I've lived a scattered life. Born and raised in Hungary, I later lived for years in Estonia while worked in the Netherlands, in Finland, Sweden and in Central Asia, in Armenia and in many post-soviet countries. Now I live in Singapore, where I teach subjects related to innovation and social sustainability at a local school. Technology fascinates me, but not for its own sake. What I keep coming back to is what it does to people: how it changes the way we work, live, and treat each other, depending on where in the world you happen to be standing. That's the lens I write science fiction through. I'm the author of the ICARUS universe, a slow-building, multi-settlement story about the first human colonies on Mars, told through the eyes of different nationalities and cultures trying to survive the same hostile planet in very different ways. Right now I'm writing The First Sol, a prequel novella set entirely in Vostok, the Russian settlement on Mars. A rundown, dysfunctional mining outpost, seen through the eyes of Elena Markova, its chief engineer, in the days before it falls apart. It's a smaller, tighter story than ICARUS, with fewer characters, but just as much at stake, human beings pushed past what they can carry. I'm looking for beta readers. If you enjoy stories where the technology is real and the politics are messy, but what actually stays with you afterward is the people, I'd love for you to read along. I send chapters one at a time by email, usually 6-8 pages, with a few questions attached. You reply whenever you're ready, in as much or as little detail as you like, and I send the next chapter. You can stop anytime, no obligation, no pressure. If that sounds like something you'd enjoy, here's a short form to sign up: https://forms.gle/UDYYosXHqpYpBSXV7 Thank you for joining me Zsolt Bugarszki

Szingapúrban élő magyar sci-fi szerző vagyok. Nem ebből élek, ez inkább kedvtelés, a saját kreatív energiáim kiélése. Innovációval és társadalmi fenntarthatósággal kapcsolatos tárgyakat oktatok egy szingapúri iskolában. Nagyon érdekel a technológia, de nem önmagáért, hanem az emberekre tett hatása miatt. Tavaly jelent meg az első sci-fi könyvem IKAROSZ címen, saját kiadásban, és most végre, hosszú várakozás után elektronikus könyv formájában magyarul is elérhető. Az IKAROSZ egy lassan építkező, összetett nagyregény, ami az első marsi telepesek életét és viszontagságait mutatja be, több telep és több kultúra nézőpontján keresztül. Ha a technikai világ, a hihető, működő marsi technológia és a politikai-thriller szál érdekel, akkor érdemes elolvasnod a könyvet. Az KAROSZ-t lehet olvasni hard sci-fi szemmel, a mesterséges intelligencia lehetséges jövőjéről szóló elmélkedésként, vagy épp politikai thrillerként. De ha inkább a szereplők és a kapcsolataik érdekelnek, hogy mit tesz egy emberrel, ha az otthonától távol, egy ellenséges bolygón kell újraépítenie az életét, a könyv legalább ennyire szól erről is. A regény több telep, több kultúra szemszögén keresztül mesél, és minden telepnek megvan a maga emberi drámája: veszteségek, szövetségek, kompromisszumok. Ha szereted azt, amikor egy sci-fi nem csak a technikáról, hanem az emberekről szól, ez neked való olvasmány. A könyv egyelőre elektronikus ekönyv formátumban érhető el a következő magyar boltok online felületein: eKönyv: https://www.ekonyv.hu/ekonyvek/szorakoztato-irodalom/sci-fi/zsolt_bugarszki-ikarosz Libri: https://www.libri.hu/konyv/zsolt_bugarszki.Ikarosz.html Bookline: https://bookline.hu/product/home.action?_v=Zsolt_Bugarszki_Ikarosz&type=250&id=69664 dibook: https://dibook.hu/konyv/ikarosz Lira.hu: https://www.lira.hu/hu/ekonyv/szorakoztato-irodalom-1/sci-fi/ikarosz-ekonyv-epub-mobi-1 A könyv az Amazon amerikai oldalán 4.2-es értékelésnél áll jelenleg és nagyon jó írásos visszajelzéseket kaptam olyan olvasóktól, akik valóban megvásároltak és olvasták a könyvet: Remélem a magyar olvasóknak is tetszeni fog. Bugarszki Zsolt

A Mítosz regényei (Az Első Sol, és az IKAROSZ) a közeli jövőben, egy krízisben lévő Föld korában kezdődnek. Mivel a történetet mindig egy-egy szereplő személyes nézőpontjából mesélem el, sehol nincs benne egy nagy világpolitikai esszé vagy történelemkönyv. Ahogy a valós életben is, a történelem átrobog egy ember életén. A hátteret apró morzsákból kell összerakni. Most egy blogbejegyzés erejéig kilépek ebből a nézőpontból, és megmutatom, mi történt a Földön, mit hagytak maguk mögött azok, akik úgy döntöttek, hogy a Marsra költöznek. Egy fontos kitétel előre: ez a politikai berendezkedés nem napjaink politikájára adott burkolt reakció. A célja dramaturgiai: egy olyan Földet akartam, ahol a krízis miatt sokak számára még a gyilkos, zord Mars is vonzóbb, mint otthon maradni. Egy új kezdet ígérete. A geopolitika ennek az alaphelyzetnek a megteremtését szolgálja. Fikció, még ha néhol napjaink viszonyaiból is indul ki. Az Első Sol 2083-ban kezdődik, amikor a marsi telepek már több mint 25 éve léteznek. De nézzük, mi vezetett idáig a Földön. Klímakatasztrófa és a régi rend összeomlása A klímakatasztrófa a mindennapok valóságává vált. Egész országok váltak működésképtelenné. Elsősorban a globális dél fejlődő országai , de a feszültség mindenhol nőtt. Szélsőséges pártok kerültek hatalomra, a radikális megoldások kora jött el. Azok az országok, amelyekre már korábban is a rossz kormányzás volt jellemző, kártyavárként omlottak össze. Ennek első nagy példája Oroszország volt. A folyamatos konfrontáció és a belső problémák külső ellenségképpel való elfedése egy feszült világpolitikai helyzetben odáig fajult, hogy ez a külső ellenségkép egy ponton életre kelt. Az északi hajózási útvonalak háborúja A felmelegedés miatt megnyíltak az északi tengeri útvonalak. Hihetetlenül felértékelődött Szibéria és az orosz északi partvidék, amin keresztül új kereskedelmi folyosó nyílt, amit egy folyamatosan zsaroló, keresztbe tevő orosz állam próbált ellehetetleníteni. Oroszország ezzel három ellenséget rántott magára. Az USA, az EU és Kína – ritka pillanatként egy pergőtűz-szövetségben – együtt állították meg az orosz rulettet: Az EU, addigra jobb-, sőt szélsőjobboldali erők befolyása alá kerülve, a korábbi emberi jogi és szabadkereskedelmi retorika helyett a történelemből ismerős birodalmi reflexeket vette elő. Amikor az oroszok a Sanghaj és Rotterdam/Antwerpen közti északi kereskedelmi utakat kezdték veszélyeztetni, az EU-nak nem okozott lelkiismereti gondot elfoglalni Oroszország északnyugati részét a Balti-térségtől az Urál nyugati lejtőjéig, majdnem Moszkváig. Szentpétervár ostroma svéd vezetéssel a konfliktus egyik ikonikus pillanata. Ebben az ostromban vesz részt védőként Ivanov őrnagy, Misa Volkov, de az EU fronton harcol (igaz máshol, Kurszk térségében) Koljakov is. Az EU oldalán harcol az észt Kertu Pärn és a magyar Kovács Bálint. Mind szerepelnek az Első Solban vagy az Ikaroszban és a Marson hozza őket össze a sors. Az USA hasonló okokból megszállta az Alaszka és az Urál keleti lába közti, kb. 100 km-es északi tengerparti sávot. Kína eleinte hivatalosan csak stabilizál közvetít, aztán opportunista módon kihasználja Oroszország meggyengülését, és lerohanja Szibériát. (Erre a 60-as években már volt egy gyenge kísérlet, amit a Szovjetunió szinte az indulása pillanatában megállított.) Most viszont a Kína kés a vajban módjára halad előre, ráülve a teljes orosz nyersanyagkészletre. Elena Markova Novoszibirszkben nő föl, itt éli át a kínai megszállást, a bátyját elviszik katonának. Ő maga tizenévesként az ellenállás tagjaként bújkál majd Moszkvába szökik, ahol végre elkezdheti az egyetemet. Az Első Sol teljes egészében az ő Marsra érkezését dolgozza fel. (Elena részletes életrajza hamarosan magyarul is elérhető lesz.) A tengeri kereskedelem – északon és délen is – az USA–EU–Kína hármas ellenőrzése alá kerül. A többieknek ebben már nem osztanak lapot. Hozzávetőleges térkép a könyv világának Oroszországáról Egy fontos megjegyzés Kínáról A Mítosz univerzumában Kína fikciós ország. Ezt főleg az Ikarosz olvasói már tudják. Fikciós abban az értelemben, hogy a ma ismert kommunista Kína ebben a világban sosem létezett: nem volt Mao Ce-tung, nem volt a Nagy Menetelés, nem volt kulturális forradalom. A birodalom a császár vezetésével él tovább a mai napig. Tajvan is mindig is Kína része volt, sosem szakadt el, mert nem volt miből. A tajvani chipgyártás és a ma ismert kínai technológiai ugrás viszont megvan, csak épp a császári Kína részeként. Ennek a kínának a telepét vezeti Li Igazgató, itt dolgozik Dr. Huang Qian, itt harcol Feng tizedes és itt él a lánya Wei Wei. Őket mind az IKAROSZ könyvből ismerhetik az olvasók. Oroszország sorsa Oroszország elveszíti területének nagy részét: Nyugaton az Urál hegyláncig Északon az EU által svéd vezetéssel elfoglalt Szentpétervárig és a finnek által visszavett Karjaláig Délen a Kaukázusi „-sztánok" (Csecsenföld, Dagesztán stb.) függetlenné vált, de instabil, hadurak uralta területéig Keleten, délkeleten a Kína által elfoglalt Szibériáig A maradék Oroszország, Moszkva központtal, nagyjából az ukrán határig (Ukrajna eközben már rég EU-tag, erős hadsereggel), gyakorlatilag összeomlik. Oligarchák és hadurak váltják egymást a vezetésben, a krízis állandósul. Ez a politikai valóság húzódik meg Az Első Sol mögött. Ez csak egy szelet a Mítosz világából, egyik itt említett szál sincs kifejtve egyik megjelent könyvben sem. Inkább ablakok, amik egy-egy jövőbeli előzménytörténet felé nyitnak.

Szingapúrban élő magyar sci-fi szerző vagyok. Nem ebből élek, ez inkább kedvtelés, a saját kreatív energiáim kiélése. Innovációval és társadalmi fenntarthatósággal kapcsolatos tárgyakat oktatok egy szingapúri iskolában. Nagyon érdekel a technológia, de nem önmagáért, hanem az emberekre tett hatása miatt. Tesztolvasókat keresek. Olyan embereket, akiknek van kedve és ideje fejezetenként végigolvasni a kb. 120-150 oldalas kisregényt és meghatározott tematika szerint visszajelzéseket adni. A jelentkezéshez készítettem egy rövid formátumot: https://forms.gle/T1gZh3pEjZoHahMh9 Tavaly jelent meg az első sci-fi könyvem ICARUS címen saját kiadásban, ami most már elektronikus könyv formájában magyarul is elérhető. Egy lassan építkező, összetett nagyregény, ami az első marsi telepesek életét és viszontagságait mutatja be. A könyvet lehet olvasni hard sci-fi technológiai szemmel, politikai thrillerként, a mesterséges intelligencia lehetséges jövőjéről szóló elmélkedésként és egy emberi történetként is különböző kultúrák szemszögén keresztül. Az első könyv hamarosan elérhető lesz magyarul is. Most a második könyvön dolgozom, ami az ICARUS egyik előzmény története és egyetlen marsi telep, az orosz Vosztok telep történetét dolgozza fel Elena Markova főmérnök szemszögéből. Ez egy jóval kisebb léptékű kisregény, kevesebb szereplővel. Ebben a könyvben is jelentős szerep jut a technológiának, de egy sajátos csavarral. Az orosz telep elhanyagolt, lerobbant, diszfunkcionális bányatelep a Marson. Én gyerekkoromban Tatabányán, egy bányavárosban nőttem fel, a könyv ipari világát a szocialista nagyvállalatok groteszk világa ihlette. Azoknak ajánlom, akik szeretik a mérnöki szempontú, technológiai, ipari világot. De azoknak is érdekes lehet a könyv, akik ennek a világnak a karaktereit szeretik. Én nagyon szerettem Bohumil Hrabal könyveit a vicces, sokszor karikatúra-szerű szereplőivel, vagy rám nagy hatással volt Jiri Menzel "Az én kis falum" filmje is. Sokat merítettem az ő világukból, bár az én megközelítésem egy kicsit komorabb, drámaibb és beleültettem az egészet a közeli jövő egy elképzelt világába. Hogyan működik a tesztolvasás? E-mailben küldöm el az egyes fejezeteket. A levélben felteszek pár kérdést, a visszajelzést megírhatod azok mentén vagy a saját logikád szerint is. Bármikor megállhatsz az olvasással és visszajelzéssel mindenféle kötelezettség nélkül. Én akkor küldöm a következő részt, amikor az előző visszajelzését megküldted és jelezted, hogy szeretnél további részeket olvasni. A könyv a magyar piacon kizárólag e-könyv formátumban fog megjelenni. Minden jelentkező tesztolvasónak a végleges verzióból fel tudok ajánlani egy ingyenes e-book példányt ePub vagy PDF formátumban. Ha bámilyen további kérdésetek van, elérhető vagyok a zsoltbugarszki@gmail.com email címen. Bugarszki Zsolt

By Zsolt Bugarszki 🚀 Welcome to ICARUS An emotionally gripping, high-stakes sci-fi epic about survival, rebellion, and the fragile hope of beginning again, not just as individuals, but as a civilization. 📘 Kindle eBook: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FHQV1XB9 📕 Paperback Edition: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FHW3VYJX I was born in Hungary, lived in Estonia for years, and now I’m based in Singapore with my family. And while I’ve never been an astronaut, an astrophysicist, or an engineer, I’ve always been a writer. Even when I didn’t finish my stories. Since the age of twelve, I’ve filled school notebooks with short stories, sketches, scenes and outlines. Most were never completed. But the writing never stopped: journals, notes, essays, ideas, fragments. Something was always unfolding on the page. Zsolt Bugarszki, author of Icarus – The Mars Chronicles, photographed in Singapore. And now, at 53, I’ve finished my first novel. It’s called Icarus. A science fiction story about Mars and the fragile beginnings of a new human civilization. It's the first book in the MÍTOSZ series. A world where the myths, rivalries and hungers of Earth don't stay behind, but follow us to Mars. But Icarus is not about rockets. It’s about people. If you've felt the political weight of Dune, the grounded realism of The Martian, or the scale of The Three-Body Problem, you'll feel at home here, but at the centre, always, are people doing what people have always done. I hold a PhD in social sciences, and I teach social innovation at Ngee Ann Polytechnic in Singapore. For more than twenty years I've studied how humans build systems - and how those systems fail. That's what Icarus is really about. Not Mars. Us. My work, and my life, has always centered around human behavior, relationships, systems and change. I could have set this story in any environment: a megacity, a village, a research lab, or a warzone. But I chose Mars. Why? Because Mars is real. And it’s close. Because it forces us to strip away the noise and see what matters. Because when survival becomes the main priority, we see who we really are and what we're truly capable of. Icarus has been a discovery process for me in every sense. I spent countless hours researching Mars, current technology, atmospheric science, closed-loop habitats, quantum AI systems and space infrastructure. The science was my learning curve. But the human dimension was always inside me. And I wanted to share it. Thank you for being here. For stepping into this world. Because the story isn’t mine anymore. It’s yours, too, now.

🚀 Welcome to ICARUS An emotionally gripping, high-stakes sci-fi epic about survival, rebellion, and the fragile hope of beginning again — not just as individuals, but as a civilization. 📘 Kindle eBook: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FHQV1XB9 📕 Paperback Edition: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FHW3VYJX Name: Mikhail "Misha" Volkov Date of Birth: May 5, 2034 Place of Birth: Volgograd, Russia Position: Veteran Miner, Vostok Outpost Previous Occupation: Naval Infantryman (Russian Federation Navy) Mars Arrival: 2073 (aged 38) Misha Volkov From the ashes of one war to the dust of another. Misha Volkov was born into a crumbling century. By the time he turned twenty, the world was already leaning into another war — and he went with it, almost without question. Drafted into the Russian Navy's ground forces, Misha served under the command of Major Anatoly Ivanov during the brutal final campaigns of the EU–Russia conflict. He was not a strategist.Not a leader. He was a soldier in the purest sense: a man who moved forward when others stopped, whose strength was not in words or plans, but in silent endurance. Misha Volkov at 20, dreaming of ships and a life still unbroken. When the war ended in ruins and treaties signed in smoke, there was no home waiting for him. Volgograd’s industrial sprawl — once proud shipyards and factories — had collapsed into a patchwork of shelters and scavengers. Veterans like Misha, too old to be new, too young to be forgotten, flooded the streets. Many found their way into gangs, into bottle fires under broken bridges.Misha found his way to Mars. Or rather, Mars found him — in the form of a single offer from the man he once saluted. Ivanov, now a senior figure in the early colonization efforts, offered him a contract: work the mines of Vostok, or vanish into Earth’s forgotten corners. Misha signed without hesitation. In 2073, he stepped onto Martian soil, a man already carved hollow by one planet, now offering himself to another. Misha Volkov, age 28 — a soldier still able to laugh before the war truly begins. The Miner No Machine Could Replace At Vostok, machines outnumbered men.Massive drilling rigs, automated transports, modular refineries — they did the heavy lifting, but they couldn't survive Mars without constant hands to guide and repair them. Misha became one of those hands. In the thin, bitter air of the red planet, he fought new battles: replacing frozen cables by hand at minus 70 Celsius, realigning fission drills while vibrations rattled bone, wrestling half-ton mineral cages because the robots were too delicate to trust. Every kilo he carried was a battle not just for production, but for the survival of his own body. Gravity on Mars is treacherous — without the burden of work, muscles waste away. Misha did not allow himself to waste. Not on Earth. Not here. When others exercised on treadmills and rubber-band contraptions, Misha simply pushed harder at the rock face. He didn’t lift weights. He lifted the world that refused to carry him. Misha Volkov — only 38, but war had no mercy. A Quiet King Without a Crown Among his own crew — the “Zeta shift,” a ragged but fiercely loyal circle of miners — Misha’s authority was absolute. He was not formally promoted. No titles, no stripes. But in the way others fell silent when he stood, in the way they checked his glance before making a decision — it was clear. Misha Volkov was their backbone. Outside his crew, he was treated with wary respect. To the untrained eye, Misha might have seemed just another battered miner. But the veterans knew. He carried the brittle calm of those who had seen death too closely, too many times. Misha lived under an unspoken code: Protect your own. Stand until you fall. Ask nothing. Expect nothing. It was not kindness that shaped him. It was loyalty — the pure, dangerous kind that makes men invincible in battle and unapproachable in peace. He was, and remains, a figure others orbit carefully: a relic of old wars who chose to stay when so many chose to leave. "Не важно, кто что болтает. Важно, кто на ногах стоит." "Don’t matter what ya say. Matters who's still standin'." — Misha Volkov Disclaimer: All characters, events, and storylines presented on this website are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to real persons, living or deceased, is purely coincidental. Visual representations of characters were created using AI-generated imagery and are intended solely for illustrative purposes.

Russian Outpost on Mars – Mars Year 73, Sol 10 Человек – это звучит гордо. ("Man – it's a proud-sounding word." Maxim Gorky – The Lower Depths) A dull hum filled the cramped control module of the Vostok Station, the Russian Martian outpost that clung uncertainly to the dusty surface of the red planet. Flickering fluorescent lights barely illuminated the aging control panels and the chaotic tangle of patched-up wiring running along the walls. Several monitors, some cracked, others clumsily held together with epoxy and plastic sheeting flickered with meteorological data. The air carried a faint scent of stale oxygen mixed with the bitter tang of burned circuitry. Elena Markova, the station’s lead engineer, leaned over the main meteorological panel. In her late thirties, her body bore the thin strength of someone shaped by years of hard work. Dark-blond hair was pinned back, though stubborn strands still curled loose around her ears. Frowning, she jabbed at the sticky keyboard, trying to force a refresh on the sluggish display. Overhead, the lights flickered a silent warning: one short circuit, and they’d be in darkness. Vostok Station “Come on, you worthless heap… just load the next cycle,” she muttered under her breath. A soft buzz followed, then the screen finally lit up with the Martian atmospheric dust index chart. At first, it looked like only a minor dust event was incoming. Then the numbers spiked, particle density and projected duration forming an almost vertical curve. Red alert blocks began crawling along the bottom of the screen, signaling that the storm could last for days, and visibility was dropping toward zero. Elena tapped a key to filter for potential errors, but the red bands only intensified. Behind her, in a stained coverall, Pyotr Sokolov - the station’s software engineer - squinted at the secondary monitor. When it froze, he slammed a fist against it in frustration. “This isn’t just bigger! It’s off the scale. If it hits us dead on, there’s zero margin for safety.” She flipped a switch to pick up the signal from a backup meteorological satellite. The outdated unit spat out lines of data: wind speeds, temperature drops, and atmospheric pressure and in between them, bursts of static, strings of corrupted code. “The old Chinese satellites are sending in a partially damaged feed. But from what we can make out… this storm could last for days.” Elena wiped her forehead and muttered a quiet curse. She didn’t even check if Pyotr was listening, just said it loud enough: “We don’t have enough energy cells to stay sealed off that long. The central battery’s already at half, and we’ve barely got any coolant left for the reactor.” Elena Markova A warning tone blared inside the chamber, croaking through the worn-out speaker. It wailed for a few seconds, then cut off like the system itself couldn’t decide whether to raise the alarm or just give up entirely. Misha Volkov, an old miner who had been studying a surface map, straightened up from a chair tucked in the corner, where reports and printouts lay scattered. The kind of hopeful optimism that used to give even the jaded veterans strength now wavered as the ominous data scrolled across the screen. “If it’s as strong as the charts show…” he began, his voice shaking. “Our greenhouse dome won’t hold. We never fully sealed it after last year’s cracks - just patched it with epoxy and duct tape.” Elena rubbed her forehead, visibly frustrated. “We haven’t had new parts in four years,” she muttered, referencing the long-broken promises from Moscow. “We asked for reinforced supports, fresh polymer sheets… And what did we get? Bureaucratic garbage.” Pyotr, the software engineer, gave a dry laugh. “Cheaper to let us die out here.” The nearby console gave a raspy beep, almost as if in agreement. The aging control system sluggishly printed more data across the display: devastating dust storms sweeping across Mars’s northern hemisphere. Radio signals from the other outposts were weak and crackling. “If we lose the greenhouse, we lose our only source of fresh food,” Misha said quietly. “Our water supply’s already low… if the storm wipes the solar panels, the filtration system could shut down too.” Elena shot him a hard look. “We do what we can. We seal off the lower corridors, shut down all non-essential systems. And pray the reactors hold, until the dust clogs them shut.” She shoved aside a loose cable in frustration. “This place is a death trap just waiting for the storm to hit full force.” Pyotr switched to another display, checking the life-support system. The pressure regulators were flashing red. “We might need to herd everyone into the main hangar. Or we can wait for Earth to fix our problem,” he added with a sarcastic shrug. “Yeah, good luck with that.” The ceiling vent began to rattle, stirring the warm, recycled air through the cramped space. “Temperature’s rising again in the vent tunnels,” Misha noted, glancing upward nervously. “Means the dust is clogging the intakes again. If we don’t seal it off soon, the filters will burn out.” Elena slammed her hand against the console and turned to face the entire team. “That’s enough! Pyotr, run every weather model we’ve still got in the system, even the outdated ones. Misha, get to the greenhouse, brace it with whatever you can find. Check every patch, every seal. If it collapses, we lose half our oxygen reserve.” The lights flickered again. This time longer, deeper. Almost gone. Elena swore under her breath. When she spoke, her voice was low and locked. “We keep moving. That’s all we’ve got left.” Outside, the wind scraped against the station’s thin walls with a soft, metallic rattle. In the dim, narrow control module, the flashing warning lights cast jittery shadows across exhausted faces. Still under the weight of the atmospheric readouts, Elena Markova strode down the dark corridor toward Major Anatoly Ivanov’s office. The lights stuttered and dimmed, throwing fractured shadows across the corridor. Elena moved through them like someone walking through a dream too close to waking. A tablet trembled in her arms, displaying the same terrible forecast she had just seen. Ivanov’s office was little more than a repurposed module next to the former command center. A single round window looked out onto the reddish-brown Martian landscape. On the horizon, a pale, sepia-colored veil had already appeared distant, spiraling dust clouds creeping into the sky. When Elena entered, Anatoly Ivanov was leaning against the window frame. He was in his late fifties, tall but slightly stooped, with close-cropped gray hair and a sharply defined face that was furrowed by years of growing disappointment. “So our brilliant equipment confirms a massive storm is approaching,” he said dryly, without turning around. “Wonderful. We’d have never figured it out on our own, right?” At last, he turned to face her, one eyebrow raised slightly. A half-sealed spacesuit lay on a nearby chair, its surface covered in deep scratches, the scars of yet another forced excursion outside. Elena cleared her throat and held out the tablet, its display blinking ominously. “Major, this isn’t just big… it’s catastrophic. The dust storm could last for days. The suspended particles are already clogging the sensors, and if it reaches the filters and solar panels, we’ll lose all power. The modules won’t withstand prolonged strain.” Ivanov let out a cynical laugh. “Then we’ll get to watch the whole thing collapse. The homeland’s proud Martian experiment becomes a dusty grave. Spectacular.” Elena swallowed the reply caught in her throat. She handed him the tablet as dust concentration levels scrolled rapidly across the screen. “We won’t be able to sustain life support if we lose the greenhouse. The corridor seals might hold, but only if we move everyone to the emergency hangar immediately. We’ll almost certainly lose the other modules.” Ivanov nodded slowly as he studied the numbers. The collapse back on Earth had left him the leader of a dying outpost, with outdated tools and no help coming. But behind all his cynicism, buried in the lines at the corners of his eyes, was a stubborn sharpness that hadn’t given up. He tossed the tablet onto his cluttered desk and grabbed his temporary suit, a slightly heavier model, designed to be worn for hours outside if necessary. The orange panels gleamed dully, a repaired crack running across the helmet’s visor, and the locking ring still clipped to the chest harness. “All right, Elena,” he growled. “No time for whining. Get Pyotr, Misha… everyone. Every single soul gets moved to that damned hangar. Pile in food, water, every portable generator we can dig up. We may survive this like rats in a trap, but at least we’ll have air.” Elena gave a tight nod, and for a brief moment, a flicker of relief passed across her face. “Yes, Major,” she replied. Then she paused, her eyes drifting to the swirling red haze beyond the window. “We’ll begin the relocation immediately.” Ivanov shoved an emergency tool kit into the side pocket of his suit, then yanked the half-opened garment over his shoulders. The straps pulled tight across his back. “Let’s move,” he said firmly, his voice cutting through the heavy air. “This outpost won’t fall. Not on our watch.” As he stepped out of the office, Elena following close behind, the corridor lights flickered again, just for a moment, they seemed to die completely, before stuttering back to life. If the storm really hit them with full force, this might be the last time they saw the modules in anything resembling normal condition. But for now, despite cracked walls and blinking lights, Ivanov’s stubborn resolve seemed to ripple through the narrow hallway, sparking one last glimmer of hope in the struggling Vostok outpost. Activity surged across the station as the threat of the oncoming storm grew heavier by the minute. Nearly a hundred settlers, some limping, others sagging under the weight of exhaustion, were now working to transfer every critical supply into the emergency hangar. The overhead lamps flickered in protest beneath the overloaded power grid, and beyond the round windows, the dimming sky signaled that the storm was nearly at their doorstep. In the main chamber of the hangar, metal containers were being stacked into makeshift walls. Half-labeled boxes towered high rations of dry food, medical kits, nearly expired water purification cartridges. Elena Markova, hair damp with sweat, coordinated the chaos using a cracked console. Voices and hurried footsteps echoed off the cold steel surfaces. “Move those crates all the way to the far wall!” Elena shouted over the noise. “We need room in the middle for the generator line. The small corridor is sealed, so use the main airlock for all supply transfers and double-check every suit!” Outside, through the narrow observation slit, two old welding bots clanked across the storm-ridden surface. Their plasma torches glowed a bluish-white, casting sparks as they patched up the battered exterior panels. Around their feet, steel beams lay ready. Meant to reinforce the station’s weakened window frames. The wind had already begun coating the outer walls in dust. Every time the station trembled, Elena froze, her heart hammering in her throat. Inside, a dozen aging cargo drones rumbled across the hangar floor. These clunky, slow machines had been around for over a decade, now dragging heavy generators and water dispensers. Meanwhile, the settlers carried smaller loads by hand: spare oxygen canisters, salvageable batteries, coils of cable and wiring. If they had to stay inside the hangar for days - or even weeks - they couldn’t afford to leave anything behind. Each time someone returned from the Martian surface, they had to pass through a tiny pressure equalization chamber, which hissed and groaned in its struggle to maintain proper atmospheric levels. Beyond that was the main entrance, still available for the last few incoming loads. But as the wind outside grew sharper, everyone knew: soon, even that final opening would be sealed, and they would be shut in, for the duration of the storm, at the very least. The hangar interior was gradually transforming into something like a barracks. With nearly a hundred people to shelter, collapsible cots were lined up in rough squares, forming miniature “neighborhoods.” Plastic tarps hung to serve as makeshift walls, offering some degree of privacy for the station’s workers. Misha Volkov, the back of his hands still dark with bruises from earlier rescue attempts, now helped arrange the sleeping areas. Deep circles sank beneath his eyes from fatigue. “Leave at least two meters of space between the rows,” he murmured to another settler. “The corridors need to stay clear, in case the medics need to get through.” The dull overhead lighting flickered again. In a corner nearby, two settlers were sorting through emergency suits by size. Some of the suits were covered in patches, the holes sealed with tape or resin. They hung from portable racks, ready in case the hangar’s walls were breached. Ready to be clung to for every last breath.. In the corner of the makeshift command station, Major Anatoly Ivanov leaned over an outdated comms console, from which a nest of cracked wires spilled across the floor. His suit was half-unzipped, a faded naval undershirt peeking out through the opening, a clear signal that he was ready to run out at any moment, if the situation demanded it. Signals of desperation flickered across the console: static-filled broadcasts from Earth, scattered pings from other Martian outposts. Ivanov had just finished transmitting a final distress call to Moscow. “Let them witness the collapse,” he muttered, mostly to himself, slamming the switch down. “In the so-called ‘Window Year.’ If this doesn’t open their stockpiles, nothing will.” He turned from the console, eyes drifting toward the far end of the hangar where settlers were still hauling the last supply crates. A bitter half-smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Maybe Vostok’s near-destruction would be the only thing that finally moved Earth to act. Cruel irony, but Ivanov was no stranger to that. Raising his voice, he gave one final order, which echoed off the metal walls: “All external units, seal up. Now! The dust’s coming like a wall. Visibility will drop to zero within minutes. If you’re still outside, you won’t see the door from two meters. Everyone inside: move!” The interior of the station went eerily still, as if the entire complex had drawn a collective breath, bracing for impact. Major Ivanov sprinted toward the inner panel of the hangar, ready to initiate the final lockdown of the outer door, when a shout from one of the technicians stopped him in his tracks. “Major! They’re still outside!” came the fading cry over the radio. “The welders are still working on the dome!” Warning lights flashed on the control panel: external units still active. Ivanov froze. They couldn’t seal the door. Not yet. Elena Markova rushed to the entrance, stepping out from a service panel alcove and peering through the still-open outer maintenance hatch, where red dust was already swirling inward. Visibility was plummeting, but for a brief moment she saw it clearly: the greenhouse dome, its overloaded supports, the weight of dust accumulating on the outside, sudden pressure shifts, and thermal stress, began to fracture in silence, just before a long, metallic groan echoed. It collapsed like some exhausted, overburdened creature. The transparent polymer panels cracked, then fell in massive sheets onto the metal and the soil below, onto the last remaining workers still trying to reinforce it. The falling segments crushed some of them. Other shards slammed into steel beams stored inside the dome for repairs, rebounding like deadly traps, spinning and flying out of control. One welder slipped as he tried to back away, and a strut’s edge sliced through his back in the next instant. Another worker ran, but lost balance in the dust, and a falling piece of the roof slammed him to the ground. The plasma cutters sparked for a moment more in the swirling red haze. Ivanov clenched his fist. Elena, desperate, reached blindly into the cloud of dust through the maintenance door. She couldn’t see anything. Only felt someone’s arm and pulled them inside. “Seal it now!” Ivanov roared into the radio. The heavy door closed slowly. Behind it, nothing but dust, wreckage, and death. The hangar’s automatic maintenance gate groaned loudly as its motors fought against the force of the storm. A nearby robot emitted a sharp alarm, declaring the external environment dangerously hostile. With one last mechanical thrust, the door slammed shut, as if trying to escape the grip of the storm itself. Inside, the pressure regulators groaned, straining to maintain balance as the storm’s fury rattled the structure. The station’s lights immediately flickered, glowing pale and weak, like the system itself was hesitating, unsure how much longer it could endure. A sudden silence fell over the emergency hangar. The survivors lay sprawled across the floor or slumped half-conscious against pallets and crates, gasping for breath, wide-eyed, staring blankly in shock. A tall man’s helmet was cracked from a nearby impact; a trembling woman clutched her bleeding arm. The station’s medics and nurses moved tirelessly from one person to the next, helping wherever they could. Elena collapsed to her knees and looked around the makeshift shelter that, from now on, would be their only refuge. She began counting heads, dazed. Too many were missing. And she feared what it meant, how many had been torn apart out there in the dust that now forever separated them from the rest. “Oh God…” Elena whispered hoarsely, her voice trembling. “We lost half the greenhouse crew…” Her words cut off as Major Ivanov stumbled into the hangar. His helmet was cracked. He tore it from his head, coughing harshly through dust-filled lungs, trying to breathe. His gaze drifted over the broken people. Some still locked in shock, others whispering prayers under their breath. Then a final, deafening crash rocked the hangar. And everything went black. The power was gone for good. Screams broke through the darkness, sharp, panicked sounds, as if fear itself had dropped from the ceiling. A single emergency light flickered on, powered by a failing battery. It cast long, trembling shadows across the walls. Ivanov grabbed the lamp and raised it high, casting a dim glow that barely revealed Elena’s exhausted face in the gloom. The once-proud Vostok outpost lay in ruins. In the hangar, lights flickering, supplies scattered, a single emergency lamp cast trembling shadows across the walls. Nobody spoke. This is the opening scene of Icarus, the first novel in The Mars Chronicles. If you’d like to be notified when new chapters are released, consider subscribing at the bottom of the page. 🚀 Welcome to ICARUS An emotionally gripping, high-stakes sci-fi epic about survival, rebellion, and the fragile hope of beginning again — not just as individuals, but as a civilization. 📘 Kindle eBook: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FHQV1XB9 📕 Paperback Edition: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FHW3VYJX Related posts: What brought down Vostok Station? — Explore the chain of failures that sealed the fate of Mars’ easternmost outpost. Read the full breakdown » Distress Call to Earth - Distress Call from Vostok Station | The Mars Chronicles Understanding Martian Timekeeping - Understanding Martian Timekeeping | The Mars Chronicles

You are reading Scene 3 of Icarus, a novel unfolding within Mítosz - an epic story of the first human settlements on Mars. Following the collapse of the Russian outpost, a desperate distress signal reached not only the Chinese base, but also the Americans. Bound by political rivalry and strict corporate orders, the American crew at Minos Settlement were explicitly forbidden from offering aid. But some lines can't be ignored. Now, under the radar of Earth Command and the ever-watchful Twin Minds, they must outsmart the system, risking everything to carry out a covert rescue mission. This scene takes you into the heart of that operation. Minos Corporation Outpost on Mars – Loading Ramp – Mars Year 73, Sol 14 “If you're going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don't even start.” Charles Bukowski​ A dull metallic glint caught Lena Ryland’s attention, just a wrench, half-buried in the Martian dust near the loading gate. She bent down, picked it up, and wiped the oxide-streaked grime from its surface. Another reminder of how fast everything here could fall apart if they weren’t careful, especially now, with so many caravans swarming the region. At this hour, the loading bay was unusually busy. Crates were stacked along the wall, waiting to be loaded onto half-filled hover lifters. The plan was to dispatch each vehicle in order, officially logged as “maintenance runs,” “waste exports,” or, in the boldest lie of all: entries in an illegal Mad Max-style race. If Earth Command, or the Twin Minds, dug too deep, they’d find plenty to question. But that was the idea: layer enough small lies to hide the real crime behind a lesser one. David Everhart, the station’s operations director - a tall man with graying temples - stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching closely. Lena caught his eye; a single nod told her everything had passed final inspection. She looked down at her handheld interface and took control of the digital logs, making sure the Twin Minds wouldn’t see what was actually packed behind the crates. “Just decommissioned caravans,” she reminded herself. A reckless distraction, a minor offense Minos might be willing to overlook. In the distance, engines roared, the caravans were starting up outside. Mechanics flooded the concrete platform, some genuinely preparing for the “Mad Max” rally out on the plateau, a favorite (though banned) pastime of the younger outpost crew. Engineer Ian Everhart’s convoy, five linked trucks carrying unmarked cargo, waited quietly in the far corner. For Lena, that was the real mission: delivering critical supplies to the Russian station without Earth’s knowledge. Minos Corp had explicitly forbidden any involvement. But ignoring Vostok’s situation had felt impossible. And a well-timed diversion was worth more than a hundred permissions. Lena moved past a stack of crates. Each beep from her device, deliberately mislabeling the cargo, tightened the knot in her stomach. “Motor part scrap,” “broken sensors,” “deconstruction debris.” The display flicked through false entries, none of it true. She could almost hear the Twin Minds humming in the background. If they looked deep enough into these logs, they’d find the inconsistencies. The outpost had developed a layered system of half-truths and short-range pings to avoid detection. At least, that was the plan. Lena Ryland David stepped up beside her, speaking quietly. “All caravans ready to roll?” “Yes,” Lena nodded. “Three units are heading out ‘for the race’” she tilted her head toward the noisy, shouting crowd checking steering rods “and one’s officially registered as ‘waste transport.’ Ian’s. The log says he’s heading to Sector Nine, same place we used to run the test races. If the Twin Minds do a surface scan, they’ll see a pattern that looks clean.” A uniformed dockmaster approached, tablet in hand, half-shouting over the noise. “Dust conditions are unstable near Sector Seven. Tell the drivers to ease off! And tone down those corporate logs, Ms. Ryland. Last month’s ‘repairs’ already ate half our budget.” “Understood,” Lena replied with a tight smile. The dockmaster was already off, likely to wrangle the race caravans. Lena exhaled, then ran her palm across the control surface, finalizing the last round of route overrides. On the far side of the loading bay, Ian Everhart jumped down from the steps of the first cargo truck. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his movements full of momentum. He could’ve been a younger version of his father. Martian dust clung to his flight jacket, tracing every fold. That usual calm confidence settled around him. Some called it arrogance. He gave Lena a half-wave, which she ignored. Most of the rumors about him were true: he had a near-mythical sense for Martian roads. Lena just hoped his luck would hold out this time. The engine noise surged. The Mad Max caravans rolled out first, launching toward the plateau in a storm of cheers and theatrical bravado. Behind them, Ian’s convoy began to move quietly, unnoticed in the shadow of the chaos. Lena’s pulse hammered. She counted five trucks. Each packed with falsely labeled crates: medical gear, food rations, engineering kits. Emergency shelters had been mapped along the route. Just in case a storm hit. David leaned in and spoke in a low voice. “It’s all set. Minos will only see noise.” He gave Lena a weighted look. “Hold your ground. This matters more than a slap from Central.” Lena nodded, almost imperceptibly, then stepped back and put on her suit just as the upper hatch began to creak open. She was young, decisive, and fast. Wired for Mars. Her hair fell in neat parallel lines along her jaw, smooth, precise, characteristically her. The weak Martian wind hissed into the bay, curling dust around her ankles. The dockmaster waved the hidden convoy forward. One by one, the trucks rolled into the rust-colored half-light, headlights casting dim arcs through the dusty air. Ian Everhart’s lead vehicle brought up the rear, swallowed by swirling sand. Once they vanished, the gate slammed shut with a metallic boom, sealing off the storm-heavy world outside. The dock re-pressurized and fell into sudden silence. Only a few technicians remained, glancing at each other, an anxious thrill of victory flickering across their faces. They really believed they’d outsmarted the system. Lena stifled a shiver, then looked down at the console where the falsified logs were still running: “Vehicle 3 – Race Caravan Test.” She set down her controller, adrenaline still pulsing through her. The outpost had staked everything on using two wrongs - illegal races and unregistered transports - to conceal one deeper truth: saving the Russians from a certain collapse. Outside, in the dying light, Ian was already en route on a journey that might take a week or more. Lena keyed in the final override, careful to ensure the route data would “align” with the official records stored back on Earth. Conference Module, Minos Settlement – Mars, Interior The soft flicker of overhead lighting danced across the polished surface of the compact conference table, reflecting yet another glitch in the colony’s power distribution grid. David noted the stutter with mild irritation. They had so little time left before the Twin Minds’ shift ended and the system refreshed its database, triggering automatic synchronization with Earth via quantum entanglement. Every minute counted. He scanned the small group clustered inside the narrow conference room. Five in total, engineers, logistics leads, a geologist, and Lena, fresh off the covert cargo run. The walls were lined with half-unrolled blueprints and pinned datapads, giving the space the feel of a makeshift war room. The door hissed shut behind them, muffling the steady hum of the corridor ventilation. At the head of the table stood Susan Morgan, a tall, sharp-moving Irish-American woman, tapping her fingers rapidly across a digital screen. Her red hair matched the Martian backdrop almost perfectly, and she never missed a chance to highlight that, often wearing pressure-rated indoor suits in shades that complemented her hair, a hybrid between jumpsuit and EVA gear. Officially, she oversaw maintenance scheduling. In practice, she coordinated most of the colony’s covert expansion projects. Her deep blue eyes darted anxiously across the display, and the tension in her shoulders betrayed that she was far more on edge than usual. “Well,” she began, sweeping her gaze across the group, “we’ve made some progress with the chain of carved shelters. Still a low-tech footprint, minimal activity signature. That’s the goal. Only one new development” she paused, then zoomed in on a fresh map, “it looks like the Chinese outpost is using some of our sites. Or at least someone on their side is stashing spare parts there.” A ripple of surprise and caution passed through the room. David felt a conflicted sense of relief. Cooperation, in theory, was a good thing. But no one truly trusted the Chinese outpost’s intentions. Lena swiped through the central display’s data. “Two Chinese-manufactured containers were found at Post A–14,” she reported. “The Russians confirmed the Chinese left them there. It’s… unexpected. We’re still trying to figure out if it was an official op, or if a few of their engineers are playing the same game we are.” Dr. Valentina Martinez, the curly-haired Mexican geologist, tapped on a topographic overlay. “We’ve also found additional traffic traces near the shelters past T–4. The tracks come in from the Chinese side. We discovered an abandoned rover last week. Someone was clearly seeking shelter. They left behind a half-broken servo arm. Used the post and then dragged themselves out. Looks like a silent agreement: no one confiscates, no one asks questions.” David stood at the back, arms crossed. Observing, trying to read the room. They were worried but there was something else in the air, something cautiously optimistic. If their biggest rival was cooperating in silence, maybe that was a sign. Still, he knew how fragile the balance was. One order from Earth - or Beijing - and the Chinese could shut the entire route down. Lena, seated at the edge of the table, twirled a stylus between her fingers. Her eyes moved quickly around the room, practically reading the subtext in everyone’s posture. “Meanwhile, the Russians are still balancing on the edge of survival,” she said. “Their last message said they found Chinese medical supplies in one of the carved shelters.” She paused, took a breath. “None of it was labeled. None of it showed up in official inventories. The Russians are grateful, but nervous. If Earth Command finds out, it could easily be framed as espionage, or worse.” Susan nodded, lips pressed into a tight line, and said, “We’re all rowing the same boat. The Chinese outpost is probably just as paranoid as we are, afraid their own central authority will shut everything down. The Europeans… well, we know how they prefer minimal fuss. They’re sending supplies quietly, but it’s obvious they don’t want this turning into a public scandal. They’re treating it purely as a humanitarian gesture. But they’re keeping their distance. From both us and the Chinese.” David cleared his throat, deciding to step into the conversation. “That’s the beauty of this layered approach, isn’t it? It’s a fallback to the Stone Age if everything else fails. No flashy construction to trip the system’s alarms. Just low-profile, modular infrastructure. If, or when, the Chinese engineers or the Europeans want to scale up their involvement, we can snap extra tech into place. But we’re not relying on that. We don’t need a formal ‘agreement’, unspoken usage is enough.” “You think this is just a clever workaround,” Valentina said, her voice lower now. “But if these shelters collapse, or if someone gets stuck out there because of bad readings, I’ll be the one blamed.” The room stilled slightly. Not out of shock, but because she wasn’t wrong. Lena leaned back, arms crossed. “So, this is what it all comes down to? A silent chain of carved shelters used by the whole planet, but that officially doesn’t exist? Sure, it’s great in an emergency… but what if Chinese leadership orders a blockade tomorrow?” Susan tapped the display, highlighting potential expansion nodes. “Then we proceed with caution. We don’t have the resources for anything flashy anyway, which is actually a benefit. Less chance of exposure. We expand the shelter network, cache supplies, maybe add a few basic passive signal markers. Hold back the advanced systems until we see how Chinese command reacts.” Valentina narrowed her eyes. “We’re expanding too fast. Some of those shelters weren’t designed for repeat use. If a sand shift hits during a supply run…” Lena cut in, sharp and dry. “Then we adapt. Or we leave them behind. That’s the point. You want predictability? Join a committee on Earth.” Valentina didn’t answer immediately, but the tension in her jaw was clear. She finally spoke again, quieter but firm. “And what if Earth Command or the Chinese outpost trace those expansions back to us? We’re ahead right now, but if they start digging, the logs won’t match official inventory.” Lena leaned forward, arms folded, her voice deliberate. “We have plausible deniability—that’s the point. No one’s bragging about these carved stations. Us, the Russians, and especially not the Chinese. Everyone has a stake in keeping this quiet. No one wants it to blow up, so it won’t, unless we screw up.” She paused, then turned toward Valentina, something resolute sparking in her eyes. “And if Minos Central does flag anomalies, what will they find? Truck races. Resources ‘lost’ in a demolition-style derby, half-shredded rover vehicles ‘gone missing.’ They’ll chalk it up to reckless entertainment. They won’t dig deeper if they think we’re just covering for rule-breaking kids.” David remained at the back, arms folded, the tension curling in his gut like acid. On one hand, the quiet, multi-settlement use of these carved-out posts was proof that some form of real cooperation existed. The best-case scenario he’d secretly hoped for. But the fragility of the political balance still pressed in on him like a weight. Susan flipped to the final slide. “Immediate tasks: we need structural foam and anchor fittings for the next site, near Sector T–5. Dr. Martinez says the soil is stable. Lena, you’re pulling materials from the greenhouse expansion, right?” Lena nodded calmly. “I’ll handle it… carefully. Let’s not move too many crates at once.” A soft beep echoed from the hallway. The Twin Mind was nearing the end of its greenhouse calibration, meaning corporate surveillance systems would soon resume free scanning. Everyone in the room exchanged glances. “All right,” Susan said, powering down the display. “Time to scatter. Keep your eyes open. If Chinese leadership changes its tone, we adapt. But until something shifts, the ‘hush-hush highway’ stays exactly where it is.” The group began to disperse. The engineers grabbed their tablets, Dr. Martinez took a stack of survey forms, and Lena quietly slipped the stylus into her pocket. David was the last to linger, casting a look around the dimly lit chamber. The air practically hummed with tension. They’re all in, he thought, but none of them truly trusts the Chinese outpost. Or their own superiors. Or me. And yet, that very mutual distrust was what created the secrecy that kept these escape routes alive. He allowed himself the hint of a private smile. If these carved-out stations were already prompting quiet cooperation between outposts, maybe the entire plan was more viable than anyone dared say out loud. Planet Earth – Manhattan, New York A small trail of condensation slid down the curved glass of Emily Everhart’s panoramic window. Her gaze followed its path across the backdrop of New York’s futuristic skyline. Manhattan still pulsed beneath the woven lattice of air traffic threading the sky. Patterns of light danced across the minimalist furniture, reflected off the surface of solar drones drifting overhead. Emily ran her fingers along the edge of her polished metal desk, a habitual gesture that helped anchor her in the present. She took a deep breath and touched the embedded wall display. The screen buzzed to life and, after a short delay, David’s face appeared leaner, dust-streaked, but with the same steady confidence in his eyes. Behind him, the pale light of the Martian habitation module stood in stark contrast to Emily’s sun-drenched Manhattan penthouse. She leaned in, as if proximity could bridge the distance. “David, can you see me clearly?” she asked, forcing a touch of cheer into her voice. “Yes, Em. Loud and clear,” David replied. The signal crackled slightly, a reminder of the massive distance between them, linked only by the Twin Minds’ quantum entanglement tech, which enabled real-time communication. The American outpost was still the only one on Mars equipped with it. For a moment, Emily was overwhelmed by the thought: I should have been there with him. If the doctors hadn’t disqualified her due to radiation risk, if she hadn’t failed the colony’s medical screening, she never would’ve let David and Ian leave without her. She straightened in her seat, tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulder. She had to remind herself, she was fighting her own war here: salvaging David’s reputation back at Minos HQ. “Listen,” she began, adjusting the camera slightly. “I spoke with Warrick again at Minos. He’s the only one still taking my calls. He says if the mining metrics hold and we frame the comms right, the board might reconsider your position.” David’s face tightened. He tried to hide it, but Emily knew the signs. That quiet frustration he always felt whenever politics came up. “Warrick’s always been friendlier than the rest,” David admitted. “But I’m not betting on corporate spin to fix anything. The numbers speak for themselves.” Emily exhaled softly. Why can’t he see that you have to play the game? “You know how this works, David. They want to feel like they’re in control. If you’d let them take more credit for the Labyrinth Project back in New York…” David cut her off. Firm, but not unkind. “We’ve been through this. It wasn’t about keeping the credit for myself. It was about..” Emily pressed her lips together, swallowing the rest of her reply. “Okay, okay,” she said gently. “I just… I still believe if you showed them you’re a team player, it could open doors. You’re the man who stopped the flood in New York. Everyone at Minos, and in government, knows that. But you stepped on too many toes along the way…” David’s gaze drifted to the side. Behind him, the Martian dust swirled red against the pale sky. “I don’t regret standing up for what was right,” he said. “And I won’t let them own me now, either.” That same pride what made Emily love him, and what made her constantly worry about him. A long silence settled between them. Emily chose to shift the subject. “How’s Ian?” she asked. “He writes so rarely. Must be busy.” At the mention of their son, David’s expression softened. “He’s doing great. You know how he is. Always diving into new tech, pushing the limits. If there’s one thing I worry about, it’s that I have to remind him sometimes: Mars doesn’t forgive like Earth does.” Emily smiled, though a quiet storm of concern still swirled beneath it. “He’s just like you,” she said gently. “That stubbornness… I just don’t want him taking risks he can’t come back from. Mars is so…” “Dangerous. I know,” David interrupted, voice soft. “I’m watching him. Trust me.” Emily nodded. She wished she could reach through the screen and take his hand. The lights of Manhattan sparkled in the reflection on the glass, bathed in southern sunlight. So far from the red dust storms battering David’s outpost. Sometimes it felt like the universe itself had torn their family apart. “All right,” she said, clearing her throat. “I’ll keep pressing Warrick. Maybe we can secure a hearing with the board. If they see the new data, maybe…” David exhaled. “Do what you think will help, Em. If you believe it matters, go ahead. Just… be careful who you trust.” His voice faded slightly, as if exhaustion had seeped into the space between his words. “I’ve got to go. The colony’s comms window is closing.” Emily tried to inject a note of warmth into her voice. “Take care of yourself, David. And… tell Ian I miss you both.” A faint, rare smile touched David’s face. “I will. You take care too.” Emily held her breath as the screen went dark. The silence of the penthouse pressed in around her, a raw reminder of just how far away David truly was. For a moment, she allowed the warmth of hope to pass through her: a vision of reunion, of a life free from corporate chains flickering in her mind. But then the moment vanished, like a thread pulled loose. Her gaze drifted across the polished floor and stopped at the comms panel. If David believes he can carry the burden alone, so be it. I’ll fight my part too. With a firm motion, she pressed a button on the desk. The display lit up and connected to the Minos Corporation line. Emily’s heart beat faster, each ring stoked the fire of her resolve. “I’d like to speak with Warrick Hargrove,” she said. Her voice was steadier than she felt. A series of tones echoed through the quiet apartment. Outside, an air barge drifted between the towers, its lights dancing across the glass. Emily’s jaw tightened. She’d had enough waiting and enough of David bearing every risk alone up there on Mars. If bargaining, navigating egos, and massaging corporate pride were her role in this, then so be it, she’d do it without hesitation, no matter who she had to push past. Finally, a click, and static. The line came alive. Emily inhaled sharply. She straightened, ready to charge headfirst into the machinery of bureaucracy. “Warrick? This is Emily Everhart. We need to talk, right now.” Coming soon... 🚀 Welcome to ICARUS An emotionally gripping, high-stakes sci-fi epic about survival, rebellion, and the fragile hope of beginning again — not just as individuals, but as a civilization. 📘 Kindle eBook: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FHQV1XB9 📕 Paperback Edition: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FHW3VYJX Related posts: If you want more of the story… → Characters - Characters Distress Call to Earth - Distress Call from Vostok Station | The Mars Chronicles If you want to go deeper into the world… → Beneath Vostok: The Anatomy of a Martian Mine - Beneath Vostok: Inside a Martian Mining Operation What Brought Down Vostok Station? - Collapse of Vostok Station: How Dust Brought Down a Martian Greenhouse Breathe Carefully: How Airlocks Shape Life and Death on Mars - Airlocks on Mars: Survival, Stations, and the Thin Line Between Life and Death | The Mars Chronicles The TY-C9 “Long March Mule”: China's Modular Martian Transport Beast - TY-C9 “Long March Mule” – Modular Martian Transport Truck

🚀 Welcome to ICARUS An emotionally gripping, high-stakes sci-fi epic about survival, rebellion, and the fragile hope of beginning again, not just as individuals, but as a civilization. 📘 Kindle eBook: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FHQV1XB9 📕 Paperback Edition: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FHW3VYJX 💾 Direct EPUB + PDF Download: https://zsoltbugarszki.gumroad.com/l/icarus You are reading Scene 2 of Icarus, a novel unfolding within Mítosz an epic story of the first human settlements on Mars. When the Russian outpost sent its distress signal, the Chinese base received it at once. Rescue teams were dispatched immediately, but distance on Mars is never just distance. It is time, exposure, terrain, and risk. Three sols have passed since the call for help. Now the search team is finally approaching the silent outpost, knowing that survival may already have been decided before they arrive. If anyone made it through the first disaster, will they still be alive when the rescuers reach them? Vostok Outpost on Mars – Mars Year 73, Sol 13 A sharp clatter of gravel echoed off the lead truck in the Tianyuan Base rescue convoy as it crested the final ridge. In the driver’s seat, Zhang Wei, the engineer in charge of the operation, squinted out through the reinforced windshield. Three days had passed since the Russian distress call. Three days across dusty plains and half-buried rock fields in an exhausting push forward. Now, at last, they had reached Vostok Station, and the state they found it in was somehow even worse than expected. Carved into the rock wall behind the outpost was a dark fissure, a shallow cave gouged into rust-colored stone. At its shadowed entrance, freshly dug graves were lined up, barely visible, marked with bent metal scraps and improvised plaques. Dr. Huang Qian saw them first. The Chinese rescue convoy She fell silent, her helmet’s magnification feature focusing on the crude cemetery. She said nothing just reached out and touched Zhang Wei’s arm, pointing. Zhang followed her gaze. For a moment, neither spoke. “Looks like half the modules got buried…” Zhang muttered, his voice crackling over the comms. “Dr. Huang, do you see any life-support systems active outside the main hangar?” Dr. Huang Qian, Tianyuan’s chief medical officer, was scrolling through a vibrating screen on a handheld console. In her thirties, she had been on Mars for four years. She looked far younger than her age. She had kept her helmet on since they approached the outpost, bracing for whatever they might find. Her deep brown eyes stayed on the tablet in her lap as her other hand gripped the door handle against the rough terrain. The faceplate of her helmet was transparent, standard for medics. Her shoulders tensed as the sensor grid registered faint life signs. “No,” she replied quietly, but with certainty. “The main outpost is practically offline. Only minimal power is coming from the emergency hangar. If anyone’s alive, that’s where they are.” They parked at the station’s edge. The wheels stirred up a fine red cloud of dust. Beneath the rust-dark sky, Vostok presented a gut-wrenching sight: jagged steel beams jutted out at unnatural angles, half the once-functional modules now buried beneath Martian sand. The rusted sign marked “ВОСТОК” lay collapsed against a bent support structure. One entire module had caved in - likely the greenhouse dome. Now, only a shattered skeleton of polymer and torn scaffolding remained. Everywhere, the scars of improvised engineering told a story - machines kept running through ingenuity alone, battered by storm after storm, and worn down further by years of missing resources. Zhang Wei jumped down from the truck’s pressurized cabin. His modern Chinese pressure suit adjusted seamlessly to the planet’s thin atmosphere. Its surface was smooth, black composite, with glowing status bars running along the forearms. Two accompanying assistant bots - slim, spider-like machines marked with TIANYUAN -sprang from the cargo hold and immediately began scanning the wreckage for structural hazards. “Fan out,” Zhang said calmly, raising the communicator on his helmet. “Watch for fallen beams or sealed pockets where survivors might be trapped. And be careful with the wiring. These old cables can still hit hard if parts of the grid are live.” Dr. Huang approached on foot, a slim medical pack strapped across her back. Her suit was just as advanced, her visor reflecting Mars’s pale sunlight. She crouched to inspect a twisted doorway, lips tightening when she caught sight of a faded Russian emblem. “Years of neglect…” she said quietly. “This base was likely falling apart long before the storm hit.” They both stared at a bleak pile of debris. Silent, crushing. It might have hidden bodies beneath. A scratched service cart with a shattered wheel. An entire corridor half-buried in sand and fractured tiles. The contrast between Tianyuan’s polished tech and these heavy, battered remnants was stark. The Chinese spider robot gently tapped one of the damaged sensor panels, its mechanical arms deftly clearing away smaller debris. A soft beep indicated that the inner airlock was partially functional, although the outer panels showed significant damage. Not far from it stood the main emergency hangar, a rust-brown module, once a storage unit, later converted into a makeshift shelter. A battered sign - СКЛАД 1 - still marked it as a former warehouse, now repurposed. Zhang Wei raised his communicator and sent a short, standard transmission to the base. “This is the Tianyuan Base rescue team. We are initiating contact. Do you copy?” For a long moment, only static answers. Then a distorted, weary voice crackled through. “Vostok Outpost… copy. Weapons depot..?” The transmission broke up. Zhang Wei couldn’t follow it clearly. He glanced questioningly at Qian. Qian nodded, checking for radiation spikes and air leaks. The display showed levels below critical thresholds - but they still kept their heavy suits on. Two more rescue vehicles rolled up, their engines rumbling faintly in the thin Martian air. They carried doctors and engineers. Zhang Wei pointed toward the half-buried emergency entrance. It was passable for individuals but would require clearing dangerous debris to move larger supplies inside. “Clear the path,” he ordered. Robots and automated lifts moved quickly: laser cutters slicing through bent metal, sparks flying in the dusty red light. Dr. Huang glanced at her display. “Minimal oxygen and power inside,” she said quietly. “We’ll need rapid intervention if we want to stabilize the situation.” As they approached, the outer airlock door slowly creaked open. After one final screech, it gave way, allowing the Chinese team to step into the airlock chamber. Following standard protocol, they waited for pressure equalization. The seals hissed and groaned; the narrow space pulsed under the dim emergency lights. The last flickers of life from the station struggled to hold on. When the final alert faded, the inner door grudgingly opened. Inside, tired, hollow-eyed faces stared back at them. Soldiers, engineers, doctors. All clad in dust-covered, worn suits, silent and wary. Zhang Wei took a deep breath inside his helmet. After three relentless days of travel, they had finally reached Vostok Outpost, a place barely holding on to life. Stale, freezing air hit them, tinged with the metallic scent of burnt wiring and old machinery. The Chinese soldiers - dressed in matte-black suits, carrying compact firearms - secured the area methodically. Behind them, Dr. Huang Qian moved cautiously forward, her medical kit rattling at her side. They immediately faced a Russian marine phalanx. Six men and women stood in a tight arc, battered body armor worn over exhausted bodies, weapons raised. Their breaths misted visibly in the freezing air, a sign of how cold it still was inside. The entire scene vibrated with tension: the battered Russians stared distrustfully at the advancing Chinese team. Dr. Huang instinctively fell back, letting the armed soldiers take point. She could see it in the Russians’ faces: one wrong move, and violence would erupt. Then Zhang Wei suddenly stepped forward, raising both hands in a peaceful gesture, and called out in surprisingly fluent Russian: “Это спасательная миссия! Мы не являемся вашей угрозой!” “This is a rescue mission! We are not your enemy!” he repeated, his voice firm but calm. His words echoed off the metallic floor beneath their feet. The Russian marines exchanged uncertain glances, their grips on their weapons loosening for a moment. Amid the tension, one figure stepped out from the line a slender woman in oil-stained work wear, short dark hair clinging to her face carved with exhaustion and anxiety as she moved into the open. “Stand down! All of you!” she gasped in English. With a sharp motion, she signaled the soldiers to lower their weapons, then turned to face the Chinese group. Her voice trembled, but she held her ground. “I’m Elena Markova. Chief engineer… We need help. Please.” Dr. Huang Qian took that as her cue. She stepped forward from the Chinese formation, unlocked her helmet, and let the cold, stale air surround her. Switching to English, she spoke urgently: “I’m Dr. Huang Qian, from Tianyuan Base. Are there wounded in need of immediate care?” Elena nodded. Relief and tension warred, visibly on her face. “Yes, at least twelve. Three are critical. This way.” She gestured firmly toward a cluster of field cots in the distance. Dr. Huang waved her medical team forward. They followed with heavy packs in tow. They didn’t wait for further clearance, moving silently into the dark, crowded hangar. The smell hit them immediately: sweat, blood, and stale, unventilated air. Canvas sheets hung from ropes to form makeshift partitions, offering scraps of privacy in the vast industrial space. More than seventy survivors lingered or huddled in corners. Some attempting to repair old electronics under flickering lights, others handing out packets of dried food. The hangar was a maze of used cots and thermal blankets. A grim chill clung to the air, there was no central heating, only body warmth and faint trickles of power keeping the atmosphere barely breathable. “This way,” Elena said, leading Dr. Huang’s group. “We laid the worst cases near the remaining medical supplies.” The improvised medical area sat behind a sagging plastic divider. Weak lights revealed four or five cots, each occupied by a wounded person. A woman moaned in pain, her thigh wrapped in thick bandages. A gaunt man clutched his side, grimacing with every movement. Others - less severely injured - sat on supply crates, cradling broken arms or shielding taped-up ribs, while others wandered aimlessly. “Our oxygen supply is nearly gone…” the Russian doctor said hoarsely, turning to Dr. Huang. “Most of it was used during surgeries. Many died before we even had a chance to operate.” He gestured toward a nearby cot, where a man’s chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. A bloody bandage wrapped tightly around his waist. Qian nodded, her eyes scanning the meager supplies. “We’ll set up a triage zone here. Who’s in the most critical condition?” “Him,” the doctor replied. “Internal bleeding. We have no imaging equipment, and no sterile instruments for surgery.” Qian’s gaze swept across the worn hangar, pausing on collapsed beds and dim corners. “This will be our surgical station,” she declared. “My team brought portable power. We’re not risking a connection to your grid.” One of the medics nodded and stepped back to retrieve the compact, battery-powered generator. The gleaming metal casing stood in stark contrast to the damaged Russian equipment around it. Elena Markova, still catching her breath, straightened up. “I held their hands as they died,” she said softly, more to herself than anyone else. “I told them, help was coming.” She fell silent for a moment, then drew herself upright again. “Either way, we’re going to make order on our end,” she said more firmly, casting a sharp look toward a few nearby settlers. “Move the beds to the wall. Crates to the back. I want at least ten meters of clear space here.” The Russians - clad in torn coveralls and worn boots - moved immediately. They rolled up bedding, tore down the makeshift sheets that had offered some semblance of privacy. Elena gave quick, purposeful directions, dragging an old storage cabinet herself. Overhead, the lights flickered, but the freshly powered Chinese generator hummed to life, casting steady illumination over the temporary surgical corner. Dr. Huang turned to her medics. Three figures in full suits, carrying advanced surgical modules. As the generator powered up, indicator lights flared to life on one of the suitcase-sized units. Another medic unfolded a sterile, collapsible tray and laid out gleaming instruments, their edges catching the beam of the lamp above. With a soft electronic hum, the surgical robot came to life: a slim, jointed arm designed for precise incisions, scanning the patient’s body with built-in sensors. “Activate sterilization protocol,” Dr. Huang said quietly, but firmly. “You” she turned to one of her team “assist with the anesthesia unit.” She pointed to a pale, semi-conscious man lying beside a pile of nearly depleted oxygen canisters. He clutched his bandaged abdomen, and each shallow breath was labored, his condition clearly indicating internal bleeding. Two Chinese medics carefully lifted him onto a freshly disinfected field cot, while the surgical robot extended its slim mechanical arm and performed a rapid vitals check. Meanwhile, the Russian doctors tended to the injured, who were crammed into tight spaces between supply crates. One knelt beside an older woman, carefully wrapping a torn ligament on her arm. Another applied antibiotic ointment to a young man’s scraped shin. The Chinese medical aides joined them, offering fresh bandages and portable diagnostic tools to ease the strain on the Russians’ depleted supplies. With quiet coordination, they cleaned, stitched, and stabilized the minor wounds. Their presence alone, extra hands, calm and competent, soothed the injured. Elena moved nearby, issuing instructions to her own people. “Keep the area clear! No extra personnel in the zone.” She shoved a stray crate out of the way, eyes scanning the space to ensure the Chinese medics could work undisturbed. When someone approached her with a question, she gave clipped, efficient replies, constantly splitting her attention between the outpost’s urgent needs and the demands of Dr. Huang’s team. “Anatoly, bring over those portable lamps,” she called to a passing Russian soldier. “Overhead lighting could fail any second.” The soldier gave a rigid nod and hurried off. Despite the tension and the dim, flickering light, Elena’s voice carried a warrior’s resolve. Dr. Huang looked up from her console and met Elena’s eyes. “We’re ready to proceed,” Dr. Huang announced, gently pressing a scanner to the patient’s chest. The surgical robot adjusted its arms with precise, fluid movements. A blue diode lit up near its head. “Internal bleeding in the lower abdomen,” she said. “We need to open him now.” Elena nodded wordlessly, then motioned to the nearby Russians. “Everyone else, step back! We can’t risk contamination!” The onlookers moved behind a hastily built barricade of crates. In the background, the wounded let out faint moans. The next moments unfolded with near-silent precision. Dr. Huang gave a command to the surgical module, and the robotic arm pivoted smoothly, inserting a hair-thin injector with anesthetic. One Chinese medic stabilized the patient’s airway, while another prepared a sterile IV drip, watching the flow rate carefully. Elena remained at the edge of the zone, ensuring no one disrupted the operation. Even in the dim light, the robot’s cauterizing tip sparked visibly. The crisp beeping of sensors and the fluid grace of the robot’s movements only heightened the contrast between Dr. Huang’s cutting-edge tools and the outpost’s decaying surroundings. Silence deepened. The surgical robot hovered over the patient’s chest, guided by Dr. Huang’s calm, deliberate instructions. From her place at the perimeter, Elena watched with awe as these unexpected allies delivered what might be Vostok’s first real chance at survival. With the help of the robotic system, Dr. Huang Qian began the procedure. Almost unconsciously, as she sank fully into her work, she began to sing a soft Chinese children’s song behind her surgical mask. Barely audible but steady. In the foul-smelling, dimly lit hangar, where the scent of makeshift latrines, stale sweat, and recycled air mixed into a metallic haze, two determined women worked side by side. One was a gifted Chinese physician using twenty-second-century technology to fight for a life. The other, a sharp-minded Russian engineer, was holding together the crumbling remains of a shattered outpost. Their collaboration was fragile, but real. A bridge between two worlds, forged in Vostok’s darkest hour. Outside the half-collapsed emergency hangar, a dozen Chinese soldiers, in sleek black suits, worked shoulder to shoulder with the exhausted Russian survivors, unloading crates of supplies onto the dusty ground. The storm had faded into a cold breeze, but the station, cloaked in red dust, looked apocalyptic. Mangled metal littered the yard, and several Russian vehicles lay half-buried in the dunes. The sky above was a dull ochre-yellow, thick with remnants of the Martian dust storm. Zhang Wei, head of the Chinese technical unit, oversaw the unloading of portable generators and food crates, while some of his team surveyed damage to the external modules. In the distance, Major Anatoly Ivanov approached, wearing a battered pressure suit with its chest plate replaced by a crudely patched metal sheet. His stern face was lined with frustration and exhaustion. “Thank you for the support,” Ivanov said curtly, arms crossed. “But let’s get to the point, Engineer Wei. What’s this ‘rescue’ going to cost us?” Zhang Wei had just adjusted a pallet when he turned around, posture stiff. Behind the dark visor of his helmet, a flicker of irritation crossed his face. “My directive is clear: assess the situation, save lives. Nothing more. There are no conditions,” he said, his voice calm and measured. Ivanov gave a half-smile. “Sure. Just like when you ‘helped’ yourselves to Siberia. What is it now? Two-thirds of our station?” He took a step closer, voice dropping to a whisper, though it carried a sharper edge. “We both know how these so-called humanitarian missions work.” Zhang Wei didn’t respond immediately. His gaze swept across the debris-strewn yard. In the background, Chinese medics treated minor wounds while a pair of technicians worked to revive a twisted vehicle chassis. A slight Chinese engineer stood shoulder to shoulder with a grizzled Russian mechanic, gesturing over a set of clogged water filtration pipes. “We’re not interested in your territory,” he said quietly at last. “We saw the distress call. We came. And seeing how bad things are here, if necessary, we can organize an evacuation. It’ll take several trips, but it can be done… gradually.” Ivanov’s eyes burned. “So, the plan is to empty out the station? Haul everyone off until nothing’s left?” He raised his chin, staring directly into the dark lens of Zhang Wei’s helmet. “Let’s speak plainly. This station is on Russian soil.” Zhang Wei’s jaw tightened. He inhaled deeply before replying, steady as ever. “We brought generators, medical gear, and water supplies. They’re over there, you can see them,” he gestured toward the sealed crates. “We’re leaving it all behind. That should keep you going for a month. If things get worse, and you need help again, you know how to contact us. Or you can keep waiting for Moscow.” A bitter smile flickered across Ivanov’s lips. “Moscow is coming,” he said, more to himself than to Zhang. Not far away, a Chinese engineer hammered a broken airlock hinge back into place while two Russians held it steady. The scene stood in surreal contrast to the icy dialogue, a tableau of tense diplomacy and practical cooperation. Chinese supply drones zipped down the truck ramps with practiced efficiency, scattering crates across the dusty ground. A few Russian survivors carefully guided them around the wreckage. Farther off, Chinese specialists helped clear jagged panels from the collapsed greenhouse frame. Ivanov stood with arms crossed, posture rigid as the biting cold. “You do realize,” he said, his voice colder than the Martian wind, “we didn’t ask for your help. We owe you nothing, no matter how pathetic this place might look now.” “We’ll remember,” Zhang Wei replied with a brief nod. He turned to his team. Dust swirled around their feet as they completed the final tasks: checking the manifests, securing a backup generator that, if used carefully, could keep life support systems running for a few more weeks. Silence fell over the yard, a working silence, heavy with mutual distrust. Both sides did what had to be done. A few hours later, the engines of the Chinese trucks roared to life. Zhang Wei signaled his team: time to move. The farewell was neither warm nor final. Ivanov stood motionless, arms folded, watching as the last of the equipment was offloaded. The icy wind stole their voices, but the tension lingered, burned into the swirling red dust. Related posts: If you want more of the story… → Characters - Characters Distress Call to Earth - Distress Call from Vostok Station If you want to go deeper into the world… → Beneath Vostok: The Anatomy of a Martian Mine - Beneath Vostok: Inside a Martian Mining Operation What Brought Down Vostok Station? - Collapse of Vostok Station: How Dust Brought Down a Martian Greenhouse Breathe Carefully: How Airlocks Shape Life and Death on Mars - Airlocks on Mars: Survival, Stations, and the Thin Line Between Life and Death | The Mars Chronicles

Effective date: 23 July 2026 (Previous versions: 22 March 2025; 20 June 2026; 23 June 2026) 1. Who We Are This website, Mítosz, is operated by Zsolt Bugarszki. This policy explains what data we collect, why, and the choices you have. If you have any questions, you can reach me at zsolt.bugarszki@gmail.com. Mítosz is an independent author project by Zsolt Bugarszki. The website is built and hosted on Wix. What this policy covers This policy covers the Mítosz website and how we handle visitor and subscriber data, including cookies and similar technologies, our newsletter, and advertising. What data we collect We collect your email address when you choose to subscribe to the newsletter. This is optional and opt-in. We also receive any message or information you send us directly, for example by email. In addition, we collect technical and usage data through cookies and similar technologies (see section 5), such as pages viewed, interactions on the site, approximate location, and device or browser information. Why we use it We use this data to send you the newsletter you subscribed to, to understand how the site is used and improve it, to measure and improve our advertising, and to respond to messages you send us. Cookies, tracking, and similar technologies We use a small number of cookies and similar technologies, grouped as follows. Essential. These are set by our platform, Wix, and are necessary for the site to function, for example security, page loading, and session handling. They do not require consent. Analytics and session insight. We use analytics tools, including Wix built-in analytics and Wix Session Recordings, to understand how visitors use the site, for example which pages are viewed and where people click or scroll. Session Recordings capture on-site interactions in an anonymized form. Sensitive inputs, such as text you type, are masked and are not recorded in a readable way. Advertising and measurement. We do not display advertisements on this site. We do promote Mítosz through ads on Facebook and Instagram, and we use the Meta (Facebook) Pixel and the Meta Conversions API to measure and improve those ads, including understanding which visits lead to a newsletter sign-up. Non-essential technologies (analytics, session insight, and advertising) run only if you agree to them. When you first visit, a cookie banner lets you Accept or Decline. If you decline, these technologies are not activated. You can change your mind at any time (see section 9). Who receives data Wix.com is our website platform. It provides hosting, essential site functions, built-in analytics, Session Recordings, and our newsletter and email tools. Meta Platforms (Facebook and Instagram). When advertising is active and you have consented, the Meta Pixel and Conversions API share limited event data with Meta so we can measure our ads. When you interact with one of our ads on Meta's platforms, any data involved there is processed by Meta under its own policies. We do not sell your personal data. Legal basis (for visitors in the EU, the UK, and similar regions) We rely on your consent for non-essential cookies and similar technologies (analytics, Session Recordings, and the advertising pixel), and for the newsletter. We rely on our legitimate interests and the necessity of operating the site for essential cookies. Data retention We keep personal data only as long as necessary for the purposes described here. You can ask us to delete your data at any time. Your choices and rights You can accept or decline non-essential cookies through the cookie banner, and change your choice later, for example by clearing the site's cookies in your browser or by contacting us. You can unsubscribe from the newsletter at any time using the link in any email. You can request access to, correction of, or deletion of your personal data, and you can object to or restrict certain processing. To exercise any of these, email zsolt.bugarszki@gmail.com. If you are in the EU or the UK, you also have the right to complain to your local data protection authority. International visitors The site is available to readers in several countries, including the United States, the United Kingdom, and Hungary. Depending on where you are, different privacy rules may apply, and the cookie banner reflects the appropriate choices for your region. Children This site is not directed at children, and we do not knowingly collect data from children. Changes to this policy We may update this policy from time to time. The effective date at the top shows when it was last changed. Contact: zsolt.bugarszki@gmail.com

Vosztok telep a Marson – Mars-év 69, 48. sol (2083. január) Az érkezés Elena Markova minden sejtjében érezte, hogy megint egy új világba érkezik. Még súlytalanságban lebegtek. Hátrafogta rakoncátlan szőke haját, és megkezdte az előkészületeket. Ideges volt, de nagyon nem szerette volna, ha ezt látják rajta. Rajta kívül még négyen érkeztek a turnussal. Négy hónapja voltak összezárva ebben a felhőkarcoló méretű szállítóhajóban, de Elena, ha választhatott volna, két percet sem töltött volna velük egy légtérben. És még mindig kilencven perc volt hátra a leszállás megkezdéséig. Ezalatt rögzítették a súlytalanságban lebegő tárgyakat, lezárták a személyes tárolókat, lekapcsolták a nem létfontosságú fedélzeti modulokat, és felvették azt az undorító, Sokol M típusú vészhelyzeti ruhát, amelynek már a gondolatától is felfordult Elena gyomra. Először a testhez tapadó biomedikai szenzorokat helyezte fel. Amint a rendszer életre kelt, minden próbálkozása hiábavalónak bizonyult. Az ülésével szembeni kijelző rideg kegyetlenséggel írta ki az állapotát. A szíve túl gyorsan vert. Az izmai megfeszültek. Alacsony HRV. Szaggatott légzés. Hiperventilációs kockázat. Nem nézett oldalra rögtön. Nem akarta látni a többieket. Aztán mégis odapillantott, és ez volt az egyetlen vigasz: a jelek szerint ők sem voltak jobb állapotban. Senki nem beszélt. Amikor végre mind az öten bepréselték magukat a leszállóegység üléseibe, már csak hatvan perc maradt hátra. A protokoll robotszerű hangja szenvtelenül, szinte udvariasan sorolta a teendőket. Comb- és vállhevederek rögzítése. Mind az öt utas szinte egyszerre mozdult. Medenceöv rögzítése. Sisak hátsó pontjának rögzítése. Lábak rögzítése. Kéz a mellkasi kapaszkodókon vagy az oldalsó markolatokon. Az Automed készenléti szekvenciájának aktiválása. A személyes kijelző EDL-módra váltása. Számtalanszor elgyakorolták ezeket a mozdulatokat a földi felkészítés során. Nem is kellett emlékezni rájuk. A protokoll mindent lépésről lépésre beolvasott. Az Automed rendszer előkészítette a hányinger elleni beavatkozást, a pánikreakció nem gyógyszeres kezelését és a keringés stabilizálásához szükséges kompressziós támogatást. A képzésen ez mind unalmas felsorolásnak hangzott. Most, hogy a testében sorra éledtek fel a várható tünetek, Elena legszívesebben azonnal magába nyomott volna mindent, amit az injektorok tartalmaztak. Hangtalanul követték a protokoll utasításait, és közben mindannyian úgy tettek, mintha semmi közük nem lenne a képernyőiken megjelenő adatokhoz. Elena onnan is tudta, hogy hozzá hasonlóan rossz állapotban vannak, hogy ezúttal még gúnyolódni sem próbáltak. A sisak belső peremén ott volt a hányásfelfogó gallér is, egy puha, nedvszívó, elszívócsatornákkal bélelt vészmegoldás, amelyről a kiképzésen mindenki úgy tett, mintha nem lenne megalázó. Húsz perccel a Mars légkörének elérése előtt a leszállóegység tompa csattanással vált le a teherhajóról. Rövid, mély hajtóműimpulzus préselte őket az ülésbe: a pályaelhagyó fékezés letérítette az egységet a pályáról. Elena hónapokig egy nagy, lassú hajóban élt, amelynek folyosói és közös moduljai a leszállóegységhez képest még tágasnak tűntek. Most rémülten kapaszkodott egy kapszulában kuporogva, amelynek egyetlen funkciója az volt, hogy túlélje a Mars légkörével való találkozást. A kijelző vöröses narancsszínű adatgrafikákat futtatott, és amikor végre elérték a légkör határát, a hőpajzs felől mély, fenyegető morajlás hallatszott. A kabin először finoman remegni kezdett, hogy aztán olyan durva vibrációnak adja át a helyét, amitől a hevederek belevágtak a végtagjaiba. A sisak belső falán apró páracseppek gyűltek össze, középen ködös folttá sűrűsödve. Elena egy ideig próbált csak a saját légzésére összpontosítani. A Sokol M belső rendszere érzékelte a stresszreakciót, megnövelte a sisak légáramlását, és lassú, hideg ritmust villantott a kijelző szélén: lélegezz. Hirtelen olyan nyomást érzett a mellkasán, mintha valaki rátérdelt volna. A gyomra kavargott, a látómezeje beszűkült, és azt gondolta, el fog ájulni. A Mars nem fogadta őket. Nekimentek. – Markova, ellenőrizd a rakománygerinc zárját! – hasított a parancsnok hangja a sisak kommunikációs rendszerébe. Elena nem szívlelte az ötvenes férfit, akit pusztán a kora tett turnusparancsnokká a pilóta nélküli, teljesen autonóm hajón. Emlékeztette magát: Oroszországban, ahol két ember van, az egyiknek mindig parancsnoknak kell lennie. Azt viszont senki nem tudta megmagyarázni neki, miért kellett olyan embert parancsnoknak választani, aki a rendszerfájlokat is protokollutasításként olvassa fel. Most mégis hálás volt a feladatért, mert visszahozta az ájulás közeléből. Átváltotta a képernyőjét, és azonnal feltűnt, hogy az egyik tehergerinc szenzora ingadozó értékeket mutat. Intenzív lassulás közben egy többtonnás alkatrészcsomag nem rakomány volt, hanem belülről elszabadított lövedék. Elena összevetette az értéket a másik két, egymástól független érzékelő adatával. Nem szenzorhiba volt, a rögzítés tényleg megcsúszott egy hajszálnyit. Kiadta a parancsot a tartalék feszítő aktiválására, hogy az vegye fel a hézagot; a fő retesz eleve tartott, ez csak a biztosíték biztosítéka volt. A válaszát próbálta a lehető legrövidebbre fogni, nehogy a mondat közepén hányja el magát. – Kész. A hőpajzs hatalmas csattanással vált le, amit újfajta vibráció követett. A jármű alja megnyílt, működésbe lépett a retropropulzió, érzékelők és radarok tucatjai navigálták a leszállóegységet a Vosztok telep irányába. – A szél megint betemette a padot – szólalt meg Elena szomszédja, a huszonhárom éves Igor, aki négy hónapig kalandvágyról beszélt, amíg mindenkinek világos nem lett, hogy valójában a katonaság elől menekül. Elena csodálkozva nézett körül, hogy vajon miről olvasta fel ezt a fiú, mert kizárt dolognak tartotta, hogy önálló megfigyelés lenne. – A rendszer most összeveti a valós terepet a leszállási térképpel. Meg fogja találni a bázist – jegyezte meg Elena. Az öt utas közül ő volt a legképzettebb. Ez persze egyetlen lépéssel sem vitte közelebb ahhoz, hogy parancsnok lehessen. Szavait életre kelt jóslatként követte a rendszer közleménye: – Az elsődleges leszállóhely elérhetetlen. Átállás a tartalék fogadópadra. A kommunikációs csatornán éles recsegés hallatszott. Először nem lehetett kivenni semmit, de mind az öten felkapták a fejüket. Hónapok óta nem kommunikáltak valós időben a külvilággal. – Mi van, srácok? A hátsó bejáraton jöttök? Az érces hang gazdája két mondat alatt az előírt protokoll több pontját is megsértette, de ez sem akadályozta meg az érkezőket abban, hogy örömükben majd kiugorjanak az ülésükből. – Vosztok, mi így szeretjük… – röhögött fel a turnusparancsnok. Elena a szemét forgatta az alpári humor hallatán, de igazából neki is a torkában vert a szíve attól, hogy végre igazi emberi hangot hall a külvilágból. A kabin már nem úgy remegett, mint a légkörbe lépéskor, hanem mély, ritmikus lökéseket kapott. Ezek a testét először az ülésbe préselték, aztán rángatni kezdték, majd végre minden könnyebb lett. Körülbelül négyezer-kétszáz méterrel a felszín felett Elena észrevette, hogy az egyik hajtómű égésterének nyomásgörbéje egy szemvillanást késett a parancshoz képest, a szabályozó pedig túl nagy korrekcióval kapott utána. A navigáció elsimította; nem jelentett katasztrófát, de Elenának ennyi elég volt. Öreg szelep, kopott vezérlés. A rendszer elöregedett. A leszállás nem volt sima. Az első találkozás elég volt ahhoz, hogy a fiatal mérnöknő megértse: ezt a szót a Marson jobb elfelejteni. Itt semmi nem megy simán. A kapszulából semmit sem láttak a hajtóművek felverte hatalmas porfelhő miatt, de a leszállóláb csattanása, egy erős oldalirányú billenés és a protokoll „Hajtóművek leállítva” jelzésének felvillanása a napnál is világosabban jelezte, hogy megérkeztek. Hirtelen minden zaj megszűnt. Saját légzése furcsán felerősödött, és visszatért egy rég elfeledett érzés: mintha a gyomrát és a karját lefelé húznák. Súly. Nem akkora, mint a Földön, de súly. Az eltelt négy hónap súlytalanságához képest ez is durva visszatérést jelentett a testbe. Még legalább tíz percig semmi nem történt. A rendszer automatikus ellenőrzést futtatott: megvizsgálta a maradék hajtóanyagot és a leállt hajtóművek forró felületeit, a szerkezet, valamint a leszállólábak dőlésszögét, a felvert törmelék ülepedését, a külső nyomást, a porterhelést és az elektrosztatikus töltést, az utazók ruházatát és tömítéseit. És mindenekelőtt az érkezők fizikai állapotát. Néma csendben várták ki ezt a tíz percet. Elena, ahogy a kijelzőt bámulta, nem tudta, miért, de a szibériai beléptetőkapu piros fénye jutott eszébe, ahol nap mint nap a kínai ellenőrzőpont katonáit átverve csempészett alkatrészeket és élelmet a körbezárt lakosságnak. Azt gondolta, ennél már nem lehet lejjebb; az a helyzet maga volt a pokol. De akkor még nem ismerte a Marsot. A tízperces ablak végén a kijelzők egyenként kiírták az egyéni kiszállási engedélyt. Elena neve mellett nem zöld jelzés gyúlt ki, hanem sárga: JÁRÓKÉPES – KÍSÉRENDŐ. A látása még mindig be-beszűkült, a gyomra kavargott, a rendszer óvatosságból kíséretet rendelt mellé. Kísérendő. Mint egy beteg. Elena összeszorította a fogát. Aztán a protokoll hangja bejelentette a kabin nyomásának leengedését. Sziszegve, lépcsőzetesen ereszkedett le a nyomás a marsi közelvákuumig, és amint a köldökcsatlakozók lekattantak, a ruhák átvették a saját életfenntartásukat. „Kabinnyomás kiegyenlítve. Autonóm ruhaüzem stabil” – jelezte a gép. Egy fénycsík hasított át a fedélzeten, ahogy a rakodórámpa leereszkedett. A szervók rezgése a padlón és a szkafanderen keresztül jutott el hozzá; a ritka levegőn át magából a fémes csikorgásból szinte semmit sem hallott. A rámpa földet érését viszont mély ütésként érezte az egész testében. A Sokol M nem volt felszíni munkaruha. A köldökről leválva a saját tartaléka tartotta életben: húsz perc garantált autonómia, kedvező terhelés mellett akár negyven. Az oxigénkészletet, a CO₂-nyelést és a hőszabályozást ugyanarra az időtartamra méretezték; az akkumulátorban épp annyi energia volt a ventilátornak és a rádiónak, hogy a rámpától a fogadózsilipig kihúzza. Ennyit ígért. Semmi többet. Ösztönösen megemelte a kezét, hogy megtörölje az arcát, de az ujjai csak az átlátszó polikarbonát sisakplexinek koccantak. – Rajta – mormolta maga elé. – Csak egy lépés. Felállt. A kijelző sárgán villogott: VÁRJA MEG A KÍSÉRETET. KAPASZKODJON. Elena nem várt. Az izmai tiltakoztak a gravitáció visszatérő terhelése ellen, amelyet a mikrogravitációban eltöltött hosszú hónapok után már elfeledett. Lépett egyet a rámpa felé, majd megbotlott, és térdre zuhant a marsi portól már bemocskolt fémlemezre. A sisakban zihálva visszhangzott a légzése. Elena hirtelen összehúzta magát, és öklendezni kezdett. Megpróbálta visszatartani, de a gyomrából feltörő savas lé a hányásfelfogó gallérba csapódott, és finom permetben felverte a sisak belsejét. A gallér alatt azonnal életre kelt valami: halk szisszenéssel elszívta az arca elől a savat egy zárt tasakba, a sisakplexi közepére pedig hideg légáramot fújt, hogy Elena lásson valamit a ködön át. A kijelző sárgáról vörösre váltott: ORVOSI RIASZTÁS. A fogadózsilip felől egy technikus már indult is felé. A rámpa alján egy magas, komor alak állt marsi kültéri szkafanderben. Ivanov őrnagy. Egy pillanatig csak nézte Elenát, aki küzdött, hogy feltápászkodjon a portól borított rámpán. Hangjában ironikus mosoly bujkált, ahogy megjegyezte: – Szép volt. Üdvözöljük a Marson, Markova. A bolygót, úgy látom, nem kell már bemutatni. Már érzi. Első este a telep kantinjában A kantin rideg fémfalain fénycsövek fáradt sugarai verődtek vissza. A légszűrők monoton zúgása úgy lüktetett a helyiségben, mint valami távoli, beteges szívdobbanás. Elena a tálcáját szorongatva keresett egy szabad széket a sarokban, lehetőleg minél távolabb a bámuló szemektől. Férfiak és nők ültek az asztaloknál, mind marsi veteránok. Arcuk fakó volt, tekintetük fáradt, de éber. Úgy követték az új jövevényt, ahogy az ember egy frissen beszerelt alkatrészt figyel: vajon bírja-e majd a terhelést, vagy már az első napon felmondja a szolgálatot. Elena leült. A térde megroggyant, ahogy leereszkedett, és a fémszék megcsikordult alatta. A tálcáján lötyögő szintetikus püré szagtalan volt, íztelen, és már az első kanál után öklendező hullámban akart visszatérni. Próbált ugyan aludni pár órát, de a teste a jelek szerint még mindig nem fogadta el az új valóságot. Kerülte az emberek tekintetét. Helyette a plafont és a falakat vizsgálta. Hamar feltűnt neki, hogy akik eredetileg ezt az állomást építették, még gondosan ügyeltek arra, hogy a vezetékeket fedett csatornákba és süllyesztett vájatokba tereljék. Ez mára legfeljebb emlék volt. A kábelek szabadon futottak a falakon és a plafonon, szigetelőszalaggal rögzítve ott, ahol a tartók már rég elszakadtak. Az ilyen megoldások eredménye mindig ugyanaz volt: a rendszer már csak foltokban működött. A helyiség egyes részei tisztességesen be voltak világítva. Más sarkok viszont szinte teljes sötétségbe burkolóztak. Nehéz volt eldönteni, hogy ez szándékos volt-e, vagy csak így alakult. Elena is egy ilyen sötétebb sarokba húzódott. Észrevétlennek azonban nem volt nevezhető. Egy árnyék vetődött elé az asztalra. Magas nő állt meg előtte. Szűk szabású, sötétszürke műszaki uniformist viselt, a mellrészen és a vállakon megerősített panelekkel, derékon széles szerszámövvel. Nem dísznek hordta. A nő sovány, csontos arca mozdulatlan maradt; kék szeme egy vágószerszám pontosságával mérte végig Elenát, mintha a gyenge pontjait keresné. A haját szigorúan hátrafogta, a vonásai feszesek voltak, mintha a gravitáció nemcsak a végtagjait, hanem az arcizmait is lehúzta volna. Nem volt rajta sem rangjelzés, sem névkitűző; a jelenléte önmagában elég világosan jelezte a hatalmát. – Markova? – kérdezte szárazon. Elena bólintott. – Ötkor kezdünk – mondta a nő, és már fordult is el, vissza a kantin homályába, mintha csak valami adminisztratív csomagot helyezett volna el. Elena hosszú pillanatokig nézte az eltűnő alakját, majd a pürét bámulva, félig magának, alig hallhatóan odamorogta: – Amúgy jól vagyok. Kösz. Egy szikár, középkorú férfi a szomszéd asztaltól oldalra fordult, csontos ujjával a távozó nő felé bökve: – Ljudmila… Elena összerándult. – Tessék? – kérdezte szárazon. A férfi vállat vont. Nem az ő gondja, hogy a nő ijedős. – A főmérnök. Ljudmila Vetrova. Ne várd tőle, hogy megdicsérjen. Mielőtt Elena válaszolhatott volna, a háttérből kiáltások harsantak: – Mi van, Volkov? Megtetszett a kis újonc? Még a vén kecske is megnyalja a sót, mi? – Ó, hogy megnőtt a pofád, te kis taknyos… – morogta Volkov anélkül, hogy odanézett volna. Aztán Elenára pillantott. – Ezek se jobbak, de legalább nem harapnak. Pár nap, és hozzászoknak a képedhez. Te meg a levegőhöz. Elena halvány mosolyt erőltetett. Tudta, hogy itt egy mosoly is valuta. – Elena – mondta röviden. – Misa Volkov – mutatkozott be a férfi. – Ha valami kell, tudod, hol találsz. Elena felnyúlt a tálcáért, hogy távozzon, de amint felegyenesedett, az izmai megint elárulták. A gravitáció csapdájában megbillent, és az egész kantin szeme láttára előrebukott. A tálca tompa csattanással csúszott ki a kezéből. Elena teste még nem szokott hozzá az új szabályokhoz. Felálláskor a mikrogravitációhoz alkalmazkodott keringése egy pillanatra nem tudta fenntartani az agya megfelelő vérellátását; mire a szíve utánakapott, a lába már rossz irányba vitte a lendületet. Nem egyszerű ügyetlenség volt: a keringése és a mozgásérzékelése még mindig a súlytalanság szabályaihoz igazodott. Egy pillanatra dermedt csend lett. Majd mintha az egész helyiség csak erre a pillanatra várt volna, kitört a röhögés. Hangos, gyomorból jövő, könnyes hahotázás, ami a mennyezet acélgerendái között is visszhangzott. Misa Volkov odalépett, hogy felsegítse, de Elena, vörös arccal és összeszorított fogakkal, kitépte magát a kezéből. Elindult volna kifelé, de a lendület túltolta. Nem tudott megállni, és teljes lendületével nekivágódott a bejárati ajtó fémkeretének. A röhögés most már olyan volt, mintha az egész bázis velük rázkódna. A bányászok egymás hátát csapkodták. Elena káromkodva tántorgott ki a kantinból, a szavait elnyelte a csukódó ajtó zaja. Bent a nevetés még percekig tartott. Csak Elena nem tudta, hogy ez minden második évben pontosan ugyanígy zajlik. És mindannyian emlékeztek még az első estére, amikor a Mars térdre kényszerítette őket.

Vostok Settlement on Mars, Mars Year 69, Sol 48 (January 2083) The Arrival Elena Markova felt in every cell of her body that she was entering a new world once again. They were still floating in weightlessness. She tied back her unruly blond hair and began preparing. She was nervous, but she was determined not to let it show. There were four others in her rotation. They had been shut up together for four months in this skyscraper-sized transport ship, but if Elena had had the choice, she would not have spent two minutes in the same enclosed space as them. And there were still ninety minutes to go before the descent began. During that time they secured the objects still drifting around them, locked the personal lockers, shut down the non-essential onboard modules, and put on their revolting Sokol M emergency pressure suits. The mere thought of putting hers on already turned Elena's stomach. First she fitted the biomedical sensors that clung to her skin. The moment the system came to life, there was no hiding anything. The display facing her seat spelled out her condition with cold cruelty. Her heart was beating too fast. Her muscles were tense. Low HRV. Ragged breathing. Risk of hyperventilation. She did not look to the side right away. She did not want to see the others. Then she glanced over anyway, and that was the only comfort: apparently, they were in no better shape than she was. No one spoke. When at last all five of them had squeezed themselves into the seats of the descent vehicle, only sixty minutes remained. The protocol's robotic voice listed the tasks impassively, almost politely. Secure thigh and shoulder harnesses. All five passengers moved almost in unison. Secure pelvic restraint. Secure rear helmet restraint. Secure leg restraints. Hands on the chest grips or the side handles. Activate the Automed standby sequence. Switch the personal display to EDL mode. They had rehearsed these movements countless times during training on Earth. They did not even need to remember them. The protocol read out everything step by step. The Automed system prepared the anti-nausea intervention, the non-pharmacological treatment of a panic reaction, and the compression support needed to stabilize circulation. During training all of this had sounded like a dull list. Now, as the expected symptoms flared up in her body one after another, Elena would have liked nothing better than to inject herself with everything the injectors contained. They followed the protocol in silence, all the while acting as if the data on their screens had nothing to do with them. Elena knew they were in as bad a shape as she was, because this time they did not even try to mock her. The inner rim of each helmet also held a vomit collar, a soft, absorbent emergency measure lined with suction channels, which everyone in training had pretended was not humiliating. Twenty minutes before reaching the Martian atmosphere, the descent vehicle separated from the cargo ship with a dull clunk. A short, deep engine impulse pressed them into their seats: the deorbit burn committed the vehicle to its atmospheric-entry trajectory. For months Elena had lived in a large, slow ship whose corridors and common modules made the descent vehicle seem cramped by comparison. Now she clung to the restraints in terror, huddled in a capsule whose only function was to survive the encounter with the Martian atmosphere. The display showed reddish-orange data graphs, and when they finally reached the edge of the atmosphere, a deep, menacing roar came from the direction of the heat shield. The cabin began to tremble gently at first, then gave way to a vibration so brutal that the harnesses cut into her limbs. Tiny beads of condensation gathered on the inner wall of the helmet, thickening into a foggy patch in the center. For a while Elena tried to focus only on her own breathing. The Sokol M's internal system sensed the stress reaction, increased the airflow to the helmet, and flashed a slow, cold rhythm at the edge of the display: breathe. Suddenly she felt a pressure on her chest as if someone had knelt on it. Her stomach churned, her field of vision narrowed, and she thought she was going to faint. Mars did not welcome them. They slammed into it. "Markova, check the cargo spine lock!" the commander's voice cut into the helmet's comm system. Elena did not care for the man in his fifties, whom age alone had made rotation commander on the pilotless, fully autonomous ship. She reminded herself: in Russia, where there are two people, one of them always has to be the commander. What no one could explain to her was why they had chosen as commander a man who read even the system files aloud as if they were protocol instructions. Still, right now she was grateful for the task, because it pulled her back from the edge of fainting. She switched displays and immediately noticed that one of the cargo spine sensors was showing fluctuating values. During intense deceleration, a multi-ton component package was not cargo but a projectile waiting to break loose inside the vehicle. Elena compared the reading with those from the other two independent sensors. It was not a sensor fault; the restraint really had slipped a hair's breadth. She issued the command to activate the backup tensioner so that it would take up the gap; the main latch still held, this was only the fail-safe's fail-safe. She tried to keep her answer as short as possible, so as not to throw up in the middle of the sentence. "Done." The heat shield separated with an enormous crash, followed by a new kind of vibration. The underside of the craft opened, the retropropulsion kicked in, and dozens of sensors and radars guided the lander toward the Vostok settlement. "The wind's buried the pad again," said Elena's neighbor, the twenty-three-year-old Igor, who for four months had talked about his thirst for adventure until it became clear to everyone that he was in fact running from the army. Elena glanced around in surprise, trying to see what the boy had read it from; she found it hard to believe the observation was his own. "The system is comparing the actual terrain with the landing map right now. It'll find the base," Elena remarked. Of the five passengers she was the most highly trained. That, of course, brought her not one step closer to being allowed to command. Her words were followed, like a prophecy come to life, by the system's announcement: "Primary landing site unavailable. Switching to the backup receiving pad." A sharp crackle came over the comm channel. At first nothing could be made out, but all five of them jerked their heads up. For months they had not communicated in real time with the outside world. "What's up, guys? Coming in through the back door?" The man behind the brassy voice violated several points of the prescribed protocol in the span of two sentences, but even that did not stop the newcomers from nearly leaping out of their seats with joy. "Vostok, that's how we like it," the rotation commander guffawed. Elena rolled her eyes at the crude humor, but the truth was that her own heart was pounding in her throat at finally hearing a real human voice from the outside world. The cabin no longer shook the way it had on entering the atmosphere; instead, deep, rhythmic jolts ran through it. At first they pressed her into the seat, then began wrenching her back and forth, until at last everything grew lighter. About four thousand two hundred meters above the surface, Elena noticed that the pressure curve of one engine's combustion chamber lagged the command by the blink of an eye, and the controller then overcorrected. The navigation smoothed it over; it was no catastrophe, but for Elena that was enough. Old valve, worn actuator. The system had aged. The landing was not smooth. That first encounter was enough for the young engineer to understand: on Mars, that word was better forgotten. Here nothing goes smoothly. From the capsule they could see nothing through the enormous dust cloud thrown up by the engines, but the clang of the landing leg, a hard sideways tilt, and the flash of the protocol's "Engines shut down" signal left no doubt that they had arrived. Suddenly all noise ceased. Her own breathing grew strangely loud, and a long-forgotten sensation returned: as if her stomach and her arm were being pulled downward. Weight. Not as much as on Earth, but weight. Compared to the past four months of weightlessness, even this was a brutal return to the body. For at least ten more minutes nothing happened. The system ran an automatic check: it examined the remaining propellant and the hot surfaces of the shut-down engines, the tilt angle of the structure and of the landing legs, the settling of the debris thrown up by the engines, the external pressure, the dust load and the electrostatic charge, the passengers' suits and their seals. And, above all, the physical condition of the new arrivals. They waited out those ten minutes in dead silence. As she stared at the display, Elena did not know why, but the red light of the Siberian checkpoint came back to her: day after day she had fooled the Chinese guards there and smuggled parts and food to the encircled population. She had thought things could not get any worse; it had been hell itself. But back then she did not yet know Mars. At the end of the ten-minute window the displays spelled out, one by one, the individual disembarkation clearances. Beside Elena's name it was not a green signal that lit up but a yellow one: FIT TO WALK, ESCORT REQUIRED. Her vision still kept narrowing, her stomach churned, and out of caution the system had assigned an escort to her. To be escorted. Like a patient. Elena clenched her teeth. Then the protocol's voice announced cabin depressurization. With a series of hisses, the cabin pressure fell in stages to the Martian near-vacuum, and as the umbilical connectors clicked free, their suits switched to autonomous life support. "Cabin pressure equalized. Autonomous suit operation stable," the machine reported. A strip of light sliced across the deck as the loading ramp came down. The vibration of the servos reached her through the floor and through the suit; through the thin air she heard almost nothing of the metallic grinding itself. But when the ramp struck the ground, she felt the impact deep through her entire body. The Sokol M was not a surface work suit. Once disconnected from the umbilical, the suit kept its wearer alive on its own reserves: twenty minutes of guaranteed autonomy, up to forty under light demand. The oxygen supply, the CO₂ scrubbing and the thermal regulation were all sized for the same span; the battery held just enough energy to keep the fan and radio running from the ramp to the receiving airlock. That was all it promised. Nothing more. Instinctively she raised her hand to wipe her face, but her fingers merely tapped against the clear polycarbonate visor. "Come on," she muttered to herself. "Just one step." She stood up. The display blinked yellow: WAIT FOR THE ESCORT. HOLD ON. Elena did not wait. Her muscles protested against the returning gravitational load, a burden her body had forgotten during the long months in microgravity. She took a step toward the ramp, then stumbled and dropped to her knees on the metal plating, already soiled with Martian dust. Her breathing echoed, ragged, inside the helmet. Elena suddenly curled in on herself and began to retch. She tried to hold it back, but the acidic fluid surging up from her stomach struck the vomit collar and spattered the inside of her helmet with a fine spray. Under the collar something came to life at once: with a soft hiss it drew the fluid away from her face into a sealed pouch, and blew a cold jet of air onto the center of the visor, giving Elena a narrow view through the fog. The display switched from yellow to red: MEDICAL ALERT. A technician was already hurrying toward her from the receiving airlock. At the foot of the ramp stood a tall, grim figure in a Mars surface suit. Major Ivanov. For a moment he only watched Elena as she struggled to push herself upright on the dust-covered ramp. An ironic smile lurked in his voice as he remarked: "Nicely done. Welcome to Mars, Markova. The planet needs no introduction, I see. You can already feel it." First Evening in the Settlement Canteen The tired rays of fluorescent tubes bounced off the cold metal walls of the canteen. The monotonous hum of the air filters pulsed through the room like some distant, sickly heartbeat. Clutching her tray, Elena looked for a free seat in the corner, as far as possible from the staring eyes. Men and women sat at the tables, all of them Martian veterans. Their faces were pallid, their eyes tired but alert. They followed the newcomer the way one watches a freshly installed part: will it hold up under load, or will it fail on its very first day. Elena sat down. Her knees buckled as she lowered herself, and the metal chair screeched beneath her. The synthetic puree sloshing on her tray was odorless, tasteless, and after the very first spoonful it threatened to come back up in a retching wave. She had tried to sleep for a few hours, but apparently her body still had not accepted the new reality. She avoided people's eyes. Instead she studied the ceiling and the walls. It struck her quickly that the people who had originally built the station had taken care to route the cables into covered channels and recessed grooves. By now that was a memory at best. The cables ran freely along the walls and ceiling, fixed with electrical tape wherever the mounts had long since failed. The result of repairs like these was always the same: only parts of the system still worked. Some parts of the room were decently lit. Other corners, though, were wrapped in near-total darkness. It was hard to tell whether this was deliberate or had simply turned out that way. Elena retreated into one of those darker corners. But she was hardly inconspicuous. A shadow fell across the table in front of her. A tall woman stood before her. She wore a close-fitting dark-gray technical uniform, with reinforced panels on the chest and shoulders and a wide tool belt at the waist. The tool belt was clearly no ornament. The woman's lean, bony face stayed motionless; her blue eyes measured Elena with the precision of a cutting tool, as if searching out her weak points. Her hair was pulled tightly back, her features taut, as if gravity had dragged down not only her limbs but the muscles of her face as well. She wore neither insignia of rank nor name tag; her presence alone signaled her authority clearly enough. "Markova?" she asked dryly. Elena nodded. "We start at five," the woman said, and was already turning away, back into the gloom of the canteen, as if she had merely filed away some administrative package. Elena watched her vanishing figure for a long moment, then, staring at the puree, she muttered under her breath: "I'm fine, by the way. Thanks." A wiry, middle-aged man at the next table turned in his seat and jabbed a bony finger toward the departing woman: "Lyudmila…" Elena flinched. "What?" she asked dryly. The man shrugged. Not his problem if the woman was jumpy. "The chief engineer. Lyudmila Vetrova. Don't expect any praise from her." Before Elena could answer, shouts rang out from the back of the room: "What's this, Volkov? Taken a liking to the little rookie? Even an old goat likes a lick of salt, eh?" "Look who's got a big mouth now, you little snot," Volkov grumbled without looking over. Then he glanced at Elena. "This lot's no better, but at least they don't bite. A few days, and they'll get used to your face. And you to the air." Elena forced a faint smile. She knew that here even a smile was currency. "Elena," she said. "Misha Volkov," the man introduced himself. "If you need anything, you know where to find me." Elena reached for her tray to leave, but the moment she straightened up, her muscles betrayed her again. Caught in gravity's trap, she teetered and pitched forward in full view of the entire canteen. The tray slid from her hand with a dull clatter. Elena's body had not yet grown used to the new rules. As she stood, her circulation, still adapted to microgravity, failed for a moment to keep her brain properly supplied with blood; by the time her heart caught up, her legs had already sent her momentum the wrong way. It was not simple clumsiness: her circulation and her sense of motion were still tuned to the rules of weightlessness. For a moment, there was frozen silence. Then, as if the whole room had been waiting for just this moment, the laughter broke out. Loud, gut-deep, tearful guffawing that echoed even among the steel girders of the ceiling. Misha Volkov came over to help her up, but Elena, red-faced and with clenched teeth, wrenched herself free of his grip. She started toward the door, but her momentum carried her too far. She could not stop and slammed full-force into the metal doorframe. Now the laughter made it seem as if the whole base were shaking with them. The miners slapped one another on the back. Cursing, Elena staggered out of the canteen, her words swallowed by the noise of the closing door. Inside, the laughter continued for several more minutes. Only Elena did not know that this played out in exactly the same way with every new arrival window. And they all still remembered their own first evening, when Mars had forced them to their knees.