1

The sun's starting to set. It tints the sky blue. Mig scans the horizon, but nothing moves. The readout on his visor shows he's nearing his daily rem limit. He starts tapping his finger against the trigger guard of his M189.

"You seem antsy." Olivia's voice buzzes in his ear. She gets a live feed from his IHD. The Integrated Helmet Display is one of the few vanity items he kept from the old days. Not a lot of people have one out here. It's an advantage and he'll take as many of those as he can get.

"If they're dead before they hit atmosphere, I get nothing." He does a full turn, but nothing is around him except sterile regolith. "You didn't send me out here for nothing, did you?"

"Of course not. Honest Olive. All you need is in the name."

He wipes dust off his rifle's hand guard and says nothing.

The first stars begin to peek out. It looks like another no show. It's possible that the ship bit into the atmosphere at a bad angle. Mars is infamous for a difficult descent and kills its fair share of pilots each year. The air's too thin for chutes, too thick to ignore. But the last few months have been lean. Skimmers prey on incoming ships when they're most vulnerable: during deceleration and orbit insertion. If the ship's taken before it hits air, no one will touch it. Space is neutral. Nobody wants to own a mess in interplanetary territory.

It starts as a low rumble. He looks up to see a bright streak in the sky. The craft scrapes through the atmosphere inside an envelope of hot ionized gas. No communications can punch through. No skimmers can, either. He squints as the left portion of his vision seamlessly zooms in.

As the intense light falls away, he can make out the violet flames of liquid propellant. A small black and white Vesta orbiter gleams between two large retrorockets that slow its descent. It looks like a NASA shuttle. No wonder the skimmers didn't bite. They'd have a hell of a time docking with a museum piece like that. Clever, but risky. Those old heat shields were never meant to withstand such a long burn through the atmosphere.

"Is that it?" Olivia's voice cracks. "That piece of crap?"

It's in Martian air now. If it blows, he'll be compensated. Although he'd like to see who has the nerves to try Mars in an old orbiter.

By the time it closes in on the runway, the Vesta glides toward the ground. Its landing gear unfolds as it nears the regolith. He can feel the impact from where he stands. The wheels squeal and a huge cloud of red dust streams behind it. Three large parachutes unfurl and do what little they can to slow the orbiter down. It still gobbles up most of the runway.

Olivia whistles. "They'll need a tow to get off-world."

He walks out onto the runway. It's cracked from the cold and shows faint flecks of paint. The Vesta's chutes wilt on the ground like dead mushrooms. He checks the left side of the orbiter before swinging around to the right. The door shifts and a small hiss of air is audible. He pauses underneath the Vesta's scorched black wing and waits.

Two figures emerge in bulky white spacesuits. It's the sort of equipment workers would bring into orbit. His IHD automatically scans their gear. No additional kevlar, no tactical interface, not even a dust shield. They might as well be sitting inside marshmallows. The first person wobbles at the door. Looks like they expected a ladder. After a moment's indecision, the idiot drops down into a thick slope of regolith. Mars has under 40% of Earth's gravity. The fall's not fatal. The second person throws two bags and follows with no hesitation.

"It's not right," Olivia says sharply. "Blue caps wouldn't send them in like this."

The two newcomers stand up and brush themselves off. Martian regolith doesn't have the static cling of lunar regolith, but it's full of perchlorates. Heat from the orbiter's landing releases it as chlorine gas. The dirt smears red across their white spacesuits. They each pick up a bag, which are opaque to his IHD. It's only then that they spot him. One actually waves.

"Hello! Are you—"

"This is an open frequency. Keep quiet and follow me."

Mig scans them over a second time to make sure he's not being bluffed, but no. The suits are soft, the bags are lined with something to block his scan. He comes out from under the orbiter's wing just as the alarm in his suit goes off. His visor zooms in on a wedge of dimming sky. A sliver of a craft breaks through the clouds. It slants alongside the orbiter's long and incredibly conspicuous ion trail.

Olivia inhales loudly. "White nose. That's Rain's crew."

It's the fuselage marking for a large and very effective group of professionals. They typically hit the big stuff. Ballistics, weapons shipments, even satellites. Nothing big enough to draw the UN in, but close. If he ever goes skimming, this is the crew to be in.

Two high beeps in his ear. That's the encrypted frequency. He taps the module on his wrist. "Yeah?"

"I thought that ping was familiar."

He watches the ship close in. "You're not going to screw me on this, are you Baratta?"

She laughs. "Depends, sweetness. That shuttle's awful pretty."

"Don't have contract on the shuttle."

"Tell those blue caps to leave their bags and they can be on their way."

He grunts. "Earth will know."

"That's Rain's business." The slim near-orbit Xenon fires its retros, which makes the signal crackle. "We game or we scatter your pretty face?"

"I'll pass it on."

"Thank you, Mig."

The comm cuts out. He taps the control module on his wrist to switch back to the open channel.

"Leave the bags."

"All our equipment is in here," the waver says. Sounds male. A whiner. His voice has an annoying familiarity to it.

"Leave the bags and they won't bother us."

"What about the pilots?"

The radiation alarm goes off. He's at his daily max.

"Stay." Mig starts back up the dune's incline. "Or don't."

They have the good sense to follow him.

Mig walks past the hired guns loitering near the airlock. It would be hard to spot them at night with the naked eye. His IHD automatically scans their hardware. One has a decent set of body armour and a Mossberg 990. At least three have hot magazines. The bullets are new, custom made suit-killers. One round shorts a spacesuit's electronics. Cooling, information display, life support. All gone. It's handy with Earth military. Traditional ammo won't punch through their gear, but with hot rounds it doesn't matter. Kill the suit and Mars will take care of the rest.

They don't block Mig's way, but they don't back off either. Their heads track all three of them up the ramp.

Olivia laughs derisively. "Look at these heroes. All that gun to babysit a door."

The airlock is manual. Easier to repair and the constant blackouts won't put it out of service. It's also harder for the tech savvy to hold them all hostage. Can't hack a latch.

He steps aside. "You. Waver. Open the door."

The waver grips the handwheel and tries turning it the wrong way.

"Blue caps," Olivia says with undisguised contempt. "No offence, but what's Earth like that you can grow up so stupid?"

Eventually the waver gets it. The massive door swings open. He steps through and his companion follows him in. Mig waits a beat before bringing up the rear and closing the airlock. It's a tight fit for three people. The equipment is old. Pressurization takes a half hour. The vacuuming starts first. All the contaminates on their suits are sucked away by roaring vents.

It's blessedly silent before the waver pipes up again.

"Who were those guys?"

Mig tongues a gap where two of his teeth used to be. "Local law enforcement."

Someone clicks over the channel. People do it when they agree with something but it's not safe to talk. Anyone with a radio can pick this conversation up. They might as well be shouting in the middle of a crowd.

"That blue cap is putting out extra pixels." Olivia's voice is suddenly hard and flat. "I can see it in the feed. Look."

When a suit puts out a false scan, there's always some degree of error. Even state-of-the art computers have a tough time getting it right. Not a lot of technology can fool an IHD. The left corner of his vision shows a processed scan of the quiet blue cap's suit. It has almost no heat signature. He recognizes its output immediately. An XS-9. One of Earth's most advanced stealth suits. Integrated into its outer skin are several pig-sticker blades and two guns. The distinctive shape of a disassembled AW220 catches his eye. A rifle of that calibre takes out armoured vehicles.

"Makes you wonder what was in those bags," Olivia mutters. "If they make your suit spec, they'll be trouble."

The airlock finally equalizes pressure. Its far door unlocks with a loud thunk and some clicks before grating open. Neither blue cap moves. It's a common reaction from outsiders. New Shanidar is a series of caverns. Four feet of regolith stand between them and the flimsy atmosphere outside, and all its accompanying radiation. The air's cool and fairly moist. Most light is from strings of bulbs hung along or across each path. The only natural light comes from a cupola overhead. A holdover from one of the old Ares missions. NASA-era.

The blue caps walk out slowly. When Mig looks up, the cupola is full of stars. People mill about; most having spent their rem allowance outside or have the misfortune of not owning a suit at all. Martians themselves are short, dark-eyed, and dark-skinned. Generations of high solar radiation and extreme cold have made the average person stocky and rarely over five feet. People stare at them.

The waver reaches up and starts to doff his helmet. Mig grabs his wrist.

"Not here."

"Oh. Okay."

He lets go and notices the quiet blue cap's hand falls back to waist-level. He takes lead with his hands casually resting on his M189.

"You're being scanned," Olivia says and clacking can be heard in the background. "I'll keep it smooth, but this isn't common infantry gear. You might throw pixels, too."

He presses the comm button twice to produce two clicks and keeps walking. The cavern has the thinnest air and is full of the poorest people, many of whom sit near the wall and watch them pass. Most are eyes and ears bought by skimmers. They all stare at their feet when he walks by. This is the Choke. Hypoxia is endemic. No one lives here unless they have to.

The far end of the cavern narrows into a vaguely oval slit hewn into the rock. He leads them through and their footsteps scrape and echo. New Shanidar is small even by Martian standards. It's split into three caverns separated by massive emergency airlocks. The midlevel cavern is wider. He knows the faces that turn away from them. Martian architecture is economical in size. Everything from the bar to the market to the clinic is cut from 3D prints of regolith. Old Earth robots created a large but orderly spiral in the rock with businesses on the bottom and homes on top. What was once meant for a crew of twenty five now serves nearly one hundred people. New rooms are divided from the original structure or, if someone is feeling particularly stupid, carved from fresh rock. The whole thing looks like a slice of honeycomb, which is how it got its name. Most Martians wouldn't know a beehive if it hung on their doorstep, but the name stuck. One of many legacies from Earth. People sit on the paths overhead with their legs dangling. Everyone watches, but the quiet buzz of conversation dies down. It's impossible to drag two blue caps through without being noticed.

He looks up at the top tier of rooms where Olivia works.

"Don't get fussy over me. You're walking into the Blue."

At the other side of the Honeycomb, another giant airlock is on standby. Each is part of an integrated bulkhead meant to prevent a complete depressurization of New Shanidar should part of the caverns or the primary airlock fail. The light above this one glows green. It's the only airlock that the blue caps bother to maintain, but they also disdain wearing a suit indoors.

The third and deepest cavern is the most recent. It's also the most secure, has the best atmosphere, and is crawling with blue cap boogeymen. It has what passes for an embassy. Mig tenses as he steps through the bulkhead.

"See you on the other side," Olivia says over growing static. "And don't punch Leo this time."

Then the signal cuts out with loud click.

He engages the safety on his M189 and shoulders it. Sterile white-blue lights appear every six feet. It feels like stepping into a frigate. The sleek spaceships mirror their old marine counterparts with a conservative paint job, and are the tip of the spear in this region. If skimmers get too brave, it's the frigate that comes calling. A satellite can vaporize any point on the map, but a frigate shows they're pissed off enough to want live prisoners. That means a trial on Earth and the prolonged torture of staying on a planet with more than double their gravity.

When he turns the corner, he finds the first soldier. His IHD automatically scans the gear, although he knows what he'll see. Very little heat output. Heavy composite plating. Standard armour-piercing rounds in a fuel-powered M-410 SAW. The suit itself has the light blue stripe at the top of the helmet that distinguishes Earth infantry. The rest of its body is painted with the usual reds and browns of martian camouflage. A B-1 Boxer set-up that heavy infantry is starting to favour. His suit computer squawks back private first class. This must be Henley, then. A new arrival.

"ID," she says.

Mig enters a command into the control module on his wrist. His suit transmits his off-world registration number and the contract summary.

"Purpose of entry?"

He keeps his voice even. "Ex-pats for the embassy."

Henley looks past him. She scans them and no doubts sees what he did: two harmless little marshmallows. She shakes her head.

"Go through. But...." She uses the five inch height advantage from her B-1 to look down at him. "Don't stir it up this time."

When it's clear he's not going to say anything, she steps aside. The path slants downward at a slight angle. When it widens into the last cavern, a low hum pervades the air. Powerful UV lights shine across squat cubes of buildings, which are built apart from the rock wall. A perfect oval of grass and a small grove of trees lie in the middle of it all. He resists the urge to veer towards the oasis of greenery. Very few people are out in the open. Only a few soldiers linger outside the barracks. An electric sign scrolls through various announcements. The last is a bulletin of wanted persons. Some faces he knows. Suzy Baratta's up there. She smiles like she knows she's worth ♁125,000. Then there's Samuel Renton. A smirking, fresh-faced white man in a black uniform. He tops the chart at 2.3 million terra.

"It's like a tiny town centre," the waver says.

Mig leads them towards the largest and most central building. Two more blue caps bar the way and he has to show his ID and contract again. One has sergeant's stripes.

"Your gun."

He stands stock still.

"Your gun, mate. Hand it over or you're not getting in."

The front door suddenly swings open and Mig sidesteps. A large man strolls out. He has deep brown skin, but is still too tall to blend in with Martians. His hair and eyes are nearly the same shade of black. He wears a formal business suit made of natural fibres from Earth.

"It is alright, Kaddur. All our misunderstandings have been settled." He opens his arms and makes a welcoming gesture. "My name is Leonard Pax, mayor of this little patch of paradise. I see you have already taken up local customs."

"Oh, the suit." The waver thumbs open the latches on his helmet. "Sorry about that."

It's the same hair, the same foal's eyes, a few more lines, but the same smile. Same crinkling crow's feet. Mike Solheim. Mig slowly turns to the second blue cap as the helmet comes off. Black hair pinned up, shaved temples, hard eyes set in the same soft face. Aiko Yamada.

"The heroes of Luna-9. Ahlan! Welcome." Leonard makes a sweeping gesture inside. "Please, come in. You must be exhausted."

Mig starts walking away. He has to. If he doesn't, he might pull his gun. The low hum from the lights starts drilling into his skull. He can't put a proper thought together until he steps back into the Honeycomb.

2

The door is sticking again. Mig shoves it open, then slams it shut. A room originally meant for a single crew member is partitioned into two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a common room that serves as a kitchen and office. Olivia's computer equipment takes up most of the space. He drops his helmet on his bed and puts a pack of groceries on the plastic stand by their portable stove.

Olivia swivels around in her chair. "Did the meat rations arrive?"

He shakes his head. "Skimmers."

"Oh."

She grabs one of her crutches and stands up. Although her parents came from opposite sides of the world, her father from Cần Thơ and her mother from Seattle, her skin is milk blue. Her arms and legs are disproportionately long and thin. She shuffles toward him, her hand grasping the back of her chair and then the wall. She's the only person taller than him. At full height, she's nearly seven feet. Her hair catches dust off the ceiling.

"What did you get?"

He offers his left arm as a support, which she ignores. "Some potatoes, bread, cheese, few walnuts."

"Walnuts?" She rests her chin on his shoulder.

"Grown on Earth."

Olivia plucks one from the bag. He busies himself with putting the rest in containment while her breaths become more rapid. She leans on his arm and holds it out.

"You do it."

He pops the pig-sticker hidden in his right gauntlet and pierces the walnut's seam. The weight of his suit helps. He presses methodically until the shell cracks, then widens it until it snaps open. The nutmeat inside is dry, but not rotten. She neatly reaches over, plucks half of it with her long fingers, and eats it.

"Tell me about Earth."

"You're in the way."

She nabs the other half of nutmeat and slowly makes her way back to the chair. Her crutch clacks loudly on the floor. When she sits back down, he starts prying another shell open.

"So what's it like?"

"You can look online."

Olivia sighs. "But what's it like?"

He pauses, knife in hand, eyes distant. "It's where we fit." He clears his throat and keeps pressing. "Why're you asking?"

"It always cheers you up."

"Don't need cheering up."

She laughs. "Then you need to lie better."

"See this knife in my hand?" He holds up the black fixed blade.

"You only use that to chase my admirers away."

He moves on to the block of cheese and cuts translucent slices that curl like waves. "They're pigs."

"I don't know what that means."

"You'll figure it out."

Mig splits a slice of bread between their plates and brings them over. He sets Olivia's on her desk, then sits on his bed and starts eating. The cheese is a little chalky, but it's edible. He eats slowly and savours the taste.

"You're not having any walnuts?"

He peels off part of the bread's crust. "They're for you. Lots of protein."

She cradles a sliver of nutmeat in her palm. It looks like a slice of brain tissue. "You think my bones will be strong enough for Earth?"

Her eyes are intensely grey. The relic of an accident from her childhood.

"Eat," he says.

"Fine." She pops more nutmeat into her mouth. "What are you going to do about those blue caps? If they ID your helmet display, they'll know you stole their hardware."

He shrugs.

"You might have to do a runner, Mig. I'm serious."

"Can't. Clinic's open tomorrow."

Olivia shakes her head. "You're being stupid."

He shrugs again. There's not much to say after that.

They settle in soon after. Less power and fewer calories wasted. When Olivia curls up on her mattress, he sits on his own bed and dons his helmet. He singles out a file through his control module. It's encrypted. The last time he accessed it had been before Olivia moved in. He watches the left side of his IHD zoom in on a nondescript video icon and pauses for a moment. Then he selects it and mutes the sound.

The image swings wildly back and forth. Sky. Cloud. More sky. The top of a tree. Then it's righted and a face slides into focus. Mig's in the striking black uniform of UN tactical response. His cap sits neatly on his head and nearly blocks his eyes from the camera, but it's clear he's smiling. Then Mike pushes into view. He lugs an arm around Mig's shoulders and grins for the camera. They both beckon to someone off-screen. The image does another flip and then he, Mike, and Aiko stand together in view. She wears the black and gold uniform of UNIS—United Nation's Intelligence Service. She pinches his butt out of sight and leans in for a kiss when he jumps. When Aiko steps back, Mike plants a long kiss on the corner of his mouth. Mig makes a show of lifting them both off the ground.

The video ends and automatically minimizes. He leans back on his bed and plays the file over again.

Next morning starts early and with a makeover. The hairpin contrasts sharply with Olivia's thick black hair. Silver beads have to be stuck in to complete the look. Mig pushes the last one in to a strategically placed curl and then shrugs.

"We done, your highness?"

Olivia flicks and pulls at her hair. His helmet's visor serves as a mirror.

"How is it you can put a bullet through someone's head at 100 yards but you can't avoid stabbing my scalp?"

"Better aim with a gun."

She shoots him a dirty look, then goes back to preening. He gives himself a once over. A deeply tanned face and pink everything else. It's the Martian mask. Week old stubble, close-cropped back and grey hair, and a smattering of scars that start on his lip and end at his eye. Another grizzled old man.

"Let's go."

"Fine, fine." Olivia grabs her crutches and stands up. "How do I look?"

Her clothes are hand-stitched. They're drab and formless, but they fit. Her wrists and ankles are wrapped in bandages. He could never find any shoes big enough for her, so he made do with the cannibalized parts of his old suit boots, foam, and spacecraft tape. He'll have to make a custom suit for her, too. His won't fit.

"It's not a goddamn a fashion walk," he says and dons his helmet.

"Everybody stares."

"Yeah, well." He slides the strap of his M189 over his shoulder and pats the barrel. "You point, I shoot."

The corners of her mouth twitch. Mig pushes open their front door and steps outside. The Honeycomb is starting to stir. The lights are still dimmed to conserve power overnight. He looks at his control module and switches his radio to CEW52. It reports terrestrial and near-earth weather all the time. A woman's voice fusses in.

"...and if you're heading out of orbit today, watch yourselves. A spike in solar activity this morning is expected to push the Van Allen's outward. It has also prompted the Space Weather Centre to issue a warning for a category G3 geomagnetic storm later in the week. Expect significant communication blackouts."

Olivia swings out on her crutches. "That's Betty Martinez. I like her."

He shuts their front door and engages the lock. "Why?"

"She could make eating a sandwich sound dangerous."

They start walking down the steep, zig zagging stairs carved from the rock and sealed with paint. Mig clears the way, although most people move as a courtesy.

One of their neighbours steps aside and points towards the ground level. His name is Azizi. An old combat medic who settled here with his grandson. He has no suit, no contacts with blue caps or skimmers, but that hasn't stopped him from looking after people once the doctors leave.

"Hurry! The line's already forming."

Mig presses his index and middle fingers against the corner of his visor. It's the Martian gesture for hello, thank you, and goodbye. Azizi mirrors it by pressing his fingers just underneath his eye.

Olivia slumps over her crutches. "We won't make it."

"We'll make it."

They clamber down to the second, then the first level. By the time they reach the ground, people are leaving their homes. The lights come on full force. He half-turns and makes sure Olivia is right behind him before crossing to the other side of the Honeycomb. The bar's getting loud and rowdy already. He scans two old men sitting outside. Black and Turza. His old drinking buddies are already knocking back beers. They give a haphazard tap under their eyes when he walks by.

The local clinic is run by whoever swings by New Shanidar that month. Most of a doctor's time is spent in the Blue patching up troops and handing out whatever new medication is in fashion. On one sol during the week, they condescend to treat locals. The line already stretches around the corner. He takes his place and keeps an eye on Olivia. She stands beside him and looks out over the Honeycomb. Sweat collects along her forehead and temples. Her arms have a fine tremor. Betty Martinez keeps chatting on the radio. He looks around, but there's nothing to offer besides space by the bar flies.

"Don't bother. I can stand on my feet."

"Suit yourself."

The line moves slowly. Most people see Azizi for their ailments. Broken bones, burns, minor illnesses. When it comes to more serious things like radiation poisoning or exotic medication, people wait for the doctor.

After nearly an hour, Olivia reaches for him. He puts his arm around her waist and lets her lean against him. She holds onto both crutches with her left hand and drapes her right arm across his shoulders. She's nearly half a head taller than him, but he carries her weight easily. People make a point of not looking, which means they're all looking, but Olivia's eyes are unfocused. He takes an extra pack of water from one of the pouches on the soft lower half of his suit. It has a special straw for use in microgravity.

"Drink."

She sips some water and lets her head loll against him. "I really hate waiting, Mig."

"You wanted to look pretty."

"Piss off," she says, but the corners of her mouth twitch upwards.

It takes another hour of shuffling forward before they step through the clinic doors. There's only one room. Inside is cool, well lit, and smells strongly of an air freshener. A man sits at a temporary plastic desk. Files scan across the surface of his glasses. Mid-thirties, pale olive skin, and a well-tailored shirt and pants.

"Hello," he says and makes a beckoning gesture with fingers pointed down towards the ground. "My name is Dr. Maro. How can I...."

Maro looks up and does a double take. First at Olivia, then at Mig and the automatic rifle. Mig helps her sit, shuts off the radio, then takes her crutches and leans against the far wall.

She taps her fingers beneath her eye. "Honest Olive."

"Olivia Ninh, of course." He offers a tentative smile. "Xin chào."

She stares at him. "Hi."

Mig scowls as she starts to flush red. It's something he could never provide: a connection with her Earthly ethnicity. Many of the region's blue caps are from the Anglosphere and he's no exception. The official languages are English and Arabic, but everyone born here speaks New Shanidar pidgin. Earth has a dizzying variety of languages, dialects, and accents, and yet they all sound formalized in comparison.

"You have...Anansi-Lee's Syndrome?" Maro's eyes flick back and forth reading the text on his glasses.

"Yep," she says, "I'm a moon baby."

"Any changes?"

She looks down at her lap. "I need supplements so I can move to Earth."

"I see. Would it be alright if I did a physical?"

Olivia sips more water. "Why not?"

Maro stands up and offers his hands, but she forces herself onto her feet and walks to the examination table. He glances at Mig.

"If you would not mind stepping out...?"

She leans on the table. "We live together."

"Very well."

The act of undressing is slow and complex. Mig waits until she looks up at him before setting her crutches aside and crossing the room. He helps pull her sleeves over her arms and its bandages, and draws her shirt over her head. She has to bend down and pain flashes across her face. He crouches down and takes off her shoes. It's easy to draw her pants down her legs after that. She puts her hand on his shoulder and raises one foot, then the other. She uses him as a steadying point to sit on the examination table. He lays her clothes on the table within arm's reach and goes back to leaning against the wall.

Maro gives her a reassuring smile, then gets on with the physical. He checks her pulse the old fashioned way by pressing his two fingers on her wrist where the radial artery branches into her hand. After a minute, he presses a small sensor pad against her chest and prompts her to breathe in, then breathe out. The sensor amplifies the sound of Olivia's lungs. He moves the pad over each lobe. When he holds the small sensor less than a foot off her skin, her heart, lungs, and thoracic vertebrae appear in ghostly white lines. Her spine sprouts upward like a sapling. The image is in real time. The lungs are mostly black spaces full of air, but her heart throbs slightly off-centre.

He nods as if someone spoke. "Any tingling? Cramping or spasms? Trouble keeping your balance?"

Olivia stares down at her own innards. "No."

"What about your eyesight?" He leans forward and stares into her eyes. "Any changes in vision or colour?"

"Eyesight's fine. Got into lunar dust as a kid and lunar dust got into me. Almost went blind." She stares back at him until he looks away. "Eyes used to be brown, now they're not."

"Depigmentation can occur after injury. It may be possible to clone melanocytes, but you would have to travel to Hesperia Station for the procedure. Would you be comfortable laying down?"

She exhales carefully and lays on the table before swinging her legs up. Her feet dangle over the edge. The soles are dirty and callused.

He holds a small sensor pad over her left calf. A window of green lines appear. Her tibia and fibula look avian, and Maro frowns.

"What?" Olivia's voice rises a note. "What is it?"

"This is the beginning of a Looser Zone. It is a type of insufficiency fracture. Your bones are soft and unable to cope with everyday stresses. It is to be expected with Anansi-Lee's Syndrome. Are you in pain?"

"Nothing I can't handle."

"Well, do not worry, Ms. Ninh. It is still very small and treatable."

Maro smiles reassuringly at her and moves on to her other leg, then her arms, then finally asks to roll onto her side where he runs the sensor pad over her spinal column. She stares at the wall with a blank expression.

"That is it," he says. "Now if you could just sit up for me."

She sits up.

"I would like to do some blood work. Would you hold out your hand? There will be a little pain, but only a little. I promise."

She holds out her hand. Maro sets the sensor pad down and unwraps a sterile sampler. Everyone calls it a prick stick. He presses her index finger on the tip. There's a click and she twitches. The sampler retracts and pulls a perfect droplet of blood inside. The results are sent over wireless to the medical network.

"I should have results by next week." He sits back down at his desk and takes off his glasses. After rubbing his eyes, he fixes Olivia with a frank look. "I want to be very clear, Ms. Ninh. Mars has only 38% of Earth's gravity. Your health would be severely compromised and I do not use that term lightly. I strongly recommend you continue supplements and sign up for Avix-K. You are eligible as of this spring."

Oliva finally looks at him. "Avix-K."

Maro shoots Mig a look. "Anansi-Lee's Syndrome is very rare. I assume you are a survivor of Luna-9, yes? You can apply for surgery and rehabilitation off-world." He taps his glasses and a projection appears on the desk again, which he begins to type on. "Fare and board are paid for, and 50% of all costs will be covered. Corrective surgery will come with risks, but in your case, I can see no alternative." He taps his glasses again and faces her. "I have prescribed more supplements and some Noxadil for the pain. It should be ready for pick-up immediately."

"Local pharm won't have it," Mig says. "Skims."

"Have you been on anything at all?" Maro looks at him, then Olivia. "Any phosphates? Calcium?"

She shrugs. "I ate walnuts last night."

Maro's mouth opens and closes a few times. "This is not acceptable."

"Try living it."

"Of course." He has the grace to look chastened. "I must ask for ortho-cement from Fort Secchi, but it should arrive within the next three days. Please see me again as soon as you are able. A cast is all I can offer now. You must avoid strenuous physical activity."

"Don't need a cast."

"I—see." Maro sits back, eyebrows nearly at his hairline. "Are you certain?"

"It's why I have tall, dark, and handsome here."

Mig pushes himself away from the wall. When Olivia stands up, he automatically goes about dressing her again. Her hand clamps down on his shoulder. He can feel it through his suit. After he slips her shoes on, he stands up and gathers her crutches.

"As soon as possible," Maro says again. "Please."

"I won't forget." She grabs her crutches and lurches out the door.

When they step outside, the line has wound all the way around the block. He turns CEW52 back on as they cross the Honeycomb. Betty Martinez has been replaced by another woman. Olivia stops at the beginning of the stairs that lead up to their home. Her head tilts back. She takes in the full height of the structure. Her shoulders start to shake. Then she lowers her head and the shakes spread through her body. She loses her grip on her right crutch. He gently pushes her upright. When she looks down at him, her eyes are glassy, but she's laughing. A tear hangs suspended on her eyelashes.

"I looked at that place before. Their little miracle surgery is over ♁978,000. I was okay when I didn't have anything to hope for, but...." She covers her face with one hand and shakes her head. "I can't even make half that terra."

He pushes the crutches against her chest, then scoops her up. His back aches in protest. She wraps her arms around his neck and cries silently. Azizi watches from the third level, a knowing expression cut into his face. By the time Mig climbs to the top, his body is a series of cramps. Olivia's cheek rests against the strap of his M189. He gently sets her down feet first. She leans on the wall and watches him shove the door open. She shuffles her way inside, rips the hairpin out, throws it against her computer screen, and collapses onto her bed. Her silhouette is cast against the curtain dividing their bedrooms. She curls as small as she's able. The silence left in her wake is as pure as vacuum.

Mig turns to see Azizi walking toward him. He shuts the door and doffs his helmet. He hooks it on the right side of his belt and sits down against the wall. The air feels nice on his face.

"Bad news?"

He shakes his head. "Good news we can't use."

Azizi glances down at him, then drops his gaze to the line stretching from the clinic.

3

Even on Mars, the familiar band of the Milky Way stretches overhead. The atmosphere here is much thinner than on Earth, and by extension much clearer. It's one of the things Mig likes about this place. Cold, clear, starry nights. He looks up for a while and tries to pick out any familiar constellations. New Shanidar's comm tower makes a thin black silhouette. It stands over the damaged length of runway that serves as their spaceport. A red light blinks at its tip. He finally raises his hand and dials in to Baratta's encrypted channel. It clicks four times over the space of thirty seconds. It's not connecting. He starts pacing along the dune. A minute, five, then ten. Still no connection.

Something catches light in the distance. Mig takes another turn and walks slowly. It could be melted regolith or a flat rock, but it looks metallic. He takes one last look around the tower, then cuts down across the dune at an angle. Whatever it is lies beyond the runway. He raises his M189 and peers through the scope. It's able to sync with the IHD and automatically switch to night vision. The arid landscape suddenly lights up and the sky dims to a haze. He can see small pockets of residual heat spread across the area. It's only when he gets close to the meridian that he sees the source. Debris. He crouches down and picks up the closest piece. His IHD tracks his eye movement and zooms in on it, but the wreckage is too small to analyze at night. It puts off no radiation, though. He slides it into one of his suit's storage pouches and moves toward the glimmer of light.

It's bigger than it first appears, although most of it is buried beneath the regolith. Heat bleeds up through the dust and melts some of the permafrost. He scans the horizon all around. Aiko Yamada's camouflaged XS-9 itches at the back of his mind. It would be heard to catch a stealth suit out here, especially at a distance. He kneels down and starts clearing the ground around it. Metal juts up at an angle like a broken bone. When his glove hits something round, he finally understands.

It's part of a landing gear.

The wheel is thicker than his waist, but it still implies a small craft. He digs a shallow pit so he can look at the sides of it. The design is modern. He runs his pinkie along the shredded treads. Bundles of wires spindle out, frayed and dirty from exposure. Part of the wire jacket is fused together. There are scorch marks, signs of buckling and fatigue. The top of the gear's cylinder is sheered off. He digs a little more to uncover part of the brake assembly in between the wheels. It's relatively undamaged. He leans in and finds a serial number underneath what's left of the actuator. It's only six digits long. There's no way to access interplanetary internet without Olivia, but the number's length is part of the Martian registry system. A Vesta shuttle would be registered on Earth and Earth's serial numbers have fourteen digits.

He looks out over the land. It's a wide, dark, almost terrestrial desert. Mountains jut in the distance. He sets the butt of his automatic rifle on the regolith and sends out a single ping. Nothing squawks. After 60 seconds, he sends out another. Still nothing.

Dim pink spots litter the ground as far as his IHD can track. It's all wreckage, but few pieces are bigger than a screw. The debris field could go on for kilometres. He pings one final time and scans the surrounding area. Nothing moves. Nothing squawks back.

Mig kicks regolith back over the wheels and retreats to New Shanidar.

When he shoves the door open, Olivia is sitting in front of the computer. Her long legs are crossed and she stares at the blank screen with a frown. He shuts the door and locks it. He doesn't have to ask how long she's been watching the IHD feed.

"The number traces back to a Xenon," she says flatly. "It was stolen six years ago. Blue caps cite it in at least eighteen hijackings."

He turns and doffs his helmet. "So it was Rain's crew."

"And it looks like somebody finally pulled the pin on them." She stares at Mig and the whites of her eyes shine in the light. "It's what skimmers deserve."

"Lot of firepower for skimmers."

He takes off the rest of his suit and lays it out at the foot of his bed. There isn't room for a proper stand.

"You're worried," she says. "It's not too late for you to run."

He grabs a wide pan and half-fills it with water. The plastic container is still heavy. They'll have enough until next week's rations. He turns the burner on and watches bubbles start to bead up to the surface.

"You want a bath?"

She shakes her head.

The water reluctantly comes to a boil. He turns the stove off and carries the pan to bathroom where he strips. It's really a small alcove in the wall with a toilet and corner to wash. The stone walls are treated, but lack a layer of paint. Bands of reds, oranges, and browns surround him. He sits back on his haunches, rolls his shirt up into a wad, and dips it into the water. The warmth feels good. He runs it over his face and neck, and rivulets of grime slide down his shoulders.

Olivia carefully makes her way past him and crouches down in the corner. Her eyes move over the planes of his body.

"I'm not going to Earth, Mig. Think we both need to accept that."

"I'll figure something out."

She smiles at him, but it's a sad sort of smile. "I never pinned you for the hopeless romantic."

He dips his shirt into the pan and twists it with more force than necessary. Then he moves on to washing his hands and arms.

"You're giving up on me now?"

"Get over yourself. I've been fighting this my whole life. You only came into it part way through."

"I know, I mean...." He abruptly stops and stares at the water's surface. "You make tech sing. If you were on Earth, you'd live in a skyscraper and eat whatever you wanted."

"But I don't." She reaches out to touch the constellation of scars across his face. "And you can't make that right."

He covers her hand with his and rubs his thumb over her knuckles. The corners of his eyes sting involuntarily.

She leans forward. "You put yourself between me and every bad thing in this place. Even Leo. I could still be out in the Choke, but I have a home. A bed. Food. That's something."

When he doesn't reply, she draws her thumb to the corner of his lips.

"Don't." He jerks away. "I can't."

"Cuz you're old?"

"Old enough to be your father."

"My father's been dead for 25 years."

Mig swallows hard at that. She quietly shifts forward. Her hair slips over her shoulders and makes a curtain between them. It tickles the skin on his chest.

"Let's just have this moment, okay?" She leans in until their noses nearly touch. "Just you and me. Nothing else."

"We can't, Olive."

She rests her thumb against his lips. Her other hand slides down his chest, gently pulls at the hair trailing over his stomach. His breath hitches. Her eyes constantly flick back and forth over his face.

"Every night, I'd watch your silhouette. You'd lay down and put your hand behind your head. Sometimes I dreamt I was brave enough to get up and walk around to your side. I'd finally get to touch you like this. Then you'd need me as much as I need you."

Her mouth presses against his. Seals them together. He goes still, brow furrowed, and inhales through his nose. When they part, he looks up at her with a searching expression.

"Just you and me." She cups his face in her long hands. "Okay?"

He nods slowly.

She shifts forward until their knees touch. Mig sits back against the wall. He drops his wadded shirt into the pan while Olivia settles into his lap. Her body is as warm as the water and her arms fold around him like wings.

(A/N: This is part of a larger work in progress. If you like what you read, The Rust will appear in a few months time as a novella. Thanks for reading!)