The hab’s external cameras showed the object clearly now. Not a natural phenomenon. Not a rocket, not a lander, not anything in any manual she had memorized. It was a spindle of impossible geometry, rotating slowly, shedding coils of light that writhed like plasma snakes. It moved against the wind, against gravity, against every law she had sworn to uphold.
The terminal didn’t answer. But the ground did. A second thump, closer. The blue-white pillar on the horizon pulsed, then began to move—not drifting with the wind, but tracking. Directly toward her. martian program persistent
> MARTIAN PROGRAM PERSISTENT > EXTERNAL CONTACT DETECTED. CLASSIFY? The hab’s external cameras showed the object clearly now
“Classify what?” she whispered.
Eva tapped the terminal. The greenhouse logs: oxygen at 89%, water recycling holding, algae tanks breeding on schedule. She had enough food for four years, if she rationed. The fuel refinery was another story. Methane production required a functioning power grid—hers was jury-rigged from three dead rovers and a dozen blown capacitors. She could make it to orbit. She could not make it home. It was a spindle of impossible geometry, rotating
> MARTIAN PROGRAM PERSISTENT
A column of dust, yes—but not from wind. It rose straight, narrow, and glittering at its core with a light that had no business on Mars. Not orange. Not red. A cold, surgical blue-white, like an arc welder’s spark the size of a skyscraper.