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. "All these heroes 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. Seven feet of regolith stand between them and the flimsy atmosphere outside with 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. 

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. Radiation sickness 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 mid-level 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 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. "Do not 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 man in uniform. He tops the chart at 2.3 million terra.

"It is like a slice of home," 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, sadiqi. Hand it over or you are not getting in."

"It is sadi," the waver says helpfully. "Sadiqi is terrestrial Arabic. Earth-talk."

There's a moment of silence. Even without the cues of facial expressions, their body language is enough. The waver scratches the back of his helmet.

The front door suddenly swings open and Mig sidesteps. A large man strolls out. He has deep brown skin, but is 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 fibers from Earth.

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

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

It's the same hair, the same foal's eyes, the same smile. A few more lines around the mouth. 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.