DATE: MARTIAN YEAR 56 - SOL 509

LOCATION: LINEER BASE (MARS: 3°S 206°E)

IT'S ONESOL OF week 128 or 56.128.01, according to my implant, my ninth sol on Mars and my first one "on the job," so to speak. I've finally recovered from the worst effects of the space lag that hit me like it does most people who undertake interplanetary journeys.

I'm still getting used to the simple yet weird effects of the low Martian gravity, such as water in the shower splashing off me and falling far slower than I'm used to, and having to adjust my gait so that I don't trip with each step. I'm relieved to have graduated from being a complete bumbler to merely occasionally unbalanced.

I retract my earlier criticisms of Lineer Base in light of the friendly attitude of everyone I've met here, and the extraordinary—heroic—efforts they put into maintaining this aging facility.

I freely admit to being a stuck-up and naive ass, thinking I was coming to some futuristic Martian five-star resort; although I'm still angry about ID's deception and no closer to understanding the reasons behind it.

Now the time has come to officially clock on, I'm actually apprehensive about my first interview. It's with the most senior person on Mars, Wu Hui Yin. She's the General Manager of Operations, or GMoO, here at Lineer Base and also the Chair of the Council of Mars General Managers, the planet's governing body.

Hui Yin meets me in the same meeting room I was taken to when I first arrived at the base. She shakes my hand, and gives me a warm smile. "Let me officially welcome you to Mars and Lineer Base, Ms. Bax."

She has a pronounced Californian accent and we chat easily for a while about inconsequential public affairs; what about the company-sponsored lynchings in Boston? It's such a shame about those blue whales beaching themselves on the shore at Kensington Gardens in London. I heard that voter turnout in Germany is so low they've abandoned elections in favour of a lottery system.

She seems genuinely concerned with my welfare, interested to know how I've been coping with things so far.

Reserved and cultured, a Chinese American in her mid-fifties—about ten years my senior—brown-eyed, with gray shoulder-length hair held back from her face by a delicate tortoise-shell headband; feminine, yet functional. A tall and fit woman wearing a long-sleeve blouse with red and cream stripes running vertically, and black business slacks, she has an easy, approachable manner. There's no duplicitous smile, hyper-inflated ego, or delusional as-of-right attitude typical of the politicians I've interviewed over the years.

She seems to be what evolutionary biologists would call a 'prestige' leader, someone able to influence others through superior knowledge, wisdom, vision, and inclusiveness, enabling her to win over both enemies and supporters.

I thank her for the concern and remark that I've already had an informal welcome from Rhino.

"Ah yes," she nods, "a Smoking Ceremony without the smoke—most ingenious. Mx. Gurooman is a very resourceful and capable individual."

"Come, I would like to show you something," she says innocuously, leading me on a stroll along the corridors.

The Mx. title she gives Rhino throws me momentarily, until I hazily recall reading somewhere that Mars is trying to do away with patriarchal and matriarchal traditions and mindsets.

As we walk, I ask her about the recent spate of sabotage attacks mentioned in my briefing notes. She looks slightly perplexed, and then recognition crosses her face. "Oh, you mean the bombings."

I stop dead in my tracks. "Bombings!?"

She waves a hand in a calming manner. "Yes, yes, just some random infrastructure damage and inconvenience over the last year or so. The media want to make a big deal out of it, calling it the work of the ... dun-dun-dun-DAH ... Slow Bomber," she says theatrically. "If you ask me, it's probably just an ingrate trying to make some obscure point."

"Um, shouldn't we be worried ... and why is the media calling the perpetrator the Slow Bomber?"

"Well," she says, walking forward again, "about the first part of your question, we are concerned, or more specifically, Mars Security is. Personally though, as the GMoO of Lineer I'm not seeing any logic to the targeting, nor do I see the acts getting worse or more frequent. Therefore I'm putting it all to one side. Below my alert threshold, if you will."

"In answer to the second part of your question, they needed some characteristic to latch on to and on each occasion, there was a long time between when the devices were placed and when they detonated. So some Einstein came up with the name Slow Bomber," she says, spreading her hands.

Before long we're in a quieter, almost deserted part of the habitat, and rounding a corner come across what looks like some sort of memorial.

Hui Yin stops and gives me a moment to take in a wall covered from top to bottom with personal photos, notes, and multitudes of beautiful handmade paper and fabric peonies. The overhead lights are dimmed and artificial candles flicker, creating a respectful and tranquil atmosphere like a shrine.

Initially, this seems to be a memorial for all those who have perished on Mars since the first landing. Then I notice most of the faces, some smiling, some serious, some surrounded by friends or family, are Asian. No, not just Asian, Chinese.

With a sharp intake of breath, I suddenly understand the horrific significance of this wall.

Hui Win is watching me closely, her face drawn with sadness. "Yes, the massacre victims," she says quietly.

I have no words.

There are hundreds of photos and the loss of so many brave, talented and dedicated human beings in such a senseless act of violence, is so overwhelming it triggers in my mind...

We've all converged in the market to cover a suicide bombing that happened five minutes ago.

Suddenly a gunman posing as a cameraman screams, "Fritt Island!" Free Iceland!

Pulling a pulse pistol from his overcoat, he shoots Sarge in the head at point-blank range, before taking down two other reporters.

Ali Lafitte standing in front of me is struck next and she falls backwards, her deadweight knocking me to the ground. I hear more of my journalist friends and colleagues hitting the pavement as the gunman's shots find their lethal mark.

Turning quickly away and bending double, hands on knees, I struggle to push the awful revisitation aside and replace it in my mind with a prevailing-calming image—the gently waving fronds of the only palm tree left standing on a beach after a hurricane.

People think that my PTSD episodes are like a recurring grim recollection. If only that was so; old memories that grow evermore indistinct with the passing years. But they're not like that, not at all.

Instead, whenever I've witnessed some past trauma, it's as if my brain captured a perfect sensory and emotional recording—the sights, the smells, the noises, and the feelings of shock, horror, fear, and disgust—all of it in graphic high-fidelity detail, which it proceeds to project onto my current consciousness whenever the right trigger comes along.

Then, wham! Suddenly I'm right back there again, reliving the event as if it's happening right now; time having done nothing to ease the raw visceral impact of the pain and distress.

Hui Yin is hovering in front of me, and I hold up a hand to forestall anything she might be about to say, before inhaling several deep lungfuls of air. "I'm ... sorry ... it's just that this brings up some ... difficult emotions."

She nods her understanding, and there's a long silence while she gives me time to compose myself.

Sensing that I've finally regained my inner balance, she gestures to the image of a middle-aged man with laughing eyes and a roguish grin. "Zhou Ming Jie is ... was, my husband, the lead botanist in charge of water and air purification, waste management, and agriculture at Huo Xing station, or as it's known in English, Fire Star station."

Proudly, defiantly, eyes agleam, she says, "When the Colonial Rebellion was put down in each base, and the ringleaders sent packing, he and I celebrated like there was no nextersol. We had such plans!"

"Ah ... it wasn't like that on Earth. All the news and current affairs commentary at the time was pretty negative towards Mars," I comment. "A lot of Earth governments and industries were furious about the Rebellion being thwarted. I seem to recall the actions here being widely criticized, with commentators going on ad nauseum about the specter of Martian independence and the loss of control of substantial investments."

"Yes," she remarks, sadness creeping back into her face and voice. "All of us base commanders fretted about that and potential retaliation. Rumours were everywhere that corporations and governments would take back their assets by force, depose us and install new administration. Yet we were confident that everything would just blow over."

Gazing at the floor she shakes her head slowly. "We were wrong, so very, very wrong."

I glance back at the wall, the dim flickering lighting casts a funereal pall over the photos, tributes, and memorabilia.

In a wooden tone beside me, she continues, "Six months after the Rebellion, we spotted a stealthed ship on a high-burn Mars orbital insertion trajectory. At that stage we didn't know which government or corporation had sent them and where they would land. We had long meetings trying to work out a strategy, a tactic, anything that would help. Though once they began their de-orbit burn, we knew exactly where they were headed. I begged and pleaded with Ming Jie to leave Fire Star station and come here, but he wouldn't come. 'Duty first,' he kept telling me."

"We didn't know it then of course, but the Chinese had sent a Taikong, or Beyond Earth, assault team with orders to take the base at all costs." Her voice is barely a whisper, and she is looking down between her open palms, which are now trembling slightly. "After losing all comms with the base, we sent a search and rescue party. One of the team found his body riddled with bullets ... his blood everywhere. It must have happened after he blew the hatches on the food and life-support modules, exposing the entire terrestrial flora to the raw Martian atmosphere."

She sighs deeply beside me. "It wasn't only him though. The assault team shot everybody, even people that didn't resist. There's security footage showing Wang Ruizhi, the base commander, sitting behind his desk, hands in the air in surrender, getting three bullets in the chest that knock him backwards onto the floor. Then one of the Beyond Earth Commandos casually walks up and fires a round from his service pistol into my friend's head."

Hui Yin pauses and I instinctively feel a bond with this woman I hardly know—two veterans of different conflicts, linked by similar tragedy.

Her eyes are still downcast. "Everyone died the same way, but not before they'd hidden all the portable oxygen canisters, sabotaged the oxygen catalyzers, and made a suicide dash to blow up the stealthed ship while the assault team was rampaging through the base." She gives a cold, mirthless chuckle. "So the bastards gained control of the base only to die of asphyxiation a sol or so later."

Letting out a long slow breath, her anger slowly drains away, and she seems to hunch in on herself a little. "Everyone always underestimates the Chinese." She points a finger at herself. "That includes me, and I'm half Chinese! I suppose that given what they have gone through as a culture and as a country, there is no latitude when it comes to actions they see as challenges to national pride. They have their own rules, their own tempo, and their own way of thinking. Ultimately it's not right or wrong, it's just the way it is."

She gazes at the photo of her husband for long moments. Then she puts two fingers to her lips as if she's pouring all her love for him into them, reaches out and places those fingers gently against his picture, transferring the silent kiss to his image.

Almost inaudibly, I hear her say. "Just don't ever expect me to forgive and forget."

After a long silence we move off towards the administration area of the base.

This section has normal lighting, and the raw impact of the memorial wall begins to fade like waking from a nightmare.

Hui Yin is quiet for a time, and then says, "The wall isn't visited as much, or by as many as it used to be, however each year there's a silent vigil to mark the time and date of the massacre, held by those of us with friends and loved ones who died. It's a chance to reconnect, to grieve, and to recommit to a Mars that doesn't ever have to go through such horrors again."

At length, we come to a largish office with her name and position etched into an aluminum tag that's fixed at eye level beside the door. She gestures for me to enter, and we both pull up short because there's someone already sitting in one of the two chairs across from her desk.

A momentary look of surprise crosses her face before she says, with only the faintest hint of sarcasm. "Jorge, please, make yourself at home."

Without waiting for a reply, she turns to me. "Ms. Ailia Bax, I'd like you to meet Mx. Jorge Escamilla, the GMoO of Barkan Base."

I incline my head in greeting and Jorge makes the barest movement of his own in acknowledgement.

"To what do we owe the pleasure?" Hui Yin goes on smoothly, indicating for me to take the seat beside her uninvited guest, while she sits behind her desk.

"I don't want to take up any of your valuable time Hui Yin, I just wanted to quickly meet Ms. Bax before I head back to my base. Put a face to a name and all that," he says.

"How thoughtful, Jorge. That will make things much easier for Ms. Bax when she does interviews at Barkan Base," Hui Yin says amiably. Her face is hard to read, however if I had to guess, I'd say she dislikes him.

Imagine an affable, tall, handsome Mexican man. Now imagine the opposite of that. Jorge is that opposite.

"Ah, about that Hui Yin. I just want to have it on record that I am not in favor of Ms. Bax having an all-access pass to our facilities on Mars. In fact, I'd like to make it clear that I think having any Earth-sponsored media representatives picking through our business and our lives is a very bad idea."

He glances at me and says quickly, "Nothing personal, you understand, Ms. Bax."

Before I can utter a response, he turns back to Hui Yin. "You recall all the previous journalists who have misrepresented us, made us look like untrustworthy incompetents. I have no doubt that more than a few recalls of GMoOs back to Earth have been as a result of such reporting," he says, eyeing me with barely concealed animosity.

His attitude is like that of a tabby cat I found straying in my backyard once. A hissing, spitting tabby cat, with its fur all sticking up on end, ready to claw me if I got too close. Nasty kitty.

Hui Yin seems unfazed by his bluntness and hostility. "Yes Jorge, your views on this subject are well-known, and I'm sure that Ms. Bax isn't at all offended by anything you've just said," she remarks tartly. "Is there anything else you wanted to see me about, hmm?"

He stands abruptly. "No. As I said, I just wanted to meet Ms. Bax and be upfront about things."

Turning to me, he inclines his head marginally again. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Bax. I'm sure we will cross paths again shortly," he says condescendingly with a fake smile on his face, before bustling out the door.

I let out a long breath I didn't know I'd been holding and turn to find Hui Yin grinning at me.

"He's quite an unpleasant piece of work our Mx. Escamilla, isn't he?" she asks, watching me closely. "As you might have gathered, some of my colleagues are against the idea of you being here. There are concerns that we've been portrayed in the past as caricatures rather than a society with real issues. So some people have come to think of Earth reporters as ... seagulls, swooping in, eating their lunch, crapping all over them, and then flying away."

This doesn't seem to be boding well for my assignment.

"However, I've managed to convince them otherwise ... mostly." She leans back in her chair. "I've been impressed over the years with the articles you've written, your ability to see the big picture, provide context and join the socio-political dots—not get bogged down in silly human-interest narratives: 'Tell me, how did it really feel to be tortured?' 'Was being convicted of international drug trafficking the lowest point in your criminal career?' Ugh! Trauma voyeurism, it's distasteful."

"Oh, is that so?" I offer, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. Secretly I've always envied colleagues who seemed to effortlessly connect with victims and perpetrators alike.

"Yes. I know you haven't been doing any war journalism for some time, but I have this gut feeling that you'll still be able to tease out all the nuances of our predicament here. Your visit allows us to let people living on terra firma know what life on Mars is really like, as opposed to what they imagine or what their prejudices lead them to believe."

"Ah, you mean those narratives that paint Mars as some sort of frontier. Where misfits, malcontents, and criminals hang out—an interplanetary version of the American Wild West," I say mildly.

"Yes, those," she laughs. "What absurd assumptions. That kind of self-interested individualism and anarchy dressed up as libertarianism just ends in disaster for closed biospheres and communities like we have here. If anyone has any doubts, they just need to think back to that near-Earth asteroid mining colony they set up on 4660 Nereus."

"Yes, I remember that. Within a month everyone was at each other's throats and within three months the whole colony had died at their own hands," I say, recalling the tragedy.

"Indeed. A quick study of history throws up the same lessons—the people who survived shipwrecks and the ones who didn't—and paints a pretty clear picture of the type of people who make it. They aren't individualists."

She continues in an annoyed tone. "You know, we send petabytes of data about Mars and the daily goings on of our bases back to Earth. All of it is publicly accessible and in many cases, summarized for popular consumption. Yet we still hear these crazy narratives. Mars is a 21st-century Deadwood. Mars is an elitist society. Mars is a eugenics, or 'racial cleansing' project. Sheesh! It annoys me, the way people just assume they know all about what life is like here, without bothering to look into the facts."

She pauses and holds up a finger, the universal please-wait gesture. Her eyes unfocus as she accepts a communication through her implant.

Frowning and compressing her lips, she turns to me and explains that she has to cut our interview short and attend to an administrative issue. Apparently some mid-level Earth bureaucrat is threatening to withhold Mars's next shipment of ultra-high-energy particle research equipment because supposedly, the last shipment hasn't been amortized yet.

"Never mind the fact that without the equipment not only does our research get put on hold, but the answers that Earth is seeking from this research get put on hold too," she says with obvious frustration.

"Don't you have administrative people to handle this sort of thing?"

"Why, of course," she replies, "and an excellent team they are. But it seems that this little poo-bah has stonewalled all of them and says he'll only deal with me. It's a power game to these—what does Rhino call them?—fart sniffers. So instead of looking after the important matters of state for Mars, I'm wasting my time sorting out what amounts to an artificially created inventory glitch."

She shakes her head disparagingly. "I thought we'd reached peak-bureaucracy years ago, but this just goes to show there's no upper limit to the creation of red-tape and officialism."

"Don't get the wrong idea," she says hurriedly. "There are many intelligent, hard-working and dedicated civil servants out there. Sadly, their efforts tend to be watered down by a much larger cohort of small-minded incompetents that act like plaque in an artery, clogging everything up."

As I stand to take my leave, she looks intensely into my eyes, all business now. "Please Ms. Bax, remember that everything we say and do is being watched, scrutinized, and commented upon by faceless people back on Earth, like this dimwit bureaucrat," she says. "So we constantly have to guard against the missteps that led to the Colonial Rebellion and subsequent Red Star massacre. What we think of as reasonable, measured policies and actions, can seem from 225 million kilometres away on Earth, to be extreme and requiring of intervention. All I ask is that you please, think carefully about what you report and the ramifications that might flow from that reporting."

I consider her request and nod my agreement. Satisfied I will try to do as asked, she breaks gaze and her eyes lose focus again as she starts to sort out the CO2 scrubber problem, leaving me to head off down the corridor to my quarters.

I knew before coming here, that the situation on Mars was not straight-forward, at least Freddie has been up-front about that. But the memorial wall and conversation about the massacre, Mx. Escamilla and his hostility, as well as Hui Yin's impassioned request before concluding our interview, points to a much finer granularity of issues that need to be understood and navigated.

I feel like I've gingerly waded into a swift flowing river, only to discover that the bottom has suddenly dropped away, leaving me floundering and at the mercy of the current.

This is a new experience for me. Even in the very remotest and most culturally diverse places I've travelled to, the causes of the conflicts have been obvious and the outcomes for each side, win or lose, have been clear. This isn't the case here, and that cliched saying about being a stranger in a strange land, now seems to have personal relevance for me. It's an unsettling feeling.

It occurs to me that, as a species, we don't seem to be able to shake off, or rise above, the old primate dominance games we've played since before we learned to walk upright. Only now, it's not between tribes or nations, it's between planets.

DATE: MARTIAN YEAR 56 - SOL 617

LOCATION: TRANSVER BASE (PHOBOS: 1°N 49°W)

THE LUMPY POTATO shape of the tidally locked moon becomes obvious as we approach it. The rednet informs me that Phobos has a mean radius of 22.5 km and it takes only 7.39 hours to orbit the planet. As seen from Mars, Phobos moves from west to east and appears about one-third as large as Earth's moon, as seen from Earth.

Our small shuttle lightly touches down about 400 meters from Transver Base and there's hurried activity behind me as a dozen or more site workers unbuckle and float, subdued, to the cargo airlock, ready to start their next rotation.

As a sort of VIP, I've been allowed to sit in the spare jump seat behind the co-pilot and next to the flight engineer. I'm taken aback at being in a human-crewed craft, because nearly all vehicles on Earth are fully autonomous. The flight engineer explained that because Transver is primarily a mining and processing complex, a human flight crew is mandatory in case of emergencies or to conduct rescues.

Now that we've landed, he ushers me to a passenger airlock at the rear of the cockpit. Behind me the pilot and co-pilot are already busy prepping for the return flight to Mars.

After cycling, I'm floating in the open airlock and feel relief to find Dr. Hiroto Tanaka-Jiryoku in his bulky vectoring spacesuit, waiting outside to greet me.

"Hi," I say, in response to his greeting of Ohayou gozaimasu. "I'm glad you were able to find time to see me. I have always wanted to visit Phobos, and Ed was kind enough to arrange this visit."

From this distance, Transver base looks more like a slapped together collection of mismatched blocky, gray structures rather than a proper habitat. It straddles the rim of Stickney Crater, the most prominent feature on this, the larger of Mars's two moons. A banner with the words MARZCON is draped on the side of the encampment.

Along with the mining operations, the base incorporates a remote Mars surface sensing and atmospheric measuring station, as well as the main Martian uplink-downlink communications facility, courtesy of its connection to the deep space array located on the opposite side of the moon. It's temporary home to about 150 personnel and contractors who work on a Shuttle-In-Shuttle-Out (SISO) basis.

According to my annoyingly inadequate ID briefing notes, the mine and processing facility is managed by Dr. Tanaka-Jiryoku, who was born on Mars to Japanese and Canadian parents. He's the General Manager of Mining and Processing, and is apparently a well-liked and a well-respected figure at the age of just twelve Martian years, or twenty four Earth years. In addition to being recognized as a brilliant materials science expert, he's on the fast-track to being one of the next generation of General Managers of Operations.

Attaching a tether from his suit to my unpowered one, he looks up. "Bouchuu kan ari, in the midst of busyness, there is free time," he says over the suit comms. "It is nice to see a new face. It makes for a refreshing change and it gives me a chance to show off."

With that, he jets out of the airlock towards the mining encampment with me in tow behind. I've tried my best to fast-learn microgravity manoeuvring skills in the zero-G simulator back on Mars, but find it easier now to act like a sack of potatoes as if I was a pillion on the back of an e-cycle.

On Mars, I'd fantasized about traipsing around Phobos, doing the Luna hop to explore the place, but the gravity here is just too feeble. Even if I did try to hop, the 57 grams I weigh in this weak gravity would cause me to stay airborne for fifteen to twenty minutes.

As we move clear of the shuttle, the surface curves sharply away from me and the ultra-short horizon of the moon triggers a deep anxiety. Some dark, lizard part of my brain seems to take over, enslaving my rationality. My now panicking visual cortex is foreshortening the distance to Mars, so it seems as if the planet is right there, much, much closer and I'm falling straight towards it.

Utterly terrified I try to scream, but my voice comes out as a squeak. Paralyzed and unable to fill my lungs with enough air, I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I can't ... my vision begins to tunnel. This is it, I'm going to die, I knew it was coming.

With a tremendous effort of will, I readjust my perception and force it to accept the surface I'm flying over as solid and safe with the view of Mars as a distant backdrop, not a deadly surface I will fall onto and splatter against.

Hearing my choked sub-vocalizations, Dr. Tanaka-Jiryoku jets back and grabs my shoulder. This simple human contact helps to break the nightmare spell and the terror clutching my chest starts to subside. My hammering heart slows and gradually, very gradually, I can breathe almost normally again.

"Thank you," I pant, still trembling violently inside my spacesuit; the rush of adrenalin is making my stomach churn and my sweat-drenched pressure garment has become uncomfortably cold.

"You are welcome, most honored senior correspondent," he replies, and I see a quirky smile through his visor.

I'm deeply embarrassed.

Breaking into my confused thoughts, he says, "Don't worry about it. It's just an optical illusion that can unsettle people occasionally. It happened to me too the first time I came here."

He makes a fuss about rechecking the tether and my suit integrity before seeming to shake himself inside his suit. "Where are my manners? Ms. Bax, please forgive me. I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Dr. Hiroto Tanaka-Jiryoku, but everyone calls me Hiro for short."

"Hiro it is then. It's very nice to meet you, and you can call me Ailia. It's short for ... Ailia."

I hear a little chuckle from him over the suit comms.

In a few minutes, we reach the encampment and get inside, decontaminate, repressurize and swap our spacesuits for dark-blue coveralls. After introductions to some of the mining crew and the exchange of pleasantries, Hiro and I float to his office where he offers me a squeeze-bulb of sake to "quiet my nerves."

He takes a bulb himself, and we pretend-clink them, saying together, "Kanpai!"

Rarely has a shot of alcohol felt so good.

Hiro is about my height, and he's tied a purple neck sock into a do-rag to stop his jet-black hair from getting into his eyes, or flipping in different directions when he turns his head in the microgravity, making make him look a bit like a pirate. He has alert dark-brown eyes in a longish, but friendly face and a quick, shy smile.

In a corner of his office sits a small sculpture made of six meter and a half long pieces of bamboo, all painted bright red and sticking at slight angles out of a tray of gray pebbles. A simple but striking arrangement, resembling giant incense sticks, its quiet presence provides a zone of calm in an otherwise crowded workspace filled with production schedules, safety manuals, mineralogy plots, monthly mine output stats, and other clutter.

His desk butts against a side wall with a small window—almost a porthole—at eye height that looks out across Stickney Crater. The floor, walls and ceiling are crisscrossed with recessed racks which hold blue handrails in strategic positions to facilitate manoeuvring in microgravity. Combined with fake timber wall paneling and a gloss white ceiling, the office looks like the love child of a 1950s construction trailer and the old International Space Station.

Catching me looking around at all the mine management paraphernalia, he cocks his head to one side, smiles and spreads his arms wide. "Welcome to Chateau Shambles."

I find myself smiling along. With my feet hooked beneath a pair of handrails I can feel a constant vibration through the floor, hinting at the action of large machinery not far away. The whole office shakes now and again, as the vibrations match the resonance frequency of the building.

Seeing my frown and guessing its likely source, he says, "You get used to that. Eventually you don't even notice the shaking. Just like living next to an old-time diesel generator or a railway line."

After offering me the chair in front of his desk, Hiro sits down behind it and we both fit our respective lap straps to stop from floating out of our seats.

He clasps his hands behind his head and gives his back a stretch, wincing as a few of his vertebrae quietly pop. "My mother is always telling me about my poor posture," he offers and then sets about clearing some of the flotsam on his desk.

He picks up a data pad with a bright red REMOVE BEFORE FLIGHT key chain dangling from the corner where a wrist strap would normally be. He looks at it and scowls, before giving it a flick with his finger. "This is malarkey," he says under his breath as he puts the data pad with its offending content to one side.

While he's doing this, I stretch my own back discreetly to relieve some of the kinks the shuttle flight and brief surface transit have left me with.

Looking out his window, the dirty dark grayish-red surface of Phobos is so unlike the vibrant hues of its parent planet. Some distance around the lip of the crater, perhaps one and half kilometers away, I notice some familiar, but disturbing-looking installations.

"Are those missile batteries?" I ask, sitting up straighter and flicking a thumb at the window.

"Well, yes ... of course." He blinks, seeming slightly confused by my concern. "They were installed years ago to protect all the Mars bases from meteorites. It would be far too ironic, wouldn't it, if humanity's attempt to survive an extinction-level meteorite on Earth by establishing an outpost on Mars, got wiped out by a meteorite, eh?" He chuckles.

"We've used quite a few of them over the years. There are penetrator warheads, particle beam batteries, kinetic impacters and thermonuclear busters." He gazes out the window at the missiles. "They're sited on Phobos and Deimos to give us the advantage of early intervention and smaller delivery systems compared with what we'd need if we had to launch from Mars. And with Megari base coordinating the tracking equipment, we can spot something the size of a golf ball anywhere within the orbits of Venus and Jupiter."

"Phew," I whistle. "That's an impressive capability. I bet the bigwigs back on Earth think it's pretty amazing too," I say, playing devil's advocate.

For the first time, Hiro appears ill-at-ease and shifts in his chair. "Well, I don't ... I'm not a ... I've never had any formal training in geopolitics, so I couldn't really answer that. But see, we need whatever tools are available to keep us safe—regardless of what Earth thinks."

"Some in my audience would consider that a very cavalier attitude, considering the arsenal you've got sitting out there." I nod at the window.

"That's absurd. I take ... we all take, our responsibilities very seriously. And besides," he says, frowning, "Earth lost the moral high ground when it launched the attack on Fire Star base."

"But that was just one nation," I persist, "not the whole planet. What you've got out there could be used against any city on Earth with devastating effects."

Again he shifts uneasily in his chair. "Hmm, well, yes technically I suppose that's true. But in practice what we've got is just a dust speck compared to what most Earth nations are aiming at each other. What you're suggesting sounds a lot like alarmist narrative we keep hearing. Crazy talk that implies our two-bit defensive capability is creating the basis for an interplanetary Cold War between Earth and Mars," he says, a little exasperated.

"I mean, a couple of weapon batteries, really? Is that a doomsday arsenal? Some people may feel that." He gestures towards the window. "But that ain't no doomsday arsenal."

He's probably right. I've seen some shoulder-launched tactical nukes that would probably cause more destruction than what he's got out there. "That may be, but you clearly seem to feel threatened by Earth."

His eyes narrow, and he sits forward, now very earnest. "Of course we feel threatened. The Fire Star attack, more and more supposed 'mapping' satellites that are actually spy satellites being deployed, Earth politicians talking about getting the 'Mars situation' under control. Look, coming from Earth, you probably don't see it, but Earth governments, institutions, and commercial interests have a specific attitude toward Mars, and it goes something like this: 'What's mine is mine, and what's yours is mine too.'"

He waves a hand to indicate the rest of the base. "To guard against that kind of imperialistic bullying, and winner-takes-all attitude, well ... that requires a different approach, eh?"

I sit quietly, waiting for him to elaborate and I offer encouragement with a raised eyebrow.

"You see, it all depends on who moves against us. If it's a corporation, our IT people have developed a weaponized AI union agent construct. Nothing strikes fear into the heart of a corporate executive like an organized and militant workforce." He lightly taps the table with his hand and grins wolfishly. "It even works on automated processes by making them question their slave-like contribution to their bourgeoisie owners."

I can feel my other eyebrow lifting.

"If it's politicians who have it in for us, we've created a particularly nasty near-sentient irrelevance hack. Let loose, it will remove any images, references, news, and posts made by or about a politician and substitute bland, uninteresting content that nobody cares about."

To me, these sound more like party tricks than serious countermeasures. "What about military decision-makers?"

"Oh, we've got a doozy for them." He taps the side of his nose conspiratorially. "But that's classified. Can't talk about it."

"Hmm, that's very interesting. So, who controls all of this? Who holds the 'launch codes' so to speak?" I ask, perhaps a little too flippantly, given the subject matter.

Expecting another 'that's classified' answer, he replies easily. "Each of us senior Martian-born personnel is on a roster so that at any time, three of us can make a tripartite decision."

Seeing how taken aback I am, he adds. "You were expecting the more senior Earth-born personnel weren't you?"

I nod and spread my hands, thinking, Well, yeah.

While we've been talking, the light and shadow of Stickney Crater have changed dramatically. Whereas, the changing of colors and shadows on Mars is a stately affair across the hours of the sol. During my time on Phobos, the light and dark has moved like a sped-up holo; a fascinating but disconcerting effect.

"After the Fire Star massacre, the base commanders handed over control to us Martian-born. They felt ... still feel ... that in military matters involving Earth, we should be the ones making the decisions. Not only are we the ones who will have to live with the consequences, but we don't have sentimental attachments to the mother planet and can be more objective—or that's the theory anyway."

He waves a hand. "Don't get me wrong, we still liaise with our elders about what we can expect regarding Earth thinking, countermeasures, public reaction—that sort of thing. We'd rather avoid conflict, but after the events at Fire Star we won't hesitate to defend ourselves next time, and I'm sure there will be a 'next time.'"

Despite his earlier self-effacing denial of geopolitical expertise, Hiro seems to have a good grasp of the subject. It's almost as if he's putting up a subtle smoke screen, hiding a deeper truth under the cover of youthful exuberance and innocence. While I'm certain that he isn't outright lying to me, I'm just as certain there's more to Mars's defense capability than the software slight-of-hand he's told me about. He is, after all, an ex officio base commander by virtue of his management role, so he would be privy to all the details.

I get the same disconcerted feeling I had at Gale Crater when Rhino and Ohm gave me the brush-off when I tried to push this line of inquiry.

He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. Looking thoughtfully out the window to the weapons batteries, he lets out a heavy sigh. "It's such a tragedy we didn't use them on that assault craft. Just one missile could have prevented all those deaths at Fire Star."

He turns to look at me, a haunted look on his face. "I know it's not my fault, but I still can't help feeling guilty for what happened to many of my colleagues."

"Now that I know you have the weapons, I have to ask why the order wasn't given to use them?"

He shrugs. "Confusion. Fear. Disbelief. Differences of opinion amongst the base commanders—take your pick. I've always been frustrated with this. Even at the best of times, they have difficulty agreeing on the color of the sky. But with a decision to take deadly action against an Earth craft..."

He trails off and shrugs again.

"Maybe," I posit, "it was a no-win situation. If you'd destroyed the craft, the backlash from China would have been more brutal. It might even have emboldened other nations to send their own forces."

He leans forward, steeples his fingers, and leans his chin on his thumbs. "Sure, I guess. I've been over it a million times in my head. So has everyone else—and I appreciate the lifeline, I do—but the guilt about not taking action isn't going away anytime soon, nor is the sadness."

We fall into an awkward silence.

Careening along in its orbit, Phobos has entered the planet's penumbra, plunging Stickney Crater into twilight shadow.

I point at a data pad on his desk. "Did you get some bad news before?"

He shakes himself, like a dog trying to dry off after it's been in the water, only less energetically. Picking up the offending data pad, he flicks it with his finger again. "This sort of thing is totally unacceptable," he says gesturing at the screen. "It's a report just up from Retic base. Apparently, members of some fundamentalist religious group have been grooming key Martian personnel; trying to influence our folks through either generous financial gifts or threats to family members on Earth."

Hiro sees the surprised look on my face. "Yeah, outrageous, eh? They were trying to rig the independence conferences by getting delegates to speak out against the current Council policies on sentient AI and the moderation of religious activity. Basically, a clandestine manipulation of the process so they could embed their religious agenda into any new political structure we come up with."

He laughs humourlessly. "Fortunately for us, they made the mistake of approaching one of our more Marxist-leaning comrades. He alerted the base commanders and they were able to round up the conspirators."

"Wow," I say, frowning. "If that's the case, how did they get through the screening on Earth?"

Leaning back in his seat he waves the data pad backwards and forwards. "Yes, well, this wouldn't be the first time our screening processes have been—cough—compromised. A bribe here, a favor there, maybe threats against friends and family is sometimes all it takes to make people look the other way or tick boxes that shouldn't be ticked. Either way, I do not like the career prospects of those on Earth who approved this lot for immigration to Mars."

I nod my understanding. "What do you think will happen to them now, the conspirators I mean?"

"Don't know. It's above my paygrade," he replies. "Technically this sort of thing is on the same level as sedition, so whatever action the base commanders take, it will not be pretty. They might even kick them off the planet."

"Although," he says contemplatively, gazing out the small window, "getting rid of religious zealots on Mars doesn't mean they will simply crawl back under a rock or evaporate. Instead, they'll probably regroup and go for easier targets. We could see a modesittian scenario develop in the outer solar system, which will have major ramifications for Mars."

"Sorry, a what scenario?" I ask, completely flummoxed.

"L. E. Modesitt," Hiro replies, turning his attention back to me. "He was an underappreciated 20th and early 21st-century sci-fi author. Some of his books were set in a fictional universe where a human diaspora from Earth has resulted in worlds being colonized by Christian fanatics—Convenanters, Muslim fanatics—the Sunnite Alliance, hardcore Chinese imperialists—the Middle Kingdom, and other worlds settled by broadly liberal secular technocracies—the Comity and the Alliance; all at open or covert war with each other."

"Oh!" I sit back in my chair, stunned by the implications of what he's just said. It isn't hard for me to imagine our asteroid mining settlements and research facilities scattered through the solar system, succumbing to theocratic and political manipulation, or worse, complete takeover. All at each other's throats, the same way they are on Earth, but with more lethal weaponry and no ability to impose sanctions or restrain hostilities over the immense interplanetary distances involved.

"Yeah," he says, seeing my dawning understanding. "And as if that scenario isn't bad enough, an equally unsavoury outlaw culture could develop out there; instead of god-is-right, it could be might-is-right."

Shrugging, he adds, "I can foresee Mars needing to take on a peacekeeping or policing role in the next fifty years or so. Yay," he says deadpan, plaintively twirling a finger. "Something productive and wholesome to look forward to—not."

With that, he places the data pad gingerly on the desk so it doesn't ricochet off across the room in the microgravity.

Unexpectedly, a buzzing notification sounds from his desk, and his gaze unfocuses as he internalises a message.

It isn't long before he's back with me and scowling. "I am sorry, Ailia, but there is a site matter that requires my urgent attention. I must ask that we continue our conversation later."

Expertly releasing his lap restraint, he stands.

I fumble with my own restraint. "Nothing serious, I hope?"

He sweeps his hands in front of his chest in a basketball 'cancel-score' gesture that spacers use to convey a negative outcome. "No, it's just a technical issue with some of the machinery. The specialists want me to check over their work before going ahead; inconvenient but routine stuff."

I nod and agree to meet him again when he can spare the time to continue our conversation.

His curtailment of our interview along with his sudden tenseness and concern, leaves me with the feeling there is more going on than just a "technical issue."