The entrance hall was smaller than it looked on the internet. Smaller and louder. Hot air hummed through ceiling vents, thick with recycled breath and cleaning chemicals. First impression? Someone had a good idea, ran out of money, and hoped the red dust would cover the cracks.

Colt stood inside the dome, his boots scuffed with Martian dust, suit seals hissing quietly as they equalised.

A thin man sat on a duffel bag near the edge of the room, nursing a cup of synthetic coffee, steam curling behind his glasses. He looked tired but alert.

"Which way to the police?" Colt asked.

The man nodded toward the far side of the dome.

"Back wall. MSA booth with the blue stripe."

Something about him didn't add up. Not threat—something else. His posture was too calm. Like he'd already accepted something Colt hadn't.

"You just get in?" Colt asked.

The man looked up through his glasses.

"Leaving," he said. "If you don't have a ticket, you can queue for the no-shows. They call it standby, but it's more like limbo."

Colt glanced at the empty seats stacked along the wall behind him.

"Didn't think the return flights started for another thirty days."

The man gave a half-shrug.

"They don't. I'm second in line. It'll fill up fast. Believe me."

Colt nodded and moved on, slipping through the crowd pouring in behind him.

Five more ships had landed while he walked from the field. The dome was swelling with new arrivals—some blinking, some excited, all disoriented. Wide-eyed strangers, corporate recruits with clean uniforms and nervous smiles. University grads, mission staff. The ones who had come with a plan.

And then there were the others—people who had sold everything just to get here. The settlers. Dreamers and drifters. Packs heavy, eyes heavier.

Colt saw a few holding up signs. Well-dressed. Calm. Their signs had logos—church names mostly. Martian chapters of Earth-based religions. Most of the people walking past didn't stop.

A man in a worn parka turned to Colt as he passed.

"Hey—global warming's real," the man said with a grin. "And I can say that out loud now. No woke charges. No freedom of speech tribunals. Welcome to Mars, brother. Welcome to Mars!"

Colt gave him a flat look.

"Congratulations."

He moved on.

Toward a booth at the far wall. Blue stripe above the window. A woman sat behind the desk, scrolling through something on a screen with one finger and too little interest.

"You should know some guys are mugging people," Colt said.

She looked up, slow. Tired.

"Where?"

"Path from Terminal Three. Outside."

That got a pause. She started to rise, then froze.

"Outside the dome?"

"Yeah."

She sat back down.

"Nothing we can do."

"Nothing?"

"Field's outside our jurisdiction. It's not part of the base. Technically it's not even U.S. territory. We only have enforcement rights inside the dome. Outside? That's law of the sea."

A voice spoke up behind him.

"She's right. Welcome to Mars."

Colt turned.

Familiar face. Slightly older, clean uniform, badge clipped to the chest rig. A sidearm holstered in plain sight. And a grin that looked like it had just remembered an old joke.

"Marcus?"

"In the flesh. What the hell are you doing here, Colt?"

They shook hands.

"Running the MSA?" Colt asked."Someone's got to. First Footprint City's got more people than sense right now. What about you? Fire season over? Or has California finally gone up for good?"

The woman behind the desk was watching now, trying to place the name.

Marcus nodded at her.

"Colt's a smokejumper. Or was. One of the best. We worked together in the Great Burn back in the day. Forty-foot flame walls, jet streams rolling over power lines like tumbleweed. Hell of a time."

"I'm not staying," Colt said. "I've got a cousin—Noah. He came out a last opposition ago. Disappeared. Family scraped enough for both return tickets. I'm going back on the next flight. I've got thirty days to find him."

Marcus opened his mouth to reply, but his wrist comm buzzed. He lifted it, tapped once, listened.

"Yeah, I know he's in the building," Marcus said into the mic. "But he hasn't broken any laws, and unless the chair's a weapon, I can't hold him. Bodyguard maybe. But there's no time to find a legal case before he's gone."

Colt watched Marcus's face change slightly.

"He's probably just trying to tick off the bucket list," Marcus muttered and noticed a message on a screen.  "Soon as he leaves the dome, he's not our problem. Uh huh. Okay. Call you back. We've got a pickpocket near Gate Two."

He ended the call and tapped the officer on the shoulder.

He looked back at Colt, checking the strap on his weapon as he spoke.

"Sorry about that. Gotta run. Listen—if I can help, let me know. You free later?"

"Maybe."

"Bar called Five Dogs. End of shift. 18:00. " 

"Where is it?" Colt said. 

"Look for the worst place on the block. You'll know it."

"Sounds like home."

Marcus grinned.

"Keep your suit zipped and your pockets tighter. People get desperate out here. Oh—and FYI—guns are illegal in the dome."

Colt raised an eyebrow.

"On an American colony? How'd they manage that?"

"Same reason you don't shoot people on a plane," Marcus said. "One round hits the glass and we all fly home without helmets. Later."

Then he was gone, stepping into the crowd, already pulling up another alert.

Colt stood a moment longer, then turned back toward the dome's interior.

Mars was already pulling at the seams.

And he had work to do.