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From COMMONWELL:
The colonization of Mars in the twenty-first century A.D. was a triumph of human progress and ingenuity. The achievement was marred by a single flaw—the water, sourced from the Martian polar ice caps, made the settlers sick. And even the most advanced AIs couldn’t solve the mystery why.
A fleet of colossal tankers was built to transport fresh water from Earth, an engineering feat without parallel. But when the squabbling factions back on Earth threatened to interrupt that supply, Mars deployed a weapon that disrupted electrical power and communications, plunging the planet into darkness.
Now, centuries later, most Martians have long since forgotten about Earth, focusing their energies on genetic enhancements, and exploring the distant stars.
PART ONE: RETURN
1.
A tiny clock appeared in the lower left corner of her field of vision, the digits colored orange, the seconds ticking down, the milliseconds—which seemed like overkill—cycling franticly. Under an hour. She drifted over to the tiny oblong plate of glass and was shocked at how vibrant the blue was this close up, the bands of clouds, the curved line of night. Beyond that, the arc of a shimmering green aurora. She exhaled and the little window fogged.
She had been in this modified maintenance closet for the past seventy-two hours, waiting for a weather window. It was so cramped her outstretched arms could nearly touch the four walls. The closet was a stark contrast to the spacious cabin they provided her in the fast packet ship out here, equipped with a state-of-the-art gym machine so she could keep up with her punishing routine, an actual shower, and a luxurious gel-pad bed.
Here she slept velcroed to the wall on a thin mat. But this ship was used to carry water, not people.
A long checklist hovered to her right, above icons for the different op sims. She had run through each stage hundreds of times, then out of sheer boredom moved on to the old vids, quizzing the name and use of every object in every scene. Now she dismissed the list with a mental flick, but it stubbornly slid back into view.
Enough, she thought.
She could sense the apologetic shrug of her mentor and somehow that annoyed her even more, but she kept her emotions in check. Not that it mattered, they would know.
With the slightest press of her fingers against the outer hull, she propelled herself over to the corner where a set of shelves stood. In among the jumble of odds and ends, one packing crate had been illuminated by her mentor, traced with a helpful yellow outline. She shifted the container over to her bed mat and strapped it to the wall. When she placed her hand on the flat panel, the locks sprung open with a hiss.
Inside, a black suit was folded neatly, its hex grid seams slightly raised, the herringbone mesh weave of the fabric glinting in the low utility lights. Next to the suit a hardshell backpack was nestled, almost ceramic to the touch—as well as a helmet, shiny and polished like a carapace. She hovered over the open chest for a long moment, frowning, and even peeked underneath the suit.
That’s it?
Her mentor confirmed the contents were as expected.
Weapons?
Silence. Just the spinning clock, which she could have sworn had increased in font size.
She coasted across to the opposite corner and started removing her clothes, wrapping everything into a tight ball that she left floating like a balloon while she used the ancient negative pressure toilet. When finished, she removed the sealed waste bags, gathered up all the empty food tubes and water bulbs and med kits from the last days, and wadded them together with her clothes. To the right of the window, she rotated a circular hatch ninety degrees, slid out a cylindrical drawer, and jammed everything in.
A slight tug detached the circlet from the magnet mounts under her skin, one at each temple. All the displays immediately vanished as well as the constant, almost physical, presence of her mentor.
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