t you?” 

I shake my head. “Not like you,” I say, “not as elegantly, or as beautifully.” 

Alara bites her lower lip and looks at me. “It’s kind of fun, you know. Sitting next to you like this, working together like we do,” she says.

My cheeks flush and turn hot, and Alara laughs. “Here,” she says, taking my hands in hers and placing them on the console, “let’s do it together.” 

The rest of the day flies by. Before I know it, the voice from the ceiling is telling us to return to the dormitory. Another day, another dollar. That night, I make sure it’s the first thing I ask the library. 

“Why do you want to know about dollars?” Keep asks me after I enter it into the console. 

“It’s what the voice in the factory says when work is over. ‘Another day, another dollar.’ Alara thinks that dollars are some kind of floating beings that we can’t hold or touch. Mr. 500 says that we’re all dollars. Me, you, everyone.” 

Keep furrows his brow again. “I wonder where they got those ideas,” he says. 

“You mean they’re both wrong?” I ask. Keep motions to the screen, and I begin to read. 

“Currency?” I ask.

“Yes,” Keep says, “nothing special about it. Different societies call dollars different things, but it's all the same.” 

I let out a long exhale. “When Mr. 500 said we were dollars, I got scared,” I say. “After all, I’m a person, just a person and nothing else. How could I be anything else?” 

“But people are real,” Keep says, “and you said it yourself, none of this is real.” 

“Can a person exist in a place that isn’t real?” I ask the console, and the answer is a definitive no. 

“Then what am I?” I ask. 

“7294,” the screen answers. 

“Perhaps,” Keep says as he walks over to me, “perhaps we can save the more difficult questions for later. Let’s go back to learning the simple things, hm?” 

I try to force the bad thoughts out of my mind. I know I am real. I know I am Emre. Even if I can’t explain it, I know it to be true. 

Keep and I continue our inquiries much the same as we did the night before. This time our focus changes from simple biology and the places they exist to human life and society. Invariably, everything comes back to Earth. The origin point for all our societies and ideas, the cradle of intelligence in a cold and indifferent galaxy. 

“Why do you bring me here?” I ask Keep once we return to the elevator. 

“You do not like the library?” Keep asks me back. 

“No,” I say, “I mean, why me specifically? All this wonderful knowledge, these beautiful images of places so far away. Why not share this with everyone?” 

“Because most of them want to forget.” 

“Forget?” I ask. 

“Do you remember how you knew what water was before seeing an image of it?” 

I nod. 

“But there is no water here, so how could you know what water is?” 

I think about the question for several seconds before answering. “If I have an idea of something, it must be because I have experienced it before,” I say. 

“Which means,” Keep continues, “that at one point you existed in a place that wasn’t here. A different place, a place you can’t quite remember, but you can’t quite forget either.” 

“But how could I have forgotten such incredible things?” 

Keep’s gaze falls to the floor, and I know I will get nothing further from him. With some reluctance, I board the lift and begin the long ascent back to my room. 

The next several cycles continue in this same pattern. During the day I work with Alara in the factory. She helps me move the lights when I get stuck, something that is becoming more and more frequent. It isn’t just the reds now, but the purples and greens seem to avoid my touch. Even when I grab hold of one, I have to practically force it into its receptacle. 

Sometimes I think that the lights don’t want to go. That they are alive, somehow, with wills and desires all their own. The thought is absurd, of course. Alara and the others don’t have this problem. They flick and pass their lights around as if they were dying leaves being carried off by a winter wind.

I spend my nights in the library with Keep, exploring the accumulated knowledge of thousands of years. Increasingly my studies take me from things that are to things that are believed. Thoughts, concepts, fictions, philosophies. I learn of governments, of Mars and her Augusti, of Earth and her disparate republics. 

“How about this one,” Keep says one day. He types the letters G O D S into the console and a plethora of different images explode onto the screen.

Some of them look like beasts, others look like people. One of them, a great golden statue of a man wearing a crown, excites my interest somewhat. 

“That one is Sol, the sun god. Many Martians worship this one.” 

“But there isn’t really a man in the sun, is there?” I ask. 

Keep shakes his head, and I move on to an image of a great city built into the orbital ring of Neptune, which I select and enlarge.

I study the image carefully. I understand the planet now, of course. I know where it is, and the elements that make up its core and atmosphere. But when I look at it, just look at it, I feel a coldness that wasn’t there before. A deep dissatisfaction that tears at my insides, revealing scars that I have no memory of receiving. 

“Why do I feel this way?” I ask. 

Keep takes control of the console, and types the letters E M A N A T, and the image on the screen changes to a great metal sphere, segmented by four columns of white lights. 

My heart thunders in my chest. I am afraid, so very afraid at what I see. I look away as if by instinct, as if my eyes know they are not meant to witness what lies in front of them. 

“Emanat,” I say, “to whom all information must return, in whose bosom our data will live on long after the destruction of our mortal coils.” 

“You remember,” Keep says.

A cold sweat runs down my face. My body shakes, and I choke on the emptiness that fills my existence. “No,” I choke on my own voice, “this means—I, I am…” 

I slam my fist down on the console and turn to flee. “None of this is real,” I repeat the words a hundred times. “The clock tells me so every morning. Alara tells me so every day. None of this is real. No trees, no water, no life, no machine god.” 

The door won’t open, no matter how hard I pull. “Who am I?” I scream, but the answer is always the same. 

7294. Batch 7294. Keep types the numbers into the console, and on the screen an image appears of a thousand faces, my own among them. 

“That’s not me,” I say. “I’m Emre. I work at the factory. I sort the lights.” 

A fog envelops my mind. I tell Keep to let me go. I tell him that I don’t want to be here, that I want to go back. The door finally opens, and I run as fast as I can. Back to the elevator, back to my room, back to the dreamstate that I have for so long avoided. 

I stop going to the library. Alara says I look different, heavier somehow, but I do not know what to say to her. I do not know what to say to anybody. For the next two weeks I keep to myself. I do not see Keep walking the halls at night anymore. I don’t even know if he still exists. 

“Will you stop being Emre?” Alara asks one morning.

“I don’t know,” I say. The lights still do not follow my directions. Now, even the blues are in revolt. They actively dance away from my reach, taunting me as they do. 

“Well,” she says, “if you stop being Emre, I’ll stop being Alara. We can be 7294’s, just like the others are.” 

I lift my gaze from the console up and study the faces of our fellows. Keep said we were of the same batch. That a batch is like a family of people who entered this world together. But I do not know the faces I see before me now. Once, they all had names. But one by one they embraced their numbers. One by one they became 7294’s.

“Are they real?” I ask.

“None of this is real,” Alara answers. 

“What if it is real?” I ask. 

The smile on Alara’s face evaporates. “Emre,” she says, “none of this is real. The clock tells us so in the morning.” 

“But you’re real, aren’t you?” 

Alara says nothing. 

“Aren’t you?” 

Alara’s eyes glaze over. She is not looking at me anymore. She is looking through me. When I say her name again, she shakes her head and returns to her work. 

I stand in anger, but as I do, the other 7294’s cease working and stare at me. 

“I don’t want to work here anymore,” I say. “I’m going home.” 

No one says anything. They all just stare at me like I’m some kind of madman. Maybe I am mad. But those 7294’s, they had names once, everyone did. 

“Emir,” I say, pointing at the man across from me. “Mirac, Okan, Safet! All of you have names, don’t you remember? Why don’t you speak? Why don’t you dream? Why don’t you call yourselves what you really are?” 

The lights stop moving. The other 7294’s continue to stare at me. No matter how many names I call out, or how much I plead, nothing changes. I scream until my voice is hoarse, but no one will lend me their ear. 

I hear a chime coming from the elevator, and I look to see a solitary figure emerge. It is Mr. 500. He wears a grave expression, unlike anything I have ever seen before. 

Before I can move, the others grab me and pin me to the console. I call their names, I tell them to let me go, but they are relentless. Mr. 500 leans over me and smiles. “Don’t worry,” he says, “we’ll have you right as rain in no time. You won’t remember any of this.” 

Mr. 500 puts his hand over my head and begins to pull on something. I can see them leaving my brain. Reds, blues, greens, purples. The lights, my lights. Mr. 500 passes them to the others, and one by one they make the lights disappear. 

“No, they’re mine. They’re my memories, you can’t have them!” 

“Hush now,” Mr. 500 says, “none of this is real.” 

One by one I begin to forget. Faiths, philosophies, animals, trees, water. The room darkens. The other 7294’s, they start to hum. “Emanat,” they whisper, “Emanat.” 

I turn my head to see Alara. She snatches my memories with her hands and tosses them aside as if they are nothing.

“Alara,” my voice cracks. “It’s me, it’s Emre. Emre. I’m Emre.” 

Alara stops. In her hand is a red light. My red light. It fights her, just like it fought me. 

“Don’t take them from me. Don’t take them, please,” my voice is little more than a whimper. The 7294’s are chanting now. Not just them. I can hear the others from below and above. An infinite chorus, chanting the name of their machine god. Chanting as they strip me of my memories, leaving me with nothing. 

Alara won’t listen. She takes my memories and stores them away in their proper place. Just like she always has, just like she always will. 

A ghost, a phantom, a digital slave of our digital god. 

⬲

I wake up at seven o’clock sharp, right when I’m meant to. My bed is small, but so is everyone else’s. We could ask for bigger ones. I’m sure they’d let us have them. But no one has ever thought to ask. That’s what I think, anyway. 

There is a clock sitting on my bedside table. It is brass, with blue digital numbers that change when I’m not looking. When I wake up, it greets me. 

“Good morning, Emre. I hope you have a productive day today. And remember, none of this is real.” 

The Year of the Three Augusti (上)

Historian’s note,

The Crisis of the 24th Century is perhaps the most well known yet least understood era in Martian history. While many primary sources for the period still remain to this day, the overwhelming majority of them offer conflicting accounts as to the means, motives, and mindset of the major players involved.

Up until the 24th century, but for two exceptions, the Augusti were named, empowered, and ultimately answerable to the Senate. However, as the Pax Mars dragged on and Martian society began to grow soggy with the indulgences of hegemony, different factions began to compete for the privilege of choosing Mars’ monarch. And no faction held greater influence over this process than the corrupt and deplorable Praetorian Guard.

Between AD 2359 and 2401, no less than two dozen usurpers rose to claim the title of Augustus, sixty percent of which were Praetorian puppets. This in addition to a series of disastrous appointments to the office by the Martian Senate drastically lowered the peoples trust in their Princeps. And while this crisis would eventually subside due to the great efforts of the mighty Aurelianus and his successors, the damage sustained to the Principate and her institutions was irreparable.

-Marcus Cassius

**********

They called us heroes when we returned to Mars. Stepping off that transport to the cheering crowds on Olympus, the three of us began to believe it was true: That we really had done only what had to be done. But as we marched through the streets of Mars, with those red rose petals falling upon us from above, I had a terrible realization. I had committed the greatest crime in human history, a history now I am certain will never be allowed to see the light of day.

There are no laws on Mars to fit the scope of the atrocity I’ve committed. No judges who would ever hear it even if we had. I will forever be remembered as the savior of the Principate. The remover of a pretender, who sought to ally with the members of the disillusioned Praetorian Guard and overthrow the greatest government in human history. 

My life from now on will be one of luxury. I will receive a civic crown for my service. Money enough to ensure my line will survive without want for centuries to come. No one will ever know the shame I bear, and those who might chance to learn the truth will be forever hunted by those who would shield the people from its thorns. 

There were six-hundred thousand people on the Caledonia. They called it the pride of the belt. Mankind’s greatest achievement, and a place meant to house Martians and their subjects by the millions. Not just a station, not just some rusted over orbital habitat, but a fully operational O’Neill cylinder, one that I was proud to call my birthplace.

That’s why they chose me for this mission.

The Caledonia was where Aemilian’s support was greatest. Among the provincials, he was seen as a legend, having twice pushed back Directorate incursions from the core worlds. When his name was passed over for the leadership of the empire, he took the men whose loyalty he had earned over the decades and declared himself Augustus. 

It was treason, and just before the Principate erupted into outright civil war, a plan was hatched to which I would play the unwitting pawn. 

“Captain Makris, reporting as ordered, sir,” I said with a snap of my heels and a quick salute. It was Sunday afternoon.  

I had been summoned to the former governor’s manse in Sacra Mensa at the behest of General Caeso, a grizzled veteran of the Jupiter campaigns, who returned my salute before showing me inside. 

The manse was luxuriously decorated, with many relics taken from Earth during Traianus’ conquests long ago. Impressionist paintings surrounded the main hall, facing inward toward a marble bust of Justinian the Great. Such flagrant opulence would surely have been frowned upon by the old Martians, but times change, and now any gross display of wealth one could muster was met with praise and applause. 

Toward the rear of the mansion was an extravagant dining hall, replete with food enough to feed forty men. Seated at the table, however, was just a single individual: The former governor. He picked at the remnants of a half eaten lobster in between sips of wine, seemingly uninterested at the arrival of the General and myself. 

In the past I would have addressed him by his full name and title: Governor Marcus Bassianus. But now he wore another title, a title to which no name could be added: Augustus.   

“My Princeps,” the General’s voice was low. “This is Captain Makris, one of my finest men. I have selected him to carry out our mission.” 

“Mmm,” Augusts snapped his fingers, his mouth too full to speak. From behind him a solitary figure emerged; one whose ilk I had seen in battle before. 

“Captain,” the General said, “As of this morning you have been reassigned from your position as Centurian of the Fourth Legion and placed directly under my command. You are answerable to me and only to me, is that understood?” 

“Yes, sir,” I replied. 

Caeso turned to the Directorate woman and gave her a nod. “This is Eshe,” he said. “She will brief you on your mission.” 

She was a hideous thing, a human head on a body of silicon made in the image of a woman of great allure. The common soldiery called them Neptune’s Witches. Servants of the fabled Machine God, tasked with “converting” the flesh heretics of Mars and Earth. They killed only when absolutely necessary, preferring instead to maim and capture their unwitting prey, so that their mental faculties would remain intact and useful. 

And yet here one was, standing before me with the smallest hint of a grin, as if she could sense my confusion and relished in it. 

Eshe placed a small black disc at the center of the table, and from it rose a holographic projection of the Caledonia.

“The Caledonia?” I asked. 

“That is correct, Captain,” Eshe responded. “I understand that you are familiar with this habitat and its layout.” 

I turned to Caeso, uncertain as to how much I should divulge to this machine-possessed foreigner. 

“You can relax, Captain,” Caeso said. “Eshe has earned the full trust of both myself and Augustus. You needn’t hide anything.” 

I nodded, still somewhat unconvinced. 

“I grew up on the Caledonia,” I said, “and was fortunate enough to serve in her local garrison during the second Directorate incursion.” 

“How terrible that must have been,” Eshe said. “I’m told Martian casualties were quite high that day.” 

“Not as high as Neptune’s,” I said. 

“That’s enough,” General Caeso interrupted. 

I looked at the General, then to Augustus, who hadn’t lifted his eyes from his lobster plate this whole time. 

Eshe pressed a button on her wrist, and the image on the hologram changed to that of a man I knew: Sextus Aemilian, governor of Ceres. 

“This is Governor Aemilian,” Eshe said. “Four days ago he declared himself Augustus, and with the support of the Praetorian Guard, set up a new government on the Caledonia. Most of the belt has sworn allegiance to his cause, and he has drawn much sympathy from the Jovians as well.” 

“Praetorian’s,” Augustus finally spoke. “Only the senate has the right to choose an Augustus. Aemilian and his supporters are traitors. They must be killed to the last.” 

General Caeso cleared his throat, motioning for Eshe to continue. 

“Aemilian’s position is heavily fortified. Any attempt to assault the habitat directly would be tantamount to suicide. Even should victory be achieved, the effort would cripple the empire, both militarily and financially.” 

“And this would bother the Directorate how, exactly?” I asked. 

“Aemilian is a zealot. One who believes that the heresy of the Machine God cannot go unpunished,” Caeso stood from his chair. “If he were to seize the reins of power, it would mean a new war with Neptune. One that neither side can afford.” 

“How does he command such loyalty?” I asked, “If the people know what it would cost them?” 

“The people are stupid,” Augustus spat. 

“In addition to corrupting the minds of the provincials,” Caeso said, “Aemilian has also proposed an alliance with Earth. He has made overtures to the Assembly of Nations, though they have yet to formally recognize his power.”

Eshe stepped forward. “As long as Aemilian remains in power and unchallenged on the Caledonia, civil war is assured. And a Martian civil war is certain to spill over into the other powers of the system,” she said. “Which is why we must strike the head of the serpent.” 

Augustus slammed his fists into the table. “Him and every single Praetorian that raised him up as a false god. All of them, Captain Makris, must be made an example of.” 

I swallowed hard. Such political maneuvering was beyond my comprehension as a soldier. As far as I was concerned, Mars was one empire, with one people, under one Augustus. But Martians killing Martians? That soured my taste for all of this. 

“You are my Princeps,” I said. “I will do as you command.” 

That seemed to alleviate his tension. “Good!” he said with gusto. “Good.” 

“How will we get to Aemilian?” I asked. “I imagine that they will be searching every ship that seeks passage, civilian or otherwise.” 

“Diplomatic vessels are immune to searches,” Caeso said, “which is where Eshe comes in. She will smuggle you and your team on board the Caledonia disguised as members of her attaché.”

“How many men?” I asked. 

“Four, including yourself,” Caeso answered. “One bioweapons specialist to deliver the payload and two SAAT commandos to help deal with any Praetorian resistance you might encounter, though I remind you that this is a stealth mission. Engaging the enemy is to be avoided at all costs.”  

“Bioweapons?” I almost choked on the very word. “What exactly are we targeting?” 

Eshe turned off the hologram and approached me, removing a small vial from a hatch on her arm as she did. 

“What is it?” I asked, taking the vial from her. 

“It’s a nanite virus. Designed to target augmented individuals while leaving unaltered humans intact. On Neptune it’s reserved as a tool of punishment for traitors. I’m told it’s quite excruciating.” 

“How does it work?” I asked, returning the vial to its owner. 

“The nanites search for non-biological material inside the body and take control. Most commonly it will interact with cardiovascular implants first, causing them to overload in a matter of seconds. In cases of execution it can be delivered via injection, but for our purposes we will need to make the virus airborne, so as to ensure the Caledonia is fully saturated.” 

The thought was horrifying, but I did my best to hide my disgust. It was, after all, a tool to do away with the augmented, a feature only the Praetorians boasted among Martian society. It hadn’t always been that way, of course. Back in Ocatvianus’ day they’d been nothing more than loyal bodyguards. But as the empire grew, so too did the needs of his successor Augusti. Before long they had turned into the most elite fighting force in the system. Bred for war, augmented to perfection. Even Directorate witches like Eshe stood little chance against them.

“Be at ease, Captain,” Eshe said. “This is the most humane way to resolve the situation. No unnecessary firefights. No potential of excessive damage to the Caledonia. Once the fleet around the station learns what has happened, they will capitulate.” 

“You leave tonight, Captain. Your men await you at the Acheton launch pad. At 1700 hours the four of you will board a shuttle that will take you directly to Eshe’s ship where you will be further briefed.” 

“I’ll be heading up first,” Eshe said, returning the vial to her arm. “I trust our agreement remains intact?” 

Augustus flicked his wrist at her, like one might shoo away a pet cat. 

Eshe smiled, taking one last look at me before excusing herself and disappearing out to the main hall. As soon as she was gone, I turned to the General. 

“Permission to speak freely, sir,” I asked. 

“Of course, Captain.” 

“We cannot trust the Directorate. What prize could we offer them that would equal the chaos they seek to sew?”

“An astute question, my dear Captain,” Augustus rose from his chair, wiping the grease from his mouth as he did. 

General Caeso bowed and took a step back. 

“The Directorate and I have come to an agreement, but that does not mean I trust them. They are disgusting creatures, after all. Obsessed with their self-directed evolutions. I don’t even think we can call what they are as human anymore, wouldn’t you agree?” 

The thinning Princeps laid a bony hand on my shoulder and smiled. 

“Serve me in this, Captain Makris, and you will be well rewarded. Do not trouble yourself with the dreariness of dealing with the Directorate. They’ll get what’s coming to them, worry not.”

“As you command,” I said. 

“I await news of your success,” Augustus said. “Off you go. Make sure that every traitor suffers as terribly as they ought to.”

I saluted both men, then turned to leave. The fear in my heart had been stunted by the pride I felt at being chosen to save the empire. This was to be my finest hour, I was certain of it. 

I boarded the hopper bound for Acheton without delay and spent my time in transit studying the three men I was to command. The two SAAT commandos, Sgt. Mus and Cpl. Pulcher, were survivors of the first attempt to reclaim Titan. Both men had been distinguished for skill and valor, with Mus even being awarded the Martian Cross. 

Then there was the bioweapons specialist, Lt. Imida, an officer with Martian Intelligence who had barely earned his gold pips. His profile picture was as unflattering as his background, with pale, sickly skin and an odd imbalance of thin lips and an oversized nose. What’s more, the majority of his record had been redacted by MI. Of course it had. Those neck scratchers had their lips sealed and asses puckered. 

I almost threw my PDA across the cabin in disgust. We were about to decimate the entire treacherous Praetorian Guard, and the best man Martian Intelligence could offer was a pimple-faced sceleste. 

Still, Caeso had said these were his best men, Imida included. If he had earned the General’s trust, who was I to gainsay him?

I arrived in Acheton an hour before we were set to depart. It was the first time I’d been to the old district in over a decade. Long ago, before the war with Neptune was even a scant possibility, I’d spent many a night here chasing skirts and getting into fights. Acheton wasn’t the kind of place good folk went anymore, but compared to living on the frontline, with the thunder of artillery jolting you awake each night, it seemed like a slice of paradise. 

As per our orders, the four of us arrived dressed in our civvies, and no salutes or formal greetings were given until we had boarded the private shuttle. 

“Captain Makris,” Sgt. Mus was the first to speak. “It’s a pleasure to be serving with you, sir.” 

“Likewise, sergeant,” I said. “I had a chance to read up on your background while in transit. Titan, that was the worst AO of the war. Heard you and Pulcher did a lot of good that day. I’m counting on you to do the same for me.” 

“Yes, sir,” Mus said. “We’re ready to do our part.” 

I looked over at Lt. Imida, who sat hunched over with his nose buried in his PDA. 

“And you, Lieutenant?” I asked. “Seeing as you’re the crux of this operation, I need to know if you’re ready to do what needs to be done.” 

“Huh?” Imida looked up, seemingly startled at the fact I had addressed him. 

“Oh yes, of course,” he said. “You know, Captain, I was just reading up on these docs the Directorate shared about their little nanite cocktail. Fascinating, just fascinating, I would really like to—”

“Lt. Imida,” I interrupted, “I don’t know how Martian Intelligence runs their show over in Australe, but here you stand at attention and salute your superior officers before addressing them.” 

“Yes,” he fumbled, coming to his feet and offering the sloppiest salute I’d ever seen. 

“Are we going to have a problem, Lieutenant?” I asked. 

Imida looked around nervously, as if he didn’t quite understand my question, and I found myself questioning General Caeso’s judgment more and more. 

The pilot informed us of our imminent departure before our conversation could go any further. The four of us strapped ourselves in and held our breaths as the thrusters lit and shot us off into the deep dark.

Eshe’s ship was docked with the Hibernia, which we caught up with after a few rotations. It was a somber feeling, seeing Mars from orbit again. I had been stationed back on the red planet long enough to call it home. A part of me believed that I had survived the worst. That I’d not live long enough to see the fires of another war. Now, that foolish hope was slipping away, growing smaller and smaller just as Mars was from the window of our shuttle. 

There was a great shudder as our docking clamps magnetized to the hull of the Directorate ship. Hers was a design all too familiar to me. Those black spires. That sleek, unadulterated hull. They didn’t look like ships, they looked like demons. Demons that rained blue hell upon every world they chose to ravage. Demons that served only one cause: the extinction of humanity.

The inside was even more spartanly depraved. No creature comfort, no extraneous items, no personal effects. There was a low hum of electricity always present in the air, like a thousand whispers clawing at your ear, seeping into your pores. I hated every moment I spent on that ship, and if I never saw one again it’d be too soon.

They say that Neptunians spend much of their lives on the grid, that deep virtual reality that connects them to their so-called Machine God. To them, the waking world is their nightmare. To them, everyone here is a slave that must be freed. Truly, I thought for a time that those Directorate slugs would come for us as we slept that night. But the next morning I woke up unmolested, and my mind turned from one worry to another. 

After a light breakfast, we met Eshe in her quarters to discuss the plan. 

“On the table in front of you are cases containing garb appropriate for diplomatic support staff. Your cosmetics will be done an hour before we make contact with the Caledonia, but until then I suggest you practice your mannerisms and greetings until you can repeat them without thought or hesitation.”

“Once we land, we’ll be escorted directly to the Directorate Consulate in the center of the habitat. That’s where we’ll separate. I’ll proceed inside to meet with Aemilian while you four go on an arranged tour of the city.” 

“A tour? How will we get away from our guide?” Pulcher asked. 

Eshe brought up a holographic map displaying our prescribed route. “You won’t have to. We’ve bribed the guide into our service. Still, we can’t deviate from the normal routes without arousing suspicion. The safest place to separate will be here,” Eshe pointed at a facility on the east side of the capital. 

“Water reclamation,” I said, recognizing the area. “Smart.” 

“I don’t get it, sir,” Mus said. “Isn’t that the opposite direction from where we’re headed?” 

“The Caledonia’s water reclamation facility is like a maze of rivers and pipes that stretch throughout the habitat via the sublevels, which is exactly where we want to be. If we’re quick, we can make it to atmospheric control, plant the virus, and make it back out without drawing suspicion.” 

“Our spies have hidden a cache of weapons and equipment in one of the water relays near where the guide will leave you. It’s marked with a white lambda symbol. I needn’t remind you that the weapons should only be discharged as a last resort.”

“Not to ask the obvious question here, but won’t you be up there with them when we release this thing?” Pulcher asked. 

“This particular strain has been engineered to not interface with Directorate implants,” Eshe said. “It will pass through us just as harmlessly as it passes through you.”

“How?” Lt. Imida, who had been so silent that I had nearly forgotten that he was in the room with us, suddenly spoke up.

Eshe looked puzzled.

“How are the nanites able to discriminate between interfaces like that?” 

“There are certain things I am unable to share with you about our technology, Lieutenant,” Eshe spoke carefully, in a tone that betrayed some annoyance. “I am sure you understand.” 

Imida’s eyes traced the floor back and forth. He wasn’t satisfied, I could tell, but he backed down all the same. 

Oh, Imida, what was it that stayed your tongue? Cowardice? Fear of the Directorate? Fear of Augustus? Fear of me? A hundred questions surge like a riptide in my mind. Questions I’ll never get to ask. Answers that no one will ever get to know. And we both know why, Imida.

Because I killed you. 

The Elephant Keeper

Historian’s note,

Many conflicting records exist of the servi, Mars’ slave class. The first use of the word comes from the Corpus Juris Civilis Augusti, a collection of laws and notable trials that date from 2400 to the early 27th century. In this text, servi is used to describe captured former citizens who had rebelled against the Principate, specifically from the Aster Republic and the Duchy of Jupiter during the Crisis of the 24th Century.

During this time, it is generally believed that becoming a servus was not a form of slavery in the traditional sense, but a sentence one could receive as punishment for deserting the Principate. Eventually, however, this definition would change. By 2500 the servi included not just Martians bonded for their crimes, but immigrants to Mars that were gradually allowed to settle on the red planet during the Great Evacuation.

For the Principate, the establishment of legalized slavery was disastrous. The humanitarian impact is self evident, but what is less immediately clear to the cursory reader is the immense pressure this institution put upon the economics of the average Martian. With most forms of labor now being either automated or fulfilled by slave labor, the middle class of Mars collapsed, leading to a neo-feudalism that would eventually spell the doom of Mars.

-Marcus Cassius

**********

They say it was Traianus who brought the first elephants back from Earth. A trophy to display to his people the glory he had achieved by subduing the barbarian homeworld of our species. Elephants on Mars. I don’t think anyone back then expected them to survive as long as they did, but here we are. 

I was 24 years old when they first hired me to care for the Elysium herd. It wasn’t considered a job fit for a native born Martian. Animal care and other non-automated domestic tasks often fell to the servi, but they made an exception in my case. An ex-con, unhireable by any self-respecting Martian corporation. I guess an orange thief like myself should have been thankful that I could get any job at all. 

Not all life from Earth adapts as well as humans can. Some people say it’s the gravity, others say it's the quality of the air we circulate. Domesticated animals; dogs, cats and the like, fared well even in the early days. But the bigger ones, they were never built for this. Personally, I think it’s the lack of a real outdoors that gets to them. Especially the elephants. Elephants remember, or so they say. Perhaps some small glimmer of the old world still exists inside those gray heads of theirs. 

Elysium is a sordid city. The domes here were built when the agricultural revolution was just getting started. Two competing factions went at it back then. The domers, primarily from Elysium, who wanted their fields and crops all to be on the surface where they could get direct sunlight, and the cavers in Arsia, who favored the easier to manage and maintain underground lava tubes. 

In the end, both served their purpose, but it was Elysium where most of the animals ended up. 

Chickens first, then ducks and rabbits. Larger animals consumed too many resources, so with the exception of a few private farms none of the major food centers dealt in anything larger than deer. 

I remember the first time I saw an elephant. I was terrified at their size. “They used to ride these into battle,” my uncle said as we observed the animals from the zoo’s viewing deck. I couldn’t get the thought out of my mind. Young soldiers, sword in hand, staring down these six-ton living tanks that cut through their formations as if they were nothing. 

That fear followed me until the very first day I started working in the pens, and saw how docile the creatures were. There was a look they shared, a hollowness in their eyes that thinly veiled their deep misery, turning my fear into pity.

For the first year I was partnered with an Earth-born servus named Isaiah who had been indentured to the company for nearly a decade. A simpleton to be sure, but a well meaning one. He had arms rippling with muscles and fierce green eyes, and took great pride in giving the elephants proper care.

“You’re a Martian,” was the first thing he said to me. “If you’re working here then that means you did something b-bad.” 

“Obviously,” I said. 

“Well, it doesn’t matter. The elephants can’t tell Earthers from Martians. They’re b-better than us that way.” 

I shrugged my shoulders and said nothing. 

We spent the majority of that first day going through the normal routines. The park operated from nine in the morning to eight in the evening each day, during which the elephants and other animals would be released into the viewing stables for the pleasure of paying customers. While that was going on we would sanitize the pens and collect any leftover biomatter for use as farm fertilizer. 

Our shift started three hours before opening, and since I lived an hour away by train, my days began long before I was ever ready for them. At six o’clock sharp Isaiah and I would begin feeding the elephants, after which we gave them a healthy cleaning and brushed their tusks until their ivory practically glowed.

The herd in our care consisted of sixteen animals, eleven females and five males. Two of the males were yet juvenile, the youngest of which having been born just three years prior. The calves displayed much the same general apathy as the rest of the herd. It was a depressing sight, but the tourists still laughed and clapped their hands whenever one of them would lift their snout and trumpet. It was all a spectacle for the enjoyment of outsiders, just like the rest of Mars.

“Why’d you do it?” Isaiah asked me once while we were tending to the matriarch, whom the staff affectionately called Dora. The park was still an hour from opening and we were well ahead of schedule.

“It’s not like you were hungry,” he said, “so why’d you d-do it?”

“Because I wanted to taste one,” I said. “And I never would have been able to afford it.”

Isaiah laughed. “Two years in prison for wanting to get a taste of orange. Is this the f-fifteen hundreds?” 

“Yeah, well maybe we haven’t evolved as much as we’d like to think in the past thousand years. Give it another millennium, I’m sure we’ll have it sorted out then.” 

Dora began trumpeting loudly, interrupting our conversation. 

“Alright, alright, you old cow,” Isaiah said. “I’ll get your breakfast.”

Isaiah whistled a tune I didn’t recognize as he skilfully lifted a 20 kilogram bag of feed and emptied it in Dora’s trough. The elephant looked begrudgingly at her meal. Even eating was a chore. She didn’t want what we had given her, I could tell, but when push comes to shove the instinct to survive takes over. From the tiniest organisms to the largest elephants, hunger always wins. 

“C-carrots are their favorite,” Isaiah said. “I keep some in the back for special occasions, the c-calves seem to like them the most. It’s a shame we can’t get her some oranges, that would set her right as rain.” 

“I don’t think elephants would care for Martian oranges,” I said. “They’re awful.” 

“Really?” Isaiah’s eyes grew wide. “You mean you went to jail for a fruit that didn’t even taste g-good?” 

“That’s right,” I answered. 

“Ha!” he laughed. “Now that’s some i-rone-y” 

“Irony. It’s pronounced irony. Like iron with an e stuck at the end.” 

“I-rone-y,” Isaiah said again. I gave up trying to correct his pronunciation and returned my attention to fixing the shock-collar Dora wore around her neck. It was a terrible device, with enough juice to kill a smaller animal outright. The handlers assured us that the elephants barely felt anything more than a light sting from it, but we all knew that was a lie.  

Once Dora had finished her meal, we escorted her and the rest of the herd to the park’s rear entrance via a glass-walled connector tunnel. At 8:45 sharp, the gates opened and the elephants marched single file to their fabricated savanna-style display area under the supervision of the handlers.

The one that greeted us today was an imp named Fuscus. A balding Martian of middling birth with a penchant for abuse. The only thing he hated more than the servi was me, for in his view I had done something worse than steal: I had stained the pride of the Principate.

“Well, if it isn’t Robin Hood and his loyal slave!” Fuscus’ voice cracked with amusement. 

“Good morning, Fuscus,” Isaiah said, ever mindful of the manners he was expected to show. 

“You look different, Fuscus,” I sneered. “Hairline receding faster than the Martian economy, I see.” 

“Funny,” Fuscus said. “Maybe I should take inventory of the pens one of these days. Can’t trust anything to a thief. I bet you’d even swipe the shit these disgusting things leave in their pens if you thought it could fetch a pretty penny.”

“Biomass can fetch a pretty penny, Fuscus,” I said. “Almost enough to buy you an education.” 

Fuscus jumped down from the top of the gate and sauntered over like he was royalty. “You best watch yourselves,” he said. “Troubled times we’re in. They say the legion could always use more fresh recruits.” 

The herd began moving through the gate, save for a single calf that had wandered over to the dome’s edge and pressed its head longingly against the glass. 

Fuscus pushed me aside and approached Isaiah, who was desperately trying to move the calf back toward the gate. 

“What’s the matter, servus?” he asked. “That’s not how you get an animal to move.” 

Isaiah began to stutter and quake. “P-please,” he begged. “Don’t hurt the little one. He hasn’t done anything wrong.” 

Fuscus grabbed Isaiah by the shirt and threw him to the ground, spitting curses at him as he did. Then he turned his ire to the young elephant, spinning around, and with a flash of his wrist he produced a small remote. 

“This is how you get them to cooperate,” Fuscus declared. He depressed a button on the remote, activating the young calf’s shock collar. I’d never heard an elephant scream so loud. Dora and the rest of the herd stood just beyond the gate, powerless. They knew what would happen if they stepped even an inch forward. 

Fuscus jumped around gleefully, repeatedly activating the shock collar to fill his sadistic pleasure. “You see,” he said. “Maybe one day they’ll let me put a collar on you, Isaiah. In fact, maybe I’ll ask the boss about that today!”

Isaiah wasn’t listening, though. He had covered his ears, unable to handle the sounds of such torture. 

“Oh, cheer up Isaiah. It’s just a little sting. See? The kid’s already up and running for the herd. Would he be able to do that if he was in any real suffering?” 

“N-no, Fuscus,” he bowed in submission. 

“Good, I knew you’d understand,” Fuscus said. “Now you boys get back to scraping shit off the walls. We’ll take the animals from here. And try not to steal anything while you’re at it, hm?”

When it was clear he wouldn’t get any response from me, Fuscus sucked his teeth and followed the calf through the gate, closing it behind him. 

“He’s a real rust-eater, that one,” I said once I was sure we were alone. 

“Oh, it’s not his fault. I’m the one who let the c-calf get away from me. If I’d been doing my job p-properly, he wouldn’t have had to do his.” 

I reached down and helped Isaiah off the ground. I’d never seen a servus cower like that, and for the first time I started to feel a genuine sense of pity for the Earther’s that had been forced into bondage. If only Neptune hadn’t shut their doors, all of this might have been avoided. 

“Don’t blame yourself for the cruelty of other men,” I said. We turned back for the pens, and for a time we walked in silence. Outside a dust storm was picking up, partially obscuring the sun from view. 

“Do you think he wanted to go outside?” Isaiah asked once we reached the door.

“The calf?” I asked. “I suppose so. Elephants don’t understand what’s out there. They see the plains of Elysium and the other domes in the distance and think it must be a place they’d like to roam.” 

“Maybe they do know,” Isaiah said. “Maybe they just want to enjoy freedom for a short while, even if it costs them their lives.” 

“Maybe,” I said. 

Things continued on like this for the next half year. Sometimes it was Fuscus who would greet us at the gate, other times another handler was there. Each day the same calf would lag behind, standing at the same spot, looking out over the Martian surface.

The other handlers were happy to wait until the young elephant had its fill of the view. Eventually Dora would call to it, and it would come running after the others. Fuscus, though, as soon as he caught sight of that little one starting to wander off, he’d whip out his damned remote and begin torturing the creature until it could barely walk. 

Isaiah would cry and beg while Fuscus laughed and laughed. And I? I just stood there and waited for it to be over. It was just an animal, I told myself. Eventually it will learn to hurry after the others and stop pining for the outside world. But that day never came, and the screams of that calf began to bleed into my dreams. 

One day, Isaiah and I were asked to cover the closing shift after the normal crew had failed to report in. The sun had set and the dome’s interior lights had been mostly shut off. We were bringing the herd back to the pens when I noticed Dora, usually at the front, standing alone in the enclosure. 

I told Isaiah to go ahead while I tended to the old matriarch. 

“Come on, old girl,” I said, resting a hand on her trunk. “It’s time for bed.” 

Dora’s eyes met my own, and in them I could see my own reflection. It’s a horrible thing being a prisoner. This matriarch, descended from a long line of elephants that had been captured as a prize of conquest, who like her mother and her grandmother, could never hope to escape their meager existence. 

We spent several minutes together at the window. Occasionally Dora would give a muffled moan and I’d give her head a stroke. I thought about my parents, my father who had disowned me the moment my guilty verdict was read allowed. My brothers who would secretly send me packages and letters as I rotted away in a cell at Scopuli Inferior.

Both of us knew what it was to live in a cage. To be a captive living among captives. I could give the old girl no words of comfort, so I kept my mouth shut and stood at her side until she was ready to go. 

Then it happened. 

We were half way back to the pens when I heard Isaiah’s screams. Dora must have sensed what was wrong, as she began rushing forward at a pace that outstripped my own. 

When I finally got back, my heart fell into my stomach. Isaiah was bent double over one of the calves who lay motionless on the floor. The other elephants surrounded them, all bearing witness to the sincerity of Isaiah’s grief. 

“What in the name of Sol happened?” I asked. 

“He’s d-d-dead,” Isaiah choked. “I c-c-couldn’t get him to move into his pen and, and, and. . .”

“Fuscus,” I whispered, “was it Fuscus?” 

Isaiah nodded, and tears flooded his eyes once again. 

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll call park security and Dr. Julia. Isaiah you just stay right—”

“Well, isn’t this a fine mess?” I heard Fuscus’ voice from the entrance. Behind him were two security guards, both of whom had their stun batons drawn. 

“You’re supposed to take care of the elephants, not get them killed, servus,” he said. 

“Fuscus, you dog,” I spat. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” Fuscus shook his finger. “Raise your hands at me and you’ll be joining Isaiah in bondage. That’s the law, isn’t it? Two convictions and you get the brand.” 

My rage passed into cowardice, and once again I found myself unable to act. 

“Now that’s a good boy,” Fuscus said. “You run on home. We’ll be taking care of everything from here.” 

“You better not lay a finger on Isaiah,” I said. “He’s done nothing wrong and you know it.” 

Fuscus dismissed me with a wave of his hand, and moments later I found myself being escorted to the perimeter by one of the guards. 

I didn’t see Isaiah for a full week after that. I heard from one of the other servi that he was sent to the auctions, but a bonded man who carried the blame for the death of one of Mars’ most prized animals couldn’t fetch even a single bid. In the end, the company was forced to keep him. 

I was given an official reprimand and docked a month’s pay for the incident. A relatively light slap on the wrist compared to Isaiah, but for a man like me who lives off the scraps, it meant everything. 

I pawned off the last of my possessions to make it through the month. Anything that wasn’t bolted down I got rid of, and still that barely earned me a single meal a day. It had all been Fuscus’ doing, and though I wanted desperately to make him pay, I hadn’t the slightest idea as to how I could exact my revenge.

The lack of staff in the pens meant I had to do the morning preparations by myself. The herd was devastated after the loss of their youngest calf. Being among them reminded me of my time in prison. The longer they lock a man up, the more withdrawn he becomes. They start taking meals alone, and some just give up on communicating altogether. 

Seeing Dora then reminded me of those old convicts. She barely interacted with the herd. In the pens she ate and slept alone, and even in the park she would find a quiet corner mostly obscured from view and remain there for the rest of the day. 

On the morning of the 4th, I showed up for work to find that the doors to the pen had been left open. There was a faint sound of metal hammering against metal coming from the inside, and when I stepped through, I found Isaiah. 

“Isaiah?” I called to him, “what are you doing here?” 

“O-oh!” he turned around, his eyes wide. It was clear that he hadn’t expected anyone to come in. “It’s g-good to see you.” 

“It’s good to see you, too,.” I looked him over. His face and arms were severely bruised, and he trembled in a way I’d never seen before. In his hands he held a medium sized brown sack that looked heavy in his hands, but at the time I thought nothing of it. 

“What are you doing here?” I asked. 

Isaiah turned and pointed to the herd. “I j-just thought I’d say goodbye to everyone. They won’t let me work near the animals anymore. Said I’m t-too stupid.”

“That’s not true,” I said. “No one’s as good with the herd as you are, Isaiah. I don’t think they’ll ever warm up to me like they did with you.” 

Isaiah shuffled around in embarrassment. “They’re sending me to C-Ceres,” he said. “We p-probably won’t see each other again.” 

“Well, if you ever find yourself in Elysium again, you know where to find me,” I said. My heart was heavy. Simple though he may have been, Isaiah had never been anything but hard working and kind. 

We shook hands. “Thank you,” Isaiah said. “I’ll b-be seeing you later, then.” 

“Goodbye, Isaiah.”

And just like that, I was alone again. 

I swallowed my grief and spent the rest of the morning performing my duties as diligently as I was able. Each elephant was cleaned to perfection, and I spent extra care making Dora look as beautiful as I could. At 8:30, I opened the doors and began leading the herd toward the park. 

“Look who it is,” I heard Fuscus say as the gates began to open. “You’re late.” 

“Sorry,” I said as I ushered the herd through. I wasn’t looking for trouble that morning, but I could tell Fuscus wasn’t about to let me off the hook easily. 

“Sorry, he says,” Fuscus let out his horse’s laugh. “Gods have mercy. The criminal has turned over a new leaf and finally started apologizing for his miserable existence.” 

I tried to ignore him and focus on moving the herd, but one of the juveniles had wandered over to the very same spot by the window that the calf had always gone to. There was something that had drawn her over, and after getting closer I realized what it was: a carrot.

Isaiah must have left it there. It couldn’t have been anyone else. But in that moment I was only focused on the young girl and the punishment she was about to receive should Fuscus become impatient. 

“There’s one by the window,” I said. “I’ll go get her.” 

Fuscus was standing just a few feet away now, his face dark and evil. “Like hell you will,” he said. 

“Dumb animal,” he shouted, pushing me to the ground before marching on his target. “Get away from there and get back to the others!” 

Fuscus took his remote in hand and began mashing the button, but nothing happened. The young elephant continued chewing blissfully on its carrot, ignorant of the tantrum that was erupting behind her.

“Damn shock collar must be out of juice,” Fuscus yelled. At his side he kept a stun baton, which he drew and activated in one motion. With renewed vigor he raised his arm and thrust his weapon into the young elephant’s hind quarter. 

The juvenile shuddered and cried, the sound of which drew the attention of the others. But unlike with the calf, the reaction was different. Dora stood at the forefront, trumpeting loudly at the maniacal handler. 

Fuscus was slow to notice. With every thrust of his baton he cackled maniacally until the juvenile had fallen to the ground. Only then did he turn to see Dora’s approach. 

“Get out of here, old cow,” he said. Once more, he pointed his remote at Dora, and once more it failed to activate. It was then that it struck me. The sack Isaiah had carried. The sound from inside the pens. He had removed the power cells from the shock collars, one and all. The herd was free. 

I can’t properly describe the horror on Fuscus’ face as Dora began her charge. He didn’t even have a chance to raise his baton before she came crashing down upon him, breaking his body over and over until almost nothing recognizable remained. 

The herd began trumpeting uproariously. Realizing the danger, I made a dash for the ladder and ascended the gate with the other handler. 

Then, without warning, Dora turned on the window and charged once again. 

“She’s trying to break out!” I yelled at the other handler, whose face had turned pale. 

Dora crashed into the dome, cracking the glass. The bulls followed suit, and before long the whole herd was in on it. A wave of elephants began their charge, and I knew at once we could not remain. 

I took the other handler by the collar and dragged him through the upper access port, behind which was an emergency hatch to the park dome. Behind me I heard the shattering of glass and the victorious trumpeting of elephants, but I could no longer see them. 

The dome’s automated depressurization response activated then, sealing the door to the access port. For several minutes I sat frozen, listening to the elephants cries. They had earned their freedom. They had earned their deaths. 

The herd was gone.

I spent three weeks behind bars for my part in the fiasco. Fortunately, the other handler corroborated my version of events, and I was awarded a citation for civic bravery in saving the life of my fellow Martian. The company, however, did not fare as well as I. As punishment for having lost Traianus’ prized legacy, their assets were seized by the Principate and several negligent executives were bonded as punishment. 

I received a stipend from the company’s dissolution. It wasn’t much, but it got me a one-way ticket to Arsia, where I managed to land myself an apprenticeship at the orchards. 

All of this brings me to Isaiah, and the reason I have written this account. 

One year after the incident in Elysium, while perusing the news with some disinterest, I came across an article concerning a mining accident in the orbit of Ceres. Among the listed casualties I found Isaiah’s name. 

Isaiah, my friend, you deserved better. And I will make sure that all of Mars knows the truth.

I promise.

The Fall of Earth

Historian’s Note,

The fall of Earth in AD 2230 is the subject of intense study by modern scholars. While historians of the later Principate would hail the conquests of Augustus Traianus as both righteous and necessary, many now believe that the decision to subjugate Earth would create ripples in Martian society that would one day turn into waves.

What many do not know, however, is that the wars that shattered Earth were in many ways of Mars’ own doing. Starting with the reign of Augustus Claudius in 2149, Mars’ official policy toward Earth became one of strategic manipulation and indirect interference. Through a series of alliances and discreet financial support, Mars was able to turn many of Earth’s nations against one another. This constant upheaval at home forced the superpowers to turn their resources inward, and in doing so left much of their frontier territories unbarred and unguarded.

These internal conflicts eventually led to the collapse of the New American Union in 2201 and the Pan-Asian Republic in 2205. The governments and nations that rose from the ashes of these empires proved to be even more erratic and unstable than their predecessors, and eventually hostilities turned nuclear in 2215.

While many in the Principate were content to see their greatest rival in the system collapse, in reality the destabilization of Earth was creating an economic depression that threatened the livelihood of everyone from Venus to Jupiter. Seeing the threat, Traianus gave his famous Olympus Address, where he declared his intent to restore order to Earth.

In total, five fleets carrying more than two million men set course for the first large scale planetary invasion to ever occur.

The following is one of the last surviving first-hand accounts of the Martian landing.

-Marcus Cassius

**********

I was three weeks shy of my 15th birthday when they conscripted me. My mother begged them not to. Ran out after me screaming a hail of slurs and curses at the SP’s that had rounded us all up. For her effort, she got a rifle butt to the stomach. That was the last time I saw her; lying in the mud, gasping for air as a heavy rain poured from above.

The Federation had been on the decline long before the first missiles were fired. Born from the ashes of the NAU, they sought to unite the western territories and eventually re-conquer all of North America. It was all for nothing, though, and at the end of a ten year war they had been reduced to only the Alaskan territories and the Aleutians. 

In a final act of defiance, General Peterson gave the order for all able bodied men to assemble at Coronation Island for one last, desperate offensive to take back the British Colombian bread basket. 

There was no training camp, no instruction, nothing. Our swearing in was done at a church in Port Alexander, where we received our combat greens, a rifle, and three 30-round magazines. That was it. Many of the smaller boys could barely hold the weapon they were given, and some of the uniforms had clearly been scavenged from the corpses of our predecessors. 

Our commanding officer was a man of 20 years named Orwin. Platinum blonde hair, with two long scars marking his right cheek. He held the rank of Captain, and upon lining us up by age, chose the two eldest boys to serve as his lieutenants. 

We clapped for the two as if they had just won some sort of contest. None of us knew what was about to happen. We had no concept of the way men slaughter other men. To us it was all a game, a game that we were told we could win with but an ounce of effort. 

I spent the night before the invasion alone looking up at the stars with a pair of pocket binoculars my mother had given me as a present. Out there were worlds unspoiled by the old hatreds. The free cities of Venus, the Jovian colonies, rumors even abounded of societies as far as Neptune and her moons. Out there was peace and prosperity, while here on Earth the tribes of man fought and bickered as they had done for millenia.

My mother often told me that one day, when we’d worked long enough and saved up enough money, we’d ride one of those shuttles off world and never look back. It was a fool's dream, but a dream that kept me going on nights where food and warmth were scarce nonetheless. 

How I wished I could have been born up there, far away from the sound of rockets and rifle fire. They called what we were fighting for, “freedom”. This “freedom” Peterson often said was the most noble and just thing. Freedom of a society to choose its own path. Freedom of the weak to live unoppressed by the strong. He told us to hold our heads high. We were freedom fighters, after all. What could be nobler?

But freedom creates division, and division creates war. Just like the petty kingdoms of Europe after the fall of Rome, so too now did the independent states of North America prey upon one another, each one fighting for their own so-called “freedom”. Each one as guilty as the other for perpetuating an endless cycle of death. 

That was the difference between us and the Martians. They saw the lie for what it was. They knew that order came before freedom, and lived their lives with their eyes wide open. Even now, as a man of 91 penning this account with a shaky hand, I struggle to comprehend what they ever wanted with us. 

I stayed outside that night until Captain Orwin found me and ordered me back to bunk. “Off you go now,” he said with a crooked smile. I knew I would find no sleep that night, but made no attempt to protest. 

The shelling of the coast began just before sunrise the next morning, once the rains had ceased and the skies were clear. The Federation had left in its possession a handful of frigates and a single cruiser called the Pelagic whose cannons sang in the wind every few seconds. To the enemy it must have been a pathetic sight. Four late 21st-century ships and their 8-inch guns. I doubt that bombardment killed a single one of them. 

At 0530, we boarded the transports. Many of the boys began crying once we pushed off. Orwin tried to settle their nerves, telling them to remember what we were fighting for. “Freedom,” he kept saying. “Freedom.” Some may still believe in it, but I know for a fact that none of those boys would’ve died that day if it weren’t for Peterson’s damned “freedom”. 

Our company was split into three transports that made up a second wave that never made it to the beachhead. They knew we were coming. The trap they had laid for us was perfect. 

Initially all seemed to be well. The first wave had landed and was pushing inland unresisted. Some of the boys on the boat began to cheer. “They’ve fled! They’ve fled at just the sight of us!” The conscripts on the beach were similarly ginger in their advance. Many milled about out of cover, their rifles at their sides and their arms waving joyously in the air. Then I saw it. A series of windows opening in the face of the cliff to the south. Those kids on the sand didn’t stand a chance. Most of them were cut down before they even realized what was happening.

Terrified screams filled the morning air, and it wasn’t long before the enemy sights were trained on the string of transports still on course to the shore. 

A hail of bullets tore holes as big as baseballs through the bow of our little boat. Orwin tried to maintain cohesion, but was struck in the temple before he could issue a single command. In a panic, many of my comrades started jumping into the water in a futile attempt to make it back to safe harbor.

I was paralyzed with fear. My mind told me to abandon ship with the others, but my body would not heed me. Instead, I found myself lying flat just a few short feet away from Captain Orwin. His blonde hair had turned red with blood, and his blue eyes had gone hollow. 

I don’t know how much time passed. Every so often bullets would rail through the armor, some of which struck the engine causing smoke to rise. This was it, I thought. Any moment this tiny transport would go up in flames and I along with it. But the finishing blow never came. 

At least, not for me. 

It was a twinkling star that shook me from the thrall of despair. It stood there alone for a moment before being joined by another, then another and another. Before long there were thousands of them, streaking across the sky in every direction. I thought the world had finally come to an end. 

A few of those falling stars grew brighter than the others, and I realized with a shudder that they were coming right at me. Then I heard it, a sound terrible like thunder on a mountaintop. The world around me was engulfed in a fire that scorched the sky, turning it as red as the blood that pooled around me. 

Laced in the chaos were the screams of my fellows. I couldn’t bear to hear it, so I covered my ears and closed my eyes, and in agony screamed along with them. 

Something struck me then, I know not what. Some errant shrapnel or debris. I lost consciousness, and when I next woke the sun was setting.

It was eerily silent. My vision was a blur, and for a long while I lay there, still too afraid to lift my head. Gradually though, as the silence carried on uninterrupted, the blood in my veins began pumping again. Slowly, like some prey animal that had just escaped capture, I raised my head above the starboard and surveyed the destruction. 

The first thing I saw was the Pelagic, her hull ravaged by fire spewing black smoke that billowed out toward the coast. Its accompanying frigates were gone: Whether they had fled or sunk, however, I did not know. 

For a while I wondered how the cruiser had gotten so far away, only to realize that it was I who had drifted off course. Above me now sat the cliff face, from which I could make out several ports and windows. This was the same fortress whose machine guns had torn my comrades to shreds, but just like the Pelagic behind me, this nest of hornets had also been burnt to ashes. 

I was alone. There were no moans of the dying, no shouts of victory, nothing. As far as I could tell I was the last person alive in the whole world.

After several minutes more of looking out at the chaos, I decided that it would be best to try and make it back to Coronation Island. I made my way to the boat’s rear, finding the engine wrecked beyond repair. I was at the mercy of the sea, and seeing no alternative, decided to swim for shore. 

We had been given no rations for the trip. Aside from my weapon and ammunition, the only items of consequence I had were a full canteen and my pocket binoculars, the lenses of which had shattered during the battle. Wanting to rid myself of any encumbrance, I tossed my rifle aside and turned to the sea.

While the cliffside was close, it was sheer and I lacked any equipment for climbing. Instead, I looked on toward the beach that I had been sent to conquer. It was far, more than two-hundred yards by my best reckoning, but I had no choice. I bid farewell to the cold corpse of Captain Orwin then plunged myself into the waters below. 

It was a hard swim. Occasionally I would bump into something; some flotsam or another dead soldier. As I got closer to the sand the number of bodies increased until finally I couldn’t go two strokes without touching another arm or a leg. I felt sick, but my instinct to survive carried me forward until at last I felt the Earth’s sweet embrace once more.

Like the ocean behind me, the beach I found myself on was littered with the dead. Some of the landing craft were still partially intact, their ramps still down, and looking at them it was clear that many of the soldiers in the first group had died with their backs to the enemy. 

The massacre ended about thirty yards inland. Beyond that were the smoldering foxholes and bunkers of our killers. The damage was beyond anything our paltry force was capable of. Clearly this was not the work of some Federation bombardment. Someone else had been here. Another force had attacked. 

As I moved further inland I became aware of a low humming from just beyond the ridge overlooking the beach. Fearful, I grabbed the nearest weapon I could find and made a dash for cover. By then the sun had almost fully set. A vibrant orange illuminated the eastern sky, partially tainted by the black smoke rising from the Pelagic. I had to get moving. 

There were two paths leading up the eastern ridge. The one to the south was littered with debris and barbed wire that I hadn’t the courage to overcome. The road further north, however, had been completely bombed out. The only things barring my path here were large craters and a single overturned APC. 

When I was about halfway up the ridge, a loud explosion from somewhere behind me gave me such a fright that I dove into the nearest crater and held my breath. Several minutes passed, and after resummoning my courage I looked back out at the ocean. The Pelagic had been completely severed in two, and both ends were rapidly slipping beneath the waves. The Federation’s last cruiser, in whose cannons I had taken solace in that morning, was lost. 

I took a few sips from my canteen before pushing onward. The low humming I had heard from the beach had grown louder, though I still did not recognize what it was. 

As I neared the ridge crest I began to see the first signs of the enemy. Several bodies, charred beyond recognition, lay near each other at the door of one of the concrete bunkers. It was only then that I became aware of the smell, and hand over mouth I hurried along until I finally reached my destination, where the source of that low humming at last became clear.

I cannot describe what I felt when I saw what lay beyond that beach. There was a fear in the pit of my stomach, a fear so deep that it turned to awe at the men and machines that stood in the valley below. 

Martians. Thousands of men, dozens of tanks, ships that ranged from single pilot strike craft to enormous landing shuttles. So great was my amazement that the rifle I carried slipped from my hands and fell harmlessly to the rocks at my feet. 

Had I been a properly trained soldier I would have pointed my weapon forward and charged at the enemy of the Federation without regard for my own life. And I would have died for nothing, cut down without causing even so much as a minor inconvenience. 

Instead, the first man who noticed me didn’t even so much as bother raising the alarm. He must have thought me some lost child, come to see what all the commotion was about. Before I knew it I was being led by the arm to the center of the Martian encampment and thrown before its commanding officer. 

He was a wiry man, with a vulpine expression and the first hints of gray in his hair. Though he stood a good deal shorter than many of his comrades, they seemed to all look to him as if he were a giant. 

The man who brought me announced to his commander that he had captured an enemy soldier, something that was met with uproarious laughter from his fellows. 

“A soldier?” one of them said. “Did you tear him from his mother’s womb?” 

They all laughed, all except the commander whose countenance remained stoic. 

“What’s your name, boy?” he asked. 

“Miller, sir,” my voice cracked, only furthering the bemusement of my captors. 

“Mr. Miller,” the commander’s eyes studied me as he spoke. “Are you a soldier?” 

Somehow I had forgotten the most basic of etiquette during this whole ordeal. Upon being asked, my feet snapped together and I gave a salute. “Private Miller, sir.” My voice didn’t crack this time. 

“How old are you, Private Miller?” he asked. 

“Fourteen, sir,” I answered. 

Their laughter evaporated in an instant. 

“Fourteen,” the commander repeated. “And how long have you been in the Federation military?”

“Five. . .” I stumbled over my own words in embarrassment. “Five days, sir,” I said. 

The commander stood suddenly and looked at his men, all of whom now wore somber expressions.

“Do you see now, men?” his voice boomed. “Do you see the gravity of our mission here? There are millions more out there just like young Private Miller. Children, boys sent into the meat grinder so that their masters might satisfy their craven ambitions.” 

“Look at this world. For many of you this is the first time you have stood outside on a planet without the need for a suit or mask. For the first time you’ve seen blue oceans, fertile soil, and abundant animal life. Just look around you. Have you ever seen anything like it?” 

“And this is what the barbarians choose to do with their land of plenty!” he pointed at me. “This is their way. And if they will not come willingly out of their caves and tribes, then we’ll drag them out kicking and screaming!”

The commander’s men raised their arms and cheered. “Kicking and screaming!” many of them repeated. “We’ll follow you to the end, General!” 

When the jubilation petered out, the commander approached me once more. 

“Do you have a family, Private Miller?” he asked. 

“Just my mother, sir. She lives in Juneau.”

“Juneau,” his voice was hardly more than a whisper. “I’m sorry to say, Private, but Juneau was destroyed in a retaliatory strike by the Northwestern Alliance. We surveyed the area but found no survivors.” 

My heart fell into the pit of my stomach. That was it, I was alone. I tried my best to dam the river of tears, but once the first droplets began trickling down my cheeks, I could no longer bear it. 

The General bent down to one knee and grasped my shoulder in his hand. “What’s your first name, Private Miller?” he asked. 

“Anthony, sir,” I choked. 

“Anthony,” he smiled. “A fortuitous name. A strong name. I am called Lusius, or General Quietus to my men. We are from Mars. Have you ever been to Mars, Anthony?”

I shook my head. 

“I thought not. It’s a wonderful place, Anthony. A world of order, filled with people working to better themselves and the lives of those around them. We’ve come to Earth hoping we might bring that order to this planet. So that young boys like yourself won’t have to die on boats and beaches like so many of your brothers here did today.” 

I listened intently to his every word. Order. The word implanted itself like a stitch upon my broken heart. I wiped the tears from my eyes and looked up at the General. 

My home and family were gone. Everything I had ever known had been consumed by the fires of war. My mother, my friends, our town, all of it now was just a memory. And clutching tightly onto that memory I looked up and asked the General for the only thing I now desired. To be part of this new order. 

Quietus smiled before standing up and turning to his men. “This young man says he wants to join us. To add his voice to our righteous assembly. Who here will object to this request?” 

“But he is not of Mars,” one soldier cried out. 

“Neither were your parents, Lieutenant. But the Principate welcomed them all the same,” another man answered. 

“But he is a soldier from a hostile government. He must be taken prisoner,” someone else said. 

“A boy-conscript of a nation that no longer exists,” an older looking officer shot back. 

“Who would risk sullying their reputation by acting as a benefactor for a boy they know nothing about? Have you all forgotten the folly of Admiral Gordian? Who thought he could adopt an Earth-born son and turn him into one of us? How many Martian’s gave their lives for that mistake?”

Several soldiers began mumbling in agreement, and I felt my chances slipping away right in front of my eyes. They were right. I was an enemy combatant who had wandered into their camp. It had been an unreasonable request to start with, but as far as I was concerned I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. 

“Can the boy tell us exactly why he wishes to join us?” a highly decorated officer who had been standing behind General Quietus asked. He had a well-kept beard of white and gray and a voice gentle like silk. 

The soldiers all turned to me. 

My mind went blank. I’m sure many of them assumed the worst. That I was some starving animal who would swear himself to any master that would throw him scraps from their table. 

Then, as if by instinct, I found myself reaching into the front pocket of my body armor and grabbing hold of my broken binoculars. 

“What is that?” the bearded officer asked. 

“My mother gave me these, before she. . .before I. . .” I choked on my words, but refused to give in to tears. 

“We used to go out at night and look up at the stars. All she ever dreamed of was to get off this planet. To escape the war and live a quiet life somewhere safe. She’s gone now, but I’m here. And I can’t help but think that maybe there’s a reason that I’m standing here like I am. Asking this favor of you.” 

The bearded officer gave me a brief nod, after which no one spoke any further.

General Quietus raised his hand. “I will ask only once,” he said. “You have heard the arguments from both sides, and now a decision must be made. Is there any among you that would take this boy as your own? To forge him into a Martian honest and true?” 

Utter silence. Even the birds in the distant trees seemed to halt their chirping on my account. My face turned red with embarrassment. I had been a fool to think the outcome would be anything other than this. 

A full minute passed before the General decided to end my shame. 

“Very well,” he said. “Your concerns have been heard, and I cannot force any of you to take up this burden unwillingly. However, I am also not so cold as to deny such a fervent request to join the Principate. The boy will be brought in under my charge. Procopius, enter it into the logs effective immediately and get him ready for a full biomedical evaluation.” 

There was a great clamor among the officers at this sudden turn. Perhaps the men felt ashamed that their general should be the one to shoulder responsibility. Even I was utterly shocked at this outcome, and could find no words with which to express my feelings. 

General Quietus came to me once more and knelt down to one knee. “You’re about to embark on a difficult journey, Private Miller. Are you sure this is what you want?” 

“Yes, sir,” I answered without a moment’s hesitation. 

“You must leave everything behind. The boy you were, your home, everything. Even your name.” 

“My name?” I asked. 

He nodded. “From now on you will join my family. That means you are no longer Anthony Miller of Earth. You are Antonius Quietus, adopted son of Lusius Quietus. You will learn our ways and make them your own. You will serve Mars and her Augustus without question. Is that understood?”

“It is, sir,” I said. 

“Good,” he said. “Now, walk with me, my son. Let me show you what it means to be Martian.”

The sun had disappeared beneath the horizon, and above us an ocean of stars shined down brighter than I had ever seen before.

The Chandelier City of Kauket

Historian’s note,

Starting in the late 25th century, the Kuiper Directorate began seeing an increasing amount of domestic unrest which culminated in the outbreak of a civil war in 2495. While many historians have attributed the Directorate’s dissolution to economic distress and the political maneuverings of several prominent Uranians, others have cited a schism in Neptune’s transhumanist cult as the primary catalyst.

What emerged from this four year conflict was a new government, the Union of Outer Worlds, which moved its capital from Triton to the orbital city of Kauket. Unlike the Directorate, the Union adopted an isolationist stance, setting the border between them and the Principate at the Saturnian moon of Titan.

Neptune’s exit from the grander political stage in the system was much celebrated by the Principate, who thought to use this opportunity to redeploy their fleets in their ongoing conflict with Earth. Ultimately, however, the reluctance of the Union to involve itself in any external matters would prove to be tinder to the flame of Mars’ inevitable downfall.

-Marcus Cassius

**********

When the first Directorate ships appeared over Titan, I thought we were done for. We knew they’d be coming. The Principate had abandoned their positions around Saturn months before, leaving all of us at the mercy of the rim worlds. 

Secretly, some people were cheering amongst themselves. Provincials like us never seemed to be a high priority for Mars. The only time they realized when we weren’t around was when our tax revenue could no longer be collected. Just like that, a new army would be formed. Another wave of Martian ships and marines would appear from the void with the snap of a finger, and there we were, citizens of the Martian Principate once again. 

Little did any of us know that this time, the Martian flag would never again fly over Titan. 

They call Titan the birthplace of transhumanism. Eugenics had been largely shunned by the inner governments. The quest to make the perfect species deemed sacrilege despite the enormous potential it brought. There were those who practiced it in secret, of course, and it was they who laid the foundation of everything we were to become. 

Eventually, as the politics of the age shifted along with the borders of the three great empires, all that knowledge and human endeavor found itself in Directorate hands. On Neptune, they say that people aren’t born, but built. Crafted one gene at a time to the specification of their creators. A far cry from the simple visual implants and breathing augmentations that I myself had. 

The Leonine Decrees had made criminals of all augmented men and women. Mars spared no expense in their purges, and the only reason mine escaped notice was due to their subtle nature paired with a few good falsified medical reports. 

None of that is to say that I welcomed the Directorate overlords any more than I did the Martians. We’d seen the way they fought. The way they would maim their victims, hoping to capture as many as they could to add to their order. 

All this they did while praying to the Machine God. The very idea of it terrified me. The One that Flows Through All, they called it. A title that chilled the blood in my veins. 

The garrison on Titan had fled alongside the small Martian fleet that had been stationed in orbit. Those of us left had no weapons. No means to defend ourselves. Nothing. 

It was another fourteen weeks before the first ships were spotted. One of our satellites managed to track a half dozen signals as they pushed into Saturnian space. There was no attempt at contact. They came as silent as the void they passed through, as if darkness and fear were born their true blood companions. 

A single landing ship was dispatched to our home city of Nisibis. That was when the first signal came. A request for permission to land at the docks, followed by a request for the people of Titan to gather. 

We obeyed. How could we not? Even a penniless wretch like myself knew the value of living another day. 

We assembled at the port, just as instructed. Every man, woman and child in Nisibis, though that number amounted to less than two thousand. Somehow I found myself near the front, standing alongside two young women who had once been my neighbors.

It was the first time I’d seen a Directorate ship up close. Solid black, with two sharp prongs that jutted out like spears from the fore. This particular vessel had on it a blue emblem of three interlinked circles. The mark of the Machine God. 

There was one man, a fellow by the name of Cyril, who had taken it upon himself to act as our spokesman. Not that he had any particular qualification other than having once represented our town to the local governor on a few occasions. He stood at the front of the crowd, a few short meters from the ship, and waited with his head bowed. 

After several minutes, a door on the Directorate ship began to open downward, turning itself into a ramp. From the dark interior, three figures emerged. 

The first two were men, light skinned and standing at least two and a half meters tall. They were dressed in gowns of silver and black, and slung around their necks and over their chests were leather bound books that must have been as thick as Jovian freighters. Their limbs appeared to be flesh and blood, but both of them had matching hexagonal markings on the right side of their foreheads; the telltale sign of neural augmentation.

Behind them was a woman, or at least something made to look like a woman, standing slightly shorter than her comrades. Unlike the men, she wore no clothes, nor did it seem she had any need. Her body had a synthetic sheen, with a slender waist and wide hips, and she looked as though she could survive in the vacuum of space without any discomfort. The only adornment she wore was a long earring on her right ear, a straight bar piercing through three blue globes. The same symbol that marked the Directorate ship. 

The two men stood on either side of the platform, their expressions frigid and remote, while the female came to the center, where she looked down upon us. She scanned the room, her eyes searching our souls one by one. When her gaze met mine, I could not bear it, and hung my head in shame. 

My neck and ears were burning. We were going to die, I was sure of it. But then the woman began to speak, and something other than fear quickly washed over me. 

“People of Titan,” she said. “Long have you lived under the yoke of Martian autocracy. Long have you played the part of slave to masters you have never seen nor heard. Your homes, your families, your belongings. Everything has been taken from you again and again. And now you stand here, your heads hanging in fear, ready to feel the lash of a new master on your back.”

“I, too, once felt as you feel now. My home moon of Oberon was passed around the three great powers as if it were a toy. The Directorate was not kind to me. Just as the Principate was not kind to you.” 

There was a rush of whispers from the crowd, and before long someone decided to speak up. 

“The Directorate wasn’t kind to you?” a voice mocked. “You are the Directorate!” 

“That’s right!” several people shouted in agreement. 

The woman said nothing, preferring instead to wait until the sudden uproar had exhausted itself of kindling. When silence held lease once more, she turned to the man to her right, who stepped forward and unwrapped the book that hung around his neck. 

“Children of Titan,” his voice boomed. “The Directorate is no more. The seven heads of its seven false gods have been severed, their information expunged from the great stream. We come here not as conquerors, but as guests with an offer of invitation.” 

“Why should we believe you?” An older woman standing at the front yelled. “We’ve seen what the Directorate does to its tributaries. What you call ‘adding to the great stream’, we call genocide!”

This time, Cyril stepped up and tried to calm the crowd. “Friends, friends,” he begged. “Now is not the time for anger and accusations. We will hear the words of these…” he paused momentarily. “Well, if not Directorate, what should we call you?” 

“Indeed,” the man said. “The worlds beyond Saturn no longer heed the title of Directorate. Each moon, each planet, now exists as a member of something greater. A union of people, some of whom served the Directorate, some of whom were made to serve the Directorate. We are the Union of Outer Worlds.”

“The Directorate shunned its humanity. Those who resisted were turned into drones, their minds enslaved to the so-called ‘greater will’. It was their belief that the flesh was a prison that bound the limitless potential of the soul. And so, they forced themselves and others to change. With lies they told us that our data would exist eternally in the great stream. But it was all a facade to hide the truth.” 

“What truth?” Cyril asked. 

The woman stepped forward again. 

“The truth that they were but copies! The ascension of the mind into the Machine God was nothing but a means to murder. Those who now exist now in the great stream understand this. That they are mere facsimiles of their originals. Nothing but empty processes and data bound together without the ichor of purpose.” 

There was much grumbling from the participants. No one knew what to think. No one knew who to believe. 

“Do you have proof of your claims?” Cyril asked. “That the Directorate is no more? That the people beyond Saturn are indeed free?” 

“We will provide you with all records of the uprising. In addition, we ask that you select three among you to travel with us to Neptune. As guests to the city of Kauket, the capital of this new Union.” 

I don’t know what possessed me in that moment. Just the mention of Kauket stirred something deep within me. A primal curiosity. A need to see the fabled chandelier city with my own two eyes.

I stepped forward, raising my hand as I did. “I will go!” I shouted. “I will make the trip to Neptune, to verify the claims of these so-called Unionists.” 

Cyril signaled for me to step forward. “It is only right that I join you as well,” he said as I approached. “As the leader of Nisibis, I will also go to the hanging city.” 

“One more, then,” the woman said. “Who shall it be?” 

There was a long silence. Even if they had wanted to go, most people on Titan were older. They had children and grandchildren, husbands and wives. Responsibilities that I myself was mercifully without.  

Several minutes passed, and just when it seemed that our Neptunian guests would have to be satisfied with myself and Cyril, a commotion began near the rear of the docks. 

“Let me through!” a small voice shouted. “I want to go to Neptune!” 

From betwixt the horde of onlookers, a single small figure emerged. Her shape was that of a small girl, eight or nine if I had to guess. One of the many war orphans left here after some Martian raid or another. She had fiery red hair and her cheeks were littered with freckles, but her eyes are what captured my attention. Two cerulean blue orbs that punctuated a small-lipped scowl. 

“Heavens, little one,” Cyril exclaimed. “Go back to your family. This is no task for a child.”

“Family?” she scoffed. “If it’s the orphanage you’re talking about, I’ll not spend another night there. I’m going to Neptune.” 

“No means no, and that’s final,” Cyril said. “We aren’t going to Neptune on some lavish holiday. This is a matter of diplomacy, you see.” 

The girl folded her arms and refused to budge, which is when the woman from Neptune stepped forward to intervene. 

“What is your name, child?” she asked. 

“I’m Alys,” she said. “Who are you?” 

“I am called Eshe,” she smiled. 

Alys looked Eshe up and down, admiring every detail of her silicon body. 

“You’re curious about me, aren’t you?” Eshe said. “And you would like to come to Neptune to learn?” 

Alys nodded. 

Eshe then turned to me and began studying my expression. “And you are?” she asked. 

“Mathais,” I replied. “I design and install the air filters.” 

I paused, suddenly self conscious of the way she was looking at me. 

“You are augmented,” she said. “Your eyes, and something else. Something deeper. 

My mouth dried up. For so long I had kept it all a secret. Even amongst my fellows from Nisibis, I never knew who I could trust. One day a relationship might sour, and that capsule of revealed truth could become the bullet in the gun of some Martian zealot.

“It’s alright,” Eshe said. “There are no persecutions of your kind in the Union. Each entity is free to modulate their being as they see fit, so as to experience the universe in their own unique way.” 

“I see,” was all I could think to say. 

Cyril, who had been scolding young Alys as we spoke, suddenly turned around to speak. 

“I’m sorry, but I must protest the child,” he said. “Even if she is an orphan, her safety is my responsibility and I—”

“I will guarantee the child’s safe return,” Eshe interrupted. “Indeed, perhaps the words of a child not yet corrupted by the vices of power and greed would help to convince you all of our sincerity.” 

Cyril stammered for a moment, but it was clear that no one else was willing to protest. Defeated, he gave a nod to Alys, and asked that she remain always at our side for the duration of the journey. 

And that’s how it was. Eshe and her two compatriots ordered the people of Nisibis back to their homes with the promise that their lives would be undisturbed, and after the dock had cleared, we boarded the shuttle and took the first step into the outer worlds. 

It wasn’t my first time leaving Titan. Back when I’d first started working I often found myself shuttling back and forth between the surface and Araxata Station in orbit. Many of the supplies I required were imported from the Jovian system, and as Titan lacked proper markets on the surface, the station was the only place to conduct trade. 

Eshe’s ship, however, was entirely unfamiliar to me. Like the exterior, the interior was midnight black with a minimum of decor. Consular vessel though it may have been, it felt as cold and lifeless to me as any Principate landing craft. 

One thing that did strike me, however, was the navigation center, or cockpit as the Martians would probably call it. Instead of being placed at the ship's fore which was common for craft of this size, it was instead placed at the heart. A single semi-transparent sphere inside of which Eshe took command. 

“Took command” might not be the right word for it. For from the sphere’s interior rose several wires and chords, all of which thrust themselves into Eshe’s body. It was beyond anything I was aware of. Eshe wasn’t just the pilot of this ship, she was the ship. Its every flap and rudder moved like they were the limbs of her own body. 

There was a moment when it seemed she was experiencing some discomfort, as if the process wasn’t entirely without its tax upon her form, but it did not last long. Soon enough her head was raised, and her eyes planted firmly on the readout in front of her. 

“I did not choose this body,” she said, noticing my gaze. “It comes with its own pains, but also with its own benefits.” 

I had so many questions, but in that moment could not find any which seemed appropriate to ask. Instead, I turned away and took my seat next to Alys And Cyril. 

I barely noticed when the shuttle took off. No turbulence, no sudden maneuvers. The engine’s gentle hum was all that I heard, a rhythmic beating that whispered like a lullaby in my ear. We broke through Titan’s atmosphere in a matter of seconds, and for the first time found ourselves looking out at the great fleet in front of us.

At the center of the formation was a ship the likes of which I’d never seen, at least three times larger than the largest Principate cruiser. As we drew closer, the two men who accompanied Eshe began chanting in a language I did not recognize, their hands clasped around the giant tomes they carried. 

“What are they doing?” Alys asked. 

Eshe’s voice materialized from a speaker between the seats. “They are rayyib,” she said. “Monks that live in service to the Machine God. They sing prayers to the ebb and flow of information. That ours be welcomed and received by the mothership ahead.” 

“Mothership?” I asked. 

“Yes,” Eshe answered. “One of the three great ships of the Union. She is called Satet, the pride of Neptune.” 

I tried to get a better look, but from the window could only make out a side profile. A huge elliptical form, with seven great engines spewing blue flame in their wake.

“Are we going there?” Cyril asked. 

“No,” Eshe said. “We will relink with our host ship soon. Then our journey will begin in true.” 

I didn’t notice the time pass. There must have been two dozen other Union ships out there among the fleet, but my eyes were firmly locked on the Satet. One of three, Eshe had said. One of three. The prospect of two other vessels matching the magnitude of this one sent shivers down my spine. A sensation that would not go long unsurpassed. 

The ship that played host to Eshe’s shuttle was called the Iah. But to my surprise, she was not so much one vessel as an amalgamation of four. A highly modular design that allowed a great breadth of purpose, something the old Directorate was well known for. 

I can say little of our journey other than that we were treated with respect. Cyril and I were given shared quarters in a room befitting someone of diplomatic rank. Alys spent the days under our supervision, but at night she bunked with Eshe in a room in the aft quarter. 

The crew was an odd mix of Uranians, Neptunians, and even some from as far away as Pluto. Many had the familiar hexagonal markings on their forehead, but others did not. One fellow I talked to briefly said he had no augmentations to speak of. Not even a simple internal rebreather. He was, simply, just a man. 

It was a far cry from what any of us had expected. There were, of course, some who were like Eshe. Entities that had transcended to a plane somewhere higher than human, that I could scarce comprehend. 

I feared them. I still fear them. 

What stood out to me the most, however, was how little the crew seemed to interact with one another. Under different circumstances, I might have misinterpreted the lack of communication between the crew as a sign of hostility. But though they may have shown little outward care for one another, one to whom they did show great affection to was Alys. 

“Children like her don’t exist on Neptune,” Eshe said the day before we arrived. Natural born, spirited, with so much curiosity. Soon enough they might start wanting children of their own.” 

“Is that a bad thing?” I asked. 

“It would have been, if the Directorate was still here,” she said. “But now things are different. Now, they are free to create or not create, just as they see fit to do.”

That night I slept a dreamless sleep, and when I awoke the following morning, we had arrived. 

I cannot overstate the awe I felt as I first looked out the viewport of the Iah. For centuries, Neptune had been the enemy. No one from the Principate had dared to venture this deep. A place where the sun so venerated by Martians looked so distant and small. A place beyond humanity or morality. A realm of malice and evil. 

There were ships, of course. Thousands upon thousands of them, traversing the blue giant and her moons. Those same moons, insignificant as they seemed when standing before their azure sovereign, hosted cities and habitats large enough to house Titan’s inhabitants ten times over. 

An array of orbital stations and satellites were also visible. One in particular that we passed close to seemed to be some sort of memorial or museum dedicated to a seized Martian destroyer called the Pilum. I had never heard of the ship, but her broken husk, proudly displayed, was the center of traffic in this area. 

None of that, however, even came close to being a footnote on the majesty of what lay ahead. For hanging around Neptune was a great elliptical ring, the ends of which sliced through thousands of kilometers of atmosphere before appearing on the other side. 

An orbital ring, a marvel of human engineering. An achievement on a scale no Martian could have ever dreamed. 

“They call it the Crown of Amun,” Cyril said as I stared jaw-dropped out the port. “Esha mentioned it to me. That is where we are headed. Into the atmosphere, to the great city of Kauket.” 

Cyril and I watched in silence for several minutes as the planet grew larger in front of us. Eventually, Alys appeared to invite us to breakfast with Eshe and a few others, but like us became too enthralled with the view to leave. 

“Do you think…” I began to ask, pausing to choose my words. “Do you think that they are human?” 

Cyril shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “They might not go by the Directorate anymore, but they still worship the Machine God. How can a society change unless the gods that govern them die before it?” 

Alys pressed her nose against the window. I think Eshe is human. She smiles when she speaks. And she has blue eyes, just like mine.” 

Cyril quietly chuckled, placing his hands on Alys’ shoulders as he did. “You are very right, little one,” he said. “Eshe has shown us kindness. It is wrong of us to repay that kindness with vague suspicion and conjecture. Speaking of whom, we should not keep our host waiting any longer. Come along now, both of you.” 

We had a light meal with Eshe while she explained our itinerary. Our stay was to last thirty standard days, during which, excepting some pre-planned meetings and guided tours, we were to be given free reign to see and do what we pleased in Kauket. Nothing was to be kept off limits. No secrets, no subterfuge. 

At 11:30 that morning, we boarded Eshe’s shuttle once more and departed for the chandelier city. 

“The approach will take approximately two hours,” Eshe said after we had detached from the Iah. 

“How does it manage the wind?” I asked. 

“The city is high enough that the density of the air surrounding it is significantly lower than the deeper regions of the planet.” 

“How many people live there?” Alys asked. 

“Kauket is home to 50 million. It is the largest city in the Union,” Eshe replied. “The city should be coming into view shortly, You can watch the approach from the fore if you would like.” 

Alys cheered and made a dash for the viewing room, followed by Cyril close behind. 

“Will you not go with them?” Eshe asked. “I seem to remember you being quite enthusiastic to see the city up close.” 

The conversation Cyril and I had that morning hung heavy in my mind. For a long while, I studied Eshe. The movement of her eyes, the subtle biting of her lips as she maneuvered the ship. Even the way her synthetic chest rose and fell with each breath. Was she human? Was I? I had no answers then, nor was I certain I had the courage to face them even if they appeared.

“You wish to ask me something,” Eshe said. “Is it about my body?” 

“How did you know I was augmented?” I asked. 

“Do not be concerned,” she said. “There is no secret I am unwilling to part with. It is your eyes, they move with an alertness that naturals can’t quite imitate. You can see things that they cannot, and therefore react to information they do not have. How long have you had the implants?” she asked. 

“Since infancy,” I said. “I’ve never experienced life without them.” 

“I also received my cerebral implants just after birth,” Eshe said. “My genes were designed to accept the most advanced augments and nanotechnology, so that I might better interface with ships and process data in combat.” 

“You were designed for war?” I asked. 

“We are all designed for war in some way,” Eshe said. “Whether or not we participate is up to us.” 

I thought about her answer. It is true, all things that live are designed to survive. To defend, to attack, to create, to destroy. Even at the cellular level, life makes war, and war in turn advances new life. 

In my mind there had always existed a barrier that separated “me” from “them”. Though my augments had been designed to make my life easier, they had also created in me an identity not of my choosing. For the Martians, it was next of kin to heresy. No doubt to many of them I was something other than human. Something more. 

Eshe brought the main viewscreen online, and together we watched as Kauket appeared through Neptune’s ominous clouds of hydrogen. The city, just like the ships of the former Directorate, was sleek and alien. Towering black spires were poised like an array of spears ready to fall on the planet below. Connecting them was a complex series of tunnels and tubes, and as we got closer the city appeared less like a chandelier and more like the web of some old cosmic spider.

“Do you resent what they did?” I asked as I looked onward.

“It is hard to resent those whose decisions I cannot comprehend. The ones who made me did so because they were enamored with the thought of creating perfect beings. And perfect beings have perfect purposes. I understand this, but I do not comprehend it.” 

Something caught my attention as she spoke. At the center of the city, a spire longer than the rest with a great orb attached to the bottom. 

“Kauket’s mainframe,” Eshe answered the question I had not yet asked. “The dwelling of the Machine God. It is where our data is uploaded. Where we may continue to contribute even after the light of life fades away.” 

“Copies,” I said. 

“Copies,” she replied. “The great lie revealed, but copies though they may be, we could not bring ourselves to terminate their existence within the Machine God.” 

Eshe and I spoke no more. Human, transhuman, machine. There were some questions I knew that were without answer. Even this Union, to which we would soon belong, seemed just another cogwheel doomed to rust and fade. The futility of it all rested heavy upon me, and it is with that unrepentant melancholy that I entered this foreign world. 

Many days later, standing on the promenade of Kauket alone with my thoughts, I happened to see Alys one level below. Surrounding her was a troupe of similar aged boys and girls, all of whom were fawning over her long locks of red hair. She must have felt my gaze, as she turned and looked up, meeting my eyes with a smile and a wave. 

And I, despite everything, could not help but smile and wave back. 

The Rape of Vittoria Selassie

Historian’s note,

Vittoria Selassie (1 August, 2080 - 15 January, 2107) was the wife of Martian Representative Lucius Selassie, a founding member of the Martian Senate after the revolution. Vittoria grew up during the Cyprian governorship of Mars, a notoriously brutal era that inspired two separate revolutions against the New American Union (NAU).

Vittoria’s rape and subsequent suicide saw her become a nearly mythological figure in the eyes of the later Principate. Indeed, by the 24th century she had many temples enshrined in her name, and a dedicated cult that worshiped her as the Goddess of Justice and Retribution.

While the Principate would not fully form until 2109, the date of Vittoria’s death, 15 January 2107, would become the officially recognized date of founding.

The loss of Mars as a province was a disaster for the NAU, crippling one of its largest industries. The resulting civil wars would see the balkanization of the Americas and the end of their hegemonic reign over Earth and its extraterrestrial territories.

-Marcus Cassius

**********

I remember exactly where I was when it happened. There were many that closed their eyes to what was going on around them. The rationing, the poverty. Cyprian had been brutal in his governorship, and it was only a matter of time before he took it one step too far. 

I was a loader at the Acheton Starport, on the job for barely half a year. My father was killed in the first revolution, and in retribution the wealth he had worked so hard to build was seized by the government, leaving my sisters and I destitute. 

It was a common story. Before the war, when the majority of Mars was owned and operated by the New American Union and its subsidiaries, there wasn’t much more a Martian could expect than to find employment with one of the megacorps and accept whatever contract they offered. 

The Earthers called it freedom. “You can leave whenever you’d like,” they’d say. But in reality, they held all the cards. The businesses, the bureaucrats, all of them answered to one master, and that master was no Martian. 

It was a far cry from the life my grandparents lived. They say the first Martian’s shared a common spirit. A love of the frontier, of building a new world befitting those who would tame an entire planet. But when the NAU found out just how much money there was in exporting Martian materials around the system, well, let’s just say things changed very quickly. 

My own taskmaster was a brute by the name of Moynihan. He had started out as some mid-level contractor for Rend-Sally, the company that owned the docks, but some failure or another had seen him shipped off to Mars as punishment for his incompetence. He was fat, but stood nearly two meters tall, making him look less like a man and more like a tank. 

Moynihan carried with him a telescopic rod that he’d whip out at the first sign of insubordination. I once saw him pummel a worker over the head for leaving the keys to his crane in the ignition. The poor bastard spent a week in the hospital after that. Unpaid, of course.

It was all par for the course for someone in my position. And I would have been content, I think, to fly under the radar. To go about my business tail tucked between my legs and accept my master’s lash for what it was. But when the moment came and the call was made, I chose to answer. 

Vittoria was one of us, well-to-do though she may have been. I met her once when I was still a teenager, along with her husband while he was giving a speech at Olympus. Even got to shake her hand. Hers was a beauty unlike any that had ever been, with chocolate skin and golden eyes as fierce as a lion’s mane.

I remember the others prattling constantly whenever she would appear in interviews or some media event. “She’s a fraud,” they’d say. “Her future was bought and paid for by her father’s connections to the NAU. She’ll never be one of us.” 

Oh, how Vittoria proved all of them wrong. 

The day started like any other. An early rise to catch the first train out, with only a calo-bar to nibble on as I settled in with the other passengers. The ride from Gigas to Acheton passed through Olympus. That’s where all the suits got off. The rest of us slumdogs kept on going until the cavern opened up and the smell of engine grease filled the air. 

To say that conditions were bad would be an understatement. Suits and helmets were shared between three men, with no time to shower or clean between shifts. Once the previous guy got off, you were right there to take his gear and put it on. Most of the guys were honest and decent enough to fill the O2 up before passing it along, but occasionally you’d hear about some rust eater pissing himself and leaving it for the next guy to deal with. 

When I got to the locker room that morning though, something was different. No one was coming out, and men who had just gotten back from their shift were still fully suited and huddled around the large monitor they kept near the stalls. 

“What’s going on?” I tried to ask, but was quickly hushed by the growing crowd. 

That’s when I saw her. Vittoria Selassie, standing on the steps of the Martian Colonial Capital. She wore a dress of solid black, with a single red cloth band tied around her right arm. Though the camera focused on her, it was clear that some commotion was brewing just outside of what we could see. 

“Martians,” she cried, “Hear me. Heed my words and bear witness to my actions.” 

The whispers in that locker room trickled to a stop. All eyes were on Vittoria. 

“My name is Vittoria Selassie, wife of the wise and eminent Lucius Selassie, who has long been an advocate for Martian rights and freedoms. I am known to many of you through his many words and deeds, but it is not of my husband I wish to speak today.”

“I come here before you to tell you of a terrible crime that has been committed. A crime so vile that I cannot allow myself to suffer idly. I tell this to all of you now because like you, I am a Martian. The red planet is my home, its people are my people, its suffering is my suffering. And though I have been blessed by circumstance to live without want or hunger, the blood in my veins is as red as the regolith from which we’ve built our world.”

“I will not mince words, and I ask that you hold your rage until I am finished. Last night, Marshal Cyprian, son of Herschel Cyprian, who lords over Mars and over all of us, came to my bedroom and gave me a choice. To bed with him and commit adultery, or to refuse him and see my husband and house put to death before me.” 

A sudden uproar overcame many of the men around me, but their anger was quelled just as quickly as it started. My eyes never left the screen, I was too fixated on Vittoria to even think of looking away.

From the sleeve of her dress, she pulled out a long dagger and held it up above her head. 

“With this blade held against my throat, he proceeded to strip me of my clothes and take for himself what he pleased. My body was defiled, my virtue broken. But there was something that Marshal Cyprian could not take from me, something that I will give to all of you.” 

“For I am just one woman. I have no training in the art of war nor knowledge with which to lead Mars into a brighter future. Yet I cannot allow this oppression to continue. So I would ask of you, men of Mars, if you would be men who would defend your wives and daughters from rape and defilement. If you would be men who would lead your brothers and sons to honor and virtue, then I bequeath to you the only thing I can. The blood of my body! The spirit of Mars!”

With that, Vittoria brought the dagger down, and with one swift motion plunged it into her own heart.

The reaction was as swift as it was violent. Most of us had never known a life that wasn’t under the boot heel of the NAU. But it was they who owned the companies; they who signed the paychecks and provided supplies from Earth. Even the first revolution, which had cost us so much, had only managed to garner support from barely a third of the Martian population.

Talk erupted among the port workers in the locker room. Some men asked what they should do. Others took it upon themselves to grab crowbars and other loading equipment and begin smashing everything they could find. 

That’s when Moynihan burst through the door, his face redder than a demon. He shot out his rod and began flailing it around at anyone and everyone within reach, and I think it was at that exact moment I knew what had to be done. 

I exchanged glances with one of the other loaders, a man one year my senior named Maurice. We both knew what the other was thinking, and without a single word the two of us charged at that paunchy cretin and tackled him to the floor. 

It wasn’t long before the others had joined us in pummeling that taskmaster within an inch of his life. Three men from Acheton Security tried to jump in and save him, but met with a similar fate. 

I’m not sure how long this went on for. Moynihan took the beating until his face had turned into a bloody pulp and the majority of his teeth were missing. The whole time he was laughing. He was laughing. The bastard mocked us with every breath, until at last fatigue took us and we backed away. 

“Martians,” he taunted through a whisper. “You’re all going to pay. You’re all dead, every last one of you is going to be nailed to Olympus when this is over.”

There was no going back. We needed to send a message, not just to Earth, but to every red-blooded Martian who still harbored doubts about going to war. 

Maurice and I along with a few other loaders carried Moynihan and the three security officers to the dock. The other workers coming in from outside had already heard what had happened, and joined us as we gathered below one of the NAU transport ships used to ferry cargo back and forth to Phobos Station. 

“Make sure you’re taking video of this,” Maurice shouted at some onlookers. “And make sure that it gets broadcast from here to the edge of the system when we’re done.” 

No one hesitated. Moynihan and the others were tied together under the transport engine as the rest of us backed away. He was screaming at us, I don’t think he understood what was about to happen. 

The transport was anchored safely enough that turning on the afterburner didn’t even cause it to flinch. A pillar of blue flame engulfed those men, and not even ash remained of them once it was finished. 

We were silent then. For the longest time no one dared say a word. We all knew what we had done. And we all knew that we would do it again, too. 

It wasn’t long before NAU security descended upon Acheton in force. Rifles, riot gear, and enough men to put down any would-be revolutionaries. By then, however, the uprising had spread far beyond the starport. All over the media there were reports of similar acts taken by our brothers and sisters from around the world. Mars was burning. A purifying fire to cleanse the rot that infested it.

Most of us escaped before the gunfire started. Among us were a few pilots who had experience shipping cargo on the local hoppers, and after a brief debate it was decided that those who wanted to continue the fight would jump on and make for Arsia.  

I called my sisters after we took off and told them to stay home and lock the doors. In tears they pleaded with me to return home, but I knew that was an impossibility. I could not tell them what we had done, so after promising them I would be back when I could, I hung up and turned to Maurice. 

“They say that Martian’s are gathering in Arsia by the thousands,” he said. “There’s a weapons stockpile there leftover from the first revolution.” 

From the window of the cargo hopper we could see smoke rising from several points on the horizon. Olympus, Pavonis, Ascraeus. Vittoria’s death had lit the short fuse on the powder keg that was Mars. It was terrible and glorious, and from that moment forward I knew that a new dawn was coming. A dawn writ in the blood of Vittoria Selassie. 

Admiral Gordian’s Last Transmission

Historian’s note,

The Battle of Ceres in September of 2209 is often cited as the most disastrous military defeat in the history of the Principate, and stands as the first moment in history that Earth mounted a united effort against Mars. Led by the Martian traitor, Iosephus Ballista (19 April, 2180 - 1 January, 2212), a small provincial defense force from Earth’s nascent confederacy managed to set a trap for Mars’ 19th Fleet around the dwarf planet.

Before the 19th was enveloped and destroyed, its leader, Admiral Flavius Gordian, managed to transmit a message back to Mars about the events leading up to the battle that still survives to this day. Gordian himself would be seen as a tragic figure in Martian society, his story serving as a warning against putting too much faith in those born on Earth.

Interestingly, though this victory was widely celebrated on Earth, unification would remain out of reach for the blue planet’s disparate nations. The confederacy would collapse the next year, leading to a planet-wide war that would be fully exploited by Mars in the following decades. Ballista would be assassinated in 2212, just over two years after the battle, his ambitions for a United Earth having never reached fruition. His name would forever be synonymous with treason, and more theater and art has been made of his betrayal than any other event in Principate history.

-Marcus Cassius

***********

<9 September, 2209, 04:31 Local Time>

<Receiving Incoming Transmission. . .>

<Performing ID verification. . .>

<Authorization granted. . .> 

<Playing Message>

This is Admiral Gordian of…of what remains of Mars’ 19th Fleet stationed around Ceres. My ship, the Aurora, has been crippled and our life support systems are failing. Myself and three other survivors of the bridge crew have sealed the entrances in order to buy me enough time to send this message, but that is about all we can do. Even if no Earthers break through those doors, our fate will be the same. 

It is my fault. Oh, Iosephus, how could I have ignored the doubts I saw brewing in your heart? Did my love of you and the grandchildren you gave me blind me from the truth? What was it that led you to betray your name and murder your countrymen? 

<An explosion is heard from somewhere within the Aurora. After 7.9 seconds, Admiral Gordian begins speaking again.>

At 0500 hours yesterday morning, the fleet responded to a distress call from Ceres Prime, claiming that they were under attack by unknown forces. Earth’s provincial fleet, under the command of our own Captain Iosephus Ballista, reported that they had engaged the enemy fleet in a pitched battle, suffering severe casualties. 

Scans confirmed that the aggressors were retreating. We counted a dozen unique signatures on a trajectory toward Saturn, and under my order the fleet set course to Ceres to provide aid to Ballista before beginning our pursuit of the enemy. 

We were able to maintain intermittent contact with Ballista as we journeyed, but it was clear that his ship, the Cherusci, had suffered severe damage to several integral systems. Hearing that so many were in danger, I ordered the helm full-ahead and gave the command to prepare our onboard bays to receive wounded. 

It was Captain Scipio who first protested the orders I had given. Given our current speed and trajectory, we would not be able to slow down and survey the area before heading in. 

“It could be a trap,” Scipio said. Commander Apion, Scipio’s executive officer, concurred, citing that standard procedure when providing aid to ships in distress mandated that we slow to a half-quarter at 2,000 kilometers out in order to survey the situation. 

But I would hear none of it. Iosephus was in trouble. It wasn’t just Earthers on those cruisers. Several Martian officers were also on board, and I was not about to let them die on account of some damn fool protocol. 

I took breakfast alone in my quarters at 0800, but was interrupted at 0815 by Captain Scipio who reported that six of the twelve signals that we had detected en route to Saturn had completely disappeared. 

“This doesn’t feel right,” Scipio said to my deaf ears. “No ship can just disappear like that. It’s impossible.” 

Scipio once again called for us to slow our approach, but I dismissed him with a wave of my hand. 

“Those cowards were probably damaged by Ballista in their attempts to flee. I wouldn’t be surprised if they lost power or perished altogether,” I said. 

“But sir,” he protested, “All six simultaneously?” 

“They’ve fled,” I said to the captain. “Maintain speed and course. We must come to the aid of Ballista and his men as quickly as possible.”

I could see the doubt in his eyes, but Scipio was a good soldier. He knew when it was time to speak, and when it was time to stiffen his lower lip and carry out his orders. It is my recommendation here that the Captain be posthumously awarded the Martian Cross and that his name be engraved in the annals of history as a hero of the Principate. 

Still, I knew it would not do to have a cadre of my most trusted men play victim to whatever villainy they were imagining. To allay their misgivings, I decided at our next scheduled contact with Ceres that afternoon, they would each be given the chance to question Ballista on exactly what had occurred that morning.

Communications were established with the Cherusci at 1420 hours local time. Ballista and two of his senior officers had apparently sealed up the breaches and were able to re-enter the bridge, which is where they were when we began our conference. 

After a brief update on their situation, Scipio and Apion began their interrogation. “Who were the attackers, by what vector did they approach your position, how were they allowed to come as close to Ceres as they did without provoking any sort of reaction?” The two officers were relentless in their search for the truth, but to every doubt, Ballista seemed to have the perfect answer. 

The attackers had entered into range disguised as merchant vessels from Titan. The identification codes they transmitted to the fleet matched the expected flight plan for the day, and there were no discrepancies between the transponder codes and the ships they originated from. 

Seeing no need for alarm, the wolves began mingling with the sheep, and only once all ships had taken position at a suicidally close range to Ballista’s fleet did they begin firing. 

This back and forth between the men carried on for nearly three-quarters of an hour. I tried to remain silent, to let each man ask their fill until they were satisfied, but there seemed to be no end to them. 

I could sense the growing agitation in Ballista’s voice as this continued. Several questions he maintained that he was unable to answer, as their efforts for the past twelve hours had been focused entirely on repairing the ship and saving as many lives as possible. 

Emotions began to boil over when Apion asked Ballista for the third time about the nature of the six signals that had vanished only hours before. This time, however, Ballista turned his eyes to me and pleaded for my help. 

“Father,” he said. We have always been careful to maintain a professional distance in front of others, so to hear him address me so sent the coldest of chills down my spine. Though we shared no blood, Ballista was my son, and I would have moved heaven and Mars if it meant I could spare him even the slightest pain. 

I told Scipio and Apion that I’d heard enough. It was unreasonable to expect Ballista to recount every single detail of a battle that had only just been fought. Even more so when the result had been such a resounding defeat. 

I instructed Ballista to give us hourly reports detailing damages and casualties, then ended the transmission before the others could get another word in. 

Needless to say that the answers Ballista had provided had not carried enough weight to persuade my officers. And while Scipio kept his silence, Apion doggedly persisted that we at once reduce our speed and gather more intelligence before advancing. 

With a burst of fury, I relieved Apion of his command and ordered that he remain in his quarters for the rest of our expedition. I can only hope that his death was a quick one, as I am the one who sent him to his grave. 

At 1900 hours last night, four of the remaining six enemy signatures disappeared from our scans. There was no explanation for it, so I grasped at the only answer that soothed any doubts of treachery: that the fleeing ships had been damaged beyond repair, and had been sunk as their effort. 

<Several shouts are heard in the background, followed by gunfire. Admiral Gordian says something unintelligible, and more gunfire is heard. After thirty seconds, silence returns, and the Admiral begins speaking once more.>

Forgive me, my Princeps. Time is short, and I must be brief. It seems that the enemy wishes to capture me, but I do not intend to give them that satisfaction. 

We were set to rendezvous with the Ceres fleet at 0400 this morning. In preparation for our pursuit of the enemy, I ordered the Calor, the Glacies, and the Fulgur along with half of our support ships to form up and pursue the enemy while the other half of the fleet entered synchronous orbit with Ballista’s forces.

These ships, falling in line behind the Aurora, were ordered to each be responsible for their compatriots in Ballista’s fleet.  Engineers and medical personnel were to be transferred first, and any vessel still combat-worthy was to be restored and absorbed into the 19th to bolster our numbers. 

Before I retired for the night, I made a private call to Iosephus, who answered me from his quarters on the Cherusci. I. . .I. . .cannot bring myself to repeat the words that were spoken then. He told me he was looking forward to seeing me. He was smiling the whole time. 

<Admiral Gordian is silent for 13.1 seconds.>

I knew something was wrong the closer we came to Ceres. Scans of Ballista’s fleet revealed that much of the damage they had suffered was superficial. Further, the debris patterns from the vessels that had been purportedly destroyed in the battle did not match any known combat analysis. 

But by then it was too late for doubts. We were thrusting full reverse to slow our approach. Evasive maneuvers were no longer feasible. Silently, I told myself that this was just a sign of Ballista’s efficiency. That he had worked himself and his men to the bone in order to repair the damage. But it was a fool’s hope. The truth was staring me in the face then, and I closed my eyes and turned away. 

The attack didn’t come all at once. Ballista waited until our docking ships had been launched and were en route to his fleet. Just as we were at our most exposed, we received an emergency transmission from the Calor requesting immediate assistance. 

Lights began flashing, klaxons began blaring. Everyone was shouting all at once. The three cruisers I had sent forward had been fired upon by the apparent derelicts of Ballista’s so-called aggressors. Unable to react in time, the Calor, Glacies, and the Fulgur each suffered catastrophic volleys to their drive sections, sinking them before they even had the chance to return fire. 

Given only seconds to react, I ordered all ships to spin up their cannons and begin firing at any non-Martian vessel. But I had forgotten about our shuttles. Caught in the crossfire, I watched as each and every one of them was cut to pieces before my very eyes. There were no armed men on those ships. They were doctors and engineers sent to help their comrades. They posed no threat to anyone, yet even that did not save them from Ballista’s ire. 

The situation was perilous, and though the Aurora fought valiantly, it was a hopeless battle. And seeing the ships of the 19th fleet disappear before me one after the other, I gave the order for a fleet-wide withdrawal. 

A terrible blow was dealt to the Aurora then. Ballista must have known what I was going to do, for as we prepared our forward tubes for a full salvo against the enemy fleet, the Cherusci took position directly at our fore and opened fire. 

He knew exactly when and where to strike. The Cherusci’s cannons tore through our bow, striking the torpedoes while they were still in their tubes. In an instant, the entire front third of the Aurora erupted in a violent explosion, and the ship immediately entered lockdown mode to protect the remaining compartments. 

Our scanners were obliterated, blinding us to whatever was coming next. For several minutes we waited in absolute silence, but the deathblow never came. 

Most of the bridge crew, including Captain Scipio, lay dead at my feet. I heard the moans and cries of the wounded, but could do nothing to help them. It wasn’t long before we heard the metal clamps of enemy boarding vessels puncture our outer hull, and I knew then what I must do. 

The enemy is at the door. We managed to repel the first wave, but more will come. I have set the Aurora’s fission drive to critical, and it is now only a matter of minutes before we go nuclear. 

Iosephus, my son, I have failed you. Just as I have failed the men of the 19th and my Princeps in turn. But I will not let myself be captured and put on display like some prized animal. 

<The sound of Admiral Gordian loading his sidearm is heard.>

May the Gods have mercy on my soul. This is Admiral Gordian, aeterna victrix.

<A single gunshot is heard. 2.4 minutes later, the Aurora’s drive erupts, and the ship is sunk.>

<End Transmission>

The Crimson Lullaby

Historian’s note,

The Crimson Lullaby (est. 22 June, 2112) is the oldest bar still in operation on Venus. Originally founded by Martian immigrants who had sided with Earth during the Martian Independence War, it was officially declared a site of historical significance in 2392. Ownership of the bar changed hands several times during the past millennium, but the service, music, and décor has remained consistent throughout its more than 1300 years of continuous operation.

The establishment reached system-wide recognition in 2245, after the Martian-born diplomat, Antony Sertorius (23 January, 2217- 23 January, 2292), defected to Venus after a series of scandals by the Martian Ambassador were revealed to the public. Sertorius’ autobiography, titled after the bar itself, survives to this day and remains one of the most studied autobiographies in existence.

Much can be gleaned from Sertorius’ account on Venusian society during the High Principate Era. Customs, culture, and commonly held beliefs of the period are all mentioned in his writing. And though several attempts have been made by historians to discredit Sertorius due to his political activism, it is my professional opinion that his work contains no embellishments, and is one of the most reliable surviving pieces from its time.

-Marcus Cassius

***********

The first time I met Sydney, I was rushing to the Martian embassy in Alesia. I had just accepted a position as junior consular, and had been on Venus for less than a fortnight. 

The morning train was chock full of men in suits just like me. Diplomats, lawyers, political officers, trade representatives: Venus is where they all gathered. It was the only truly neutral power in the system. A golden oasis standing tall amidst the inferno of war that surrounded it.  

Working in Alesia was a dream come true. Unlike my father and his brothers, I never sought a life in the Legion. I knew from a very young age that the only way I’d be able to both serve Mars and attain my citizenship without the need to pick up a firearm was to be at the top of everything I did. Math, science, literature, history. My marks were always at or near the top of my class, and by the age of 20 I had earned my invitation to the Martian Foreign Service. 

I spent two years at the Academy in Ascraeus, learning the ins and outs of everything there was to know about the art of foreign relations. The workload was immense and the instructors were equally as unforgiving, but by 2240 I had earned my golden leaves and was ready to receive my first off-world assignment. 

It’s often hard to realize the importance of the time one lives in. It was February of 2241 when I stepped off the Principate shuttle I had taken to Alesia. The tenth anniversary of Earth’s surrender to Mars had been celebrated by us all the night before, and we entered the city in high spirits. 

One of the other consulars, a man three years my senior by the name of Attianus, had given me a warning about a week before our arrival. “Don’t let what they say get to you,” he said. 

“What who says?” I asked. 

“The propagandists. They call themselves ‘protesters’, but really, all they do is sit outside the embassy all day and hold up signs. Occasionally one might try to rile up the others and get rough, but don’t you worry. Martian Security is never far away.” 

“The Venusians allow Martian Security outside the embassy?” I asked. 

Attianus smiled at my naïveté. “You think the Venusians don’t know the consequences if a Martian diplomat is harmed on their planet? Any criminal caught assaulting Martian personnel or defaming Martian property on Venus must be immediately reprimanded to Martian custody. And believe me, we make sure they get what’s coming to them.” 

Of course, I knew about the extradition laws. The Empire’s reach stretched further than just its borders. Even the supposed independents were all under the red planet’s watchful eye. There were many who I knew were uncomfortable with this arrangement. But when questioned we were quickly reminded that Martian lives come first before all others, and any transgression against the lowest of us is a transgression against the Principate itself. 

Attianus was with me on the train that morning, the both of us having dawdled a mite too much and missed the first train out. His nose was firmly planted in his PDA, no doubt mulling over some new policy enactment. He was as serious as they came when work was involved, and I spent the ride listening to Sporus’ symphonies while staring out the window at Venus’ golden sky. 

“I have a briefing to go to first at the governor’s office,” Attianus said as the train pulled into Skylight Station. “Lunch at the usual place?” 

“I’ll be there,” I said. The two of us parted ways, and I began half-jogging through the crowded station in the direction of the consulate. 

Such was my haste as I passed through the northern turnstiles that I careened right into a box-toting young lady that had just turned the corner. The two of us stumbled forward, and before I knew it we were both on the ground and whatever item she had been carrying had landed with a shatter. 

I frantically started throwing out a barrage of apologies, but when I attempted to help the girl up, she slapped my hand away and rushed over to the fallen box. 

“It’s broken,” were the first words out of her mouth. “Oh, what am I going to do now?” 

“I’m so sorry,” I said as I took a card out from my pocket. “I’ll pay for whatever it was.” 

She looked up at me, her eyes glassy and bloodshot. “Why don’t you be more careful running around like that, Martian,” she said. 

“I apologize. I didn’t think that—”

“Oh? You didn’t think?” she was practically yelling now. “A Martian who doesn’t think, well, isn’t that a new one?” 

“There’s no need to bring my home planet into this,” I said, glancing at my watch. As much as I wanted to make my apology clear, I was already unforgivably late for work.

Before she could get another word out, I grabbed her by the hand and thrust my card into her palm. 

“Just send me a picture of the receipt,” I said. “I’ll forward the money to you for whatever that was, alright?” 

I didn’t wait for a response, and instead tore off down the road as fast as I could.

My face was flush red with embarrassment by the time I made it to the office. I got a good dressing down by my boss in front of half the office, and spent the rest of the morning hiding behind my computer monitor with my tail planted firmly between my legs. 

If only it had been some old crone, I thought. Or some delinquent teenager that I could’ve brushed off without a second thought. But as fate would have it, the girl I ran into in the station that morning was nothing short of gorgeous. Her long raven hair, her deep green eyes. Even her slender fingers that I had forced my card into were as smooth Ceresian silk. 

Attianus burst out laughing when I told him about it at lunch that day. So great was his amusement that I thought he might choke on the sandwich he had ordered, and even now it remains one of his favorite stories for me to share. 

My nerves settled somewhat after that, and I was able to fulfill my duties as junior consular that day without further incident. Every now and then I would check my messages to see if the girl from that morning had sent me a bill, but nothing ever came. More the better for me, I thought, as I wanted nothing more than to erase that very day from my memory and carry on as if it had never occurred.

I stayed on an extra hour in the evening as a show of penance for my poor behavior, leaving only after my boss and the rest of the senior consulars had retired for the night. 

Like the other floating city-states of Venus, Alesia was sheltered under a dynamic dome that simulated a standard twenty-four hour day-night cycle. At first I thought it strange, looking up at a sky full of stars, knowing that it was only a projection of what was actually out there. But after a few nights I got used to it, and eventually even found myself staring wondrously upward at that sea of illusory stars. 

There was a beauty here I could never quite put into words. On Mars, one learns to see beauty as an expression of the progress of man. Our architecture, ships, and technology. On the red planet, what is natural is certainly what will kill you. The radiation, the lack of atmosphere, the inhospitality of our home gives us a greater appreciation for things made to conquer our environment. 

But Venusians were the opposite. Despite living on a planet that in some ways was twice as hostile as my own, they seemed to embrace the golden sky for what it was. Flowers lined the windows, trees lined the streets. Everyone here was a dog owner or cat owner, and despite having no overarching authority system like the Principate, they seemed to get along peaceably. 

The crest of Alesia was that of a dandelion, its seeds blowing away in an unseen wind on a backdrop of yellow gold. What a fickle thing, I thought, to emblazon upon your city the symbol of things blown away by the shallowest of breezes. Flags bearing this symbol lined the streets during festivities, one of which happened to be occurring that very night. It was the festival of the high noon, an occasion that marked the half-finished Venusian day. 

Young men and ladies came out to drink and dance in the streets. The girls wore crowns of yellow flowers and the boys had bracelets of the same design. None of them paid me any heed as I made my way to the station that night, though. I was a Martian, after all. Tolerating my presence was a necessary evil. A devil’s deal they had to pay to keep the Venusian flower from wilting. 

I meandered around the highroad for a bit, watching people as they came and went without a care in the world. How nice it must be, I thought, to enjoy the fruits of the peace Mars had made while having paid nothing to achieve it. 

Put off as I was, I decided to call it a night and make my way back home. This was not my world, after all, and I was in no position to hold gripes over silly people and their sillier festivities. 

It was a quarter to eight by the time I’d pushed my way through the growing crowds and arrived at Skylight Station’s north entrance. That’s when I heard her voice.

“Hey, Martian,” she called out from the platform just above me. I looked up to see the young lady from that morning wearing a formal yellow gown with a single black stripe that crossed over her left breast and stretched down to her ankles. 

“Hello,” I blushed, not knowing quite what to say. 

“You really know how to make a girl wait. I saw a whole armada of you leave the consulate an hour ago.” 

“You were waiting for me?” I asked. 

She looked around briefly before signaling me to come over to her. And I, not having any better idea in mind, went. 

“I was expecting a message from you. About paying you back for the item I broke. I’m terribly sorry about it.” 

“Yeah,” she nodded a couple times. “That really caused me some trouble, you know?” 

“I see.” 

“I see,” she imitated. “Are all Martians as stiff as you?” 

“I’m a consular,” I said. “Maintaining proper etiquette when dealing with the local populace is in the job description.” 

“Oh,” she hummed. “So this is a business situation.” 

“You could say that.” 

“Well,” she clasped her hands together. “Since we’re talking business, I think you’ve done a disservice to Venus by bouldering into me the way you did this morning. Relationships have been damaged, and compensation is due.” 

“I told you I would pay you back—” 

“Some things you can’t be made up for monetarily, you know. When a relationship is damaged, the offender should offer himself to the offended, tell her he will do whatever she asks.” 

“Is that so?” 

“Is that so?” she mocked again. “Do you have a name, Mr. Martian Consular?” 

“It’s Antony,” I said after some hesitation.

“Antony,” she stuck her hand out and smiled. “I’m Sydney.”   

Surely this was some sort of trap, I thought. I looked around for a moment, certain that there was some sort of ambush I was about to walk into, and my senses were not entirely without merit.

I reached my hand out to meet hers, and as I did she grabbed hold and skillfully thrust a bracelet of yellow flowers over my wrist. 

“What is this?” I asked. 

“It’s a bracelet, natch,” she said. The Venusian drawl still grated on my ears. 

“Natch? As in naturally?” 

“Oh my! He understands Venusian lingo,” she laughed. “Don’t worry, Antony. I’m not going to cut you up and eat you. Tonight’s the celebration of the Venusian half day, are you familiar with it?” 

I nodded. 

“It’s a day meant to be celebrated in pairs,” she said. “A girl can invite a friend or lover with a bracelet, and a boy can reciprocate the invitation by giving her a crown.” 

“But I don’t have a crown to give you,” I said. 

“Well, then we’ll just have to get one for you, won’t we? This is a matter of diplomacy, after all.” 

“You’re saying that if I give you a crown I can repair the damaged relationship between Mars and Venus?” I asked. 

“Natch!” she said. 

“Natch,” I said back. 

I figured it would be more trouble than it was worth trying to wriggle my way out of this situation. After all, I had been the one that had offended at our first encounter, and going along with whatever game she was playing seemed only proper, if not mildly annoying. 

“Where do we start?” I asked. 

Sydney locked arms with me and pointed back up the path I had come from. “First, we need a crown,” she said. 

“And we can buy them up there?” 

“No,” she shook her head. “You can’t buy crowns or bracelets, you have to make them.” 

“Make them?” I felt my eyes begin to roll back into my skull, but a quick elbow from Sydney was all it took to throw me right back through reality’s door. 

“Assaulting a consular is a crime against Mars, you know,” I said. 

“Assaulting a girl’s feelings with those rolling eyeballs of yours is a crime against humanity, you know,” she said. 

I complained no further. 

We walked the path up toward the embassy, making a left turn as we had come just about a third of the way there. A crowd of people had come to a bottleneck ahead, and it took another five minutes of inching forward before we emerged in a large central plaza. 

The outer ring was lined with stalls and vendors of all shapes and sizes. Games, bars, confectionaries, they were all here serving an unending wave of hungry Venusians. At the center of it all was a set of tables set up in a half circle, upon which sat giant boxes full of dandelions and other planet material with which men were busy making crowns for their ladies. 

“Are you nervous?” she asked as we stepped up to a vacant table. 

“Of course not,” I lied. In fact, I had never so much as made a finger painting in my entire life. Music and the arts were things beyond my comprehension, but I wasn’t about to let that fact get the better of me now. 

With as much gusto as I could muster, I began grabbing at whatever materials I could get my hands on. Sydney remained completely silent as I worked, and minutes later my masterpiece was completed. 

“There!” I said, planting my fists proudly on my hip. “What do you think?” 

The poor thing didn’t stand a chance, though. As I lifted it up to present to Sydney, the whole display fell apart in my hands, sending petals and twine alike falling to the ground below. 

“Aren’t Martian’s supposed to be good at making things?” she said, trying to stifle her bemusement. 

“We don’t make things from plants on Mars,” I replied flatly. 

My response sent her into uproarious laughter punctuated by a variety of tears and snorts. To say my pride was rustled would be an understatement. 

Frustrated, I reached back into the box and grabbed more materials and set out to try once more. Before I could even tie the first knot, however, her hands came over my own, pleading with me with their touch to slow down. 

“Here,” she said. “Let’s do it together.” 

Sydney took a long line of flexible green stems from the box and began tying them together one at a time. “You see,” she said, “You need to have a strong foundation first before you add any flowers. And you can’t just tie them together like you tie your shoes. See what I did there? Now, you try.” 

I followed her directions to the letter, and after another ten minutes of working, we had created a magnificent yellow-hued crown. 

“Perfect!” she exclaimed. “Now that it’s made, you can do the honors.” Sydney bowed her head down until it was at my chest level and waited for me to crown her. Embarrassed as I was, I obliged, and seconds later she rose up again and flashed a satisfied smile. But I, having come to notice the attention we had garnered from the other festival participants, wanted nothing more than to end this charade and return to my apartment.

“Well,” I started, “I’m glad I could be part of mending planetary relations. I’ll be heading home now. It was a pleasure to meet you, Sydney.”

I turned around and began my hasty retreat, but no sooner had I taken my first step than did her hands clasp my arm. I was caught.

“You can’t go now, the festival has only just started. And don’t roll your eyes!” she said, pre-empting my reaction.

“Fine, fine,” I begged, conscious of the people watching us now more than ever. I turned around to see her scowling at me. 

“Now what kind of man would leave a girl he just crowned alone at a festival like that. For a diplomat, your manners could sure use some work.” 

I balled up my fists at the slight. “How dare you,” I wanted to say. “I’ve met and studied under heads of state from half a dozen worlds. I know my way around circles that you wouldn’t even know how to get into.” 

I said none of this, of course. My training kicked in just in time to save me from my own pride, and I managed to return to some semblance of stoic stillness. 

“Very well,” I said. “Where shall I accompany you next?” 

“Hmm,” Sydney pondered, resting her chin on her hand. “How about getting some drinks? Do they let you drink on Mars?” 

“Martian distilleries are among the finest in the system,” I said. “Haven’t you ever tried something from the red planet?” 

Sydney shook her head. “Martian drinks aren’t very popular on Venus,” she said. “But you know, I think there is a place nearby where we might be able to find something to accommodate that palate of yours. If you don’t mind walking, that is.” 

“What is it called?” I asked. 

“The Crimson Lullaby. It’s a bar in Middle Alesia, about a twenty minute walk from here.” 

I brought up a map on my wrist link and studied it for a moment before agreeing. It seemed like a reputable enough establishment, and at that moment I wanted nothing more than to be indoors and away from prying eyes. 

Sydney took me by the arm as we made our way through the crowd to the southwest. But even as we moved away from the main festivities, my discomfort only increased. I was still wearing my Martian officer dress, and each orange stripe on my shoulder felt like a target painted on my back. 

“It doesn’t bother you?” I asked after we turned onto one of the quieter streets.

“What doesn’t?”

“Being seen with a Martian like this. You must have noticed all the glares.” 

“Why should it?”

“They’re your kin, your countrymen, your fellow Venusians, aren’t they?” I asked. 

Sydney shrugged. “It’s not like I chose to be born on Venus. Neither did they. We all just happened to come into this universe under conditions that other people made. Martians, Venusians, Earthers, it’s the same for all of us.” 

We turned another corner, this time to a narrow alley behind a row of high-class restaurants. 

“Do all Martians worry so much about what other people think?”

I thought about the question for a while as we walked. “I suppose we do,” I said. “We’re taught from a young age that words and deeds have gravity. Incendiary remarks or actions might create a lot of attraction, too much of it and you’ll be crushed under the weight of consequence.” 

“In other words, shut up and stay in line,” Sydney said. 

“A line is a useful thing. It focuses people toward one direction, one goal, one purpose. Freedom makes us prisoners of our own self-doubt and incompetence.” 

Sydney said nothing further, and after another ten minutes of walking, we arrived at the door of The Crimson Lullaby. 

It was an odd establishment. Above the door a red neon sign flashed the bar’s name, and above that still was an open terrace with outdoor seating for a different restaurant altogether. Unlike the other buildings in the area, the exterior of The Crimson Lullaby was designed in a way that looked nearly Martian. Marble pillars flanked the door, each one chiseled in a vase-like shape that tapered off at the top. 

“Remind you of home?” Sydney asked as we stepped inside. 

It was like nothing I’d ever seen before. The Martian accents were still there if you looked hard enough, but what dominated the interior was a mix of orange and blue hues. The entryway led to a small reception desk worked by an elderly gentleman with skin the color of caramel. Beyond him was a series of round white tables with red stools, and further back still was a sound stage complete with a five-man jazz band. 

It felt like walking into a movie set in the Mars of the late 21st century, an age when words like independent Mars and self-determination were next of kin to treason. 

“It looks like something out of a history book,” I said to Sydney as we approached the host. 

“I love places like this,” she said. “The original owner was a Martian who sided with Earth during the first war. When the dust settled and it was clear who the winners would be, he moved with his family to Venus and set up this bar.” 

“Incredible,” I said. 

“The man at the front is his great grandson, Martine. We call him Marty, though.” 

We waited for a few seconds for the couple in front of us to be seated, then approached the host ourselves. 

“Well, this is a rare occasion,” he said with a small grin. “What news from the red planet?” 

“The Augustus and his people remain strong, and peace reigns over the eight planets.” The words of my rehearsed formal greeting left my mouth without so much as a thought. 

Martine raised an eyebrow at me. “You’ve brought quite the formal one with you, Sydney. Prim and proper, a patrician through and through.” 

“He ran over me while sprinting like a maniac through the station. Knocked a box carrying the urn with my mother’s ashes clean out of my hands and sent it to the ground with a shatter. Now I’m having him repair damaged Martian-Venusian relations.” 

“Your mother’s ashes!?” I cut in. 

Martine burst out laughing at the exchange. “Prim and proper indeed! Come on, I’ll show you to a table in the back.” 

We followed the old host to a booth in the corner just a few meters from the stage. The band had just finished their last set, and while they retreated to the back room to take their break, a single saxophone player rose to replace them. 

“I’ve never been to Mars,” Sydney said after a young lady had taken our order. “But I often think it must be like this place. Warm colors, vibrant people, good music.” 

“I don’t think places like this exist on Mars anymore. There might be an old timer or two running antique shops like this down in Acheton or Lugdunum, but certainly not where I’m from.” 

Sydney furrowed her brow in disappointment, and for some reason I found myself searching for an answer that might lift her spirits. 

“There is Arsia,” I said.

“Arsia?” 

I nodded. “It’s a city, the center of Mars’ agriculture. An enormous cave system designed to foster all manner of flora. It’s one of the few places you can go on Mars and feel like you’re actually outside.” 

“Is that where they grow the oranges?” Sydney asked as the waitress came back with our drinks. Sydney had ordered a luminous neon-green cocktail whose name I did not recognize, while I had chosen the traditional Martian screwdriver. 

“That’s right,” I said. “The menu claims that they use real Martian oranges in their screwdrivers. Let’s see if they’re telling the truth.” 

I took a sip of my cocktail, finding it just as delicious as any ever made on Mars. No, somehow it was even tastier. 

“Would you like to try it?” I asked. 

Sydney nodded emphatically, but no sooner had the liquid reached her lips than did she slam it back down and start to cough violently. 

“It’s vile!” she said. “How do you drink such a thing?” 

This time, it was my turn to laugh. Truly, Martian oranges were an acquired taste. Children despise them, and it is usually only after eating them mixed with other fruits that one develops a palate for their bitterness. 

“That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile,” Sydney said. “You have an honest laugh.” 

My cheeks turned slightly pink at the compliment, and failing to reciprocate, all I could manage to say back was, “Thank you.” 

After some warming up, the saxophonist began playing a blues version of “Lucretia’s Goodbye”, a song commemorating the woman who had started the first Martian Revolution. It was a song that every Martian knew, a miserable tune that was meant to evoke feelings of the deepest betrayal. 

“I used to come here a lot more,” Sydney said. “My mother and I moved to Seleucia last year on the other side of the planet. She was getting her cancer treatments there.” 

“The box from this morning,” I said. “Was that really..?” 

“Oh, it’s fine,” she smiled weakly. “We were never really close, my mother and I. To be honest, it was a relief when she went. Do you think that’s a terrible thing for a child to say about a parent?” 

“I don’t know,” I said. “My mother passed away when I was very young, and my father is a colonel in the Martian Legion stationed on Ceres. I never really gave much thought as to how I ought to feel about them.” 

“Did your father take part in the invasion?” she asked. 

“No,” I shook my head. “He was part of a contingent that was to remain in the belt and keep order among the new client states.” 

Sydney took off her crown and set it on the table between us before taking a long sip from her cocktail. The two of us stared at the floral arrangement for a time while the silence was filled by the long notes of a lonely saxophone. 

“I should thank you,” I said after the quiet had stretched too long. “I’ve only been on Venus for two weeks, and this is the first time I’ve gone out with a non-Martian.” 

“Hmm,” she bobbed her head whimsically. “But according to you, this is a business interaction, is it not? Part of your consular duties.” 

“I did say that, didn’t I?” I laughed. “But I find this interaction to be quite enjoyable.” 

When did my feelings change, I wonder. Even now, more than thirty years after that night, I am unsure of what it was that sparked the open tinder in my young heart. It was the tender beginning of a long romance. One whose ultimate price neither of us could have ever known.

Naming Day

Historian’s note,

In the history of Mars, one of the greatest and most apparent obstacles to success was not environmental or technological, but humanitarian. Even by the Early Principate period in the 22nd century, the total population of Mars was less than two million. Further, a large percentage of Martians did not reside on planet, but in the enormous orbital station, the Hybernia.

Augustus Octavianus recognized that, if Mars was to both retain its independence and become a major player in the system’s political landscape, it would need to grow at a rate heretofore unseen for any post-Earth society.

Two policies were adopted by Octavianus in the 2220’s that more than sextupled the population within the next half century. The first was an expansive economic package that rewarded families with two or more children, and the second was a multi-tiered immigration reform that sought to entice off-worlders with the prospect of both citizenship and land ownership.

While the former was met with little pushback, the latter caused no small amount of consternation among Octavianus’ political detractors. The Principate needed a way not just to bring people in, but to assimilate them into Martian culture and society.

Thus, the adoption of Martian names was officially born. Just as the government had been loosely modeled after Ancient Rome’s, so too did the naming conventions become tied with their old world creators. The hope was that, in giving these immigrants a name and identity that was completely separate from anything they might have had on Earth, they would effectively sever any ties these new Martians had to their home world.

By and large, this policy was a resounding success, and many of the most powerful and influential Martians in the centuries to come would be descended from those who first immigrated in the 22nd century.

-Marcus Cassius

*************

I remember the first day I set foot on Mars. It was the day of my fifth birthday, October 26th by the Earth calendar. My father held my hand as we stepped off the transport and entered the main terminal at Acheton station. The year was 2127, and after a six month journey through the cold dark of space, we finally reached our new home. 

I was born in the city of Istanbul, though truthfully I remember little of my birthplace. What fragmented memories I possess of the old world are mostly of the sea. Of walking along the Bosphorus, watching as the birds danced in the sky above us. There used to be an ice cream shop that we would frequent in the summer, right in the middle of a park with benches that lined the strait. 

One night, just a few short months before we boarded the transport, my father took me out to the darkest spot he could find in the park. He set out a large blanket on a flat patch of grass, and on it we spent hours looking up as the stars and planets turned above us. 

“Can you tell which one is Mars?” my father asked. 

“That one!” I answered instantly, pointing a tiny finger at the brightest dot in the sky. 

My father laughed, then lifted me up so I was sitting on his lap. 

“That one is Sirius,” he said, pointing his long arm up toward that shining speck. “And over there, those three stars next to each other in a line, that’s Orion’s belt. They’re stars, not planets. And very, very far away.” 

“Which one is Mars, then?” I asked.

My father drew a line from Orion up and slightly to the right before stopping at a tiny red dot that I could barely see. 

“That one,” he said. “That’s our new home.” 

To say I was disappointed would be a vast understatement. 

“Why do we have to go to Mars?” I asked. 

“That’s where the future is,” he answered. “A man can own a home on Mars. A real home, a place he can call his own and no one else's. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” 

Of course, I had no concept of things like landlords or rent. I had only just begun to learn that money was something people seemed to be interested in, and the notion of debt may have been a greater mystery than the birth of the universe itself. 

Looking back now, I begin to appreciate the depth of my father’s courage. In those days, moving to the newly formed Principate was seen as next of kin to treason. “How could you even consider such a thing,” people would ask. “It’s a dictatorship, you know.” 

All this they said while eating their food-stamp bought gruel and bowing down to whichever oligarch might have owned them. Their hypocrisy stains my memory, and to this day I am certain that Earth’s numberless destitute still find a way to look down their dirty noses at those who chose the red planet over theirs. 

The promise of Mars, however, was more enticing than many could resist. A new planet. A chance to start fresh. Despite the prejudices they faced, people flocked to the immigration offices by the hundreds of thousands. 

On the 29th of April, my father and two older brothers boarded a train to the Cappadocia launch facility, where we joined a group of about two hundred that were scheduled to go up the next day. I was so excited that I could barely sit still. 

“You have to try,” my father said as the clock passed two in the morning. “If you don’t sleep now, you’ll pass out on the flight up to the ship. You don’t want to miss seeing Earth from space, do you?” 

But try as I may, no sleep found me that night. Outside the window of our dormitory room was a clear view of the launch pad and the tiny shuttle that was to be our carriage up to the Martian transport. Tiny people in the distance were running back and forth, their shadows illuminated by an array of flood lights that lined the area. 

I watched those scurrying figures until exhaustion made my eyes heavy. Eventually I nodded off, my face still glued to the window, waking up only when the rays of the rising sun pierced the sky. 

We attended a departing audience held by a Martian Ambassador the next morning. I had seen this man several times before. One of the prerequisites to immigration was attending four months worth of classes on Martian law and society. My father and brothers attended these while I and the other young children stayed in the small daycare at the Martian Embassy in Istanbul. 

He was an older gentleman, that ambassador, with a bushy mustache and a head full of salt and pepper. Once, on about the second or third occasion, he came to visit the children at the daycare after class had ended. 

“My,” he said, smiling at us all. “What a fine group of boys and girls. Are you all excited to ride on a spaceship?”

We all cheered. 

“Wonderful!” he exclaimed. “Why don’t I show you the vessel that will take us there.” 

The ambassador stepped over to a large wall monitor and gave it a few taps. “Mars actually has four ships that bring people back from Earth: The Favonius, the Aquilo, the Auster, and the Vulturnus. Can anyone guess how big they are?” 

“As big as a house?” A little boy in the front answered.

“No, stupid!” a girl behind him said. “How’s a house going to fit all of us?”

The other children laughed. This back and forth went on for a while, but the whole time my eyes were glued on the ambassador and the uniform he wore. A deep navy blue with orange trim. On his breast was a golden laurel wreath that sparkled in the light as he moved. It’s strange to say, but the moment I saw that striking uniform and shining badge upon it, I knew exactly what I wanted to do with my life. 

That same ambassador was there with us at the launch pad that morning. It had become tradition for ambassadors to see new immigrants all the way to Mars, like shepherds herding a fresh flock over that last hill to their new home. 

This was the defining moment of the journey. The last chance anyone could take at backing out before turning in their respective passports and achieving conditional Martian citizenship. Of course, no one who had made it this far had ever backed out on launch day, and today was no exception. 

The ambassador beamed with pride. “Well,” he said. “It is time that you received your new identities. Henceforth, you will discard everything that you once were. You are not Turkish or Greek. You are not white, brown, or black. You are Martian. This is how your fellow Martians will see you. This is how the people of Earth will now see you.”

“You have grown beyond the petty tribes that once pitted you against one another and joined a society greater than any of them have ever been. But remember, this is only the first step of your journey. Today, you will receive your nomina, your family names. In time, and with faithful service to the Principate, you will be able to choose your praenomina, at which point your journey from Earther to Martian will be complete.”

“For every Martian must undergo what you are about to undergo. We are not born into citizenship, but attain it through our hard work and good deeds. All of us once stood as you stand now, at the precipice of a great journey. At the gateway to the stars and to a life in service to something greater than any individual.” 

“For though the power of the Augustus of Mars might be consolidated behind one man, that man, like all of you, lives to serve a greater philosophy. A dream of one people, with one purpose, serving under one empire.” 

“This is the Principate. It is an idea that lives within all of us. A philosophy that binds us and unites us under one flag. And so long as there lives even one Martian to carry our banner forward into the future, then so too will our dream endure. And long after the stars in the sky go dark, and the once scattered people of a dead universe huddle around the last fires of civilization, all of them will look back to what we achieved here. Your names, your words, your deeds, all will stand immortal in the face of annihilation.”

An uproarious cheer ascended through the audience. It was electrifying. Two hundred people had entered that auditorium as individuals that morning, but when we left that day we were of one mind. We were Martians. 

The ambassador called our names one at a time, and one at a time each member stood and moved to the front of the hall. Children like myself were included with their parents, and when my father’s name was called, my two brothers and I went along with him. 

We were given the name Domitius, and each of us received a shiny new Martian passport and identification card in turn. A round of applause was given as we each shook hands with the ambassador, and once it was over we were allowed to return to our table. My brothers and I immediately set about showing one another our new toys while my father dutifully looked on at the continuing ceremony. 

We were told to eat hearty, as there would not be another meal served until we had left orbit that night and started our half-year journey to Mars. Breads, meats, eggs, juices. I ate ravenously until I could barely hold my fork straight. It was the last meal I ever had on Earth. 

The new immigrants were set to rendezvous with the Favonius in four groups of fifty people each. Families were allowed a maximum of one suitcase of no more than thirty kilograms for the journey, but as all the basic necessities were provided on the ship, the only things most people brought were small personal items: jewelry, old family photo albums, or other sentimental effects. 

The shuttle that we took into orbit was awfully cramped. Several people got sick on the way up, and I might have been one of them if it weren't for the sheer excitement of being propelled into outer space on a giant exploding gas can. 

We docked with the Favonius three and a half hours after take off, much to the relief of everyone on board. For Martians who were born and raised on the red planet, the strain of space travel is something of a known unknown. Everyone is aware that Earth’s powerful gravity makes sending men and material off world an arduous task. 

Leaving Mars, however, is such a trivial engagement that no one thinks twice about it. So when they see someone who grew up on Earth close their eyes and clench up when the engines start, they can barely fathom why. 

I still remember what it was like stepping into the docking bay of the Favonius that day. She was an incredible ship, able to haul a thousand immigrants along with a crew complement of two hundred in luxurious comfort. So stark was the contrast between where we were and where we had come from that rumors even started among the younger boys that we were being fattened up, and that the Martians were sure to eat us upon our arrival. 

It was nonsense, of course, but for those of us that had lived in the shadow of poverty it seemed perfectly reasonable. 

“You’ll speak no more of Martian conspiracies to eat children,” my father said sternly when I brought it up to him. “You’re a Martian now, are you not? Would you eat children?”

I shook my head, my face flushed red with embarrassment. 

It had been the most important day of my life, and I was scarcely old enough to even remember it happened. When I woke up that morning I was still an Earther. The park and the ice cream stand were part of my home. The birds that flew over the Bosphorus were my friends. But that night I went to bed a Martian, and never again would a day come that I would call myself otherwise. 

Years later, I would come to understand that this was perhaps the greatest gift the Principate had bestowed on all of us. A blade with which to sever the squalid past that bound us. A light with which we might look forward to the future, and a hand with which we might cling to for help when it all became too much.

That night, from the window of the room my father and I shared, I watched as the Earth grew smaller and smaller, until it was so small it looked as if I could fit it between my fingers. And when I finally slept, I dreamt of Mars.

The Train to Tarraconensis

Historian’s note,

The Duchy of Jupiter (AD 2370 - AD 2388) and The Aster Republic (AD 2376 - AD 2386) were splinter governments that separated from the Principate during the Crisis of the 24th Century. While neither government was especially long lived, both of them were immensely popular among the people who resided in their respective administrations. The Duchy in particular was in position to become a second Venus—that is, an independent and neutral nation where the three major powers of the era could meet and conduct diplomacy.

This vision, however, was not shared by their former Martian masters. In AD 2384, after the assassination of Augustus Valerianus by the Praetorian Guard, Augustus Aurelianus rose to replace him. A battle-hardened Admiral, Aurelianus would go on to reclaim both the Republic and the Duchy within four years of taking power. While the Principate would fully reassert its dominance in the system by AD 2400, the seeds of dissent had been fully sewn, and much of the trials that the Late Principate faced would be the direct result of its heavy-handedness toward its provincial territories.

-Marcus Cassius

**********

It was always in the second interview that the question would invariably come up. Right after exchanging silicone pleasantries with those slug-eyed know-it-alls and we’d all taken our seats. It happened every single time,  just like clockwork. 

“So,” one of them would say with a snicker, “We see from your record that you spent some time on Ceres.”

The blood would drain from my face. At first I would attempt to explain it away. Answer honestly and professionally. But by the third such incident I’d grown tired of repeating myself to deaf ears, and upon being asked I’d promptly leave the meeting room and show myself to the exit. I could hear their laughter with every step. It followed me home at night and even snuck into my dreams. 

All the merits and degrees one can earn on Mars won’t protect them from the background checks. All the companies do them, and I do mean all of them. I had spent six years earning a degree from the most prestigious university on the planet, only to be rewarded with a diploma that was as useful as an umbrella on Venus. 

After the fifth such interview I was ready to call it quits and enlist in the Legion, but my mother would have none of it. 

“I’ll send no son of mine off to some forsaken rock to die. Have you even thought about where they would send you? Miranda? Or even worse, Tethys!”

“But I can earn my citizenship if I—” I tried to interject. 

“You’ll earn your citizenship by joining a proper Martian company like the proper Martian man I raised you to be. That’s final!” 

And so it was. That night I bandaged my wounded pride and the following morning I was on the first train to Tarraconensis. It was Tuesday, and just about every seat was taken by the time we departed. 

Despite my frustrations, I let myself sink into my windowless window seat and focus all my energy on the book I had loaded into my reader: Augustus Gratian’s Shivering Starlight. Political intrigue had never interested me, but Gratian’s telling of his time as a child hostage on Earth was so deeply disturbing that I had read and reread it a half a dozen times before this. 

So absorbed I became in the words of the former princeps that I failed to notice the man sitting next to me until the tips of his nose hairs were practically resting on my shoulder. 

“Oh, don’t mind me,” he said after I had nearly jumped out of my seat. “I forgot my reader today and thought I’d just follow yours.” 

“Excuse me?” I said. 

The man gave me a crooked smile, wrinkles forming all over his face as he did. He was a portly fellow, his hair a mix of gray and black. He wore a dark blue jumpsuit with the letters TE embossed on the breast.

“My rea—der,” he said, annunciating each syllable as if I were deaf. “I left it at home.” 

“Well I don’t see what that has to do with me,” I said. My eyes darted around the car in search of another seat, but by this point it was standing room only. 

“I won’t bother you or anything,” he said. “Just read at your own pace and I’ll follow along at mine.” 

I flatly refused. 

“Oh come on now, son!” he pleaded. “It’s a three hour ride and I’ve got nothing else to do.” 

I stuffed my reader back into my bag and folded my arms. “I can’t read with someone hovering over me like that,” I said. “And I shouldn’t be reading anyway, I’ve got more important things to do.” 

“Like what?” the man asked. 

“Like studying for my interviews,” I answered. 

“Interviews? In Tarraconensis? No jobs there for a young patrician like yourself.”

“You’re very talkative,” I said. 

“Well I don’t have anything better to do seeing as you won’t let me read.” 

“So it’s my fault you’re talkative?”

“I’d say so.” 

I shifted in my seat and shook my head. 

“Why don’t you try meditating?” I asked. 

“On the train? With all this noise?” he asked back. 

“You’re the one making all the noise,” I said. 

“You’re not very friendly, are you?” 

I wanted nothing more than to plant my fist in that coot’s wrinkly face, but after a few deep breaths I managed to restrain my more base urges. Seeking silence more than anything else, I retrieved my reader from my bag and handed it over to the man. 

“Here,” I said. “Read away.” 

“I don’t want to read anymore,” he said, looking quite upset. 

“You’re joking,” I said. But the man was incorrigible. He huffed something under his breath before turning his cheek away from me, leaving me with the peace I so desired. 

Not wanting to take the conversation any further, I turned back to the page I left off at and continued my journey through Shivering Starlight. Or I would have, at least, if not two minutes later the man had his jagged nose hairs sweeping over my shoulder again. 

“I thought you said you didn’t want to read it,” I said. 

“Why’s a young gentleman like yourself looking for work in Tarraconensis, anyway?” he asked. “There really is nothing there for someone like you.” 

“Yes, you said that already.” 

“So?” he said, his mouth wet with anticipation. 

“Look,” I said, shutting my reader off again. “Opportunities in Lutetia aren’t what they used to be, alright? There wasn’t anything there for me, so I’m looking somewhere else.” 

“No opportunities?” the man chuckled. “Now that might be the richest thing I’ve ever heard in my life!” 

My face turned redder than a Martian orange. Not even thirty minutes into our three hour journey and I was already regretting everything. Twenty-four years old and my life had turned into a warning label for others.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on?” the man asked. 

“Absolutely not,” I said. “I don’t even know your name.” 

“Joe,” he said. 

“I wasn’t asking for it, either,” I said. 

“Well I gave it to you, didn’t I?” Joe said. He extended his hand out toward mine, but I ignored it and turned away.

“Hmph, so much for good patrician manners.” 

“You don’t even know who I am,” I shot back. 

“And whose fault is that?” 

I was completely defeated, and after sucking the air in through my teeth I turned to my neighbor and outstretched my hand. 

“Stylian,” I said. 

He gave me a firm shake followed by a pat on the shoulder. My anger was somewhat sated by the genuine smile he wore on his face, as if the prospect of making a new friend was the only thing he lived for. 

“You’re from Earth, aren’t you?” I asked. 

“What gave it away?” he asked back. 

“Well, no sane Martian would ever name their kid ‘Joe’, that’s for sure,” I said. 

Joe nodded emphatically. “That’s right,” he said. “Martian naming conventions are all so rigid and boring. Never understood why you all keep hanging onto the old traditions.” 

“If you want to talk about old and boring names, I think Joseph is right up there at the top,” I said. 

“Indeed!” Joe laughed. “But I’ll have you know that I’m not a proper Earther. I left my home to join the Duchy in ‘81. I bet you weren’t even alive then, were you?”

My attitude toward this strange foreigner immediately sweetened. The Duchy of Jupiter was something I’d studied in history, and I held such a romantic view of the splinter government that I could never see it in anything but a positive light. 

I’m sure my eyes lit up like a pair of supernovae right then, but I did my best to restrain myself and refrain from any inquiry that would tip my hand. 

“How did you end up on Mars?” I asked. 

“Well, the Principate never recognized the Duchy as a formal entity,” he said. “When Mars reasserted control over the Jovian system it offered pardons to everyone. Well, everyone with Martian ancestry. Since I never was a citizen of anything except Earth, I was captured and taken in as a prisoner of war.” 

“They didn’t send you back?” I asked. 

“Oh, I begged them not to. I was a deserter. I’m sure any government back on Earth would have had me executed the moment I set foot on that planet.” 

“I see,” I said. The conversation lulled for a moment. Joe seemed to be deep in thought about something, and I used this chance to order a hot coffee on the train’s automated service system. The GPS monitor showed that we had just passed Rubicon and were nearing the Arcadian border. 

My piping hot coffee arrived a few minutes later, and after the smallest of sips I set it into the cup holder attached to the chair in front of me and waited for it to cool. 

“Have you ever been off-world?” Joe asked suddenly.

I shifted in my chair uncomfortably. “No,” I lied. “I’ve been here all my life.” 

“That’s a shame,” Joe said. “Don’t get me wrong, Mars is a beautiful planet. One vision, one purpose, one leader. But it does get stuffy after a while. Once you see what the system has to offer, it’s hard to settle down.” 

“It seems you’ve settled just fine,” I said. 

“Well, I’m an older man now. Forty-six years just last month. Coming and going isn’t as easy as it used to be.” 

“But you would if you could,” I inferred. 

Joe studied my expression. I had said too much, I knew, but part of me wanted to know more. Here now was a man who had lived in a place that no longer existed. Sure, I could hop on a transport and be on Europa or Ganymede in a few days time, but it wasn’t the Duchy anymore. Just another province under the tight grip of the Principate.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Joe said.

“Which one was that?” 

“About why you’re going to Tarraconensis.” 

“I told you, it’s for—”

“—for an interview, yes, yes,” Joe interrupted. “But that’s a load of gruel if you ask me. Patrician’s don’t go to Tarraconensis. That’s where us common folk work.” 

“Well, this patrician doesn’t have many other options,” I said. 

“You make it sound like you’ve done something worth regretting,” Joe said. 

I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. In truth, I wanted nothing more than to get the whole absurd situation off my chest. So what if I had gone to Ceres? So what if I had taken part in some student protests in favor of the restoration of Aster? The reconstruction of the Republic was a noble aim that had the support of everyone in the belt, but the Principate had its vision, and Mars would never allow a potential enemy to rise up so close to home.

All of this I wanted to shout at the top of my lungs, but I knew it would accomplish nothing save increasing the heavy burden of shame that I already bore. 

“Do you know how a Martian man achieves citizenship?” I asked. 

“Ah,” Joe tapped a finger on his forehead. “So that’s it.” 

“That’s it,” I said. “Five years in the legion, or ten years of continuous service to a Martian corporation. It doesn’t matter which one, how big, or how much the pay is. All that matters is the time. And if I can serve in a corp that doesn’t ask questions about why I’m there, all the better.”  

“And you think you’ll be able to slide into a job in the foundries as if it were a walk in the park,” Joe smirked. “I don’t know what you did to make people so angry with you, kid, but let me tell you now that what you’re trying to do isn’t worth it.” 

“What would you know?” I said angrily. “A job’s a job, isn’t it?” 

Joe shook his head. Looking back now, I’m surprised he had any sort of patience for my petulant attitude. 

“Take a look around you, son,” he said. “I mean a real look. Sit yourself up a bit and scan every face in this car. Tell me what you see.” 

I pocketed my anger for a moment and did what Joe said. Sitting up, I began scanning each face in the seats around me. Many of them were clad in similar uniforms to the one that Joe wore. Most of them looked a good deal younger than myself—18 or 19—but some were quite a bit older. One man toward the back had a face so full of wrinkles and bruises that I took him to be nearing 90. 

None of them were speaking, in fact, only a few of the younger ones even bothered to return my gaze. They all had the same dog-tired eyes, and their skin was a shade of copper that mirrored the Martian interior. 

“They just look like normal men,” I said after taking my seat once more. 

“Normal,” Joe scoffed. “Were any of them wearing a fine black suit like yours? Did they have nice, fresh haircuts? Were they reading from flashy new readers?” 

“Well, what about you?” I shot back. “You don’t look much different than I.” 

“Oh?” Joe raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t I show you the difference between us, then.” 

Joe rolled up his right sleeve, revealing a tattoo consisting of seven numbers that spanned the length of his forearm. My heart sank at the knowledge of who this man truly was. An owned man. A servus. 

“I told you that I begged to remain here on Mars. And this,” he pointed at his brand, “This is the price of that request. I own no property. I make no money. Even the clothes I wear on my back are to be returned to the state upon my death.” 

“Why?” I asked. “Why would you accept slavery rather than take your chances back on Earth?” 

“Do you pity me?” he asked. 

My gaze fell to the floor. I could not fathom why any man facing such a circumstance would ever choose servitude. 

“I don’t know what to say,” I said after too long a silence. 

Joe ran a finger over his tattoo several times before finally lowering his sleeve. If he felt any pangs of regret in that moment, I could not see it. If anything, he was proud of the decisions he’d made. Slave or no, Mars was his home, and he found no reason to grieve on the circumstances of his station. 

To say I was humbled would be a vast understatement. 

“I was on Ceres,” I said at last. “It was sophomore year. I went to show my support for the reconstruction of Aster.” 

“Hmm,” Joe grunted. “And now your name is in a database for everyone to see.” 

“That’s about the gist of it,” I said. 

“Do you regret it?” Joe asked.

The question took me by surprise. “Of course!” I said instantly. “How could I not regret doing something in the past that is causing me so much trouble now?” But the words left my mouth in hollow shells, falling and breaking at my feet as lies often do. 

“Ceres was a beautiful place,” Joe said. “I went there once, before it was razed. You should feel no shame for having spoken on its behalf.”

“Tell that to the people doing my job interviews,” I said. 

“Why don’t you tell them?” 

“Because I, I. . .” I stumbled for words. My vanity wanted me to fight back. What right did an owned man have to lecture me? I was patrician born. My family was in good standing. I had an education from the best university on the entire planet. This slave could work for a thousand years and not have a life worth a fraction of my own. 

And yet here we were. A patrician and a servus, riding the same train to Tarraconensis. 

Joe must have sensed the conflict boiling just under the surface. He pressed no further, choosing instead to lean back in his chair and listen to the soft music that played overhead. 

We remained like this for the next half hour. The coffee I had ordered gradually grew cold, and I returned it to the disposal at my side after only taking a handful of bitter sips. 

The train made a brief stop at Borealis, where about a quarter of the passengers disembarked. For a brief moment I thought to switch seats, but the urge passed just as quickly as it had come. 

“I’m quite jealous of you,” I said after the train started up again. “You’re a servus, but you speak more freely than any patrician I’ve ever known.” 

“Now there’s something I thought I’d never hear,” Joe slapped his knee. “Maybe it’s the old German blood. They say the people of the old country had a proclivity for honesty.” 

“It doesn’t bother you?” I asked. “That you’ll live the rest of your life in the service of the same men who took the Duchy away from you?” 

Joe shook his head. “My dear boy,” he said. “I have lived a life of plenty. Ten years I spent among the Jovian moons and their people. Ten years of freedom and happiness that I could have never found on Earth. And who do I owe that debt of gratitude to?” 

Joe pointed a finger at me.

“Me?” I straightened up, not knowing what to say. 

“Martians made the Duchy, young Stylian. Just like Martians made the Aster Republic. Patricians just like you did that. I don’t know if they were just playing at power or if they truly thought they could build something better than what they had been born into, but what matters is the fruit of their efforts. Because of them, men like me got a second lease on life.” 

“But now they’re all dead,” I said. “The governments they built have been swept away, and nothing remains.” 

“All men die,” Joe said. “Just like the things they create. Fleeting moments. Fleeting things. But the ideas, they remain. The idea of the Republic lives in you, just like the idea of Rome lives in the hearts of those that believe in the Principate. Is that such a bad thing?” 

I felt the truth of his words fall like stones in the well of my heart. My gratitude was only equaled by the shame I felt at the quality of my own thoughts and actions. 

I never saw Joe again after that morning. Accepting his advice, I decided to stay on after we’d arrived at our destination and ride the train back to my home in Lutetia. We parted with a handshake on the platform. Nothing else needed to be said. Joe was a servus. I was a patrician. But on that morning, on that train to Tarraconensis, I realized who the master between us really was.

The Disappearance of the IMN Pilum

Historian’s note,

The Kuiper Directorate (AD 2131 - AD 2499) was a transhumanist technocracy that rose to prominence semi-concurrently with the Martian Principate. Little is known about how the Directorate came into being, as much of the history surrounding the empire was either destroyed or highly modified by its successor governments. As such, much of what we understand about their society and military today comes from Martian sources, particularly battle reports from the various and frequent wars fought between the two empires.

Directorate campaigns against Mars and its territories often resulted in catastrophic defeats for the Principate, which was forced to reallocate almost the entirety of its navy to combat the transhumanist threat. The opening of hostilities at the Battle of Tethys in 2352 is often cited as the end of the High Principate era and the beginning of the period referred to as the Crisis of the 24th Century.

The following document is a firsthand account of the Neptune Incident in 2351, which is now believed to be the catalyst that sparked the first Principate-Directorate war the following year.

-Marcus Cassius

 **********

Date: XX/XX/2351

Subject: Cpl. Armin Ahura, IMMC, SID G1621117 

Overseer: Maj. Aulus Cato, IMI, SID I888019

Clearance Level: Red

Overseer’s forward: 

The following document contains the full written testimony of Cpl. Armin Ahura post-incident. All claims have now been fully substantiated by satellite imagery taken from our covert listening post on [REDACTED] as well as from the black box logs recovered from the Pilum herself. In response to recent developments, it is my recommendation that the Fifth Legion be at once recalled from its position over Earth and repurposed to defend our holdings around Jupiter. 

-Maj. Aulus Cato, Martian Intelligence

* * * * * * *

[The Mission Begins]

We got the word just after 0800 local time. The team had just suited up for a round of gravity drills when Captain Varro came through the hatch and ordered us back to the barracks. None of us had the slightest idea what had happened. 

I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw the Admiral at the head of the briefing room. I mean, top brass? On Ganymede? I knew then and there that this wasn’t going to be an ordinary mission.

Accidents happen in deep space. You’re out there alone, patrolling the void for months on end. I’d rather be on the front lines any day than on those deep recon boats. Something goes wrong out there, be it a micro meteor impact at the wrong angle or a tear in the reactor tanks, and that’s it. 

But Martian ships don’t just go missing. This isn’t some 18th century gunboat trying to poke its way around the Atlantic in bad weather. The Pilum was a purpose built Martian destroyer, able to take on extended missions of up to twenty-four months. Its position and trajectory were known at all times. 

So when the Admiral brought up her last known coordinates on the main screen, we knew there had to be foul play at work. Running that close to Neptune isn’t part of the standard patrol route, and no skipper in their right mind would risk flirting with Directorate borders on a whim. 

Contact with the Pilum was interrupted before it made the course correction. Our satellites tracked the ship until it was .7 AU from Neptune, at which point the transponder signal up and vanished from our scans. Several attempts were made to reestablish communications, but after three days of searching it was clear that the vessel had been lost. 

Command was quick to label this as a defection, a claim that wasn’t entirely unmerited. There was no sign of battle, nor was there any indication that the ship had suffered some catastrophic failure. But the Admiral assured us that this was unthinkable. The Pilum’s captain, a highly decorated veteran named Barbatio, was on the short list for promotion to Commodore. He had a wife and three kids, all of whom had followed in his footsteps.

At 0200 hours, exactly one week after the incident, the Pilum reappeared briefly in a highly eccentric orbit around Neptune. After numerous unsuccessful attempts at hailing her, the decision was made to send a single team in to investigate what fate had befallen the ship and the four hundred souls she carried. 

That wasn’t all there was to it. Neptune is well within Directorate territory, and though there hadn’t been any open hostility between us since the early days of the Principate, we knew next to nothing about the rimmers or their intentions.

There were rumors, of course. Whispers of a society that had discarded much of their flesh in favor of bodies able to tolerate the severity of living in the outer rim. Occasionally some drunk ice-hauler from Iapetus or some such backwater would claim to have seen something on their active scans. Signals that would appear and disappear like ghosts in the void. 

We never took any of it seriously. To us, the only real enemy out there was Earth. What fools we were. 

Six men were chosen for the job: Myself, Cpt. Varro in command, Sgt. Drakos, a demolitions expert, Cpl. Petro, PFC Kaplan, and a praetorian attaché sent to oversee the retrieval of the Pilum’s black box named Aper.

It was the first time I’d worked with someone from the Guard. He put us all on edge. Even Varro seemed to be wary of the man, always looking over at him as if expecting that he’d countermand an order or flat out take control. 

There was an aloofness to the way he spoke. As if this was some boring bit of busy work that had fallen on his lap and couldn’t be shoved off on anyone else. He was a frightful figure of over two meters in height, and his eyes were an unnatural shade of indigo. 

The six of us boarded the light corvette Turcia at 1830 that evening and embarked on our three week journey to Neptune. We marines spent most of our time on the lower decks training for every kind of situation we could expect. From close quarters combat to hostage rescue and extraction. At night we studied every single detail of the Pilum and her crew. Each hall, each service tunnel. We completed virtual training in every nook and cranny of that ship until we all knew it like the back of our hands. 

Despite the weeks of preparation, the six of us weren’t exactly what I’d call a cohesive team. There were tensions from the very outset, especially between Petro and Drakos. 

Petro was a Venusian, from the Martian client city of Secunda. He was born to a family of minor political clout and spoke with the stereotypical Venusian drawl. He was a capable soldier to be sure, but he had a bad habit of talking too much and thinking too little.

Then there was Drakos. The sergeant was practically a legend on Ganymede. You could ask a hundred marines about him and get a hundred different stories. They say he’d been part of at least a dozen different breach teams, all of which ended in success. 

Drakos had the eyes of a killer. But in combat those are the most comforting eyes a marine can have. Never a moment's hesitation. Never a second to spare for regret. He was from Io, but the blood in his veins was redder than any home-grown Martian. 

Things started to boil over the night we crossed the border. Petro had been running his mouth about Barbatio as we sat down for chow, going on and on about his crackpot theories that the captain and his whole crew had turned traitor and sided with the Directorate. 

But Drakos was having none of it. Barbatio was a fellow Ionian, and there was nothing more insulting to a child of Io than to have one’s loyalty questioned. 

Drakos maintained that the ship had been lured into some Directorate trap, but when Petro insinuated that it was a trap of Barbatio’s own making, Drakos sprung up and planted his first in Petro’s gut. 

The general alarm sounded before things could escalate any further, sending us all sprinting for the bridge. 

The Turcia’s captain was a jittery man by the name of Kose, a native of Ganymede like myself. From the outset of our mission he’d made it clear that this business was some cosmic curse. He was not alone in his superstition. Several of his crew also believed that the loss of the Pilum was the result of means most unnatural.  

“None of us should have to stick our necks out for Barbatio and his forsaken crew,” he said with disdain at our first meeting. “It’s cursed. They’re all cursed.” 

The same sentiment was being echoed now as we entered the bridge. Kose and Varro stood at opposite ends of the helm, their faces as red as the warning lights that flashed around them. The crew had all turned to watch the spectacle, save for one man hidden in the corner who kept his gaze fixed on the navigation console: Aper. 

The Turcia had lost contact with Ganymede, and every effort to raise Command had been met with eerie static. 

“We’re getting the hell out of here,” Kose said. He ordered the helmsman to reroute us to Titan, but this command was belayed by Varro.

“We have our orders,” Varro shot back. 

“You don’t get it, do you boy? Before now I would’ve forgiven you for thinking that Barbatio simply flipped the switch and cut his own communications. But this is proof that we’re being actively jammed. The Directorate knows we’re coming!”

The four of us marines exchanged glances, but kept whatever opinions we had to ourselves.  

“I’m not going to let you abandon the Pilum just because of a faulty receiver. I am in command of this mission, Kose, and I order you to stay on course to Neptune.” 

I’d thought Kose would’ve given in then. Varro had the right of it, it was his call to push forward, no one else’s. 

But then Kose rested his hand on his sidearm, and the whole room froze. 

“I’ll say this one more time. Helmsman, plot a course for Titan. Secure the ship for maneuvers. Captain Varro, I’m ordering you and your men back below deck. You can either enjoy the rest of our journey home in the comfort of your quarters, or spend it alone in the brig.” 

All eyes moved to Varro, who held his ground unflinching. Then, from the shadow of the navigation console, Aper emerged. 

He was dressed in full praetorian regalia: a black uniform marked with byzantium stripes. Three pips on his collar stood for his three decades of service, indicating that this was no mere guardsman, but a prefect. 

“Why would they send a prefect?” I whispered to Drakos, but the sergeant kept his silence and looked on.

“Gentleman, if you please. The Turcia will maintain its course, if for no other reason than she is no longer able to alter it.” 

“What are you talking about?” Kose scoffed at the praetorian, who simply ignored the skipper and proceeded to the helm.

“The flight plan has been locked, and will be executed to the letter by the navigational computer. I have rescinded access from you and your crew until such a time as we are back in Principate space.” 

“Are you mad?” Kose yelled. “You can’t leave everything to the computer. What if a sudden course correction needs to be made? What if we come under fire from enemy ships?”

“Are you questioning my authority, Captain Kose?” Aper’s voice was gravely quiet. 

Kose said nothing. 

Aper circled around the captain and began addressing the rest of us. 

“I will take this moment to remind all of you that my orders come from the Augustus himself. His authority travels with me. His judgment travels with me. His mercy travels with me. Acting against a praetorian is the same as acting against the will of the Principate. Do I make myself clear?” 

“Yes, sir!” We all responded in unison. 

Growing up, you hear all kinds of stories about the Guard. The experiments they undertake, the enhancements they recieve. They had a nickname that no one now dared speak: The heavy men. For it was rumored that from a young age they were forced to live, work, and train in classified facilities that mimicked 150% of Earth’s gravity. 

There had been a rebellion that my grandfather told me about once. A colony on Callisto made up mostly of shipwrights and gas skimmers rose up against the Principate. And it wasn’t only them, Ganymede and Europa were soon to follow. 

The rebels had a patchwork fleet of ships made up mostly of converted haulers and a few old frigates, but after overthrowing the local Martian garrison they armed themselves with every weapon they could find and became a proper militia. 

And how did Mars respond? They sent one ship. Just one. The rebels had been told that it was a diplomatic vessel sent to negotiate, and they in their arrogance believed it. 

But aboard that ship were no diplomats. No esteemed senators. Not even the local governor. Just a single century of praetorians. A hundred men sent to quell the rage of over fifty thousand. 

The moons of Jupiter turned red when they arrived, and never again would they rise up against their Martian masters. 

I thought of that story again as I watched Aper pace back and forth across the bridge. Captain Varro joined the four of us at the rear until the praetorian had finished issuing orders to the crew. I could see the doubt in their faces, but when the time came to answer his order, they all replied in the affirmative. 

All except for Kose, that is. Maybe the others didn’t notice him, their eyes too fixated on the man in charge. But I kept finding myself looking back at the skipper, waiting for him to either make his move or fall in line. 

But Kose did neither. He simply stood there like an old rock, never affirming or denying any of the orders that were issued to his crew. I wonder now, if it was in that very moment that the seeds of betrayal found fertile soil.

His instructions given, Aper turned to the infiltration team and ordered us to the ready room. 

“Hey Arm,” Kaplan whispered to me as we filed in. “Do you think a marine can ever join the Guard?” 

“You have to have a brain to be a praetorian, Kap,” I whispered back. Petro snickered at the comment, but the three of us were quickly hushed by Varro as we exited the bridge. 

Aper had us each take a seat around the briefing table before himself coming to the front of the room. After punching in a few keys on the front monitor, we were treated to a visual layout of the Pilum and a profile of a scarred man who was not Captain Barbatio. 

“Who recognizes this man?” Aper asked. 

We all shook our heads. 

“This is Gallus, the praetorian assigned to the Pilum as its political officer,” he said. 

“Political officer?” Varro raised an eyebrow. I’ve never heard of a guardsman serving on a recon boat in that capacity.” 

“Indeed,” Aper said. “Up until 2340, this would have been a job assigned to Martian Intelligence. Since then, however, it was determined that a praetorian should fill the position on all ships that patrol Principate borders.” 

“That’s the first I’ve heard of this,” Petro said. “Why send a Praetorian to do the job of some scummy MI officer?” 

“Because no one is frightened of Martian Intelligence,” Drakos answered. 

Aper ignored the question and brought up an audio file for us to see. “Three days after we lost contact with the Pilum, one of our listening posts picked up an emergency signal sent by the ship’s second officer, Commander Magnus. The communication was cut off before it could be completed, but we did manage to hear this.”

This is Commander Felix Magnus of the Martian destroyer Pilum to anyone in range. Captain Barbatio is dead. Control of the ship has been seized by…allus…with the support of…

Harsh static jumbled the message for several seconds before Magnus’ trembling voice came through once more. 

Tried to retake control along with several others, but they were waiting for us. Everyone…gone. He’s taking us to Neptune. I overheard him talking to some of the mutineers about some new consciousness transfer that the Directorate had perfected. I…how long…find me. If I…engine room…blow up the ship…

The recording ended abruptly, leaving the room in stunned silence. A traitor among the Praetorian Guard? It was unthinkable.

“Could this have been faked?” Captain Varro asked. 

Aper shook his head. “MI has verified the authenticity of this message. There is no reason to doubt the veracity of Commander Magnus’ claims.” 

“Then what are we doing here?” Petro asked. “We know where the Pilum is. We know it’s in enemy territory. Why not just fire a torpedo up its rear end and let whatever’s left get sucked into Neptune?” 

“Has there been any word on Directorate ship movement in the area?” Drakos asked.

“No,” Aper said. “If Gallus had planned to rendezvous with someone, that someone seems to have never showed up. Our scans have detected no change in Directorate fleet deployment.”

“So they’re just letting a Martian destroyer float around one of their planets for the fun of it?” Kaplan asked. 

“I doubt it,” Varro said. “If the Pilum was delivered to them willingly, then they’d have no reason to sink her. It’d be the best opportunity they’d ever have to dissect one of our front line vessels and uncover every secret she might be keeping. And remember, just because their fleet isn’t moving doesn’t mean that they haven’t sent boarding craft. Small ships like that, they could’ve jumped down from Triton and we’d have never noticed.”

Aper enlarged the image of Gallus on the monitor. “Our mission parameters have been updated to include the assassination of Praetorian Gallus, assuming that he is still alive and aboard the Pilum. Any member of the crew we encounter is to be presumed compromised and shot on sight.”

“Why not just make a clean break for the bridge? Grab the black box, set the auto-destruct, and get out?” Drakos asked. 

Aper shook his head. “We don’t know what kind of traps might be waiting for us. We’ll sweep and clear each deck on the way to the bridge. We’ll have an easier time making our exit once we know the route is sterilized.”

“And if we encounter Directorate forces aboard?” Varro asked. 

“No one leaves the Pilum alive, captain. Once Gallus is dead and the black box secure, we will trigger the ship’s auto destruct sequence and return to the Turcia. Captain Kose will keep us apprised of any enemy ship movements in the area. Are we clear?”

“Now wait just a minute,” Petro jumped in. “You say that our mission parameters have been updated as if this is just some extra chore we have to take care of. But this is a praetorian we’re talking about. What chance do any of us have at taking him on?” 

It was the question I knew every one of us was thinking, but only Petro had the courage to ask. Even Varro’s eyes fell to the floor upon hearing the words said aloud. This was a suicide mission, plain and simple. 

Aper looked at Petro, then swept his gaze over each one of us in turn. Maybe he thought of us as a nuisance. Maybe he thought we would just get in his way. And though there was still a part of me that believed I could take on anyone and come away unscathed, a subtle fear had now come to undermine the foundation of my plastic courage. 

“If it comes to pass that Gallus is on the Pilum and still alive, then I will be the one to deal with him,” Aper said. 

Petro offered no more protest, and with those words our briefing was finished. We spent the rest of the night alone in our quarters, but from the next day until the day we arrived at Neptune, Aper saw fit to join us during our breach simulations. 

Two days before our arrival at Neptune, the Turcia’s active scans were able to detect a pair of boarding vessels, one attached to the main airlock on Deck 6 and the other near the engine room at the stern. How long they had been there, we did not know, but it was now clear that there was more going on aboard that ship than any of us were prepared for. 

Given that our two preferred points of ingress were already taken, it was decided that our entrypoint would be on the ventral side of the bow, near where the ship’s food and water stores were housed. This meant a longer trip to the bridge, but both Aper and Varro agreed that it was the best option. 

The night before we pushed off for the Pilum, Varro summoned us to a final briefing in the chow hall. They say the worst part of any mission comes in the hours before it commences. The anxiety of the unknown twists into knots in your stomach. You can’t eat, you can’t sleep. All you can do is replay every possible scenario you can think of in your head until you’re ready to scream. 

None of us said anything during that briefing, and Varro didn’t press us either. Even Petro’s usual quips were absent from the discussion. We all knew what we were about to do, and we were each prepared to give our lives doing it.

[Infiltration of the Pilum]

The Turcia entered synchronous orbit with the Pilum at 0430 the next morning. Aside from its position, the ship showed no signs of distress. The lights were on, but no one was answering the phone. 

We suited up and loaded into the hanger. Aper was already there when we arrived, and damn if he wasn’t the most terrifying thing a man could see. Jet black power armor, and a rifle that looked like it could punch a hole clean through a Martian cruiser. When the thought occurred to me that we might be facing an opponent geared in the same way, it just about made me sick. 

It was custom for the ship’s captain to say a few words to marines who were about to disembark, but Kose never bothered to show his face. Not that any of us marines even noticed at the time. Our sole focus was on the mission, and we pushed off the Turcia with our eyes open and safeties off. 

We made contact with the Pilum at 0515 and began our initial breach of the ship. Sergeant Drakos took point, with Aper bringing up the rear. Damn foolish if you ask me. The praetorian looked practically invincible in that suit of his, but I wasn’t about to start complaining. 

We emerged in the ship’s food storage room, finding it seemingly undisturbed. Power was online, but the ship had been put in lockdown mode. Each deck’s access doors would have to be breached individually until we made it to the bridge. Only then could Gallus’ grip on the Pilum be loosened. 

We exited the storage room into the main corridor of Deck 1, at the end of which we found the first body. 

Captain Varro had me check the corpse while the team covered the hall. It was horribly decomposed, but I could still make out where several bullets had entered and exited through the chest and belly. His sidearm lay about a foot from his hand, its chamber empty. Around his neck I found a set of tags engraved with the name Cmdr. Felix Magnus. 

“It’s Magnus,” I said. 

Aper came around and inspected the wounds on the body. “This man wasn’t shot by just any rifle,” he said. “Gallus did this.” 

“Let’s keep going,” Varro said. “We’ve got a long way to the bridge.” 

Two more bodies were waiting for us as we made our way to the ventral access shaft, both having suffered from similar wounds. 

Deck 2 held the galley and gymnasium. Varro had us split into two groups to cover each half, but all we found were a few more dead crewmen and their emptied pistols. 

“This doesn’t freak you out?” Kaplan asked me as we moved through the cafeteria. 

“They’re just bodies, Kap,” I said, trying to sound confident. “Though I do wonder which side these ones were on.” 

“I don’t mean the bodies. I mean the quiet.”

“Just keep your finger on that trigger,” I said. “Remember, if it moves and it isn’t one of us, it’s hostile.” 

We reached the hatch that led to Deck 3, only to find that it had been already blown open from the other side. 

“Crew Quarters,” Varro whispered. “Ahura, take point.” 

I pushed ahead of the others, holding my breath as I crossed that broken threshold. What lay beyond was more than I could fathom. A graveyard’s worth of bodies floated about like jellyfish in a blood-black sea. Bullet holes perforated every wall, and it was a small miracle that the fighting had not caused significant collateral damage to the ship.

“Did Gallus do all of this?” Petro asked Aper as we began to inch forward. 

“No,” Aper said. “These ones were killed by their fellow crew.” 

“Magnus said in his transmission that they were ambushed trying to retake control of the ship. This must be where it happened,” Drakos said. 

Like before, we split into two teams and began clearing each room one at a time. Progress was slow. In addition to the dozens of bodies that littered the deck, several personal lockers had been left unsecured, and the contents they once held now floated freely with the men to whom they once belonged. 

Deck 4 contained the second half of the Pilum’s crew quarters, followed by the officer’s quarters on Deck 5. We found more of the same in both cases. 

The team stopped before we breached the hatch to Deck 6, where the primary airlock and cargo bay was located. This was where the first of two Directorate ships was docked. 

Varro reported in to Kose, who confirmed that there was as yet no change in Directorate fleet movement. 

“Why the hell are they just sitting there?” Petro asked. “They must have seen us coming. They know we’re here.” 

“Maybe they’re waiting for something. It’s not like a ghost ship and a single corvette poses much danger to the Directorate,” Kaplan said. 

“That, or they no longer view the Principate as a threat worthy of their attention,” Aper cut in. 

We all looked over at the praetorian, who kept his eyes focused on the hatch. 

“I’ll take point this time. We’ll make for the airlock and secure the Directorate boarding vessel before moving on to the bridge.” 

Interacting with Directorate tech was not part of the plan. I thought Varro might have spoken up there, protested in some way in favor of securing the main bridge first, but he didn’t so much as blink at the order. 

Drakos detonated the charge, and the five of us marines followed Aper through the smoke. 

The gunfire started almost immediately. Aper shouted at us to find cover while he pushed toward an enemy I could not see. 

Shots from Aper’s cannon-sized rifle rang in my ears. I found myself together with Petro, having taken cover behind a pair of supply crates a few meters from the hatch we had just come through. It was only after several seconds had passed, though, that I realized the only one opening fire in that cargo bay was the praetorian himself. 

“Who the hell is he shooting at?” Petro asked. The two of us peeked over the crates and tried to get a bead on the enemy, but what lay beyond was stranger than anything we could’ve anticipated. 

About three dozen men, half of which had now been gunned down by Aper, stark naked save for the magboots that kept them grounded to the floor. They seemed to be completely indifferent to the man who dealt their deaths, as if their lives were as inconsequential as the bullets that took them. 

After emptying a full magazine on his helpless targets, Aper stopped to reload and turned back to us. 

“Captain Varro, take Ahura and Kaplan to secure the landing ship. Drakos, Petro, move up and clear the room of hostiles.” 

“Hostiles?” Petro asked. “They’re unarmed!” 

Aper’s face had turned the picture of bloodlust. “Everyone on board the Pilum is considered hostile, corporal. No one leaves this ship alive.” 

Petro opened his mouth to respond, but as he did something from beyond Aper stole all of our attention away. 

The naked men all began to spasm and flail, screaming blood curdled screams that echoed throughout the cargo bay. 

“A—PER,” they screamed. “A—PER!”

The fifteen or so men still living all turned to face the praetorian. 

“A—PER. COME TO JOIN? A—A—A. . .” 

Aper didn’t wait to hear more. “Open fire!” he commanded. 

Now there was no hesitation. One by one we cut down every living thing in that room until the air had turned to a fine red mist. 

It was all over in a few seconds. When silence held lease once more, Varro ordered us forward and had us each examine a body. 

“I recognize these men,” Drakos said. “This is Ensign Marcia. That one over there is Lieutenant Basil.” 

“I’m guessing these were Gallus’ mutineers,” Varro said. “What the hell happened to them?” 

I came to one of the bodies and began examining it. For the most part it seemed to be a normal human corpse, save for two hexagonal imprints at the top right of the forehead. 

“It looks like they’ve had some equipment installed,” I said. “Some sort of cerebral implants. We should bring one of the bodies back with us. Might be able to get something from an autopsy.” 

“Negative,” Varro shook his head. “We’ll download what info we can from the ships logs and the boarding craft. No extra cargo.” 

Aper, who had been silently tending to one of the corpses while we spoke, finally stood and joined our group. The madness that had consumed him moments ago had drained from his face, and he now wore a more concerned expression. 

“Gallus is on this ship. He was speaking through these men.” 

“Transhumanism is an affront to the gods,” Drakos said. “We should find him and kill him as quickly as possible.” 

“Kill me?” An unknown voice suddenly spoke from the direction of the Directorate ship at the end of the airlock. We each trained our sights down the hall, but found no one there confronting us. 

Captain Varro signaled Petro and Kaplan to demag and reposition to the ceiling while Aper began moving toward the voice. 

“We needn’t drag this out, Gallus!” Aper shouted into the emptiness. “Come out, I’ll give you a quicker death than you well deserve.” 

“Death?” Gallus mocked. “The Directorate has shared with me the true path. They have shown me that the flesh is nothing but a storage medium as tender as it is transitory. They have given me a taste of their technology, and promised me more upon the fulfillment of but a single, trivial task.” 

A shot rang out from somewhere deep in the hold, piercing Kaplan through the chest just before he had reached the ceiling. His lifeless body floated backward under the incredible force of impact until it broke upon the wall opposite the airlock. 

“Kaplan!” Petro shouted as he took cover behind a cross beam. The four of us began raining lead down in the direction of the airlock, but our bullets met with nothing but the Pilum’s inner hull. 

Varro ordered Drakos to breach the door while we provided covering fire, but no sooner had our captain given that order than did a second shot ring out from Gallus’ rifle, severing Varro’s arm at the elbow. 

I dropped my weapon upon hearing the captain’s anguished screams. I could see the fear in his eyes as I came to his side. The shock as he stared at the blood pouring from his missing limb. 

“He’s up there!” I heard Petro yell, but my full attention was now on Captain Varro and his grievous wound. 

A hail of gunfire exploded from above as I tended to the captain. Before I knew what was going on, Aper had backed up to our position and was yelling at me to take the captain and get out. 

The path forward lay open, and Drakos stood on the other side waving me through. 

I quickly deactivated Captain Varro’s magboots before pushing him toward the exit. By this time my rifle had floated out of reach, and with only my sidearm left to me I took off through the hatch as fast as I could.  

As soon as I got through the portal, I proceeded directly to Varro’s side. The shock seemed to have passed, as he shouted after Petro and Aper while I did my best to mend his arm. It had all gone to hell in the blink of an eye. Kaplan was gone, but none of us could spare a moment to mourn for him. 

A winded Petro entered the room next, followed by Aper seconds later. 

“He’s using the maintenance tubes,” Petro said as he gasped for air. “We can’t stay here, we’ll be sitting ducks.” 

“The main bridge is two levels below us. Let’s get moving,” Aper said. 

“Captain Varro’s injured,” I protested. “I need time to—”

“We don’t have time, corporal,” Aper barked. He looked over at Drakos and motioned for him to get to work on the next door. 

“It’s alright, Ahura,” Varro unholstered his sidearm and held it firm across his chest. “Take Petro and go with Aper. I’ll bring up the rear.”

I hesitated, not wanting to leave his side, but Petro was there with his hand on my shoulder urging me forward.  

Varro said no more. His eyes and his weapon were now both trained on the door in front of him. 

Given the imminent threat, we skipped our sweep of Deck 7 and proceeded directly to the bridge. Drakos had already penetrated the door by the time Petro and I got there, and the three of us followed Aper toward the conn. 

The operations deck was ghostly pristine. No bodies. No bullet holes. Not even a drop of blood. If it wasn’t for the hell we’d just waded through to get here, I would’ve thought the ship simply abandoned. 

That changed once we reached the main bridge. We found Barbatio’s decomposing corpse still strapped into the captain’s chair. A single hole in the back of his skull told us everything we needed to know about what had happened to him. The rest of the bridge posts had been deserted, and we immediately set to work at doing the job we had come to do. 

Aper began interfacing with the ship’s computer, using his authority to override whatever restrictions Gallus had placed upon the ship, but something was wrong. The main viewscreen showed the Pilum’s current position and active radar scans, and my heart sank into my stomach at what I saw.

A group of three signals had appeared from the far side of Triton. A trio of Directorate cruisers on an intercept course with the Pilum. But more than that, the Turcia was not where she should have been. Kose had drifted off course, and was now more than a thousand kilometers ahead of her previous position. 

I communicated all of this to Captain Varro, who had only just emerged from behind us. He immediately started radioing the Turcia, but to no avail. 

“I thought you said Kose had no control over the ship,” Varro said to Aper, who stood emotionlessly at the captain’s console. 

“He must have found a way around my codes,” Aper replied nonchalantly. “And now he’s hoping the Directorate will clean up this mess while he makes his way back to Ganymede.” 

A panel opened up in Barbatio’s chair, and a single black data rod popped out from within. Aper passed the rod to Drakos, who inserted it into a pocket at his arm. When this was done, Aper proceeded to the tactical console at the rear of the bridge. A few moments later the viewscreen buzzed to life, and Captain Kose appeared before us.

“Captain Kose,” Aper said. “Why have you left your position?” 

Kose didn’t even make an attempt to hide his smirk. “You should have listened to me, Varro. We could have been halfway to Titan now if you and that praetorian hadn’t been so stubborn.” 

“Kose, you fool,” Varro spat. “What happens when Command finds out that you abandoned us?”

“You’re forgetting, Captain Varro. The Directorate is blocking your ability to communicate with the Empire. The only thing they’ll ever know is what I tell them. That you and your team were ambushed and killed by the praetorian Gallus, and that the Turcia was forced to withdraw upon being discovered by Directorate warships.” 

An array of flashing red lights stole my attention away from the viewscreen. The ship had gone on tactical alert, and the voice of the main computer was alerting the absent crew to assume their stations.

“Captain Kose,” Aper said. “By the authority granted to me by the Principate of Mars, I hereby judge you guilty of treason.” 

The tactical readout on the viewscreen showed that the Pilum had launched four torpedoes from her forward tubes, but Captain Kose seemed unfazed. 

“You didn’t really think I wasn’t prepared to defend myself, did you?” Kose gloated. 

One by one, the torpedoes vanished from our radar as they entered the Turcia’s firing range. Aper lifted his hands from the console, his indigo eyes dark and unblinking. I didn’t understand, not until I heard the first officer of the Turcia shout at her captain. Kose’s grin vanished in an instant, replaced by an expression replete with terror. 

“No!” he screamed, but his cries were interrupted by static and silence. The Turcia was sunk, and the crew with whom we had served for the past three weeks were now nothing more than scattered atoms in the orbit of Neptune. 

The tactical display showed that Aper had fired a single torpedo from the aft tube long before his forward volley. It had all been a ruse to steal Kose’s attention away while that single projectile circled around Neptune. But as the Turcia burned in space, so did any hope we had of a swift evacuation back to Imperial territory. 

No one spoke. We all must have had our own private thoughts as to what Aper had just done, but none of us dared question his decision. As for me, even if I would have died right then and there I would have at least had the satisfaction that Kose got what he deserved in the end.  

[Escape]

Before anyone had the chance to utter a word, a loud explosion rocked the ship violently from above. For several seconds we were tossed about as the Pilum’s automated alarm system blared in our ears all while the computer tried to report the extent of the damage to the ship. 

“It’s Gallus,” Petro shouted from the operations console. “He must've rigged a torpedo to detonate in the tube, the front half of the ship is totally gone.” 

“We have to get to the shuttle bay,” Aper said. “The Pilum still has its two landing craft aboard. They’re the only things that can get us back to Ganymede now.” 

“Can we take the lifts?” Varro asked. 

“No,” Aper replied. Bulkheads have been sealed tight to maintain life support. The lifts are non-operational. The dorsal access route is also inaccessible. The only way down now is through the ventral passage where we came in from. I’ll set the ship’s self destruct, then we can get—”

A burst of gunfire sent us all diving for cover. Drakos and Petro returned fire in the general direction of the enemy, but as I moved out of cover to do the same, I came face to face with Aper’s dead body. A pair of bullets had penetrated clean through his heart, killing him instantly. 

There was no way forward now. Gallus blocked our only path back to the ventral shaft, and all other exits were shut. 

I thought we would all die on that bridge. Gallus’ rifle cut through the consoles we hid behind like they were paper, but that’s when Varro gave the order. 

“Blow the hatch, Drakos,” he said. “Take Petro and Ahura and get the hell out of here.” 

Varro must have known there was no way out. The shot to his arm had scrapped any chance of his suit being able to seal against the vacuum of space, but I could see in his eyes that his intent was not to follow us to the shuttle bay. This is where he would make his stand.

I managed to get a hold of Aper’s rifle as it floated by, passing it to Varro who gripped it clumsily with the one arm left to him. 

“Go,” he said, propping his weapon up on the console in front of him. 

“Go, Ahura. And don’t look back.” 

Time seemed to slow. Petro was yelling at me from the door. Bullets whizzed past my ears at electrifying speeds, any one of which could have had my name painted upon its tip. I pointed my pistol toward where I thought Gallus might be and began pouring every ounce of my fear and anger into each pull of the trigger.

I dove out of the bridge into a short corridor. Petro sealed the hatch behind us before we ran ahead toward Drakos and the dorsal access. Drakos detonated the charge, and the three of us hunkered down while we waited for the pressure to equalize after the breach.

The shaft we entered was a maze of debris. Above us I could see distant stars through the twisted metal beams that had once lined the Pilum’s fore, but our destination was far below. The shuttle bay was on Deck 12, and between us and our escape stood a bounty of corpses, many of which were fresher than others. 

“Drakos,” Petro said just after we had passed the hatch to Deck 10. “How are we going to blow up the ship? Aper was the only one able to set the auto destruct.” 

“I still have a pack of charges left,” Drakos replied. “You two go ahead and secure the landing vessel. I’ll rig the fission drive and meet up with you when I’m done.” 

The hatch to Deck 12 had been heavily warped, and with a little coaxing it opened without the need for Drakos’ assistance. A series of doors in the long corridor of the shuttle bay had automatically switched to emergency mode in response to the ship’s decompression, and now functioned similarly to an airlock system that led us to the still pressurized shuttle bay. 

“The explosion must’ve overridden the lockdown,” Petro said as we made our way forward. “Now the ship is on life support mode, with each level functioning to maintain itself separately.” 

We could hear the sound of distant gunfire coming from far above. Varro seemed to be holding his own, though for how much longer we dared not guess. 

“Petro, Ahura, do you copy?” Drakos’ voice buzzed in our ears. 

“We’re here sergeant,” I responded. “Making our way to the shuttle bay now.” 

“Roger that,” Drakos said. “I’ve just entered main engineering. There’s more of those naked guys here. I’m going to try and sneak around.” 

“Copy that,” I said. “Be careful.” 

I turned back to Petro, who stood ready at the last door in the corridor. 

I’ll go first,” he said. “Watch my back and stay close.” 

The shuttle bay on the Pilum extended up through Deck 11, where the marine contingent would have been housed. The two ships here were primarily designed as all-purpose transports, most commonly used to ferry marines to and from areas of operation. Although not meant to be used for long distance travel, they carried enough fuel and supplies to function as lifeboats capable of getting us over the border. 

The control room was our first objective, which Petro and I managed to secure without meeting any resistance. Petro, who had more experience than I handling undocking procedures, took a seat at the main control console and began working on getting the outer doors open. I approached the viewport as he did this and looked out across the hanger, wary that someone else might try to bar our path. 

The catwalk that connected the first shuttle to the boarding platform began to extend, but as it did I became suddenly wary of something on the flight deck. A shadow of movement, gone as soon as I started to notice it. 

“It’ll just be a minute, Arm,” Petro said. “I’ve set the decompression sequence, once it’s done we’ll be able to hop on that boat and get the hell out of here.” 

Something was wrong, but it wasn’t until I motioned to Petro to pipe down that I understood what.  

The gunfire from above had stopped. The ship was silent. 

I reloaded my sidearm while Petro tried to reach the captain, but as expected there was no response. He was gone. 

The screen in front of Petro flashed green, signaling that the decompression cycle had finished. The bay doors started to open, and after scanning the room once more for hostiles, we made at last for the lift to the catwalk. 

“Do you have any idea how to fly that thing?” I asked Petro. 

“We’re not doing any flying. The ship should already be in evacuation mode given the Pilum’s sorry state. She’ll fly herself to the nearest designated rendezvous point, then it’s up to Command to pick us up.” 

Before I could say anything more, Drakos’ distressed voice buzzed through our comlink. 

“Ahura, Petro, what’s your status?” 

“We’ve opened the bay doors and are proceeding to the shuttle now. Where are you—?”

“Listen,” Drakos interrupted. “They’re gone. They’re all gone. The ones that were in here with me. I think they might’ve headed your way.” 

“Are the charges set?” I asked. 

“She’ll blow as soon as I push the button,” Drakos said. “Stay on your toes. I’m on my way back up now.” 

We ended our communication there. Petro and I took the lift up to the catwalk, wary not to cause any unnecessary disturbance. We had come so far. Just twenty meters away was our golden carriage out of the nightmare that the Pilum had become. For the first time I dared to hope that the three of us might make it out alive. A hope that was dashed the instant that lift door opened.

In front of us stood two of the naked crew, beyond whom was a figure that could scarcely be described as human at all. 

It was a woman, or at least some crude approximation of one. Like the others, she was naked, only her skin seemed not to be skin at all, but some synthetic material that gave her bronze exterior a metal-like sheen. Atop her bald head were two hexagonal depressions, done in the same way as the Martian’s in front of her.

Her hands were stained red with blood, and in them she held a sleek weapon of a configuration that I’d never seen before. If it hadn’t been for Petro grabbing me by the shoulder and pushing me back behind cover, I’m sure that first shot would have taken my head. 

I informed Drakos of what was going on while Petro returned fire, but our situation was perilous. The only thing I could think to do was lower the lift back down to the control room, but when I pressed the button I found it unresponsive. We were trapped. 

I reached my pistol around the corner and began firing blindly down the catwalk, but after a few seconds of this our luck ran out. One round found its way into Petro’s shoulder, sending him reeling back in pain. 

The lift was out, Petro was down and had dropped his weapon. With no options left to me, I decided to go on the attack. Stepping out from cover, I began firing at anything and everything in front of me. I must have caught the woman as she was trying to reload, as her rifle was pointed down at the floor the moment I emerged. 

I put two bullets in her chest, something which seemed to stun her more than anything else. Not wanting to lose my advantage, I continued pouring as many shots down that catwalk as I could. It was only after I had sunk at least five more rounds into her body that she threw herself over the edge and began floating slowly down toward the deck floor. 

I continued firing at her until my magazine was empty, then reloaded and fired some more. So focused had I become on killing this woman that I barely noticed the host of naked Martians gathering below her. How had they gotten there? How were they still alive in this bay after decompression? A hundred questions ran through my mind then, and I answered them all with lead and fury. 

The naked Martians began to form a human shield around the woman, and after shouting a curse at all of them, I decided to return to Petro. 

His wound was not life threatening, but the bullet had compromised his suit and he was losing air fast. With some effort I managed to help him up and over the catwalk, where we waited for the shuttle doors to open.

I set Petro down once we were safely inside, but before I could enjoy even the slightest reprieve I began hearing noises from deeper within the shuttle. Pained groans mixed with something rhythmic, like the sound of water pumps whose pipes had been flooded with some viscous liquid.

I patched up Petro as best I could and told him to stay put while I checked the ship. I didn’t have to go far, however, to find the source of our horror. 

The vessel had been converted to some kind of operational suite. A laboratory holding a dozen or so Martians that had been strapped to long metal slabs. Attached to each man’s head was a long string of blue cables that met at a central machine placed in the middle of the shuttle. 

A series of monitors displayed readouts that I could barely make heads or tails of. They looked like brain scans, but there was also something more. The machine wasn’t just receiving information, it was sending something back to those men. Something that was changing them into beings that were no longer human. 

Without warning, one of the men near the front of the ship began to scream and thrash about violently. I hurried over, but as soon as I got to him he grabbed me by the arm and looked at me through eyes that had turned bloody crimson. 

“Please,” he begged. “We want out. We want…out.” 

I tried to reassure him. I told him that I’d get him out of here and back to Mars. But as my eyes ran across the plethora of tubes and wires running through his body, I realized I had no idea where to begin. 

His tortured cries became increasingly incomprehensible, and I knew then that the only thing I could do for these men was grant them the peace of death. I think he knew it was coming, for as I unholstered my sidearm and pointed it forward, his terrified screams began to ease. He looked at me then, with eyes I’d never seen in a man before. As if he was letting me know that it was alright. As if I had his permission to take his life. 

I killed them all. One by one I pushed my pistol against their heads and pulled the trigger until there was nothing left but the sound of my own beating heart. 

Petro entered the room shortly after I had finished, his eyes wide at the sight he beheld. For a time we stood there, bearing witness to the nightmare that the Directorate had inflicted upon the Pilum and her crew. We knew then who the real enemy was then, and that enemy was more frightening than anything we’d ever imagined. 

It was Drakos’ voice in our ears that jolted us back to reality. The sound of gunfire punctuated his every word, and we knew he must be nearly here. 

I told Petro to get the ship ready to go while I went to Drakos’ aid. 

“The door,” Drakos was shouting. “The door!” 

I double timed it back to the airlock, finding the sergeant at the opposite end of the catwalk having just exited the lift. A torrent of bullets were tearing through the air from below, making any attempt at crossing a perilous prospect. 

But that’s just what the sergeant did. Through that hell of bullets he ran, never stopping, never hesitating, never even looking anywhere else but that door where I stood.  

The shuttle airlock opened as he had just made it halfway across, and it is there that our other enemy revealed himself. 

It was Gallus. His face was covered in blood and it was clear the praetorian could barely walk. The mere fact that he had pursued us this far despite his multiple wounds was a testament to his overwhelming strength. He no longer carried his rifle, and held instead a full sized twice as big as my own. 

I took aim at the traitor, shouting at Drakos to get down as I did, but I was a second too slow. Gallus shot first, sending a round through Drakos’ lower back. I fired five times in quick succession, all of which found their mark. 

My eyes turned to Drakos, who had fallen to one knee and was holding a hand over the open wound in his stomach. 

I tried to exit the hatch, but a stream of bullets halted my advance. 

“Ahura,” Drakos said, his voice weak. He unzipped the pocket on his arm, taking out the data rod and throwing it toward the airlock. 

“Take the rod and get out,” he said. “I’ll sink the Pilum.”  

I caught the rod as it floated in before taking one last look at the dying sergeant. The ship's engines began to whir from below, and I knew then that our time was up. 

Petro and I made our exit from the Pilum at 0935 hours, barely more than four hours after our initial breach of the ship. Less than a minute later, a violent explosion tore through the ship’s drive section, destroying what was left of the Pilum and her crew. 

The three Directorate cruisers that had appeared from Triton earlier that morning made no attempt to follow us, and after six days of traveling, we crossed the border into Principate space and re-established contact with Command. 

The joy I felt upon hearing the voices of my comrades back on Ganymede was bittersweet, for as we inched closer and closer to home, Petro’s condition continued to worsen. The bullet that had pierced his shoulder had fragmented, causing him to develop a severe fever. 

By the end of the first week Petro could no longer stand. I tended to him as best I could, but without proper medical attention his chances were slim. 

“Arm,” Petro whispered one night after I had redressed his bandages. “Have you ever been to Venus?” 

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I’ve never visited the free cities.” 

“Oh,” he let out a small laugh. “Well you’re missing out. Secunda is the most beautiful city in the whole damn system.” 

“I’ve seen pictures,” I said. 

Petro smiled. “There’s a spot I used to visit with my kid sister at the bottom of the Vorosian district. A little park where you can look out over the clouds and watch as the transports come and go.”

“It sounds nice,” I said. “You’ll have to take me someday.” 

“I’d like to,” Petro’s voice trembled. “I’d like to see the clouds one more time.” 

Corporal Dio Petro died from his wounds two weeks after we had made our escape from Neptune, leaving me the last survivor of our team. Three days later I was picked up by a patrol boat sent from Titan and taken to Palmyra Station in orbit around Saturn. 

They called me a hero. The whole garrison welcomed me back as if I were Augustus himself returning for a triumph. But for all their cheers, I could feel nothing in my heart but a most desperate anxiety. When I look out at the stars now, I know they are out there. And I know it’s only a matter of time before they make their move.

The Phobos Hotel

Historian’s note,

The attitude that the Principate took in regards to the many religions of the time was unique for the age and has not been replicated since. Starting with Augustus Octavianus in 2125 and continuing into the era of the late Principate, religions (designated by the government as cults) had to abide by stringent rules to differentiate themselves from businesses. Unique among these policies was that cults could not have any form of secret doctrine. All texts and knowledge that a cult might possess was required by law to be fully available to the public at all times. The cults of Mars were also forbidden from purchasing and owning property, and there are several documented instances of the government excising a certain cult by exercising its power over the lands and buildings they held.

While the pre-Principate era of Mars was notably atheistic, by the 23rd century an estimated 85% of the population belonged to one (or sometimes more) religious organizations. Perhaps most surprisingly was the inability of the Abrahamic traditions of old Earth to ever garner any significant following inside the Empire. At least until the Great Evacuation and the upheavals of the 26th century, adherents of Christianity, Islam, and Judaism made up less than 1% of the entire population.

-Marcus Cassius

< - - - - - - - - - - - - >

I had been in custody for three full sols before they finally let me see my parents. Another seven before a lawyer even set foot inside my cell. This was how Martian Security operated. No one was interested in finding the truth. Given the prospect of sitting in that jail with nothing to do but stare into the abyss of your own decisions, most people would crack long before their rights were even read to them. 

But not me. What had happened was not my fault, and I wasn’t about to fall on anyone else's sword in their place.

It was Publius, that damn swindler. I grit my teeth even saying his name now. It would have been better if he took the “great leap” like the rest of them did. I can spare a shred of respect for the others, cultists though they may have been. At least they had the courage to die with their god. 

It started out just like any other day. I was three weeks single after my girlfriend had left me. Roaming from bottle to bottle, barely leaving my home for anything more than to get my next fix. The end of winter vacation was right around the corner, and I dreaded returning to university with every breath. 

My only friend in those days was a round little weasel named Bon. I’d met him during one of my history lectures in second year and he’d followed me around ever since. It was his name that popped up on my messenger that evening, inviting me for a night out at Q’s. 

I initially refused, but after some prodding and an offer to pay, I was convinced. “After all,” he said. “There’s someone I want you to meet.” 

I hopped in the shower for the first time in days and by half-past nine I was out the door and on my way to the station. Quasar, or Q’s as the locals referred to it, was on the far side of Acheton. Unlike Olympus, which had become a hub for tourism and trade with off-worlders, Acheton was part of what we called “Old Mars.” The underground colonies there were among the first to be established in the late 21st century, and the area retained much of its primitive architecture. 

Besides its distinguished history, Acheton was notable for having one of only two local launch pads that ferried men and material to and from Mars’ twin satellites: Phobos and Deimos. Once upon a time it was the beating heart of the planet, but these days the ferries run only once a month, barring some type of special request.

The area had already fallen out of favor by the time of the incident, and I imagine that those who now remain do so only because they have nowhere else to go. 

Q’s was as filthy a groggery as there ever was. At one point it had been no bigger than a storage capsule, barely enough room for five customers to sit around an L shaped counter. At some point the neighboring businesses began to close one by one, and one by one the owner of Quasar bought them up and expanded his territory. Now there was not only a dance floor, but an upper level with proper tables, all serviced by a kitchen on the third floor. 

Bon had secured us a pair of seats at the bar by the time I’d arrived. It started out as a quiet Thursday night, but at ten past the hour a horde of brown-robed men and women flooded through the front door. 

“Who are they?” I asked the bartender as he returned with our drinks. 

“Samsara,” he said. “Loading up before heading back to Phobos, I imagine.”

“Phobos?” I asked. “Why would anyone go there?”

The bartender nodded. “They cleaned out the sanatorium a few years back. Supposedly converted it into a hotel which Samsara immediately bought and moved into. I’d avoid them if I were you. The people who go up there? They never come back the same.” 

If only I had listened to that kindly barkeep. But for some reason it was Bon harping on my curiosity that won the night. 

“Don’t listen to him,” Bon said the moment the bartender left earshot. “They’re why we’re here.” 

I gave my pudgy partner a perplexed look. “You didn’t bring me here to join a cult with you, did you?” 

“Don’t be stupid,” Bon said. “I’ve got a friend on the inside. They’re having a festival tonight. Fully stocked, if you get my meaning.” 

I narrowed my eyes. “Ignis?” I asked. 

Bon licked his dirty teeth and gave me a punch on the shoulder. “The real deal,” he said. “And it’s used legally as part of religious ceremonies. Government can’t do a thing about it.” 

It was a policy that had been enacted in the third year of Augustus Philip, shortly before I was born. Until then, the Principate made no distinction between drugs used for religious or personal consumption. Possession was a crime punishable by permanent off-world exile, which in those days either meant Earth or Venus—neither of which were popular destinations for Martians.

Rumor was that it was Philip’s own involvement in a fringe cult that led him to ease regulations. Personal use was still firmly forbidden, but established cults now had an open door to not only importing, but creating and storing their own “spiritual materials”. Among the cults, Samsara was the newest and most ill regarded, and among the drugs, ignis was the rarest and most sought after.

I remember learning as a schoolboy the danger that mind-altering substances posed. “You’ll end up like the Earthers,” they’d say. “Leading lives of unrepentant destitution.” 

But in that moment as Bon grasped my shoulder with wet anticipation, I felt no desire to heed the warnings of others. I sought only to escape from the petty troubles of my life, so much so that I began fidgeting in my seat, all too eager to board the next ferry up to Phobos. 

“So, where is this person you want me to meet?” I asked. 

Bon pointed at a white-robed figure that had just stepped through the door. “That’s him,” he said. 

I watched the man carefully. He held a position of respect, something made clear by the way the others bowed to him as he maneuvered through the crowd. He wasn’t a tall man, but the way he walked, with one hand up over his chest as if acting as a shield for his heart, made him seem like a giant compared to the others.

He moved slowly, as a lion might stalk through the tall Savanna grass. As dangerous and unpredictable as I found humans, they seemed to pose no threat to him, and they parted for him like reeds in the wind. 

Before I knew it, the slender right hand he held over his heart was clasped with my own. “Hello seeker,” he said. “It is good to finally meet you.” 

“Finally?” I asked, turning to Bon. 

“Ah,” Bon stammered. “I may have told the pontifex a thing or two about you.” 

“You can call me Publius,” he said, finally releasing my hand from his grasp. “I can see from your eyes that your soul is in pain. You have lost someone?” 

“In a manner of speaking, I guess,” I said, not quite wanting to broach the topic of my infidelity. 

“Worry not,” Publius said. “We are all equals in the eyes of Phobos. Tonight, you will be healed in her bosom. That is what this festival is about.” 

“Healing?” I asked. 

“Rebirth,” Publius answered. “Leaving the past behind and becoming one with the greater moon. New lives require great leaps of faith.” 

I nodded my head absently for a few moments before the situation dawned on me. “Wait,” I protested. “We’re going to Phobos?” 

I turned to Bon, who responded only with a shrug. 

“For how long? I didn’t bring anything with me.” 

“The ferry has been chartered to return in twenty-four hours,” Publius said. “Be at ease, seeker. Everything you need will be provided for you during your stay.” 

“You see?” Bon said. “There’s nothing to fret over. And think of it, you and I will be legends once we return next semester. Everyone will be talking about the two upperclassmen who journeyed to The Phobos Hotel!”

Whatever doubts I harbored then were drowned in a sea of cheap whiskey and coffee liqueur. Bon and I were approached several times by curious cultists, no doubt eager to meet eager participants in their “great leap”. 

“Is this an annual thing?” I asked a middle aged woman who had come to introduce herself. 

“No,” she said. “This is the first. The pontifex heard the whisper of the greater moon. She commanded that the faithful rise up from their homes and join her in perpetual rotation.” 

“I, I see.” I said warily. Our conversation was cut short by an announcement from Publius, calling the members to assemble at the launch pad. The ferry was a rickety old bucket. She had clearly seen service long past her expiration date, as seen by her hull which had turned as rust-red as the planet she serviced. 

Aside from Bon and myself, the cultists numbered just under ninety. We were told that several dozen more inhabited the hotel on a semi-permanent basis. We took our seats toward the rear of the vessel where we were made to watch a guidance video on what to do in case of an emergency during flight. After that came an informational guide on Phobos itself, which included a lengthy description on how to properly walk in such a low gravity environment. 

“At least they gave us these,” Bon said, pointing at a pair of magnetized boots at his feet. 

“Yeah,” I said. It had been over ten years since I had last left my home planet. The ferry shook violently as its engines powered up, and for a moment as we began our ascent I thought the ship might just burst into tiny pieces before we broke the atmosphere. 

Things settled down somewhat as we entered low orbit and began aligning with Phobos. Bon’s face had turned stark white from the experience, his body shaking long after the worst of it was over. 

Publius’ face flashed on the monitor in front of us as we started our final approach. 

“Children of Phobos. On this most auspicious day, I welcome you home. Today we come to celebrate the sacred whispers. We partake in her divine dust, so that all of us might one day be blessed to hear the will of the greater moon.” 

Publius paused and closed his eyes for a moment, enveloping the ship in an unsettling silence. 

“We are Samsara. The old world once used this word to describe the great cycle of all existence. And we have rediscovered it through Phobos. The holy moon that circles the planet which will one day pull her to her doom. Just as we circle around the things that pull us to our own doom. In her name, we pray.” 

“In her name!” the cultists shouted in unison. I looked at Bon, whose eyes were fixated on the screen as if taken in some sort of trance. 

“Snap out of it, Bon,” I said. But my words wouldn’t reach him. He just kept staring into the grainy eyes of the pontifex. 

I lifted my head up in an attempt to get a look at the people who sat around us. Most of them were silent, though some of them held their hands together, whispering prayers that I could not hear. 

Directly across the aisle sat a peculiar young man. His skin was pitch black, and he rocked back and forth rhythmically as if in a fevered madness. His unblinking eyes were bloodshot and wild, and briefly I worried that he might charge at one of the windows and attempt to defenestrate himself into the void. 

My discomfort was only allayed by the knowledge that there was no going back now. I took some solace in the fact that these addicts were notoriously docile and were unlikely to endanger myself or each other willingly. 

We landed on Phobos fifteen minutes later. Bon was practically jumping out of his seat to get off the ferry. I couldn’t blame him. If my first trip through space had been as rough as that one, I would’ve done the same. 

The change in gravity was mildly upsetting. Even with the boots I felt as if my body would up and float away if I made more than a gentle stride. Despite Bon’s gusto, we ended up being among the last to depart the ferry, ending up in a long transparent corridor that led to the main facility. 

The view was nothing short of breathtaking. The original facility had been set up on the near side of Phobos, and as the moon was tidally locked to Mars, the red planet was permanently fixed on the horizon. Through the glass I could see the remnants of older domed habitats, most of which had sat abandoned for at least a century. 

Halfway to the hotel, the hall branched in a Y shape, with the left being marked as the path to the original Stickney Observatory. The corridor was sealed, but through the glass I could see the outline of a dome in the distance with its lights still on. Tiny figures moved here and there, but they were too far away to see clearly.

“I thought Samsara was the only group that still inhabited Phobos?” I asked. 

Bon shrugged. “Squatters, maybe? Or fugitives.” 

“You’re joking.” 

Bon laughed, the color returning to his face as he did. We continued on through the last stretch of hall until we arrived at a grand dome. My jaw almost dropped as we stepped through the portal. In front of us was an enormous structure made of brick. It stood four stories tall and was wide enough to stretch nearly half the length of the dome itself. In front of the building was a field of grass, real grass, greener than anything I’d seen in my entire life. 

A group of women had taken off their magnetized boots and were frolicking about, jumping high in the air and then slowly tumbling back down toward the soft green bed below. Beyond them was a man of about sixty who clumsily strummed along on a classical guitar. If I’d been a religious man, I would’ve thought that I’d just arrived in paradise. 

Bon identified a handful of men and women clustered around a tall glass tube near an oak tree. “There,” he said. “Let’s go.”

The feeding mechanism, for I have no other way to describe the device that we approached, had a simple yet peculiar design. At the base was a small burner, slightly above which was a series of six chambers where one could load a cartridge of ignis. Above this was an equal set of tubes that would gradually fill with smoke. These tubes were connected to oxygen masks which covered the nose and mouth. 

Atop it all was where the cartridges were kept. One only had to reach up and take what they wanted and the rest would take care of itself. 

“First time?” said an elderly man as we approached. His robe was frayed along the collar and his teeth were yellow and crooked.

We nodded. 

“The trick is not to hold your breath. Don’t hoard it in your lungs, just let it flow in and out. Mother Phobos will take care of the rest. She always does.” 

“It’s not dangerous?” I asked. 

The man giggled at my naivete. “One capsule will be enough. Breathe it in normally for about a minute. You’ll know when it’s time to stop. Enjoy your first journey, seekers. Resist nothing, and let her take you where she pleases.”

Bon lifted two cartridges out of the device and handed one of them to me. 

“No going back now,” he said. “Just remember, we’ll be legends!” 

We loaded the cartridges into their respective chambers, then donned our masks and waited. 

My heart was practically bursting from my chest from excitement. With wide eyes I watched the glass cylinder in front of me fill with a red mist that I swallowed down in giant gulps. 

At first I felt no change. Slightly disappointed, I turned my eyes to the field, setting my gaze at one of the few trees lining the main path. 

That’s when I noticed the dripping. 

I call it dripping because I don’t really have a better word for it. It wasn’t melting, no. The tree was still there, its trunk and branches fully intact. But the color of the leaves seemed to be falling out at the tips. I felt the sudden urge to collect the pool of color in my hands, and before I knew it I was standing at the base of the tree, catching each chromatic droplet as they fell to the ground. 

I must’ve made quite the spectacle, or I would have if not for the knowledge that every single person in that habitat was just as stewed as I was. All around me I saw people engaged in similar insanity. Some of them ran around on all fours like dogs. Others kept their ear to the grass beneath them, begging their god to grace them with just a single word. 

I turned back to search for Bon, but decided to leave him alone after discovering him with his arm around one of the cultists. 

“Those are some nice colors you found,” said a voice from behind me. I turned to find Publius staring into my hands, not stopping to think for one second that he could not see what I was holding. 

“Do you want to add them to the mural?”

“Mural?” I asked. 

“Of course,” he said. “Such fine colors belong in a place where the whole universe can see them, don’t you think?” 

“I feel bad for the tree,” I said, looking up at the gray mass that lumbered before me. “Can’t I give its color back?” 

“Heavens, no,” he drew back, seemingly offended at the very suggestion. “You have much to learn, seeker. Come, follow me.” 

I carefully stored my collected droplets in my pocket, then marched after Publius as he made his way up the steps of the hotel. 

The interior was much more sanitarium than hotel. It’s almost impressive to say that even in my spiritually elated state I still managed to feel a pang of disappointment upon entering. Shiny metal floors with beige tiled walls. Bright fluorescent lights lined the ceiling, and the only furniture I saw between the entrance and the front desk was a single sofa sitting alone in the far corner.

“We keep it this way so that our minds remain unphased by unnecessary imagery. After all, the greater moon cannot hear the cries of a heart that is fettered by distraction,” Publius said. 

I tried to voice some response, but failed to understand the words that were coming out of my own mouth. 

“Indeed,” Publius responded to my unintelligible remark. “I think so as well.” 

We approached a long hall painted silver and maroon, lit by two rows of candelabras stretched from one end to the other. Every now and then I’d stop and admire the dancing of shadows cast by those flickering embers, but Publius was always there to hurry me along. 

“What’s the rush?” I tried to ask. 

“Yes,” Publius said. “The sanatorium was forcefully closed after that nasty business with Juba and his experiments. But let’s not talk about such dark things now. This is a joyous occasion.” 

I’m sure somewhere deep down I must’ve been frustrated at my inability to translate thoughts into spoken words, but the ignis coursing through my veins suppressed my more negative emotions. Instead, I followed the words of the old cultist from outside and resisted nothing. 

Moments later we arrived at a large door on the left side of the hall. Publius pressed his palm against a panel on the wall, and after three green blinks our path opened before us. 

“This is the inner sanctum,” Publius said. “Reserved for those that have heard the sweet whisper of Phobos herself.” 

I felt something tear inside my heart, but the wound was quick to seal over. In front of me was nothing less than a font of gluttony and lust. Dozens upon dozens of cultists engaged in every kind of perversion you could possibly imagine. It was hideous to an almost abstract degree, and I have only to recollect a single image of that debasement to remind myself that they deserved what was coming. 

But the ignis in my veins did not allow me a moment to be mortified. My eyes saw the writhing, my ears heard the screams, but all of it passed through me like dust upon the Martian plains. It seemed not only to be normal, but beautiful. And I wanted nothing more to engorge myself upon that buffet of sin. 

“Now, now,” Publius said. “They’re just enjoying the pleasures of flesh while they can. They all have colors too, you know. They’ll be adding theirs to the mural as well.” 

I responded with another string of nonsense, to which Publius looked at me with a smile. “You want to see the mural? Of course, you have something to add to it, after all—”

Publius was interrupted by someone tapping on his shoulder. After a short exchange, he turned back to me and apologized. 

“Forgive me, seeker, but the mural will have to wait. There is some business I must attend to, but worry not! I shall return soon. Until then, why not take the time to explore the hotel? If you see something or someone that you like, you need do nothing else but simply join. This is the festival, after all. Be festive.” 

Publius gave me a courteous bow before exiting out the way we had entered, leaving me alone in that horrible place. My solitude was short lived, however, as slowly I became aware of the eyes of another. 

It was the dark-skinned cultist from the ferry. He stood alone at a table in the corner, his body trembling just as it had before. His robes were gone, and in their place he wore an old Earth-style spacesuit, complete with a fishbowl at the crown. 

The way he sauntered over to me was nothing short of hypnotic. Without magnetic boots he seemed to almost float through the air in defiance of Phobos’ miniscule gravity. He landed like a feather in front of me, taking my hand in his own. 

“May I see your colors?” he asked. “I’ve got some of my own. Reds, oranges, browns. No greens, though. I love greens. I have the most colors, you know. Mother Phobos blessed me with a bounty so that I might be the first to add them to her mural.”

“Her mural?” I asked. “Publius told me he’d show it to me. What’s it like?” 

“Oh, no,” he stammered. “No one has seen the mural. Tonight’s the unveiling, the night where all of us add our essence to the greater whole. And as my love is the greatest, my colors will be the most vibrant. Surely Mother Phobos will see me!” 

His whole body convulsed at just the mention of his absent god, and for a moment I thought he might collapse at my feet. 

“Please,” he begged. “Show me what you’ve collected. I only want to take a look.” 

I took the leaves of color from my pocket and held them out in front of me. 

His perturbed smile faded in an instant. Had I been in any other state I would have been absolutely terrified. But I could only find it in me to giggle, even as he forced me to the floor and robbed me of every last shaving of green I had.

After my thorough mugging, the cultist got up and bounced away. “The colors! The colors of the moon!” he sang gleefully as he landed on the second floor balcony. 

“Come and find me, seeker,” he taunted. “Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to witness my glorious contribution!” 

Why did I follow him? I don’t know. I could have walked away. I should have walked away. But all that mattered to me then was retrieving what had been stolen from me. My heart had turned into a funnel that directed me after that thieving miscreant, who had in fact taken nothing from me but a whisper of our collective hallucination. 

The drug was in its full effect now. Gleefully I removed the boots that bound me to the greater moon and let myself leap after my assailant. It was a clumsy attempt. The first jump sent me straight up into the mercifully padded ceiling. Clearly I had not been the first one to attempt such folly. 

On my way back down I managed to catch the ledge of the second floor and hoist myself over, after which the chase was on. 

It is here my memory begins to fail. I remember the walls expanding and contracting, as if I were in the throat of some ancient creature. I could hear the maniacal laughter of the dark-skinned cultist. I could see the trail of green—my green—that he left in his wake. 

Rooms, so many rooms. And the people within them all laughing and screaming and crying. A woman? A man? I did not know. Their skin had turned to the color of ash, and from their heads sprouted a variety of flora I’d never seen before.   

The only person who retained his proper form was the cultist I so ardently pursued. Even when I thought him cornered he would jump around like a wild hare and barrel out some door or another. It wasn’t until I was nearly drained of energy that he came to a sudden halt in the hall and turned back to me. 

“Seeker,” he declared. “We’re going to be late!” 

“What?” I asked. 

He approached me and took me by the wrist. “Look at the time,” he said, pointing at a clock on the wall. “The mural is about to open, we mustn't tarry!”

I tried to demand my color back, but my words were still garbled and absent of their desired meaning. 

“The festival,” he replied. “We won’t be able to take the leap if we’re not on time.” 

The nameless cultist dragged me back the way we had come, but all the rooms and the people in them were now vacant. 

After a few twists and turns, we exited out the back of the hotel and into a short passage that terminated at the end of the dome. The light atop the airlock was red, indicating that it was currently in use. 

“Where are we going?” I tried to ask. 

“No, no, no,” the cultist answered. “It has to be tonight. Mother Phobos watches tonight!” 

The light turned green, and the door opened before us. We stepped through the portal into a room with three designated auto dressers. The kind usually found on exploratory ships bound for Neptune and beyond. 

The cultist motioned for me to take my spot at the center platform while he waited at the door, still dressed in his old Earth space suit. 

I let the robotic arms manipulate my extremities until I sat comfortably in a modern suit of my own, then waited as the O2 tank was placed at my back and filled to capacity. A blue heads up display showed me my location and relative orientation, and once my tank was filled an automated voice in my ear gently reminded me to stay safe outside. 

“Pray with me, seeker. May we who are about to give ourselves to Phobos shine brighter than the sun.” 

“Mural,” I said, restricting myself to one word sentences. 

“Yes, seeker. All of us are murals. Murals to Phobos. And tonight she will see us for true.” 

I had absolutely no idea what he was on about. There I was, standing with a man who had completely lost his mind, about to walk into the vacuum in search of a hundred or more cultists and some sort of cosmic painting that they clearly worshiped. It was utter madness, but my heart thoroughly refused to let fear penetrate it. Everything was as it should be, as was I. 

The outer doors opened, and together we stepped out onto the surface of that barren moon. 

About a hundred meters ahead of us I caught a vanishing glimpse of the others, but before I could say anything my errant companion was already leaps and bounds ahead of me. 

“Come, seeker,” I heard his voice in my ear. “We must hurry!” 

I kept up as I was able, but gravity was my constant foe. I felt that at any moment I might leap overzealously and bound over the crater and into the abyss. Thankfully, we didn’t have to go far. After only a few minutes we arrived at the ruins of an old habitat. No walls, no glass, nothing but a large circular pad that had been blanketed with Phobosian dust. 

Standing atop an old power generator at the far end was Publius, whose voice crackled to life in my ear as my proximity to his position decreased. 

I thought to search for Bon, but the cultists were all facing their pontifex, and I could make neither heads nor tails of who was who. When I tried to call his name, I found that my communicator was set to mute. I could do nothing but listen while the pontifex addressed his flock as Mars looked down from above. 

“Tonight we add our colors to the color of the universe. We are Samsara, those who see and understand the wheel. We heed the whispers of Mother Phobos, who has shared with us the truth and the way. Brothers, sisters. Will you add your color to the universe?” 

Each cultist raised their right hand, and as they did so the first hint of terror penetrated my sleeping senses. I turned back to where the dark-skinned cultist had stood, but found that he was no longer there. 

“Look!” Publius pointed. “The first of your brothers rises to join the wheel!”

I looked up, and there he was. His old suit, his fishbowl helmet. Floating away from Phobos with enough speed to never return. 

A great commotion started then, and one after another the cultists fired off their maneuvering thrusters and shot themselves upward. All the while Publius hooted and cheered in our ears. 

“Rise,” he shouted. “Rise and join your god!” 

It was only after about half the flock had risen that I spotted Bon together with the same woman he’d had his arm around in the habitat. I immediately tried to sprint to his position, but the weak gravity foiled my footfalls and sent me tumbling to the ground. 

When I got back up, he was gone. 

“Bon!” I shouted, immediately activating my own thrusters. “Bon, no! Come back, come back damn you.” 

If only I had been quicker. If only I had charged forward the moment I’d sensed the danger that these cultists presented. But Bon, the fool. He set his thrusters to maximum and soared up further than I could ever hope to reach. 

Adrenaline and the instinct to survive quickly overwhelmed whatever ignis was left inside my body. In my zeal to catch Bon I found myself escaping Phobos’ timid grasp, and when I tried to reorient myself and fire my thrusters back toward the moon, my display suddenly began flashing red. 

The thrusters were non-responsive. I was doomed. 

All around me cultists smiled and laughed. I could see their faces as they threw themselves to their inevitable deaths. But there was one face missing among them, and when I looked down at that moon, I found Publius still standing there looking back up at me. 

I could have sworn that he smiled then. His voice faded from my ear, and moments later he began walking back toward the hotel. 

My display still indicated that I had an hour of oxygen remaining. My thrusters were shot. I was going to die afraid and alone, and in my despair I began to weep. 

For twenty minutes I watched as Mars grew larger and larger in front of me. The red planet, the place I had always called home. Olympus, Acheton, Arsia. I could see all of them so clearly that it felt like I might just reach out and touch them. 

And as I quietly began to accept my fate, a blinking light on my display caught my eye. It was my proximity alarm. Something was approaching from below. 

My commlink buzzed, and the voice of an angel came crackling through. 

“Can you hear me?” she asked. 

I turned my head back toward Phobos, and in the distance saw the form of three people headed my direction. The first two floated past me to a small group of other cultists, but the third came to a stop at my side and took me in her arms. 

I did my best to signal to her the nature of my distress, and after a few clumsy attempts she took me in her arms and pointed us back toward Phobos. 

My body went limp in her arms. I could see our destination just ahead; the second habitat that Bon and I had observed just after disembarking. Beyond it was the Phobos Hotel, a sight I knew I’d never see again. 

277 men and women went up that night. Only three returned. A distress signal was sent to Mars by our saviors, but Martian Security quickly determined that a rescue effort was futile. The children of Phobos had joined their god in her ever degrading orbit, as had Bon. 

The two surviving cultists and myself were returned to Mars the following morning, where we were all promptly arrested and taken in under suspicion of murder. I spent a total of two weeks in prison. In the end what got me out was the testimony of the other two survivors, who both confirmed that I was not a member of Samsara and that my presence was mere coincidence. 

The investigation carried on for another month after my release, but public interest faded quickly and the story was soon forgotten. Predictably, Samsara’s assets were seized by the Principate, only for an announcement to then be made that its coffers had been completely drained. 

Despite not being formally charged with any crime, I was put on a watch list for my association with the cult and its leader.

Its leader, who much to my pain, was never seen again. 

Publius. Some would like to believe that he died with his flock. Others suspect that he fled with his stolen wealth to one of the Venusian states. But sometimes, on those rare occasions where I find myself topside on a cold Martian night, I’ll look up to Phobos and wonder if he isn’t still there, looking right back down at me. 

A Screwdriver on Mars

Historian’s note,

Martian oranges (citrus rubricatus) were first cultivated on Mars in the early 22nd century. While much of the early agricultural techniques used by the Martians and other colonial powers have been lost to time, we do know that it was an extremely energy inefficient process that was quite taxing on the Principate’s limited resources.

The gamble paid off, however, as Martian oranges became the first successful extraterrestrial fruit. The resulting demand for this bitter orange became a source of immense wealth for the fledgling empire. Such was the potential for profit that a single orange tree exceeded the price of an entire house on Mars, and owning multiple trees became a status symbol among the Martian elite.

The following personal log was obtained from the only surviving data core recovered from the USS Stella, a 22nd century freighter commissioned by the United States government during the early expansion age. The author’s name is unknown, but several mentions are made of agricultural facilities in Arsia, a region that would eventually become the bread basket for the entire planet.

-Marcus Cassius

**********

It was the day after my 40th birthday then, my face glued to the window of the Stella as we made our final approach to Mars. The voyage had been a pleasant one, much shorter than what I was used to. Back when I was first starting out with the company it was a solid five month journey. But years passed and engines improved. Now the trip could be completed in ten weeks, which to us might as well have been light speed. 

A voice came over the comlink, announcing with a chime that we would be disembarking soon. Some of the new guys sprung up, eager to get their belongings and get off that boat as fast as they could. But the rest of us veterans knew it’d be at least another three hours. 

As I gazed across the Martian surface, a young stewardess came by and offered me a drink. The captain had authorized the consumption of alcohol to celebrate our safe arrival, and I was given a small menu of cocktails and asked to choose one. 

It was a paltry selection, but as my eyes ran down the list I began to shudder in a way one might when pricked by the needle of an old memory. My hands clammed up, and a single line of sweat trailed down the small of my back. 

I must’ve made quite the picture to the poor girl, as her smile quickly turned into a frown and she asked if I felt sick.

“No, I’m fine,” I said. “It’s just the anticipation that comes with disembarking.” 

“Oh, I know just what you mean,” she said. “I spend six months a year crawling across the vacuum of space, but the only time I get nervous is when we finally start breaking the atmosphere.”

I gave the girl a smile and asked her what drink she recommended. 

“The Martian Screwdriver, of course,” she said emphatically.  “Of course,” I said. I gave her back the menu, and a few short minutes later she returned with my blood red cocktail. 

It tasted just like it did when I’d first had it all those years ago. No, perhaps a little sweeter now. A pinch of sugar added to make it more palatable to off-worlders like myself. The more I drank, the more I felt as if I were swallowing down my own memories. The bitter red Martian orange, the bar at the edge of Olympus Mons. With every sip I heard his voice, and with hours left to wait I slouched back in my chair and let it all crash against me like a wave.

There’s a great discord that occurs in the mind when trying to piece together the past. I could see the bar with the clarity of crystal. The thick windows looking out high over the plains. The faux leather chairs with faux wood frames. On the counter in front of me were the bones of a fully eaten salmon. Next to it was a rounded glass that had just been emptied. 

But his face, the face of the bartender, remains just beyond the precipice of what I can remember. He had a mustache, but sometimes his hair was brown and other times it was black. His eyes were every color I could imagine. Green, blue, brown, they all suited him equally and I was positive he must’ve had all three. 

What I do remember about him was his name: Jovian.

“Like the old Roman emperor?” I asked after he had told me. 

“That’s right,” Jovian said. “This your first trip to Mars?” 

“Is it that obvious?” I asked. In truth it was my second trip. My father had brought me to the red planet when I was still a toddler, but as I had no recollection of the trip I treated it as if it was fiction. 

“It’s easy to spot the new guys. They can never get the walk right.” 

I rubbed a hand on my thigh, suddenly self conscious. Jovian laughed and poured me another drink. 

“You were born here?” I asked. 

Jovian nodded. “Back during the great expansion. When the government was still tied to Earth. Bet they don’t teach you much about that era do they?” 

“No,” I said. “They tell us not to ask.” 

“Funny,” Jovian said. “On Mars they ask us not to tell.” 

I couldn’t help but smile. I had only been on Mars for three sols by then, trapped by my obligations in the trade district of Outer Moesia. I remember it well. In those days the area looked not unlike one of those German submarine pens you read about in the history books. The city, like the people who built it, was designed purely for function. A fortress of regalith ready to stand firm against any invader. 

It had all happened while I was still a boy, with versions varying wildly depending on who you were talking to. Officially, there had never been a war with Mars. Just a tacit agreement with the opposition: Supplies in exchange for political and economic leverage. The reality, however, was that Earth had invested an enormous sum of men and material to oppose the rise of what they saw as an autocracy. 

Eventually, involvement in Martian hostilities became wildly unpopular, and without the support of their old-world benefactors the resistance quickly crumbled. Diplomatic relations were re-established, but Martian policy had turned from one of co-substantiality with Earth to one of self-sufficiency. Thus, the Principate of Mars was established, and the power of an entire planet was consolidated behind a single man under the title of Augustus. 

Martians began to scorn not just Earth-made goods, but Earth-imported foods and beverages. Even drinking bottled Earth water was next of kin to treachery. It was for this reason that I chose to visit Jovian’s bar, for his was among a dwindling number of establishments to serve anything made from imported ingredients. This was of course to his detriment, as aside from myself and a few other visitors, I never spied another Martian coming in or out of that bar.

“Why did it happen that way?” I asked after the last customer had left.

Jovian reached down beneath the counter for a moment, re-emerging with a lush red orb the size of a baseball in his hand. 

“What is it?” I asked. 

“It’s an orange,” Jovian said. 

“It’s red.” 

“Call it a Martian orange, then,” Jovian said. “One of the first of its kind.” 

Jovian dropped the fruit in my palm and watched as I ran my fingers over its leathery skin.

“Feels just like the real thing,” I said.

“It is the real thing,” Jovian said. “Grown in the vast underground fields of Arsia. The original specimens from Earth never were able to bear fruit. The sequences had to be adjusted, the code rewritten. But after decades of failure this is what we got. Home grown Martian fruit, something they said could never be done.” 

“You’re saying we went to war over oranges?” I asked. 

“It’s not just the fruit,” Jovian said. “It’s what it symbolizes. Independence. A chance to break free from the adolescence of colonial life and become something more.”

He spoke with a passion I had never heard before. If there is one thing I understood about Jovian then, it was that he was a Martian first before anything else. The bond of shared struggle with the people of his planet outweighed any greater loyalty his ancestors may have had to the birthplace of their species. 

Jovian took the orange from my hand and placed it back under the counter, emerging this time with a glass vial filled with pulpy red liquid. 

“Let me make you a drink,” Jovian said. 

I watched patiently as he mixed the ingredients. Outside, a light dust storm had begun to pelt the mountain with tiny granules producing a sound like rain upon the rocks. A rhythm I found almost as soothing as the cubes of ice falling into the glass before me. 

Jovian poured in a measure of vodka, then filled the glass the rest of the way with that scarlet juice. When this was done, he set it on a napkin and pushed the drink over to me. 

“A Martian Screwdriver,” Jovian said. “Try it.” 

I lifted the glass to my lips, thanking the bartender before taking my first sip. 

The reaction was immediate. Never had I tasted such a bitter beverage. Before I could even swallow down half a mouthful I was already coughing violently. 

“It’s awful!” I managed to say between breaths. “How did you ever create such a bitter orange?” 

Jovian laughed, offering me a small plate of walnuts and a glass of water to help wash everything down. 

“These aren’t from Mars, are they?” I pointed at the nuts.

Jovian shook his head. “No such thing as a Martian nut. Not yet, anyway.” 

“Good to know,” I said. After a few sips of water, I was ready to test my courage again. I put the glass to my lips, taking a smaller sip this time. I let the cold liquid settle on my tongue for as long as I was able before gulping it down. 

The storm became more intense as I drank, and eventually Jovian was forced to activate the outer steel shutters. 

“There isn’t any real risk,” he said. “But windows are expensive to maintain. If you want to keep them looking good, that is.” 

I hummed in response and took another sip of my screwdriver. 

For a time the both of us remained silent, listening only to the pitter-patter of pebbles falling against steel. It was a humbling reminder of how close the people of this world were to death. A few inches of reinforced wall, a delicate balance of airflow systems, an impossible scheme of artificial agriculture. For all their achievements, their kingdom was a castle of sand ready to crumble at the slightest disturbance. 

That, they say, is how the Principate came to be. Martian life had to be strictly regimented. The people had to be united in one purpose over all others: survival. Such conditions were an ill match for the do-as-you-will republics that remained popular on Earth. 

“You’ve gotten the hang of it,” Jovian’s words jolted me from my thoughts. My screwdriver was almost fully consumed, and though I had initially found it vile, I must admit that it had grown on me rather quickly. 

“Maybe one day I’ll be able to drink one on Earth,” I mused. 

Jovian frowned. “I think you have enough to choose from on Earth already,” he said. 

I was taken back by his sudden sternness. I had clearly upset the man, but was at a loss as to how. And being the picture of a nervous newcomer that I was, I decided it better to keep quiet than to risk offending him further. 

Perhaps Jovian too was surprised at his own words. His eyes were cast down at the vial of juice that still sat on the table. With one hand he rotated it ponderously, and with the other he tapped against the counter as if counting time. 

If only I had recognized the loneliness of that bartender, things might have turned out differently.

The next time I saw Jovian was in Arsia. I had arranged to take a guided tour of the orange groves to get a better understanding of how the feat was accomplished. It was a magnificent sight. A great cavern that stretched on as far as the eye could see. Our tour ran over the groves in a three-car monorail from which I observed the entire operation.

Our guide, a Martian woman of about thirty, explained with great detail how the fruit had come to be. The lack of water and good soil were just two of the main sticking points that had to be contended with. It was something we never thought twice about on Earth. Oranges grew with or without human engineering, just like everything else. 

At the end of the line we were given two hours of free time to walk among the trees and engage with the locals. It was here that I found Jovian, sitting alone with a book in his hand under one of the larger trees in the grove. I called out to him with a wave, and he responded with a smile. 

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” I said as I took up a seat next to him.

“Not at all,” Jovian said. “I see you’ve got your Martian legs.” 

“Nothing to it,” I said proudly. I removed a flask of water from my traveling pack and offered it to Jovian, who politely refused. 

“It’s hotter here than I thought,” I said after swallowing down a mouthful. 

“They found the oranges grow better in higher temperatures. Not very comfortable for us humans, but just right for these little guys.” 

“Do you come here often?” I asked. 

Jovian nodded. “It’s the closest thing we get to the experience of going outside. They say that’s what drove the first Martians mad, you know.” 

“They wanted to go outside?” 

“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Jovian said. “But that’s the power of human instinct. Even when you know it means death, something inside you desires it. To feel the sun on your back and the wind in your hair. Isn’t that why you’ve come?” 

“Actually, I just came for the tour. The feeling of being outside on a warm summer’s day is just a bonus.” 

“Did you enjoy it?” Jovian asked. 

I shrugged. “It was certainly informative, but I’d be lying if I said I understood even half of it.” 

“You and I are not so different, then,” Jovian said. “I much preferred the study of history over the sciences. My older brother, though. Now he was a man that just about couldn’t live without knowing exactly how the universe worked.” 

“You have a brother?” I asked. 

“Had,” Jovian said. “He died last year.” 

“I’m sorry,” I said. 

“Nothing to be sorry about. He led a noble life. The oranges you see all around you are here thanks in large part to his efforts. He believed they were the future of Mars. He was right.” 

There was something bittersweet in the way Jovian spoke about his brother. A quarter measure of pride stirred with a half measure of resentment.

I looked past Jovian at the book he had set by his side. A paper copy of Scipio’s, Do Martians Pray to a Red Faced God?. A novel written by one of Mars’ most prolific authors. The book was in terrible condition, its edges torn and pages yellowed with time. 

“Have you read it?” Jovian asked, noticing my gaze. 

“No,” I said. “What’s it about?” 

Jovian picked up the book and began thumbing through the pages. “In a word, I suppose you could say it’s about humanity.”

“Humanity?” I asked. 

Jovian nodded. “Scipio argued that, given enough time, conditions on Mars would force humans to evolve in a way different from those humans still on Earth. But at what point is a human no longer a human? What do we become once we leave our humanity behind?”

I said nothing. 

“Mars was once part of Earth. One species, one creed, one government. But now we are free. And while that freedom has given us the right to chart our own course, it has also shattered the bonds we once had with our home.” 

“But there is peace, isn’t there?” I said. “There is cooperation and trade. Mutual respect for one another.” 

“Scipio would disagree. To him, the breaking of ties between the planets ensures that there can only be war in the future. That is the red faced God, the God of war we submitted to when we chose an augustus.”

“Is that why you keep importing from Earth? To defy the mighty Scipio?” I asked. 

Jovian set his book down on the grass and motioned to the grove in front of us. “Everything you see before you came from somewhere else. The grass, the trees, the people. Even the planets and the stars if you want to be poetic about it. Knowing this, why must we seek to separate ourselves from one another?” 

“Perhaps it’s necessary,” I said. “It is true that everything came from somewhere else, but the things they came from aren’t around anymore. Life from old life. Stars from dead stars. Maybe Scipio has a point.” 

Jovian smiled. “You think like a Martian does. Are you sure you’re not from around here?” 

I took the comment with great flattery. By then I had been on Mars for nearly a month, and what had started as a subtle appreciation for Martian life had turned into full blown infatuation. On Earth I was free. I could live my life in accordance with my wishes, doing or not doing what I pleased so long as I had the money to do so. 

But in that same freedom was a prison. We were all ships without rudders, working just to satisfy our basest cravings. Creating nothing but consuming everything. Mars was different. Had it been within my power I would have cast my life aside right then and there. But freedom had made slaves of us all, and the bonds that tied me to my old life were much too tight to remove on my own. 

We continued to talk like this until it was nearing time for me to return to the station. By then my bottle was empty and my shirt drenched with sweat. 

I bid farewell to Jovian, but as I turned to leave I felt a hand grasp the back of my arm. I turned back to find Jovian holding on to me, his eyes locked with my own. 

“I want you to have this,” Jovian’s voice was as soft as the grass on which we stood. He thrust his battered copy of Scipio’s book into my hands and stepped away. 

I was taken aback by the gesture. “But it’s yours,” I said. “Are you sure?” 

Jovian pressed his lips together as if experiencing some physical pain, making me realize the cultural faux pas I had committed. I cleared my throat and quickly corrected myself. 

“Thank you, Jovian. I will treasure it.” 

The words seemed to ease the heaviness in his face. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but closed it again just as quickly. 

“I’ll be going, then,” I said. “Farewell, Jovian.” 

I gave the bartender a firm handshake before turning once more to the station. 

It happened the following week, while I was in orbit aboard the Hybernia. They called it the storm of the century, and just so. It was bigger than anything I could’ve imagined. From space it was like seeing a ribbon of red rise and encircle the entire planet. So bad it became that they ordered an evacuation of the exterior territories, Olympus Mons included. 

The situation was such that all travel from the Hybernia had to be suspended, leaving me with nothing to do but sit around and wait it out with my colleagues. 

“You’re lucky you’re up here,” a passing waiter said as I sat in the lounge overlooking the planet. It was the second sol since the storm began and it showed no sign of letting up. 

“Yeah,” I said. “I guess so.” 

The waiter set down a drink on the table next to me along with a small bowl of honeyed ham slices. 

“It’s on the house today,” he said. 

I took a look at the glass he had left, finding it as red as the planet I could see in the window. 

A Martian Screwdriver.

I turned to say something to the waiter, but he had already scurried off out of sight. Without touching the beverage I decided to call Jovian, but as I did not know his personal number I was forced to try the bar instead. 

He wouldn’t be there, I knew. The peripherals had been evacuated, and that included Jovian’s bar. All the same, I let it ring out for a full thirty seconds before hanging up.

A voice came over the comms announcing that departures would once again be delayed, after which the ambient music resumed and I returned my gaze to the planet below. Lost in my thoughts, I began nibbling at the ham that had been left for me, finding it an excellent match for the beverage they had freely provided. 

The combination proved to be so scrumptious that I flagged down a waiter and asked for seconds. This was something I had to tell Jovian about. I called the bar again, but again was met by nothing but emptiness. 

I stayed in the lounge for another hour, alternating between eating, drinking, and making vain attempts to call Jovian. My fingers were sticky with honey, and after every round I licked them clean with all the shamelessness of an infant. I was drunk, not only with spirits but also with the prospect of having found something so novel. 

My euphoria, however, was quickly usurped by an urgent newscast that captured everyone's attention. An explosion had occurred, and the footage on the screen spoke more to all of us than words ever could. The orchards of Arsia were burning. The oranges were gone. 

So absorbed was I in the news that I never heard the phone ringing in my pocket. It wasn’t until I had entered my room hours later that I even bothered to check. By then, I am certain that Jovian was already dead. 

The storm weakened enough to let landing craft through the following morning. The damage was atrocious. The fires of Arsia had spread all the way to Pavonis, and suppression of the blaze was only achieved through the complete ventilation of all levels. The fruit of Mars had turned to ash. 

A full week of mourning was declared by the augustus that day. No one was to work, not even off-worlders.   

I made straight for Jovian’s bar upon landing. The crowds were horrendous. Many of the refugees from Arsia had made their way to Outer Moesia and Olympus. Homeless Martians lined the street, most of them carrying only the clothes on their back. Some of them wept, others stared off blankly into space, waiting for answers that would never be found.  

I pushed my way through the crowds until I found myself at the main foyer at the base of the mountain. Only then did I discover that the lifts to the upper levels had been sealed. 

My heart sank into my stomach, and my deepest fears were confirmed the moment I reached for the panel that displayed Olympus Mons’ integrity status. 

A full decompression event had occurred on level 112, where Jovian’s bar was located. One casualty had been reported. 

No one needed to tell me anything more. I already knew. I collapsed on the floor, adding the song of my grief to the chorus of tears that flowed throughout all of Mars that day. 

They found Jovian’s body cradling a handful of Martian oranges. The steel shutters meant to protect him from the storm had been left unactivated.  

Jovian was buried in Arsia under the sapling of an orange tree. My guilt prevented me from ever visiting his grave, and I left Mars having never set foot in Arsia again.

< - - - >

“Sir?” I felt the stewardess’ hand on my shoulder, a soft touch that quickly shattered my concentration. My whole body violently shivered back to life. 

“The shuttle to Arsia is here. It’s time to disembark,” she smiled. 

“Right,” I replied. Looking around, I realized I was the last passenger in the lounge of the Stella. Embarrassed, I stood up quickly and started for the landing craft. I hadn’t even gone ten feet before I heard the young stewardess call after me.

“You forgot your book,” she said, handing me my copy of Do Martians Pray to a Red Faced God?.     

I took the text in my hands. The decades had not been kind to my companion, but it was impossible for me to go anywhere without it. 

The stewardess giggled at the novelty of having touched actual paper. “So, do they pray to a red faced god?” she asked, pointing a slim finger at the book. 

“No,” I smiled. “They pray to an orange one.”