∞∞∞

  CATHARINE - Palace tunnels

  A cold light awoke in Catharine's wrist comm. As an almost sentient light blue-shifted within the metal, the Heretic's Fork slid out precisely and settled in her palm like a caliper, its twin prongs waiting like viper fangs.

  Years had passed since her ascent ceremony, when the king had forced the princess ring onto her finger—two icy crystals orbiting the Harmonia Ruby.

  Heat flushed her face as she pictured Krrel—grandiose, omnipotent—and the thought of him stiffened her jaw.

  Catharine positioned the prongs, severed the ring's claws, extracted the ancestral ruby with surgical precision, plucked the heart from her father's symbol, and slid the Heretic's Fork back into its sheath.

  Black veins spidered out from the comm's edge like a map of corruption.

  She pulled her sleeve down in a quick, instinctive attempt to hide it as the device palpitated against her skin—not a signal, but an omen.

  Catharine set the empty ring upright on the tunnel floor; its glitter fading as the tunnels below the palace swallowed her steps in their constant grinding hum.

  Fading lanterns succumbed to dust and blackness a hundred metres ahead, artillery shook the tunnels from above, and the industry of Mars quaked the ground below.

  A blast wave concussed through the air; its tang: metal and blood.

  Footsteps, clipped and precise, approached her from the dust, and Catharine smiled.

  “Did you bring it, young snake?”

  “Y-yes, Lady Catharine,” Jendrick Pericles said, offering her his father’s altered pin gun.

  Catharine examined the archaic weapon with the Cuneform-embossed grip and dull faceted gems; on the barrel, a triform of V-prongs cradled a single, empty setting—a socket waiting for its stone.

  “Good boy,” Catharine smiled, studying its rifling and the mirror-like sub-kelvin charge closely.

  “You may yet be able to call me Catharine.”

  “Yes, Lady Catharine,” Jendrick said, bowing, but he elevated his eyes to hers.

  Catharine chambered a round of Cryo-charges, the mechanism hissing as frost formed along the barrel. "Mars remembers," she said, her voice quiet, almost gentle. "And so do I."

  Jendrick's throat tightened. That softness in her tone—he'd heard it before, right before someone died.

  Lifting the gun to her eyes and with a solid click, secured the Deimos Onyx next to the cross-hairs.

  "The Master of the Palace gave me this gem when I was just a child, on the day the Queen was killed, on the day your father was also there—another traitor to Mars.”

  Jendrick looked away from Catharine for the first time and his knuckles whitened.

  “The other planets of the solar system should tremble when Olympus wakes, yet my own father fails to advance Mars, to elevate its potency,” Catharine said. She clicked the gun’s safety and a Cryo-charge to hiss inside.

  Jendrick pivoted. “How?”

  "My father keeps the miners weak—picks and shovels, not machines." Catharine watched Jendrick's eyes for understanding. "But if we gave them tools, let them forge weapons from the alloy they mine, what would that make us?"

  "Weapons, m'lady?" Jendrick's feet shifted as his eyes rose from the gun to meet hers.

  Catharine's smile illuminated the dank tunnel air. "I may make royalty out of you yet, little snake." She flipped the gun like a scrap of meat, evaluating its worth. Beneath her sleeve, the comm bracelet vibrated—a signal only she could feel.

  "Do you think your father will miss it?" Her fingers tightened on his arm. Not kindly. A queen claiming what was hers.

  "Lady Catharine?" Jendrick didn't pull away, though his eyes softened, seeking something she wouldn't give.

  For a heartbeat, she saw someone else standing there—someone who'd never stand beside her again. She forced the thought down.

  "What will your father think?" Catharine held the gun's barrel to the nearest lantern, following the twisted rifling until it disappeared in a line of frost.

  "That he betrayed you?"

  “Such a smart Regent, though such a small tunic is not befitting of a queen’s viceroy, is it?”

  Jendrick straightened, sliding his heels together. He shook his head.

  Catharine's eyes darkened as she marked the black door at the tunnel's end. "What else did I ask you to bring me?"

  Jendrick stepped back, holding up two fingers as though he already knew what she intended.

  "Bring them to me."

  While Jendrick mumbled orders to the guard, Catharine turned and ran her finger along a sharp outcropping of rock. She didn't flinch when it cut her.

  Boots echoed in the tunnel—the guards' clipped steps and the heavier shuffle of the miners. Raf's miners. Beneath her sleeve, the bracelet pulsed with cold alien light, and the gun grew heavy in her hand.

  The two men stood too straight. Defiant.

  Jendrick gritted his teeth when he witnessed the strange metal change.

  Their sweaty, dusty smell offended her, and her nostrils flared. “They say voices come from below. Tell me...”

  “Strange things… yes.” The bold one stepped too close, restrained by a guard. “Raf would tell you, 'cept you hurt your younger sister.”

  Her thumb caressed the gun. “Indeed.”

  “I ask that you defend the new queen.” She narrowed her eyes and measured the timid miner.

  “They say that you poisoned Trianon. Why?” His hands shook. He couldn't meet her eyes when he spoke.

  The bold one strained against the guards and interjected “Raf tells us what we do.”

  The bracelet palpitated and Catharine raised her jaw. “You do not understand.”

  "This gun is special." A wisp of coolant wove between her fingers as she brushed the trigger with one sharp, black nail. "Have you seen flesh break like glass?"

  The timid miner’s hands began to shake uncontrollably and his voice pitched. “Begging you, princess... we have to do what Raf tells us.”

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  “What is that mark on your arm?” Catharine folded the gun across her chest and tapped a finger on its barrel, interrogating the bold one.

  “Each of these marks is for my children.” The miner's shoulders sank. His eyes watered—pride mixed with terror. He choked on his words. “Two girls, one boy.”

  Will Rafael still want me? Catherine dismissed the thought.

  "I can change the cold." She touched each gem on the weapon, one at a time, deliberate. Her sleeve rode up, revealing the comm bracelet beneath.

  "Or your chest. Freezing your air, or your heart." Catharine panned the gun between them. Both men stood rigid, eyes wide, breath shallow.

  Catharine lifted her eyebrows and focused on his tattoo. “How old are your children?”

  “My girls, five and seven, my boy… he’s ten.” His eyes hollowed as he spoke, each word more desperate than the last.

  “And, your head.” Catharine targeted the gun.

  There was no bang; simply a sizzle, then a crack. Yet the miner took five seconds to fall, while the timid one collapsed to his knees—crying, praying.

  The veins on the back of her hand blackened like tree roots in snow.

  Catharine holstered the gun, snapping it tight against her hip.

  The comm bracelet pulsed in response, as if satisfied.

  A rusty haze of cellular dust hung in the air but Catharine extended her neck, breathing through the dust.

  “I shall stroll through the habitat promenade this night. I want you to tell them about the new queen.” When Catharine cupped Jendrick’s face, his cheek was wet and fleshy.

  Jendrick lifted his hand to his chest and held his breath, turning away from the aftermath.

  “Bring that to the tunnel below so there is no mistaking my words.” She glared at her guard.

  Jendrick peeked at the dark veins spidering over her porcelain skin but didn’t hide his fear quickly enough.

  Catharine drew a white glove over her hand.

  “What,” she said softly, “are you all looking at?”

  ∞∞∞

  KRREL - Sysyphi Basin

  "The apothecary of Palace Trianon is lost to us, my king." The Master of the Palace bit his lip and pressed a clay vial into the King's palm.

  "It tastes like poison." The foul syrup squeezed between his yellow teeth before he swallowed.

  "The last formulation before Pericles took the palace." Krrel's throat clenched while the Master of the Palace leered. "It clarifies one's thoughts, my King."

  "See that you find more." When the tremor quieted, Krrel curled his fingers until his fist stilled and raised it—white-knuckled. "Forged of Mars."

  "My king, there is word." Wavering, he stooped low and handed Krrel a ring.

  Krrel's eyes darkened and then he locked his hands behind his back. "Where is Pericles now?"

  "He advances with two armies on two fronts, my king." The Master of the Palace looked away.

  "Bring me that decrepit miner. Now."

  Krrel surveyed the Sisyphi Bastion fortress as it spread below him. Its geometry a snowflake carved in stone, perched on the rim of Hellas Planitia with talon-like towers that flanked concave battlements: built to shred armour and macerate the enemies of Mars. Inside, stone corridors shed dry dust and the bite of heated metal and flux. Below in its keep Novae-Planetia was being born. A weapon that could alter Mars’ future.

  “I brought you to the surface for a reason.” Krrel wore the Grand Marshal's mantle, yet one emblem had been sliced.

  “We hit the melt,” Branik said, rubbing the festering flash burn on his forearm. He tried to smile, but pain twisted it into a grimace.

  “A power no adversary in the solar system can deny.” Krrel’s voice rose as he directed the royal medic to the miner. “You, your men, the miners… will be trained to be Mars’s most feared soldiers.”

  “With weapons?” As Branik stepped back, a medic approached and dabbed salve on his scorched arm.

  “The most deadly weapons the moon… Mars has ever conceived.” Krrel stabbed the holo display as a lattice of coils cascaded to life.

  In the image, an armoured exoskeleton orbited into view with shoulder-mounted alloy barrels that shimmered like firebolts in the talons of a falcon.

  “The perfect weapon for new soldiers of Mars.” Krrel raised his voice and clenched his fist.

  “Soldiers.” Branik’s voice was low and he lifted his chest. "You said soldiers.”

  "There," Krrel swept a hand toward the training pits below, “you will be forged into combatants and become the next servants of Mars.”

  “As soldiers.” Branik locked eyes with Krrel.

  “You will bring my enemies to their knees.” Krrel paced and his eyes hunted for focus, until the medicine settled them.

  “Saints of Olympus...” Branik coughed through his beard and stared down from the tower while a chromium turret bore unshuttered below them. “A gun... that big?”

  “The Novae-Planetia speaks,” Krrel proclaimed, arm lifted to the stars. “No adversary is safe.”

  “The alloy,” Branik said, eyeing his festering burn. “The heart of hell.”

  Krrel smiled then faced the Master of the Palace. “Never touch my display.”

  A royal guard exchanged a glance with the Master of the Palace.

  The Grand Marshal tapped the console. One by one, his turrets angled low over the battlements, slow and hungry, each bore stopping with a jarring click as Krrel sneered into the combined reticles..

  From the observation ring, Krrel studied the melee below—Mars' new gladiators locked in combat.

  In the pits, bathed in sweat, Branik’s miners were locked together in hand-to-hand combative drills.

  Doubled over, Branik staggered to rim's razor wire and looked up to Deimos. The tiny moon washed in a crimson haze of Mars-light.

  As he knelt to pray, a barb of rusted wire bit into his knee. Blood leached onto the bastion pits, but Branik kept praying.

  High above in the battlements, the Grand Marshal watched the miner’s blood seep into the dust. His own shadow, cast by the cold console lights, did not quite match his movements.

  Krrel grasped the rail and emptied his mind, but the shadow crept further.

  ∞∞∞

  RAF - Rebel Shipyards, Phoenicis Lacus

  Twenty-five clicks east, a mushroom cloud blemished the Martian stratosphere. At the repair centre, those who saw it redoubled their efforts. Two technicians welded power conduits, closing their eyes to the spattering flux. Shock rifle in one hand, a mother smothered a fire. Fusion sparks rained around a spry old man, his makeshift flight visor deflecting the lethal plasma. South of the repair centre, seamstresses affixed a guided missile to a shimmering interceptor’s underbelly. Steady. Practised.

  A child sprinted past, clutching a power node to his chest.

  Rumbling artillery hunted this place. Oxygen gel seeped from a gutted tanker. A recon ship hissed through its vents, then steadied. When its navigation lights awoke, a few ragged cheers rose—but warning sirens cut them short.

  “What’s that?” Xylia stepped in front of Raf and put her hands around his waist.

  “Attack vectors and a strafing pattern—we shoot before Pericles' column breaks.” His eyes lingered on hers for a second.

  “Giving orders by hand?” Xylia let Raf twist away and keep going.

  “Some of the comms don’t work yet.” Raf held up the tablet then turned to the next fighter. “Besides, Pericles can't listen in.”

  Old Sarrin hunched low, quantum tuning forks aligned the power systems of the Galvex-I as sections of the heavy fighter thrummed. Resonant. Raf wiped sweat from his eyes. The port side of the Galvex was still dark.

  “The plans get through?” Sarrin didn’t look up. He already knew.

  “We’ll melt the ground under him.” Raf braced his hands on his knees, huffing for air.

  He surveyed the repair centre—young women hauling a missile past him without breaking stride.

  “Wait until you’re my age, kid.” Sarrin’s laugh was smokey. “Noticed the Galvex-1 coordinates.”

  “What do you mean?” Raf twisted his mouth.

  The old mechanic rubbed his hand as a ringed planet faded on his work tablet. “I don’t know what pains me more.”

  Xylia ran her hands over the phase-worn thrust vectoring leaves on the dark matter drive. Light warped like liquid glass and spacetime striations made her breath shallow and urgent. She was about to speak when the port side of the Galvex glowed, flickering to life. The ship warbled a heavy mechanical harmony.

  “What does he mean, Raf?” Xylia interjected over the noise. Her eyes blinked, as if refocusing.

  “Nothin’.”

  “Raf. You have to help them.” Xylia raised her voice. “The stars need to wait.”

  “I know what this costs.” Raf massaged his brow and crawled up on the hull.

  Preignition flames lit the ascent motors, scattering dust and embers over the repair centre floor plating. Raf punched the weapons control. The missile pods lit in sequence, glowing blue before snapping into the hull, disguised beneath its grey armour.

  Sarrin slapped the service door shut. "She's a carnivore now."

  "The shipyards." Xylia looked up at Raf and tugged on his pant leg. "We can't leave them."

  "We aren't." Raf jumped down from the canopy and wiped the machine oil from his hands. A vice-like tightness squeezed his ribs. He moved close and massaged her shoulder. "I have a new plan."

  Raf blinked—pitched warning sirens screeched five times.

  For a second, Xylia's eyes met his. "Your ship smells awful."

  "Okay... we've got work to do." Even old Sarrin managed a smile.

  “Look here, Xylia.” Sarrin tilted his head toward the holo readout where red dots flashed, closing on the repair centre. “All those track-crawlers… each of ’em took parts from the battleships.”

  “So they won’t fly?” Xylia swallowed and stared blankly.

  “And we will.” Sarrin made a stiff smile then massaged his hand with the rag. “Weapons for us.”

  Raf scolded someone on the comms. He looked perturbed, then nodded.

  “Problems?” Sarrin furrowed his bushy grey brow.

  “All but one.”

  Sarrin’s wrench hit the floor plating with a final, metallic clang

  “The Alba.” Raf’s throat tightened.

  “Low-orbit corvette,” Sarrin said, frowning. “She’s a killer.”

  “Raf.” Xylia squeezed his arm. “Pericles is marching on Noctis right now.”

  Raf stared at the comm, as if she'd not spoken.

  “There’s something else… spit it out, son!” Sarrin crushed his wrench until his knuckles were white.

  “Communique from Phobos…” Raf’s voice trailed off as he looked up at the narrow slit of Martian sky between the crevasse walls.

  Comm chatter erupted from the Galvex-1 canopy while static scratched Britt’s urgent cries from Stickney Crater into white noise.

  The Galvex-I answered, knowing—ready.

  Outside, the Noctis gantry cranes groaned in the wind, and somewhere Pericles kept marching.

  Raf stood on top of the Galvex-1. Above, Vega's light shifted.

  Xylia gazed past him. “I have to come with you.”

  For a moment Raf saw her eyes darken.

  ∞∞∞