Into the Black Hole

Chapter 3: Greetings, Mars

We've been decelerating at 2 G for the past six hours, and I feel my brain pounding against the back of my eyes. Generally, I lie down whenever we ramp up the g-force, but not today. No siree, they expect me to work and lead my friends to imminent death.

I hope I'm simply overreacting. I hope I'm being pessimistic.

While the Admiral, Marshals, and us Technicals are up in heavyweight Spaceship Plato, monitoring from above, the Starships assigned to this mission are in three dropships. A little after seventeen-hundred hours, they end their ninety minute 4 G deceleration burn to enter Mars' atmosphere at a reasonable speed.

I hear a collective sigh through my headphones, evidence of the blood rushing back into the Starships' heads.

"This is Starship Commander Renner," says Duarte, his voice clear and strong. While I am unable to see him, the monitor shows me what his dropship is currently viewing—the rocky dunes of the Red Planet. "We are approaching the Holding Safe at two-oh-eight meters per second. Permission to override autopilot and navigation?"

"Permission granted," my father responds.

"Turning off autopilot and navigation," Duarte announces. A few buttons click in low tones. "Manual navigation and transmission on."

"Welcome back, Commander Renner," the unisex voice of their dropship's virtual assistant comes through our speakers. "How can I help?"

"Remi, what does a Starship and a Technical have in common?" Duarte asks in a teasing tone. The adrenaline must be putting him in a better mood.

"They're both abstinent," Remi replies with sass, "but only one of them is happy about it."

Some Keepers chuckle, and I fight to contain my widening smile. Timour meets my gaze from across the room, where he is seated with the other "backup" Starships for this mission. He instantly blushes and lowers his eyes. A couple Keepers elbow him, and he pushes them away. Aw.

"Commander Renner, now is not the time," Marshal Renner scolds.

"Fine, fine." Duarte instructs, "Remi, we won't be needing assistance today."

"Okay. Call if you need anything." Remi logs off.

"The Holding Safe is coming up in two-point-five kilometers," Marshal Khan states, all business. "Your speed is now eighty-three meters per second. Can you confirm?"

"Confirmed." Duarte replies.

"You need to lower your altitude," Marshal Khan advises. "The West Vent typically goes unused, which makes it safer to infiltrate, but also harder to see. You won't want to risk flying over it and taking valuable time to backtrack."

"No worries, ma'am. Our IPS"—Interplanetary Positioning System—"has just locked on to the Vent. But to appease you: Lowering height above ground to two hundred meters."

I don't understand how Duarte can be so blasé about this mission. My foot continues to repetitively shake as I cross and uncross my legs. I fidget with my fingers and clip and unclip my hair accessory. Staring intently at the main monitor as the dropships glide closer to the ground, I look on in wonder as dunes withdraw and rocks increase in size. The planet no longer appears red but more faded rust-brown with patches of gray dust.

The Martians' advanced capital, Solarity, is about ten kilometers away from our dropships. I've seen satellite pictures of it before but never from our live cameras. While I'm disappointed I won't get a glimpse of its magnificence today—the only opportunity I may ever get—I should consider it a blessing. Make no mistake, Martians aren't aliens; they're ambitious humans who were tired of Earth and founded an independent colony. Made up of rich donors, intelligent engineers, revolutionary botanists, and experienced fighters, they're Earth's biggest threat in the entire Solar System.