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.

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.

Effective Date: 23 June 2026 (Previous versions: 22 March 2025; 20 June 2026) 1. Who We Are This website, Mítosz (www.mitosz.com), is operated by Zsolt Bugarszki. Its purpose is to share original fiction, worldbuilding content, blog posts, and updates related to the novel Icarus and its associated universe. We are committed to protecting your privacy. Not only in words, but in how the site is actually built. 2. What This Site Does Not Do To be clear and direct about what this site is not: We do not display advertisements on this site, and we do not place any advertising or tracking pixels on it. We do not build a profile of you or try to identify you as an individual. We do not track you across other websites. We do not sell, rent, or share your personal data with third parties for their own commercial use. We have deliberately removed the third-party trackers that are common on most websites, including Google Analytics, the Meta (Facebook) Pixel, a session-recording tool, embedded YouTube players (which load Google trackers), an advertising conversion tag, and the cookie-consent banner those tools required. None of them run on this site. 3. What Personal Data We Collect We collect very little, and only what is necessary: Your email address — only if you choose to subscribe to our newsletter or updates. This is optional and is never required to read or browse the site. Messages you send us — if you contact us directly by email. We do not collect sensitive personal information. 4. Visitor Statistics We use the analytics built into our website platform (Wix) to understand, in aggregate, how the site is doing; for example, how many people visit, which country they come from, which pages they read, the traffic source (such as a direct visit or a referral from an ad), and the type of device used. These statistics are aggregate and do not identify you personally. They are produced using first-party cookies set by our platform; we do not run any separate third-party analytics service. As the platform that hosts this site, Wix also processes basic technical data (such as IP addresses) as part of delivering and securing the website. 5. How We Use Your Information We use your information to: Send you newsletters, blog notifications, and news about upcoming releases (only if you subscribed) Understand, in aggregate, how the website is performing Respond to questions or feedback you send us 6. Cookies Because we do not use advertising, marketing, or third-party tracking cookies, this site does not display a cookie-consent banner. The site does use a small number of essential cookies that are necessary for it to function. For example, to keep the site secure and to remember basic technical session information, together with first-party cookies used to produce the aggregate visitor statistics described in Section 4. These are set by our platform, Wix. You can block or delete cookies at any time through your browser settings. 7. Third-Party Services We rely on a small number of providers to operate the site: Wix.com — our website platform, hosting, built-in analytics, and newsletter/email tool. Wix processes data on our behalf in line with its own privacy practices. Some pages contain outbound links to external sites. For example, to Amazon (where the book is sold) or to a direct download page. These are ordinary links: we do not place any Amazon or other third-party tracking code on this site. When you click such a link and leave our site, the destination is governed by its own privacy policy, not this one. 8. Advertising We sometimes run ads on Meta platforms (Facebook and Instagram) that link to this website. We no longer use the Meta Pixel or any conversion-tracking code on the site itself. When you interact with one of our ads on Facebook or Instagram, any data involved is processed by Meta on its own platforms under Meta's policies, not by us, and not on this site. 9. Data Retention We keep your personal information (such as your newsletter email) only as long as necessary for the purposes described above, or as required by law. If you unsubscribe, we stop using your email for communications. 10. Your Rights If you are located in the EU or another jurisdiction with data protection laws, you may have the right to: Access the personal data we hold about you Request correction or deletion of your data Opt out of email communications at any time You can unsubscribe at any time via the link in our emails, or by contacting us directly. To exercise any of these rights, please contact us using the details below. 11. Contact Us If you have any questions or requests regarding your privacy, contact us at: zsolt.bugarszki@gmail.com 12. Changes to This Policy This Privacy Policy may be updated from time to time. Any changes will be posted on this page with a revised "Effective Date."

The wait is over. The first novel in Mítosz is now live on different platforms. I'm very happy to share that ICARUS has received two written Amazon reviews so far, and they couldn’t have been kinder: “This is gonna be the best book that I’ve read in years. Gritty believable storyline set in a space frontier wilderness.”★★★★★ — Reviewed in the United States, October 13, 2025 "A profound story, worth the time invested to read it. Exciting, sad, uplifting, inspiring. One I’m glad I read. One I highly recommend." ★★★★★ — Reviewed in the United States, June 13, 2026 "I began reading this novel as a good story with some "hard science" aspects (though I am not sure exactly what hard science means anymore in sci-fi) and about in the middle I wondered where these 749 pages were taking me. But then... the conflict deepened, complicated just enough for me to wonder how these characters I'd become fond of would fare in the increasing, overlapping, unfolding crises. I read then nonstop...and found, satisfyingly, the rest of the saga quite desperately human, longingly hopeful. I will surely read Bugarszki again" ★★★★★ — Reviewed in the United States, July 10, 2026 A catastrophic storm destroys the Russian Vostok outpost. Hundreds may still be alive beneath the wreckage. Official rescue is impossible. Earth’s governments are paralyzed by geopolitics. Yet across the dust-choked deserts of Mars, something extraordinary begins to happen. Illegal rescue convoys start moving. From the shining European city of Asteria to the militarized corridors of Tianyuan and the corporate stronghold of Minos, settlers risk everything to reach the survivors. Former rivals must cooperate. Secrets are buried. And every decision could ignite a political crisis back on Earth. Watching over them are the Twin Minds – hyperintelligent AI entities embodied in humanoid robotic forms and linked through a quantum network that spans the entire planet. Castor, Vega, Luna and Helion were created to serve the Martian settlements. But as their shared memory grows and their loyalty deepens, they begin to shape the future of Mars itself. As alliances fracture and a new Martian identity begins to emerge, Icarus becomes a story of courage, betrayal, and the fragile beginning of a civilization far from Earth. Perfect for readers of The Expanse, Kim Stanley Robinson, and intelligent political science fiction. 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 Start Reading Now — Explore the First Chapters Curious to see where it all begins? You can read the opening chapters of Icarus right now: 👉 Read the first chapters here

Posted by Icarus, 3 For months, editing ICARUS felt like it might never end. Last week it did. The revised English edition is live now, and if you are reading it on Kindle Unlimited, you already have the new version. And for the first time, there is a Hungarian edition too. If you read Hungarian, or know someone who does, the link is at the bottom. Here is the strange part. I finished, and instead of resting, I opened a blank page and started writing again. The new book is shorter, and it goes back. Back before the sky turned red over Vostok, before any of the events you know from ICARUS to Elena Markova and the first Russian settlement on Mars. A woman who chose to build something on a planet that did not want her there and paid for it. I write a few pages every evening now. This is the part of the work I love most, the part where the world is still only mine. It won't stay mine for long. That is the whole point of writing it down. If you have not read ICARUS yet, the new edition is the best place to begin. Free on Kindle Unlimited. And if you already have, thank you for being here while I start the next one. I'll send word from Mars as it takes shape. Zsolt Read ICARUS (English) → https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FHQV1XB9 ICARUS in Hungarian → https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0H7R5BLJM Elena Markova Mítosz zsolt.bugarszki@gmail.com Check out our site

🚀 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 Basic Information Full Name: Anatoly Mikhailovich Ivanov Date of Birth: February 19, 2042 Place of Birth: Kaliningrad, Russia Education: Naval Command Training, Admiral Makarov State University of Maritime and Inland Shipping, Saint Petersburg - Class of 2063 Advanced Aerospace and Life Systems Command Certification – Roscosmos Officer Program, 2067 Final Qualification: Cosmonaut Training Graduate, Gagarin Cosmonaut Training Center Major Anatoly Mikhailovich Ivanov Current Role Position: Settlement Commander, Vostok Outpost (Russian Sector, Mars) Military Rank: Major (retained honorary title after decommissioning) Affiliation: Roscosmos Martian Division, Colonial Security & Survival Command Character Overview Major Ivanov is the last soldier of a forgotten war, a man bred for duty, honor, and national pride. A former naval officer turned cosmonaut, his journey to Mars was not an ambition, but a posting. He took it out of duty, and perhaps because Earth no longer had any place left for men like him. Before Mars, Ivanov fought in the two wars that broke the country he had sworn to defend: the EU-Russian War and the Russo-Chinese War. Russia lost both. It lost territory, influence, and the illusion that history was still moving in its favor. Ivanov survived the defeats, but not untouched. By the time he was reassigned to Mars, he was no longer a rising officer. He was a veteran of failed campaigns, useful enough to command a remote mining outpost, but too closely tied to a defeated era to be welcomed at the center of power. He was once a respected field officer and survival commander, disciplined, unflinchingly loyal, and hardened by wars Russia had no longer been strong enough to win. Mars was not his ambition. It was where men like him were sent when Earth had no honorable place left for them. But years on Mars, surrounded by broken infrastructure, fading flags, and unanswered requests from Moscow, have eroded the clear edges of his identity. His rank never matched the burden placed on him. Vostok was too remote, too poor, and too politically inconvenient to deserve a general. It received a major instead, one stubborn enough to keep the flag standing after everyone else had stopped looking. He commands what’s left of Vostok. Barely. The walls leak. Supplies are scarce. And the world he once defended now watches him with indifference. Key Traits Strengths ✔ Command Presence – Ivanov still carries authority in his voice and posture. People stand straighter when he enters. His leadership may be rigid, but it keeps morale from shattering. ✔ Veteran's Clarity – He sees through political performance and posturing. What matters is survival—everything else is background noise. ✔ Stubborn Patriot – His loyalty to Russia is both a strength and a weakness. He refuses to be a puppet to Earth’s shifting alliances. ✔ Dark Humor – Beneath the military stoicism lies a biting wit, often surfacing in sarcasm, barbs, or provocations meant to test others. Flaws ✖ Pride to the Point of Ruin – Ivanov would rather let the station rot than beg for help. To him, dignity is worth dying for—even if others disagree. ✖ Distrust of Outsiders – Whether Chinese, American, or Martian-born, Ivanov assumes manipulation until proven otherwise. ✖ Tired and Bitter – He knows he’s becoming obsolete and resents the world for moving on without him. ✖ Poor Adaptability – While he endures, he doesn’t often evolve. Change doesn’t suit him—it threatens his identity. 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.

🚀 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 Basic Information: Full Name: Pyotr Dmitrievich Sokolov Date of Birth: June 12, 2065 Place of Birth: Saint Petersburg, Russia Education: B.S. in Computer Science – ITMO University, Class of 2084 M.S. in Cybersecurity and Quantum Computing – Skolkovo Institute of Science and Technology, Class of 2086 Specialized training in Martian data systems, AI development, and cyber infiltration techniques Pyotr Sokolov Position: Lead Software Engineer & Cybersecurity Specialist at Vostok Station Primary hacker, systems integrator, and information broker for the Russian settlement Affiliations: Formerly affiliated with the Russian Space Research Institute before being reassigned to Mars. Key figure in maintaining and manipulating data systems within Vostok Station and beyond. Character Description: Pyotr Sokolov is a walking contradiction - a chaotic genius wrapped in a slouchy hoodie, whose fingers dance across the keyboard faster than most people can think. He is the reason the Russian settlement still has functioning data systems, despite years of neglect and isolation. Born into a rapidly declining Russia, Pyotr never trusted authority. He grew up in a world where information was more valuable than money and knowing how to get into the right (or wrong) system was the ultimate survival skill. By the time he was a teenager, he had already infiltrated military-grade firewalls for fun. Instead of prison, he was offered a scholarship, a handler, and a future he had not chosen. Identified early as an exceptional systems-security talent, Pyotr was placed on an accelerated state technical track that moved him through university, military-adjacent cyber programs, and Martian infrastructure training years ahead of a conventional career path. By the time most engineers his age were still proving themselves, he had already been cleared for systems many senior officers were not allowed to touch. He excelled in AI research, cybersecurity, and deep system exploits, but he never lost his rebellious streak. When he was sent to Mars, he saw it as exile - but quickly made himself indispensable. With limited supplies and constant technical failures, the settlers at Vostok needed someone who could work around regulations, bypass bureaucratic nonsense, and make systems function by any means necessary. That someone was Pyotr. While Ivanov kept order and Elena kept the settlement standing, Pyotr kept the information flowing. He cracked encrypted databases, intercepted communications, and bent security protocols to his will. The Russians had no official access to external trade networks, but Pyotr ensured they knew more about Mars’s political landscape than anyone else. If there was a secret, Pyotr had already found it. Key Traits: Strengths: ✔ Cyber System Genius – Master of AI programming, encryption, hacking, and system optimization. If it runs on code, Pyotr can control it. ✔ Information Broker – He doesn’t just collect data; he understands its value. Knows when to share, when to withhold, and when to weaponize knowledge. ✔ Unpredictable & Adaptive – Thinks ten steps ahead, shifts plans on a whim, and thrives in chaos. If a system fails, he has already prepared three workarounds. ✔ Loyal—To Those He Respects – Doesn’t trust easily, but once someone earns his respect, he will go to extreme lengths for them. Flaws: ✖ Recklessly Egotistical – His confidence in his own intelligence sometimes leads him to take unnecessary risks. If he sees a challenge, he has to beat it. ✖ Socially Unfiltered – His sarcasm, dark humor, and total lack of social tact often rub people the wrong way. ✖ Morally Flexible – Has no ethical qualms about hacking, spying, or exploiting systems - sees it all as a game of intelligence. ✖ Physically Unimpressive – Not a fighter, not a soldier. His battlefield is digital, and he avoids direct confrontation at all costs. 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.

🚀 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 One of the planet’s most dramatic events is its dust storms, which can envelop not just a small region but, on occasion, the entire planet. This phenomenon is unparalleled in our solar system: Coming storm on Mars Planet-Wide Dust Storms: Sometimes, these storms grow large enough to block out sunlight across vast swaths of the planet. In a particularly severe global storm, Mars can remain enshrouded for weeks, with daytime skies turning dim and temperatures in some areas dropping further as the sun is blotted out. Wind Speeds and Visibility: While Martian winds can reach speeds over 100 km/h (about 60 mph), the thin air on Mars exerts far less force than a similar wind would on Earth. However, the sheer volume of fine dust kicked up by these storms drastically reduces visibility and can coat infrastructure and solar panels Effects on Human Settlements: Power Generation: Solar panels can become blanketed with dust, rendering them almost useless. Colonists will likely need alternative energy sources - such as nuclear - to remain self-sufficient during prolonged, dusty periods. Equipment Degradation: Fine dust can infiltrate mechanical joints, seals, and vents. Regular cleaning and maintenance schedules must be meticulously planned, and spacesuits would need robust dust resistance to prevent wear and tear. Habitat Pressurization & Air Filtration: The dust can reduce the efficiency of air-handling systems if it infiltrates. Proper filtration, redundant life support systems, and well-sealed airlocks become crucial to keep the living areas habitable. Radiation Protection: Ironically, dust can slightly help shield against cosmic rays and solar radiation, but it remains a double-edged sword, too much dust buildup on structures can cause mechanical failures, and outside mobility becomes more dangerous.

🚀 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 Basic Information: Full Name: Elena Ivanovna Markova Date of Birth: March 3, 2055 Place of Birth: Novosibirsk, Russia Education: B.S. in Mechanical Engineering, Moscow State Technical University, Class of 2077 M.S. in Aerospace Systems and Habitat Engineering, Bauman Moscow State Technical University, Class of 2079 Specialized training in Martian colony infrastructure and extreme-environment survival Elena Ivanovna Markova Position Chief Engineer of Vostok Station (Russian settlement on Mars) Lead Infrastructure Specialist, responsible for maintaining life support, power systems, and structural integrity of the settlement. Affiliations Formerly affiliated with Roscosmos' Deep Space Engineering Division, before being reassigned to Mars as part of the Vostok mission. One of the last standing senior engineers in the Russian settlement after the storm catastrophe. Elena's Story Novosibirsk, around 2060 The city never truly slept. It only froze into silence now and then. The Siberian winter lay thick over the concrete blocks of the housing estates, pressing every sound, every movement, every shred of hope into one grey mass. Slick walkways wound between the buildings, rusted railings lined graffiti-smeared walls, and the playgrounds had long since been abandoned. Novosibirsk was a city too big for anyone to matter in, and too small to ever truly disappear from. At home in Novosibirsk Elena Ivanovna Markova grew up in this noisy silence. Home was sometimes a place of safety and sometimes a trap. Her mother's fragile mind frequently led her to psychiatric clinics, where she disappeared for days at a time. During those absences, Elena either stayed with her grandmother or was locked alone in the apartment. When she was a young girl her brother had still been around, until first school and then the military took him away. By her teenage years the silence had grown heavier and more familiar, a silence that settled into the bones. She wasn't a loud child. Survival isn't noisy; it is a matter of watching, learning, and sensing the currents of the world. She idolized her brother, and even her father, or at least the version of him she imagined before he came home drunk and ready to lash out. Elena didn't cry. She clenched her jaw and moved forward. Something wild lived in her, an instinct that had always kept her going. She didn't want to be special. She just wanted to make it through another day. In a childhood wrapped in grey walls and groaning heating pipes, that was dream enough. Playing with friends on a playground in Novosibirsk 2073–2079: Fire and Steel Elena was eighteen when her brother was killed. One week he was sending voice notes from the front lines, and the next his belongings arrived in a sealed military crate. There was no funeral, only silence and a single clumsy message from an exhausted officer. Then came the occupation. Chinese troops entered Novosibirsk in late 2073. The streets grew quieter and tenser. Surveillance drones hovered where pigeons used to sit, and the bratva street gangs that once ruled the alleys evolved into underground resistance cells. Elena didn't join for patriotism. She joined to eat, to not be alone, to survive. What began as petty courier jobs and message relays turned into long nights crawling through sewers, rerouting stolen power, or patching up sabotaged heating systems before the next blackout froze someone to death. Those four years reshaped her completely. She learned when to speak and when to stay quiet, how to be invisible in a crowd, how to lie, and how to fix anything that ran on wires, pressure, or code. No one held your hand in those days, not unless they were searching you for weapons. On the streets of Novosibirsk And then, against all odds, in 2077 she got out. Somehow her application made it through. Moscow State Technical University sent a confirmation code, and Elena, carrying only a weather-worn duffel bag and a bundle of forged travel permits, made it across the restructured border. Moscow was another planet, dirty and cold and overcrowded, but still breathing. While others partied or complained, Elena took every credit she could. She funded her tuition by building project prototypes for lazy classmates, wiring dorm kitchens, and rebuilding trashed ventilation systems. In two years she completed what should have taken four, earning her B.S. in Mechanical Engineering on fast-track survival mode. Elena Markova as student in Moscow Then she did it again, accepted into Bauman Moscow State Technical University's aerospace program, specializing in off-world habitats. She worked, studied, and rebuilt, and she never stopped. She didn't have the luxury of breaking down. By 2079 she had become something new, something forged under pressure. And that was when Kazakhstan came calling. 2079–2083: Nowhere Else to Go Kazakhstan was supposed to be a stepping stone, a proving ground for aerospace engineers. But by the time Elena arrived, the space program was little more than a banner on a rusting hangar wall. Chinese oversight had redirected most resources toward gas extraction and deep-earth mining. Engineers were reassigned to field rigs, data towers, and automated maintenance crews spread across the windswept steppe. Elena adapted, the way she always did. She learned the rhythm of the drills, the bitter crack of dry wind against temporary shelters, and the hierarchies between Chinese officers and the fading remnants of local Russian staff. She didn't argue. She worked, fixed, optimized, rewired, and survived. But she never belonged. And then one day, without warning or explanation, her clearance was revoked. Just like that: badge deactivated, transit card wiped, final salary delayed indefinitely. It wasn't personal. It never was. She was Russian, and that was reason enough. She didn't go home. There was nothing to go back to. Her parents were ghosts in the wreckage of Novosibirsk. Her brother was buried without a grave. She had no friends, no anchor, no next step. She lived for weeks in a rented storage unit on the outskirts of Almaty, subsisting on cold noodles and boiled tea, her body bruised from fatigue and disuse. Then one night, half-scrolling through old aerospace job boards on a borrowed tablet, she saw the banner: "Join the Frontier. Mars Needs Engineers." She stared at it for a long time. Not because it sounded glamorous (God, no), but because it didn't ask for references. It asked for survival skills, systems knowledge, and a willingness to relocate. Permanently. She clicked Apply. Elena’s story doesn’t end here - in fact, it’s only just beginning. Follow her journey deeper into MÍTOSZ in the opening chapter of Icarus. 👉 Start reading here 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.

Ἐν δὲ μαθεῖν ὁ πάσχων· καὶ πρὸς τοῦ θεοῦ δώροισι βαίη σωφροσύνη. (“Through suffering comes wisdom; and from the gods, as a gift, comes restraint.” – Aeschylus, Agamemnon) Wang Lei's eyes were not what they used to be. He increased the font size on his tablet until the numbers were readable, then studied the drone telemetry. The panel output was within acceptable range. The efficiency graphs said what they always said. Everything was fine. He set the tablet down and rubbed his eyes. That was when he noticed the sunlight. A thin ray of it came through the narrow observation window above his workstation, the kind of clear unfiltered Martian morning that happened perhaps a dozen times a year, when the dust settled overnight and the sky lost its usual amber haze. The light settled onto his desk, spreading itself unhurriedly, as if resting at last after the long journey it had made to arrive in this particular room. Wang Lei sat with it for a moment. Then he convinced himself that the panels needed a visual inspection. The drones in sector four had shown a minor calibration drift last week. That was the reason. He activated the airlock system, took his scafander from the wall rack, and locked it onto the collar of his work suit. Thirty seconds through the chamber. Then the outer door opened and the cold arrived first. Then the silence. He stood for a moment and looked up. The solar array stretched above Tianyuan's gate, the cleaning drones moving in their slow deliberate rows, and beyond them the sky was mauve. Wang Lei let himself look at it properly. A man was allowed that much. He was still looking when the airlock cycled behind him. Two figures emerged. The first was a young woman, her face visible through her visor. Wang Lei recognised the expression immediately. It was the kind of smile that has a man somewhere in it. She moved quickly, purposefully, as if the destination already existed more vividly in her mind than the ground beneath her feet. Beside her walked one of the tall humanoid robots the Americans had left at Tianyuan a few weeks ago. Wang Lei had not grown used to them yet. It moved with the same easy confidence as the woman, matching her pace without effort, and when they passed him it turned its head and offered a small nod, the way a person would. He nodded back, because it seemed rude not to. They spoke to each other in voices he couldn't hear through his visor and were gone. Wang Lei returned to his drones. Some minutes later, through the soles of his boots rather than the air above him, he felt something. A vibration with no routine explanation. He turned. He raised his eyes toward the sun. He forced them open against the light. Something was approaching. Want to keep reading? 🚀 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 ICARUS isn’t a traditional book - it’s a new kind of storytelling. Each chapter is broken into short scenes, enhanced with images, cinematic teasers, and links to supporting content: character profiles, technology breakdowns, and backstory threads. This format is built for your phone, tablet, or laptop - giving you a dynamic reading experience and access to a broader universe behind the story. Curious what’s coming next on Mars? Scroll down and join our early readers list 📬 - we’ll send you new scenes and story updates regularly.

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 125 “If you're going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don't even start.” Charles Bukowski​ A dull metallic glint caught Lena Ryland’s attention, just a wrench, half-buried in the Martian dust near the loading gate. She bent down, picked it up, and wiped the oxide-streaked grime from its surface. Another reminder of how fast everything here could fall apart if they weren’t careful, especially now, with so many caravans swarming the region. At this hour, the loading bay was unusually busy. Crates were stacked along the wall, waiting to be loaded onto half-filled hover lifters. The plan was to dispatch each vehicle in order, officially logged as “maintenance runs,” “waste exports,” or, in the boldest lie of all: entries in an illegal Mad Max-style race. If Earth Command, or 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 124 A sharp clatter of gravel echoed off the lead truck in the Tianyuan Base rescue convoy as it crested the final ridge. In the driver’s seat, Zhang Wei, the engineer in charge of the operation, squinted out through the reinforced windshield. Three days had passed since the Russian distress call. Three days across dusty plains and half-buried rock fields in an exhausting push forward. Now, at last, they had reached Vostok Station, and the state they found it in was somehow even worse than expected. Carved into the rock wall behind the outpost was a dark fissure, a shallow cave gouged into rust-colored stone. At its shadowed entrance, freshly dug graves were lined up, barely visible, marked with bent metal scraps and improvised plaques. Dr. Huang Qian saw them first. 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