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 the 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. A crater juts up 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.