The sun's starting to set. It tints the Martian 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 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 its difficult descent profile 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 exceptionally 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. On Earth, a blue cap is entitled to protection. On Mars, a blue cap is just another outsider. A ḡarīb.

It starts as a low rumble that he feels more than he hears. 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. "They might as well fly a dust bus."

It's in Martian air now. If it blows, he'll be compensated. Although he'd like to see who has the gall 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 flowers. The heat-resistant tiling bears long scorch marks. He checks the left side of the orbiter before swinging around to the right. The door slowly yawns open. 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 just under 40% of Earth's gravity so the fall's not fatal. The second person throws two bags and follows with no hesitation.

"It's not right," Olivia says sharply. "Who would send them in like this?"

The two newcomers stand up and brush themselves off. Martian regolith has the same 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! Marhaba! Kaif—"

"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 a silver craft breaks through the clouds. His visor zooms in on a wedge of dimming sky. The craft 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, sweet lick. That shuttle's awful pretty."

"Don't have contract on the shuttle."

"Tell those blue caps to leave their baggage 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.